Disclaimer: HP isn't mine, yo.

Also, slash. Because it does the body good. Beta'd by the magnificent DWS and her big damn hat. SHE knows what I'm talking about.


"I can't believe I'm doing this."

Hermione Granger-Weasley frowned at her best friend, hands on her hips and a glare glittering in her eyes. "Honestly, Harry, you'd think that I was asking you to – to court Umbridge or something."

There was a pause as the two of them simultaneously pictured Harry on bended knee before the Toadwoman, begging for her attention. And then there was another pause as Hermione shuddered and Harry attempted to commit mental suicide.

"Anyway," Hermione said, clearing her throat, "how bad can it be?"

Harry glared at her sourly. "You really need to ask?"


There was a raffle ticket stub in Harry's robe pockets, and he fished it out and stared at it longingly. He had hoped against hope that he would win and manage to weasel his way out of the entire fiasco. Buying a raffle ticket to fund SPEW was one thing, but being the prize was another thing entirely, and why, exactly, was he friends with Hermione in the first place?

"I can't believe I won. How…fortuitous. I own Harry Potter for a day."

Harry gurgled.

"Are you ill, Potter? You're looking rather peaky."

He was, Harry decided, going to destroy Hermione when this was over.


"George, c'mere!"

George Weasley blinked at the edge in his twin's voice and quickly made his way over to the slightly grimy display window at the front of their shop. Fred was peering out it through stacks of Fanged Frisbees and Headless Hats, a slightly manic grin curling his lips.

"What is it?" George asked curiously, casting a quick glance back at the shop to make sure the customers weren't getting out of hand. It wasn't really necessary, anyway – they'd hired Ginny on for the summer, and they'd found quickly enough that she had more than enough of their mother in her to hold a rowdy crowd in thrall with a glare and a sharp word.

"Look," Fred said, his eyes glinting with barely suppressed humor. "Over there, by the Owl Emporium."

George nudged his brother aside and craned his neck until he could see what had so amused his partner-in-crime.

"Oh Merlin," he breathed, his voice a strange amalgamation of hysteria and horror. "Is that – is he – am I really seeing…?"

"Oh yes, Gred. Yes indeed."

"But…a leash?"

"Hermione is a dead woman walking."


Hermione stared in terror at her best friend. Ginny's disembodied head stared back, eyebrows raised, from the fireplace.

"On a leash?" she croaked, certain she'd gone pale and wide-eyed. "Through Diagon Alley?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Harry's going to kill me."

"It seems pretty likely."

"Ron will kill me."

"Once he's done laughing."

Hermione let out a groan of utter, utter despair. "What's happening now?" she demanded, fearing the worst. Her fears were realized when Ginny, after consulting with someone out of sight, turned back to her with dread in her fire-formed eyes.

"They're shopping. Women's clothes in Harry's size, George says."

"Oh God."


Hermione, Harry thought viciously, was dead.


"Come, Slave," Draco Malfoy purred as he tugged on the leash. "One last thing to be done before the day is over."

Harry glanced blearily around the rather dank little alcove his so-called Master had pulled him into. "What?" he demanded tiredly, glowering at the ferret. His neck ached from the collar and leash and the bloody woman's knickers were riding up uncomfortably and what kind of sadistic bastard invented high heels, anyway?

Malfoy smiled and stalked towards him, drawing the leash up tight to stop Harry from backing away. Harry's eyes widened in alarm.

"You," Malfoy breathed, and his pressed his lips hard against Harry's.

Harry decided that he really ought to thank Hermione later on, once he was done killing her.