Disclaimer: Obviously, anything recognisable belongs to JKR.
In the general vicinity of somewhere...
Harry stumbled into the bathroom of George's Diagon Alley flat and blearily inspected the contents of the cupboard above the sink. It had been a long night and a particularly unpleasant awakening and all he could think of was getting rid of the small forest of bleaurgh that seemed to be growing on his teeth.
"Oi, George, can I use your toothpaste?"
They'd gone out to the Leaky Cauldron for a few drinks to celebrate Ron's graduation from the Auror training program and a couple of quiet glasses of firewhisky had sort of turned into a couple of bottles of firewhisky with some karaoke on the side. Wisely, they'd decided that apparating home was something only a lunatic would do, and as Harry had flatly refused to use the 'green flames of death' after his seventh firewhisky, they'd finally ended up staggering the few hundred yards to George's flat instead.
George waved a hand in the vague direction of the bathroom from the cocoon of blankets, clothes and shoes visible through the bedroom door and mumbled something incoherent in reply. Taking it as a 'Sure mate, help yourself,' Harry closed the door and picked up one of the tubes of toothpaste that had fallen out of the cupboard, laughing to himself as he heard the unmistakable sound of George waking up and falling out of bed.
He conjured himself a toothbrush and had just put brush to teeth when George burst through the door in a flurry of clothes and limbs.
"Harry! Whatever you do, don't use the.." He looked down, voice trailing off. "..red one."
Harry stopped, toothbrush in mouth and gaped at George. "Wha...?" He lowered his eyes to the very red tube of toothpaste his hand and back up to George, who was now staring at him with an expression which sat somewhere between horror, guilt and sincere apology.
"What's wrong wi..." His reply was abruptly cut off as he felt the world around him contract and expand all at once and saw George's bathroom tilt and blur in a blast of unusually minty fresh air.
"..th the red one?" The question rang out into the dead silence of the Ministry atrium as Harry, toothbrush and all, landed on his arse beside the fountain.
He looked up.
And stared some more.
Staring back at him from underneath his customary lime green bowler hat was the familiar face of Cornelius Fudge. While this sight would, on an ordinary day, have been cause for some distress, it was the matching cape and horrifyingly tight lime green spandex jumpsuit that produced an expression of horror and utter incredulity on Harry's face.
Even worse, he couldn't bring himself to look away.
He suspected the image would be seared on his brain no matter where he looked. Nothing else around him could be traumatising or unusual enough to eject that vision from his brain.
Well, that's what he thought, right up until the moment he found the strength to tear his eyes away and focus on the rest of his surroundings.
"Oh holy sweet fucking Merlin."
There was no hesitation this time. His eyelids slammed shut instinctively, acting on some ancient sense of self preservation faster and stronger than his conscious mind.
He couldn't have seen what he thought he'd seen. It shouldn't be possible.
There had to be universal laws against that sort of thing.
It must have been a side effect of whatever George's toothpaste had done to him. Causing horrific hallucinations. The stuff of nightmares. Something like that.
He gathered his courage and cracked one eyelid open, peering through his lashes like a child confronting his worst fear.
He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying fervently to think of quidditch, Ginny, vanquishing Voldemort, something, anything, to take his mind of the tableau in front of him.
But it refused to budge from the back of his eyelids.
Cornelius Fudge, in a cape, flanked by Dolores Umbridge and Rita Skeeter in alternating pink and green sequined bikinis.
And only bikinis.
There weren't enough swearwords in the English language to verbalise the awfulness of that sight.
'Oh my, you look like a naughty boy. Popping into our lord's way like that. What are we going to do with you?" A sickly sweet voice penetrated Harry's horror addled senses, involuntarily causing him to shudder as parts of his mind connected the voice with the image etched on his brain.
Thankfully, the sound of an approaching crowd, yelling and fighting and most definitely screaming, drowned out whatever else she was going to say, and Harry risked opening his eyes just in time to see the unholy trio of...something...apparate away in a cloud of glaring pink and green glitter.
He found himself staring again.
"You alright, mate?" A pair of strong arms reached down and picked up him up, resting him against the edge of the fountain as another pair of hands checked his vital signs.
"He's just in shock. He'll be fine." That was a woman's voice, calm and soothing.
The first voice sounded serious. And familiar. "Are you sure? He got a full eyeful. You know what effect that usually has."
"Not this time. He's tough, this one. C'mon kiddo, let me have a look at you."
Harry looked up then, straight into the concerned faces of a strange witch in Healer's robes, and an unusually made up Bill Weasley, whose expression quickly morphed from concern into confusion.
"Harry? What? How'd you get here?"
Harry blinked. "Bill?" His eyes shifted from Bill, to Bill's makeup, to the cloud of glitter slowly settling on the Atrium floor and back to Bill's makeup, before he voiced the one question on his mind.
"What the fuck is going on?"
A few worlds away...
George Weasley stared at the patch of minty fresh air currently occupying the space in his bathroom that had, not five seconds earlier, contained the person of Harry Potter.
A/N: Um. I've no idea if this works, so please review. There was this toothpaste ad on tv, you see, which claimed to be so good it could blast you (or just your mouth, I really can't remember) into another dimension. I started thinking about what that would actually be like, and, well, here you go.
So, tell me what you think?