Third Place - Comedy

It's like a dream you try to remember but it's gone- Barenaked Ladies, Pinch Me

Catch your breath, hit the wall, scream out loud as you start to crawl-Lifehouse, Simon

Once upon a time, there was...

What?

There was probably something, but he couldn't think of it just now. Well, he would, soon.

It was cold.

Cold and dark and oh so oh so oh so cold.

Frostbite loses fingers and toes oh I hope I don't get frostbite, but they can re-grow them at Hogwarts, can't they? So I shouldn't worry about anything short of dying, and they wouldn't let that happen, would they? Not for a detention, surely. Even Snape isn't so cruel as to give me a detention of dying. And not in the Forbidden Forest, oh no, not there.

But he couldn't find the damn yellow-spotted toadstools! And how was he supposed to see toadstools in all this snow, anyway? But Professor Snape said that he had to, had to, had to, and goodness me oh my, but he wouldn't want to provoke Snape's wrath, would he now?

But oh, oh, oh it was so, so, so cold.

"Toadstools, yellow spots... Toadstools, yellow dots... I was told to find you by Snape... He'd look like a vampire if he wore a cape... Evil old Professor Snape..." He rhymed softly, his voice wavering slightly. "And then I got cold.... (oh so cold) And then I fell down... (such a long, hard fall) And then I grew mould (oh so much mould)... Right out of town (and no town at all) ... And on that mould (that beautiful mould)... The toadstools sprouted (like a miniature farm) ... I was so cold (was so very cold)... I pouted and pouted! (where it was so very warm)" He giggled at this, knowing how incoherent and silly it must sound. But it was fun.

"Spots, dots, Snape, cape, cold, mould, down, town, sprouted, pouted... How I rhyme, it's such fun, come help me rhyme, and we'll soon be done!"

And oh was it cold...

"Find the toadstools, the yellow-spotted toadstools, got to find them now, got to find them now... Hurry, Harry, quickly, Harry, got to find the toadstools now, the yellow-spotted toadstools now..."

From somewhere away, far away, there came a noise. It was shrieking and screaming and how horrid it was, like a banshee, only there were banshees here, now, weren't there? Scream, banshee, scream!

Die, Harry, die...

And that was funny. Twistedly funny. Die, Harry, Die! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Very funny. He could appreciate a good joke.

Die, Harry, die.

Malfoy was part of the school-wide search for Harry. The sixth and seventh years, plus half of the teachers, were covering the Forbidden Forest. (They all had Portkeys, just in case they, themselves, got lost.) Malfoy was, unfortunately, a sixth year and therefore required to search for Harry I-Was-Last-In-Line-For-Directional-Sense Potter.

Well, if he had to do this he might as well do it, right? Better find Potter quickly and get inside where it's warm then stay out here freezing all bloody night. And he, unlike the other inept students, had the means to do so.

Carefully, Draco took off his winter cloak, robes, and silk shirt, hanging each one on a handily near tree branch. This left him in his undershirt; a white rag with two jagged lines cut down the back. He concentrated.

An odd feeling, a bit like growing in a new set of teeth very, very fast, spread across his back... Wings. His features shifted slightly, becoming almost bird-like, his already platinum hair shining like mercury.

Veela...

Not full-blood, of course, but close. His mother was three-quarters, his father half. This, all summed up, made him five-eighths Veela and three-eighths god-knows-what. (Probably not human, but who really gives a damn?)

As a Veela, (or mostly-Veela, as the case might be) Draco had superhuman (or perhaps subhuman, depending on your point of view) powers. These included obvious ones such as flying, the ability to enthral, slight shape-shifting, and mild wandless magic. (Such as summoning fireballs and icicles or doing simple charm work.) Another ability of his that he found particularly useful was the ability to find any person within a five-mile radius. Full-blood Veelas used it to seek out their preymates. (No, Draco did not invent that, though he often wished he had. That tidbit came from his mother.)

Harry Potter, he thought, and pictured everything he knew about Potter. His physical appearance, his odd quirks and dumb bravery, his basic Potterness. Find me... Harry Potter.

And suddenly he knew where his long-time adversary was.

Draco took off at a run, then remembered his wings, and took off at a soar.

It was so, so very, very cold.

It was colder than Harry had ever been before.

Earlier, in the heat of the day, Harry had discarded the scarf, mittens, and heavy winter cloak that McGonagall had insisted he bring. It was hot, very hot, and he had no intention of lugging that load all around the forest, no ma'am.

He vaguely remembered that he'd barely entered the forest when he set them down, so he couldn't go back and get them now.

But oh was it cold, so very, very cold.

It's cold and I'll grow mould but only when I die oh please don't cry.

It's cold and I'll grow mould but only when I die oh please don't cry.

When? Why not if? But he was so very cold, now... Yes, it was a when, certainly.

It's cold and I'll grow mould but only when I die oh please don't cry.

It's... cold...

It's... cold...

It's... so... cold....

And Harry fell asleep.

Almost, almost, almost... There!

He landed roughly, (he didn't fly on his wings too often, and the cold wasn't helping any) scraping his knees even through the tough fabric of his pants. Carefully he let the wings retract and pulled his shirt, robe, and cloak over himself again. He couldn't remain so bare in this weather for any length of time. He was distantly aware of his features shifting again, but didn't pay them any notice. They did so quite often.

"Potter," he hissed, "where are you? Look, I know you're here... I may hate you Potter, but I'm not going to kill you... Come on now, the whole school is looking for you."

Silence from the forest.

"Potter!"

A slight rustle-and-thump as a fat-looking bird took off, shrieking. But that was all.

Draco took a few more steps and abruptly fell over. Something in the snow had tripped him. Something warm with clothing on and messy black hair.

Only Potter would be so horribly stupid as to fall asleep in the forest. (Of course Draco knew the boy was unconscious, but he could insult a Potter if he wanted to. It was part of the Malfoy Code: If thou shouldst see one of the Clan of Potter, thou shalt readily challenge him to a duel and insult him mightily. There was another article in the same section of the Code that Draco particularly liked: If thou shouldst see one of the Clan of Weasley, thou shalt order him to clean thy boots with his tongue. If he shouldst refuse, thou shalt kill him.)

Draco shook the Gryffindolt, (these had become almost synonymous for him, so he combined them into one word) but still there was no response.

"Voldemort reborn and knighted with a toothpick! Potter," Draco said. He was in the habit of concocting creatively odd curses. "Wake up! Stop being so bloody lethargic!" Another shake.

And nothing.

Off came the cloak and robe and sweater, out came the wings. Veelas also had mild telepathic powers. He couldn't read Potter's mind, but maybe he could prod it into functioning again.

Potter, he thought, I need you to wake up now.

No response. Maybe something more official. Something more cryptic.

I call forth the beauteous Aphrodite, mother of all of my kind. Aphrodite, assist me now! I call on you to help me delve inside the mind of one Harry James Potter!

Stillness, then...

Great and glorious hinkypunk shit, he thought briefly, and plunged into the blackness that was Harry's mind.

Harry got up slowly, blinking. Had he fallen asleep? He must have. But... wasn't he in the forest, before? Busy freezing to death?

Well, wherever he was, he wasn't in the forest, now. The sky was blue with fluffy clouds and the sun shining brightly. He was standing on somebody's lawn - their fresh, green lawn - in a shirt and jeans. Was he in the Muggle world? He looked around a bit, but all he could see were endless hedges. Was this some sort of Triwizard Tournament?

He started to run, dodging around corners and slipping through the brush, madly looking for an exit to the maze. It seemed that there wasn't one - or if there was, he couldn't find it. At least he hadn't encountered anything, harmful or otherwise, yet.

Maybe if I pick a direction and go just that way, ploughing through the hedges where there isn't an opening, I can get out, he thought.

This tactic met with success. Finally, he was out and blinking in the sunlight. (Not that there hadn't been sunlight in the maze - he just hadn't noticed it so much.) The scenery was amazing, really.

He was standing in front of a castle. At first glance he thought of Hogwarts, but it wasn't like Hogwarts at all, really. Hogwarts was all winding towers and staircases. This one was squat and square, as if it were built to keep people out rather than to house them.

A fortress, Harry realised, it's a fortress.

"Welcome to my home, Potter."

Harry whirled. He expected to see Malfoy or perhaps Snape, for it was that kind of voice. Sneering, drawling, disgusted. Some Slytherin he didn't like.

He came face-to-face with himself.

"What? Who... What are you?"

"Oh, isn't it obvious, Potter? I'm Harry," said his clone.

"What?"

"Look at it this way," the reflection-thing began, "I'm Harry and you're Potter. I'm the Harry part of you - that is, the true self of you. What you really feel like and such. You are the Potter part - what you act like."

"So who's the James part? I mean, we've got my first and last name covered..." Potter trailed off.

His Harry-self laughed bitterly. "Oh, James. Yes, he's inside. James is... well, I suppose he's what you really, really feel like."

"Excuse me?"

"Look, you're what you do. I'm what you want to do. James is... what you'd call your subconscious, I suppose. What you really want to do. If you think I'm Slytherinish and... not nice... you should meet James." His Harry-self turned away then and headed off toward the fortress. Potter had no choice but to follow.

Falling, falling, falling...

Shlllllllllllllmkkrnashk!

Draco fell into what felt like a very not-soft hedge. There were perhaps better words he could have used than 'not-soft', but none so accurate. Anyway, it was a hedge, and it wasn't soft. This had already been established, but he would like the point to be very firmly established.

He opened his eyes. He appeared to be stuck in the top branches of a rather tall tree. He glanced down and confirmed its 'very-tallness'. He then let his gaze settle on what was technically 'straight-ahead', and found himself staring into a window. A very... interesting window.

Inside the room in which this window was placed, a nearly-naked young man was singing rather loudly (in a decidedly drunken voice) about 'Getting the Quidditch Blues'. Draco would have thought this rather pathetic if the young man in question hadn't been getting bras thrown at him.

Clinging onto a thick branch with both arms, he tried to swing his feet over toward the windowsill. Almost... Almost... Almost... Almost-almost-almost... THERE!

The soles of both extremely expensive shoes touched hard stone, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He then sucked the expelled air back in as he realised that he was in a nearly-horizontal position between a rather narrow windowsill and a slowly breaking branch.

He shoved off the branch, fully expecting to fall to the ground with an almighty crash, and was highly surprised when he...

Didn't.

'?,' he thought dizzily, then realised that he was standing on the windowsill, even though his body was positioned at a physically impossible angle.

'It must be a dream,' he decided, and walked himself upright. He then spun on one foot (without slipping off the sill) and kicked the window, shattering the glass. The lack of wounds in his feet and legs further proved the unreality of the situation.

The bra-throwing and drunken singing stopped, and the inebriated man turned to look at him.

It was Potter.

"What," Potter boomed, "are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here!"

"Oh," Draco growled defiantly, "and why not?"

"Because," Potter floundered, "because you're real. The only real one is supposed to be Potter! How did you get in here?"

"Honestly," Malfoy admitted, "I've no idea. But why are you referring to yourself in the third person? That's a bit strange, even for a dream."

"No dream," Apparently-Potter said, "it's a... well, there really isn't a word for it. 'Vision' would be closest, but even it isn't really accurate. Soul-searching would perhaps be best. Anyway, I'm not Potter. Well, technically I am, but I'm known as James to avoid confusion."

"Potter's father?"

"No," said James, rolling his eyes, "not James Potter. James is Potter's middle name. You see, there's three of me. We call me James, the other one Harry, and the real one Potter."

"What's the whole 'real-not-real' thing? I mean, you're all imaginary. This is a dream-vision-soul-searching whatever. I'm the only real one. Right?"

"No!" James screamed, all drunkenness gone from his voice. "Don't you get it? Look, there's me. I'm basically Potter's subconscious. I do whatever Potter really, deeply wants to do. Harry is Potter's emotions. He does whatever Potter thinks he wants to do. Potter is, well, Potter. He does what he actually does do. Potter is the real thing. We're just part of his head. You're the real thing, and I don't know how you got in here."

"So... If I want to find the Potter I know, I have to find the one you call Potter?"

"Yes," James said resignedly, "find Potter."

"This way," Harry said, "you've got to meet James."

Potter shrugged, following his Harry-self up several flights of stairs. He didn't think there was anywhere else to go, anyway. Despite the fortress's enormous look, this was the only path, it seemed.

Up and around and down and around and around and around and around once more! The directions they took became a spinning chant in Harry's head. Perhaps the fortress was truly filled up with rooms - it just had one passage to connect them all.

Finally, his Harry-self spoke. And more blessed words they couldn't have been. "Here we are."

"Thank God," Potter said. (There are many varied wizarding curses and oaths, but Potter was in the habit of using Muggle ones. Hermione would have been as well, if she ever cursed.)

The door opened, and they were confronted with a very club-like atmosphere. Harry seemed not to notice it, though, and pulled him through the screaming masses and up onto a bra-littered stage. There stood another carbon-copy of himself, and next to this clone stood...

Draco Malfoy?

"Hey, Harry," his James-self said, "we've got a visitor. Apparently this little bugger decided to do a Mind-probing on Potter's physical body and got sucked in himself."

"Mind probe?" Harry whispered in disbelief.

"Sucked in?" Potter breathed simultaneously.

"To answer your question... Whichever part you are," Draco began.

"I'm Harry," said his Harry-self, "this is Potter."

"Harry, then," Malfoy continued, "I'm three-quarters Veela. I have low-grade telepathy. There's a school-wide search going on for you, Potter, and I found you. You were in something of a coma, so I tried to prod your mind awake again. It didn't work, as you can clearly see."

"And," James picked up smoothly, "to answer your question, Potter, we're inside your mind. Harry and I are what you would call 'permanent residents,' while you and Malfoy are 'just visiting'. Well, hopefully. There is always the chance that you will never wake up. You see, Potter, you're currently in the Infirmary of Hogwarts, being treated for frostbite. Unfortunately, you're also pretty much a vegetable. Ditto for you, Malfoy. So you're stuck in here, in your mind, until you wake up. Or, if you would like to view it another way, you're stuck asleep until you get out."

There was silence for a moment, until Harry elbowed James into a rather loud 'OW!'

"I told you to break it to them gently, James. Have a little more tact, please."

"I'm his subconscious! I don't even know the meaning of 'tact'! There isn't a tactful bone in my hypothetical body!"

"Tact," Harry sniffed, "meaning: delicate perception of the right thing to say or do without offending; skill in dealing with people. Tact implies the skill in dealing with persons or difficult situations of one who has a quick and delicate sense of what is fitting and thus avoids giving offence. From 'Webster's New World Dictionary of the American Language, second college edition, deluxe colour edition, copyright 1972."

Malfoy, James, and Potter stared at him.

"American," said James, disbelief evident in his voice.

"1972," Malfoy muttered in desperation.

Potter said nothing, preferring to remain in shocked silence.

"The Dursleys got it at an American's yard sale for me for my fifth birthday, okay?" Harry looked slightly desperate.

"I never memorised it," Potter rebuked gently.

"No," Harry muttered, "but you did see the page with 'tact' on, and I can call up the memory of it. Well, James can, anyway, and he showed it to me. Don't look at me like that! You wouldn't believe how boring it can get, being part of somebody else's mind."

"I'm not somebody else," Potter exploded, "I'm YOU!"

"No," Harry protested, "you're not. But you're becoming me. Look, see? You never would have yelled. You would have remained, well, tactful. You can only get out when the three of us become one - when you become Harry James Potter."

"This makes no sense," Potter protested.

"Don't you think we know?" James cut in, looking up at him through his long eyelashes. (Is he wearing fakes?, Potter wondered randomly) "We've been protesting the confusion of this whole ordeal to the P.M.W.C. for ages, but they won't listen. That's Psychic and Mental Wellbeing Committee, for you two."

"Anyway, it's time to take you to your room," Harry drawled, sounding utterly bored again, and stood up. Potter hadn't really been aware of his sitting down.

"Our room...?" Malfoy said, beginning to look rather panicked.

"Yes," James cut in easily, "your room. Complete with fully equipped Muggle kitchen, wizardring bathroom, bedroom, and living room, plus an extra room for storage. It's where you'll, well, discover yourself. Let yourself be free. What's my next line, Harry?"

"Experience the wonders of soul-searching, James."

"Right. What he said. Anyway, get to it right away."

"Er," Draco said, "what's my role in the whole thing?"

"Damned if I know," James said, and shrugged. "You're an accident. Try to help him discover himself, will you? It'll make the time pass faster."

Malfoy didn't look particularly happy, (This was a decidedly large understatement. He was actually cursing the three of them to hell and back) but he didn't put up too much resistance.

"This way! Step lightly, please," Harry chirped maliciously, and led them around and through several more corridors before emerging into what appeared to be a flat. It was decorated in much the same was as the Gryffindor common room, though Harry could pick out unfamiliar items that looked decidedly Slytherinish. (Such as the display of swords and knives above the mantelpiece, or the scale-model Iron Maiden on the table, not to mention the silver-and-green pillows that completely clashed with the wine-red couch.)

"Where..." Potter began, about to ask the location of the bathroom, but Harry had already left, locking the door behind him.

"Bloody hell," Malfoy snarled, "I hope he-you-whatever has to sit in for a five-hour banshee opera."

Potter snorted, amused.

"It's not funny," the blond boy screamed, "I'm trapped with you for what might be forever!"

Potter shut up.

Hermione paced the room endlessly. Blue curtains, white walls, floor, and ceiling... Rows and rows of jars and such, all neatly catalogued and full up with anti-spilling charms. The place had a typical ultra-sterilised odour, which was odd because she didn't think wizards had sterilisation odour-things. It must be some spell that she hadn't read about yet, she reasoned. Or perhaps someone on the staff bought Muggle cleaning products every now and then. Probably Filch, because she knew for a fact that Pomfrey was pureblooded. Yes, it would be Filch, because what could he use but Muggle cleaning products?

Never mind cleaning products, though... Harry was in... in... well, she didn't know what he was in, but it couldn't be good. Mortal peril, possibly. She felt very uncomfortable, not knowing things, but she didn't think it was in any book north of the restricted section, and no one would tell her anything.

Anyway, he was sleeping, and he wouldn't wake up. Neither would Malfoy, but he was irrelevant. (No, she told herself firmly, he isn't. Examine all the facts, Granger.) It wasn't really a coma, and he wasn't catatonic. Hermione didn't know what else it could be, because she never had a chance to read anything Muggle between all of her wizardly researching and everything else. (This wasn't quite true, because her parents sent her Muggle novels for holiday presents, and she found time to read them. But, no matter how much she asked, her mother would not send her 100,000 Afflictions & Their Cures. This book, despite its rather bad title, was said to be the number-one resource for medical students.)

All of her information came from the movies her parents made her watch, ("No, Hermione, you may not run up to your room to do more homework. I know you finished everything last week. Come down here and spend some time with us, won't you?") and from the occasional novel she read to appease her mother.

She hated, hated, hated not knowing something. It made her feel vulnerable. Hermione did not like to feel vulnerable. Not-vulnerable was her natural state. She was strong! Well, not physically, not really, because she didn't like sports very much, but she probably qualified as 'genius' mentally. She had never had an I.Q. test, (she didn't believe in them) but she secretly knew that if ever tested she would be, as they said, 'off the charts'.

But this was not the point!

The point was that Harry was in... in... something. Damn. Back to square one - also known as 'The Library'.

"Severus, haven't you found anything?"

"Nothing, Minerva. I've scoured the restricted section, I promise you. I take it you weren't any luckier?"

"No," she said, sounding truly depressed, "nothing. I've even asked Miss Granger, and she's nearly desperate. She's gone over every last inch of it as well. I believe she's sending off for muggle medical books at the moment. I don't think it will help, though. I believe that their... condition... is magical in nature."

Snape nodded at that, leaning back in the rather too-cushy armchair. "Indeed. I've been going over Malfoy's files - his parentage and all that - and found something that you might want to take into consideration. The boy's part Veela."

McGonagall shot upright. "Veela? How much?" Her voice was so uncharacteristically urgent that Snape started.

"Why, a little over half ... Minerva?"

"Of course," she muttered, "that hair and complexion of his - should've known. Stay there a moment, Severus, I'll be right back."

Snape, not being one to wait for other people as they made a fantastic discovery, followed her into the library. "What..." He began, but trailed off when she through a positively frigid glare at him.

"Severus, do me a favour and shut up for a minute..." She whipped out her wand with all fifty-six years of practice evident, and pointed it at the ceiling of the library. "Subject: Veelas and their powers." Two books fought free of their shelves and hurtled into her arms. The first's cover proclaimed, Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful... An Autobiography by Sylvia Glamer, and McGonagall tossed it aside with contempt. The second looked more promising, however.

The Way of the Veela, it stated grandly in fading gold letters. She opened to the back of it, one plain-looking nail tracing down the index. "Let's see... seduction, sex, succubus, taming... Ah! Here it is! Telepathy." Snape noted with some amusement that the older woman's pale cheeks were a bit coloured.

McGonagall flipped to the page listed, (347) and read out the brief entry it had on the subject.

"Veelas possess a very mild and limited form of telepathy. They can communicate between themselves well enough, but can do no more than suggest ideas to non-Veelas. In comparison, humans with telepathy..."

McGonagall scowled briefly and scanned the next few paragraphs. "Where is... ah! Here, listen:

If a Veela should attempt to communicate telepathically with a creature possessing a higher mental level, it will be forced to duplicate this mental level. (i.e. if a creature has a higher level of telepathy, the Veela's communication will improve until they cease contact. If a creature is mentally unstable, the Veela will likewise become mentally unstable and will only recover when said creature recovers.)"

She paused for breath then, and looked up at Snape.

"Well," she said, "it doesn't explain Harry's state, but it does explain why Draco is there, as well..."

"I always knew Potter was insane," Snape threw in, though his heart wasn't in it. True, he had received the blessing of a few Potterless weeks, but Malfoy was missing as well, and he was always entertaining. At least Weasley and Granger would be more subdued with their leader gone, though.

Minerva sighed.

If it was possible to be more frantic than Hermione, more depressed than Snape, and more nervous than McGonagall all at once, Ron Weasley was.

His BEST FRIEND was unconscious with god-knows-what and could that remain that way FOREVER, possibly, and no one knew what to do about it. Not only that, but said best friend was enjoying this lethargic state with none other than MALFOY, Crown Prince of Slytherin and founder of all-things-nasty. To add to this, not even HERMIONE knew what to do about it. And if Hermione and McGonagall and bloody DUMBLEDORE didn't know what to do, what could someone like himself, Ronald Arthur Weasley, do?

Sometimes bloody life wasn't bloody well fair, bloody it all to hell or hell it all to bloody or what-have-you.

"Here's to Harry Potter. May he have a swift recovery," Ron muttered sarcastically and tossed back another Liquid Kedavra. The Liquid Kedavra (or The Lucky, as the regulars called it,) was the most intoxicating of all the drinks they would serve at Hog's Head. He had used an ageing charm to order it, and damned if he wasn't going to finish every last drop and then some.

"Well, Potter," he said, and he was distantly aware of the slur seeping into his voice, "looks like you got yourself into a good one, this time. And no one there to help but Malfoy, Merlin forbid. Hope you come out of this one alive... Wonder what the world will say if you don't, huh? Maybe they'll hold a vote and elect me as their new saviour, eh? What do you think, Potter, mind giving me a time in the light? Place to shine, eh? Draw your wand and dance the tango, eh, you-know-who? Ron Weasley's up he's going to... to... to... knock your socks off." He was a bit confused by the last remark. He didn't remember ever hearing it before. Probably a Muggle thing he picked up from Hermione.

"Here's to you, Harry, here's to... you..."

"So," Malfoy began, "I am stuck in your mind, locked in a flat that does not exist with you, and I don't even have anything to do with this? Whatever gods my father has offended, I would like to make a complete apology to NOW. As long as you please, please, please, let me wake up."

"Not going to happen, Malfoy," James' head flickered onto a television screen that had not been there a moment before.

The blond stumbled back and collided with an unfortunate chair, toppling both himself and aforementioned chair to the floor. "What," he demanded, "the hell is that?"

"It's a television, Malfoy. Muggle thing." Potter offered no further explanation.

"Anyway, you're stuck in here. Decorate if you want to - all you have to do is picture what you want it to look like.

Immediately, everything turned dark green and black, and the television disappeared abruptly. This was quickly replaced by a blinding combination of red, gold, and bottle green.

"Don't you have any taste, Potter? It looks like Christmas-come-early in here. But I digress. Let's compromise. As neither red-and-green nor silver-and-gold are particularly good combinations, let's sit settle with white, black, grey, and accents of our favourite colours.

"Agreed," Potter conceded reluctantly, and allowed the room to fade into a less garish scheme.

They stood in silence for a moment, before Malfoy collapsed against a beige couch, propping his feet up on one arm and his head on the other. "Might as well get comfortable," he said, "even if none of it is real."

"Is anything?"

"Don't get philosophical on me, Potter, or I'll have to hit you. And I'm too tired to really want to do that, so we'll both end up cross." The boy yawned and closed his eyes, though it was clear he had no intention to sleep there.

"Malfoy," Potter tried hesitantly.

"Mmm?"

"Why... Do you know... I mean, is there any reason you know of..."

"Spit it out already, Potter. I don't have all day and your incoherence is getting very annoying. I don't know why I'm listening to you, anyway. You never have anything interesting to say and I have much better things to do. I always have much better things to do."

"Shut up, Malfoy, and stop being a git!" Potter growled in frustration and brought both hands down on the wooden table that had materialised in front of him.

The boy in question cracked an eyelid. "Temper, temper, Potter. Besides, that's impossible. I was born a git. I shall always be a git. Furthermore, Potter, there is absolutely nothing you can do about it."

"Just answer me, would you?"

"Potter, you haven't even asked me a question, disregarding the last."

Potter closed his eyes and seemed to be counting to ten slowly. When he opened them again, he awarded his nemesis with a truly frightening smile, and said, "Malfoy. How did you get into my dream-thing?"

"How eloquent. I honestly don't know, Potter. Being part-Veela, I tried to use my telepathy to goad you into waking, and then I was here."

"I'd give anything to have Hermione here..." The boy muttered despairingly, rose, and departed in the direction he believed his room to be. It was, of course, and exactly how he'd always wanted a room of his to look.

"It's quite obvious, Professor Snape," Hermione said, eyes wide and shining, "now that we know Malfoy's a Veela. All we have to do is get someone with a stronger psychic power to touch him. I'd suggest Professor Trelawney, but I'm not sure her 'psychic aura' or whatever-she-calls-it is strong enough." The girl was so relieved to know at least part of what was going on she didn't even think before the words escaped her mouth.

She closed her eyes and waited for the 'thirty points from Gryffindor for insulting a professor,' but it never came. She opened them again in complete disbelief, sure that he was just preparing his lecture.

He wasn't. He looked rather amused. "Well," he said, "at least I know that Gryffindors aren't completely unobservant. I think we'll call in a centaur, if they can be bothered. I believe they have a higher level than Veelas." He paused for a moment then, just as Hermione was about to make the fatal error of correcting him, and realised his mistake. "But we need something much higher than Veelas, because it has to be higher than whatever Potter's experiencing. A sphinx, then. I imagine Hagrid will be able to find one somewhere."

He turned then strode off, (Snape always strode, never walked.) pausing only to yell back, "And ten points from Gryffindor for insulting a professor!"

Hermione looked after him in complete shock. It must have put him in a positively ecstatic mood, for him to take only ten points off.

"I hardly think Malfoy can go on touching a sphinx for the rest of his life, Severus."

"Excuse me?"

McGonagall sighed. "Granger's theory is excellent, but there is one problem. If you will look at the book again," and she gestured to The Way of the Veela, "you will see that it clearly states that 'if a creature is mentally unstable, the Veela will likewise become mentally unstable and will only recover when said creature recovers'. That means that, while touching the sphinx will bring Mr. Malfoy back into the normal world, it will only be to converse telepathically with the sphinx, and it will only last until Malfoy stops touching the sphinx."

"Well, we can at least bring him back and ask him what the hell is going on. At least we'll have a better idea of what's going on to work with. I hardly think we're going to get far as things stand now." His relatively good mood had been spoiled just because the old bat had to be sensible. Oh, Severus highly approved of sensibility, but it was best used in small doses. For example, taking so many points off Gryffindor wasn't sensible, but he enjoyed it immensely.

"Preposterous. Do you have any idea how hard it is to convince a sphinx into staying at a mortal dwelling? Severus, you're being ridiculous."

"Will you stop treating me like one of your students?" He roared, and she cringed. "You managed to bring one in for the Triwizard Tournament two years ago, if I recall correctly. What other choice do you have? Much as I hate the boy, we need Potter back. Not to mention Malfoy. Minerva..."

"All right," she said, exasperation evident in her voice, "I'll ask Hagrid. But this is going to cost you."

"I hardly think being right should cost me anything," he sneered.

"It is - I'm caving in to what you want. In return you have to be... relatively nice... to one of them; Potter, Weasley, or Granger, understood? You've been particularly nasty to all of them recently, for no conceivable reason other than you're biased, and I'd like it to stop."

"Fine," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Granger, then. And I'm being no nastier to them than I am to anyone else."

"As much as I'd like to believe it impossible, you are. So stop. Please." And with that the Transfiguration Professor turned and walked out of the dungeons.

Things were starting to get boring inside of Potter's mind. He had tried conjuring up a Television again, but he had to invent all of the shows before he saw them, so eventually he gave up. They all developed major plot-holes in the first few minutes. After that, he had tried to think in some books he'd wanted to read, but it hadn't worked because he hadn't read them yet. Potter was beginning to appreciate reality.

Malfoy seemed to be having more luck. He was asleep, and had been so for the last few hours. There was only the one bedroom, but it didn't worry either of them because, obviously, they could add another if they so chose.

Bored. Bored. Boredboredboredbored....

"Potter?"

Potter spun around to face a slightly dishevelled Draco in silk pyjamas. Potter supposed he thought them up, because Malfoy certainly wasn't wearing them when they arrived.

"Are you going to do shape up and do something with your life, or do I have to replace the rug?"

Potter stared at him, before following the blonde's gaze to the floor and blushing. He had indeed worn a hole straight through the carpet. He supposed that he must have imagined it somewhere along the line, with all his pacing.

"You have to be careful, Potter. Everything you think of... happens." The carpet re-wove itself, rippled, and changed from off-white to silvery-grey.

Potter rolled his eyes, turned, and attempted to transfigure his nemesis into a ferret. It didn't work. He tried again. Nothing. He prodded at Malfoy's clothes, trying to convince them into turning pink, but they wouldn't oblige.

"I never knew you were a member of the Malfoy Fan Club, Potter. I admit I look smashing in silk, but really... Must you stare so?" The boy looked highly amused. "I know what you're trying to do, though... And while I admire your efforts, they're in vain. We can't change anything about each other. I suppose it's because we're 'real' or something of the sort. If you are. I still think I drank too much Liquid Kedavra and am having a vivid hallucination."

"Sod off, Malfoy."

Instead of sodding off, Malfoy flopped back onto the couch in what seemed to be his standard position - head on one arm, feet on another. Potter was struck by how slight the boy was. He couldn't be more than five-foot-six, and he was as skinny as a girl. His shoulder-length hair did nothing to deplete the feminine look.

"What now, Potter?"

Belatedly, Potter realised he'd been sniggering. "You look like a girl, Malfoy. If you put on a little make up, a dress, and did something about your chest I think you could fool Dumbledore."

"I may look effeminate, Potter, but you look like an idiot. At least I'll grow out of it," He sniffed, closing his eyes. They then flew open again. "That's it! Hah! We can't change each other, or even each other's clothes, but I was able to transfigure my robe into pyjamas..." He trailed off and his eyelids slammed shut.

Nothing happened.

Malfoy opened his eyes again. "Damn. Thought I could get taller."

"Nothing could make you get taller, Malfoy."

Potter abruptly found himself bombarded with shoes. He didn't know where they came from, but clearly Malfoy was very cross if he was mentally throwing shoes at him.

"Midget-git," Potter muttered angrily, and stormed into the bedroom. "I hope he has to spend all night on the couch and his neck hurts like hell tomorrow." Belatedly, Potter realised this wasn't exactly a frightening curse, but... at least it had some chance of coming true, right?

"What's this? A student out of bed? And a prefect, deary me, deary me..." Filch's macabre grin flashed in the darkness of the library. Mrs. Norris mewed happily from his feet.

The student in question was one Hermione Granger, and she was currently fast asleep on an enormous tome. She had pushed several chairs together and then padded them with a cushioning charm, knowing that this would be her second home for the next few weeks. Unfortunately, she had slept so little last night, (reading by wandlight) and the book was so boring...

"Miss Granger... Miss Granger..."

She stirred, then woke completely, blinking and shielding her eyes as Filch's lamp was thrust in her face. She realised the situation and sat up quickly, eyes wide. "Oh," she said, "Mr. Filch, I didn't... I fell asleep... No one woke me... Honestly, I didn't mean to be out after hours... I fell asleep, Mr. Filch," she said desperately.

"Ah, yes, but I have no doubt that you were only planning to sneak into the restricted section after hours..."

"No! I had no intention-"

"No need to lie, Miss Granger. It's well-known that little Potter friend of yours is suffering from an unknown ailment, and you've been looking everywhere you could for an answer... But no one would let you into the restricted section, eh? Well, Miss Granger, your little plan has been... foiled..."

"No plan! I had no plan! Just fell asleep! Please, Mr. Filch! Ask Professor McGonagall, she knows how hard I've been working, please..."

"Ah, but Professor McGonagall is asleep and I would hate to wake her, wouldn't you, Miss Granger? Professor Snape, however, is still working on his potions. Be rather cross if I interrupt him, but at least he's awake." That terrifying grin again.

Hermione began to shiver. Professor Snape... A cross Professor Snape... She didn't want to die just yet, really. "Mr. Filch, please don't... Please, Mr. Filch..."

But he had set off toward the dungeons already, and she had no choice but to follow him. "Mr. Filch!"

But he paid no attention.

"Mr. Filch!"

This time he turned his head and sneered at her. "I'm sure Professor Snape will have a fitting punishment girl, but I could suggest something even worse if you don't stop interrupting my concentration."

'On what,' she wanted to ask, but didn't dare.

They rounded a corner, and Filch came to an abrupt halt. They were standing in front of a large suit of armour.

"Be nice and I might give you some oil..." The man purred. The suit seemed to perk up a bit, and cast an interested glance at Filch. The man waved a small bottle of Leeman's Best Armour Polish! enticingly.

The suit of armour stepped grudgingly aside and Filch splashed a bit on its neck as he walked past. Hermione followed him, and as she passed the armour she could have sworn it muttered "cheapskate" under its non-existent breath in a horridly metallic voice.

"This way, Miss Granger."

Hermione's head whipped around and she let out a muffled shriek. Professor Snape and Filch were both standing behind her, (how did they get there?) one grinning horribly and the other looking... cross.

"You may go, Filch," Snape said icily. The other man's grin faded a bit, but didn't vanish completely as he slouched out into the darkness.

"Horrid little man," the Potions Master sniffed, before turning to his terrified student. "Stop shivering, Miss Granger. I'm not going to kill you. In a deal with your Transfiguration Professor, I had to promise to be relatively nice to you. This includes not punishing you for things you didn't do. I know you fell asleep. Go to bed, Miss Granger." And with that, the man turned and strode past her into what she assumed to be his quarters.

Professor Snape had been... relatively nice to her?

"And Satan went ice skating..." she muttered to herself as she made her way back to the Gryffindor common room.

"Malfoy?"

"Yes, Potter?"

"How would you go about discovering yourself? And don't even think what I know you're thinking, because I mean mentally."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Potter. If you could be any more incoherent I'd be shocked and stunned. Discovering myself? How should I know? I'm not you, Potter. But I'd start with listing out all the things you're in denial about and stop being into denial about them."

"Like what?" Trap set, sprung.

"Like the fact that I am ultimately superior to you in every possible way, Potter."

"Superior to me? In every way? I don't think."

"I agree completely."

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"Say 'please'?"

"Please shut up, Malfoy."

The smaller boy's lips twitched as if he had just heard the greatest joke, and disappeared into his room, humming faintly.

Mind Games - Chapter 2

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