Story: [Drunken Misadventures]

Summary: Harry gets summoned to a new world in order to defeat their Dark Lord for them. He's not amused, but he's rather casual about it.

Genre: Humor, Crack, slight hints of Romance


Disclaimer: I don't own anything.


The first thing to remember about being summoned to another world in order to defeat the Dark Lord that the peaceful idiots were in no way capable of opposing on their own was that...

Well, Harry honestly wasn't entirely sure what the first thing to remember in such a situation actually was, in no small part because when Ron had suggested that as a possible situation to make plans for, Harry had told him that he shouldn't drink and think, because his brain-cells kept trying to kill off Harry's own.

Ron had said that he was insulted that Harry would 'insinuate' such a thing, and then promptly fallen asleep standing up, before knocking himself into unconsciousness by impacting the floor rather harshly.

Harry – who'd long since gotten used to such things – had dutifully sent a silent healing charm his way to deal with what would most likely have been a broken nose.

Luna had then appeared to tell Harry that Neville had very big feet, and that she'd be inspecting certain rumors about such things.

Not wanting to know about his good friend's sex-life with another good friend anymore than he wanted to know about his half-adopted big sister's sex-life, Harry had hurried himself into dismissing such memories from his mind by the most enthusiastic usage of firewhiskey.

Harry would later make a note that he shouldn't drink so much, because he'd woken up sandwiched between two rather young, and very much naked, blondes.

Two young, naked blondes who were both little sisters to two older blondes who were both rather frightening when upset. And he seriously doubted that 'I was drunk, what the hell do you want from me woman?!' would go over well with Fleur.

As for Daphne... well, there were rumors that she'd been literally cursing people with impotence for even looking at her sister funny, so Harry was naturally even more worried about that one.

In the end however, he'd managed to convince both the older witches to not flay him alive. Though he'd gotten off on the technicality of the both young witches having been clearly seen by several witnesses dragging his delirious self out of the club.

He supposed that he should've been upset that the two girls had taken advantage of his inebriated state to get him into bed with them, and he was certainly not pleased that their actions had put him in a spot of trouble with their sisters, but fact was that they were both rather attractive young witches and even if they were definitely a bit too young for him, they weren't young enough to make him feel like a dirty old man.

Thank Merlin for small mercies.

And the somewhat-blurry memories of two naked blondes with a lot of enthusiasm.

... Where was he? Oh, right. The 'being summoned to another world'-part.

Well, the first part of it was that it wasn't something that he'd ever planned for, because let's face it, even if he'd actually taken Ron's advice seriously and tried to figure out a plan for dealing with it, he would've gotten way too distracted by the rest of that night to remember it.

The second part was that Harry's plans generally kind of sucked anyway, and that his lack of planning for this event actually probably helped quite a bit.

It should perhaps be noted that his initial reaction had been.

"Oh ruddy hell, I'm too hungover to deal with this shit. Crookshanks, kill 'em all!"

That had obviously been back when he'd still been trying to go back to sleep from his spot on the hard wooden floor. He'd then realized that Crookshanks had never obeyed his orders, and would usually respond to them by doing horrible things to him, like peeing in his shoes.

"I mean, like, if you would be so kind as to tear the noise-makers limb from limb, I'd be most grateful and buy you extra-delicious cat-food."

When no reaction had been forthcoming even from that, Harry came to the conclusion that he hadn't passed out in Crookshanks vicinity and had immediately taken advantage of that fact.

"Ruddy shovel-faced half-kneazle, you won't be so high and mighty when I pee on you when you're asleep."

It should perhaps be noted that Harry didn't handle his hangovers with dignity and grace. More accurately it could be said that he handled them with dark mutterings about things that made little to no sense.

Luna had briefly taken an interest in recording these mutterings in order to properly map out his inner psyche, but she'd given up the experiment as a lost cause when she'd realized that he was more likely to accidentally mutter out the entire works of Shakespeare than he was to actually start making sense.

Hermione had said something about Shakespeare making perfect sense, and Luna had just started at her with pity for a very long moment, before slowly shaking her head sadly at the other girl.

Ron would later be seen trying desperately to read one of the many collection of Shakespeare that could be found in the muggle world. He didn't give up on trying to understand them until Hermione visited him in St Mungos where she finally told him that she'd much rather have him – sane and sometimes a bit prat-ish – in her bed than she would have him breaking his mind when trying to figure out the works of what was apparently some kind of anti-wizard writer.

It was then that Harry finally realized that instead of studying magic, he should've been studying Shakespeare so that he could accidentally break Voldemort's mind by quoting the writer at him during one of their confrontations.

He'd been willing to bet a lot of money on how that had probably been the actual 'power he knows not', and had let it be known that he blamed Hermione for not introducing the works of the mad writer to him earlier so that he could've avoided all of that bothersome stuff like going to war.

Then Ginny had kicked him in the shin for being a prat, and as he'd limped away, clutching his heart in terror and grief at being so harshly attacked by the redhead, two certain young blonde witches had appeared to explain to him about the wound-soothing properties of good booze.

Fleur and Daphne hadn't been so understanding the second time he'd woken up with a hangover, and Harry had been seen fleeing through Diagon Alley the next day, naked as the day he was born, and shrieking like a little girl.

Anyway, back to the actual problem of being summoned to another dimension to fight a war that he had no part in.

"This is our hero?" Came a slimy voice from somewhere to the left.

Harry flinched, because he recognized that voice and he'd been hoping that Snape would've damn well stayed dead so that he wouldn't have to deal with the creep. He might've had an excuse to be bitter and cruel, but he didn't have one for finding satisfaction in bullying small children, and no matter how much he'd helped in their fight against Voldemort, being a person whose personal vendetta coincided with your own side of the war didn't make you forgive them for being an ass.

"I want a solicitor." He grumbled into the floor, because he could probably be held accountable for trying to strangle Snape with his shoelaces, and he'd gotten into enough trouble with the law to know better than to provoke it without backup.

"We've summoned you because we're in desperate need a hero." An older voice broke through the surrounding murmur of people.

"Not a hero." Harry admitted to the floor. "I was just targeted by a crazy bald person and somehow got lucky."

Though, to be entirely truthful, he'd also been drunk at the time so it was entirely possible that he'd missed some minor detail. Like why Luna believed that 'We will rock you' was some kind of obscure muggle battle-hymn.

Ginny was just convinced that he was a fantastic dancer, and only needed to be drunk off his ass to learn to let go of his uptight-ness that was in the way of him becoming some kind of dance-god.

Hermione was very insistent that it'd been luck though, and considering that Harry's world had been a bit blurry around the edges at the time, he wasn't going to argue the point.

"You must be a hero, it was specified in the summoning ritual." The old voice shot down his argument.

And technically, maybe he was still classified as a hero, what with all of the people giving toasts in his honor and stuff like that. Still didn't actually make him especially qualified for helping people in need.

"I'm not drunk enough to be hallucinating this." Harry whined, feeling like this situation would've been much more comfortable if that had been the case.

"This is our hero?" A female voice repeated Snape's question, sounding quite a bit uncertain about it.

"This shit probably never happens to people in Las Vegas." Harry complained, thinking that maybe he shouldn't have kept shooting down Gabrielle and Astoria's attempts at convincing him that Las Vegas had better booze than all of Britain combined.

It wasn't like they would take advantage of him when he was drunk a sixteenth time, would they?

"Isn't that the place that muggles get drunk and get married overnight?" Another male voice asked, sounding curious and amused.

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but paused as he considered that. "I'm sure they wouldn't have taken advantage of me a sixteenth time." He argued.

"'Sixteenth'?" The voice asked again, clearly a little bit stunned.

"Though... it might've stopped their sisters from trying to kill me all the time." Harry mused thoughtfully. "But that's probably not at all what they were thinking, they're sweet girls, they wouldn't do something like that." Harry suddenly recalled the blurry memories of two wonderfully naked witches with predatory grins. "Probably." He amended.

"That's-... I'm not sure if I should be approving or disapproving." The voice admitted after a pause.

"Padfoot, why would you be approving?" Another different voice asked.

"'They'. The guy's talking about more than a single witch dragging him into their beds on repeated occasions. That's worthy of respect, right there." The voice designated as 'Padfoot' told him.

Considering Snape's presence, the presence of a man called 'Padfoot', and an older man who knew of rituals capable of calling heroes to their aid, Harry was guessing that this might possibly be another dimension's Order of the Phoenix.

His reaction to this realization was probably understandable considering most of his life.

"The only way to defeat old snake-face is to understand the collected works of Shakespeare."

Why should he attack them for kidnapping him, when he could give them hope for their war and watch them shatter their own minds in a feeble attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible?

He was patient, he could totally find a bar to get drunk in whilst waiting for them to succumb to the madness that the famous muggle-writer inspired in wizards and witches.

The fact that, if they should actually succeed, they could easily turn that written work into a weapon against Tom and his Death Eaters... well, that just solidified his alibi if people tried to hold him responsible for knowingly aiding in the shattering of the minds of the Light-aligned wizards and witches.

It never hurt to have a solid alibi.

However, Harry had been spending this entire conversation face-down on the floor, so he didn't know if there were going to be anyone that would kick up a fuss over who he was. And – considering both his luck, and the presence of Snape – it was really only a matter of time until the fuss-kicking commenced.

"I sincerely doubt that." The old voice scoffed at him. "The power Voldemort 'knows not' is Love, after all."

Harry briefly wondered if Dumbledore had actually been hit over the head repeatedly as a young child, until he was completely incapable of reconsidering what he knew about things. It would certainly explain quite a number of things.

"It wasn't 'love' the last time I killed him." Harry pointed out into the floor. "I'd say it was a mixture of alcohol-induced wobbling and ungodly amounts of luck." He hummed thoughtfully. "I remember someone working on a theory that I'd been dipped in Felix Felicis as an infant, which is actually a lot more plausible than you'd think, all things considered."

"That would just cause an overdose and kill the one exposed to it." Another voice shot down that argument.

"Yeah, 'cause I've never survived anything that's impossible to survive." Harry deadpanned. "Frankly, at least being dipped in Felix Felicis and accidentally being so lucky that I survived an overdose of luck, is actually a lot more plausible than some of the theories on how I've lived as long as I have."

Snape scoffed. "I doubt that you've survived anything more dangerous than falling out of bed in the morning."

Harry suddenly remembered that one time that he'd fallen out of bed and nearly drowned, because the twins had thought that it'd be funny to turn his bed sea-worthy whilst he slept.

"I doubt I was in any real danger from that, I'm pretty sure they'd put charms on it to keep me from drowning in case I didn't wake up after I hit the water." He muttered to himself. Not that that would've been a likely scenario, considering how they'd committed the prank in the midst of winter.

Ice-cold water is a very good way to wake someone up.

There was a moment of silence as everyone around him probably tried to understand that statement.

"James, we should totally turn Remus's bed seaworthy while he's asleep." The supposed Padfoot-voice commented with uncharacteristic seriousness.

'Uncharacteristic' as in, he actually sounded serious at all, and wasn't just cracking jokes about always being it.

"Shut up, Padfoot." Another voice told the man.

The old voice cleared his throat. "Interesting though this might be, perhaps we should return to the purpose behind our summoning of you?"

"Kill snake-face and go home?" Harry guessed from where he still lay unmoving, staring into the floor.

"I suppose that would be the gist of it." The old voice agreed, sounding a little put-out at having it so summarized, rather than turned into an endless sea of cryptic comments.

Harry sighed. "I suppose I might as well read the bloody plays again." He finally consented.

"Shakespeare is not 'the power he knows not'!" A female voice exclaimed, sounding extremely frustrated.

Harry hummed in sarcastic thought. "I see, I suppose you'd know, wouldn't you? Having slayed Voldemort previously and all that? I guess I have no choice but to bow to your experience on the matter." Harry let the silent spread for a moment. "Oh? You haven't actually slayed Voldemort? That's why you kidnapped me away from everything and everyone I hold dear so that I could do it for you? Then what the hell do you know? Go eat a cracker, woman."

Now, whilst it was certainly true that Harry had beaten Voldemort through an insane amount of luck, and possibly by being too drunk to react like a normal person ought to, calling Harry incapable was actually quite the lie.

Yes, during his schooling, Harry had faced death and only managed to escape through mindboggling strokes of luck, every damn time. But those numerous experiences had given him something of a danger-sense, which when combined with the fact that he actually was fairly competent all on his own – despite having been forced to fight people who played in the grown-ups' big league ever since he was eleven – came together into making him a surprisingly capable wizard.

Despite his constant claims of it being luck that had saved his ass, more often than not.

Honestly, what had they expected out of him? He was a child who'd been told to go off and kill one of the fiercest Dark Lord's in recorded history, he'd been so outclassed it hadn't even been funny. He would, in fact, still have been hopelessly outclassed even if he'd been some kind of once-in-a-generation prodigy, because Voldemort had been that too, and he still had about seventy years of experience on him.

So, instead of trying to actually beat the Dark Lord, he'd gone out there with the sole hope of being ridiculously lucky. And had come out on top.

The end result had meant that he'd originally been labeled as the second coming of Merlin, but the hype had died down rather rapidly when Harry had rapidly used up much of his political influence in order to make the Wizarding World a better place to live in.

Hermione and Ron both still had enough of their own influence remaining so that nobody could rescind any of the laws he'd so blatantly pushed through.

Not that the lack of political influence in any way bothered Harry, as it generally meant that nobody tried to suck up to him, and he'd gotten mighty sick of all the bloody well-wishers sneaking around all over his backyard. Instead, he'd gleefully hoisted off the weight of responsibility on the shoulders of his friends – even if Ron just mostly followed Hermione's lead because he didn't bloody care about politics beyond making sure that quidditch remained just as fantastic as it ought to be.

Still, whilst it was certain that he'd beaten Voldemort through luck, and abandoned the political backstabbing of the Ministry to his reliable friends, Harry had remained in the top-five of eligible bachelors in Witch Weekly for several months.

At least until they'd really started to notice the impact the laws he'd driven through had on their society. After that, there was a bit of an uproar and a lot of people declared him to be some manner of anarchistic madman, because suddenly the laws stated that centaurs were perfectly capable of working in cafe's, and that house elves needed to be treated in the same manner as any wizard doing the same work, and that werewolves would be given the Wolfsbane Potion by the government if they had work, and a whole slew of other, similar tiny little things that had left those who upheld the traditions of a 'pure' Wizarding World in outrage.

Oddly enough, it was just around the time when this outrage truly began that Astoria and Gabrielle began challenging him to drinking-games.

The only clue he had to why this was, was a comment from Fleur as she'd chased him through Diagon Alley with a golf club. It'd been in French, and Harry wasn't sure how much he remembered wrongly, because he'd been a bit hungover, and he'd been desperately shielding his dangling bits from Daphne's hexes. But it'd been something about how she refused to approve of him, because nobody could be that 'saintly' without ulterior motives.

He'd probably translated 'saintly' wrong or something. But that was life, and no matter how Gabrielle tried, he doubted that he'd ever be fluent in French. No matter how much Hermione complained over how she was convinced that he knew more French than she did after one year of study, when she'd tried learning it for decades.

She was probably exaggerating. It wasn't like he'd ever entirely figured out what Gabrielle's cousins and her always spent so much time giggling over whenever they met up. It sounded a lot like they were comparing sausages, which was silly, because they'd been talking about 'going fishing', and something about marinating it in alcohol an topping it with whipped cream.

He'd clearly not understood the language yet.

However, back to the point.

Harry had grown up being lucky, and had quickly figured out how to be skilled.

So, when him telling off the female voice going on about Shakespeare was followed by him feeling that sense of sparkly doom that had always heralded danger, he didn't get lucky. He was just a lot faster than what most people, who didn't understand what Seeker-reflexes truly meant, would realize.

By the time the hex his the floor that he'd previously occupied, the woman was shackled and bound, four other people were disarmed, and Snape had a broken nose.

Honestly, he might have been willing to forgive Snape on behalf of him not speaking ill of the dead that Harry cared about, but Harry most certainly wouldn't suffer a living Snape without some manner of retaliation.

There was actually a perfectly good reason why none of the old Death Eaters ever tried to assassinate Harry. For four years he'd fled naked and unarmed through Diagon Alley, followed by two witches who were known for being highly skilled duelists, and he'd never been hit by any of their spells.

Besides, most of them were fairly content with knowing that at least they'd get to see him running around naked, screaming like a little girl whilst being chased by two very violent witches. Supposedly, it was quite cathartic to them.

"Now, what we've got here, is a failure to communicate." Harry drawled at the incapacitated people, absently keeping the ones remaining standing within his sight at all times.

One of the bodies on the floor groaned.

"Let's start out. You've literally torn me from house and home, kidnapped me from friends and family. This has been done without consent from my side, and for the sake of me cleaning up your messes, because – in a pure 'law of the jungle' kind of way – the fact that you're on the losing side means that this must all be your fault." Harry continued with a rather bland tone of someone reciting facts. "So, you've kidnapped me, and now you're forcibly recruiting me into murdering people, for the sake of your side of the war."

"'Murder'?!" An old man with a really long beard exclaimed, looking a little bit like Dumbledore, if you got past the fact that Dumbledore had been rotting away inside of his very fancy grave for the last near-decade.

Why, the man with the beard didn't even look like he'd spent a month with maggots eating him from the inside out. Way to be disappointingly incapable of playing the role.

"Well, it is a war, so of course there's going to be casualties. And since I'm rather fond of my own life, I'd prefer it to be the lives of whoever you decide that I need to fight." Harry shrugged. "Beyond that, there's the fact that no matter how insane and warped he might be, old snake-face is still technically human, meaning that you're basically asking me to assassinate someone, which is classified as 'murder'."

That seemed to take a bit of the wind out of the old man's outrage, though he still looked heavily disapproving.

Harry was quite fine with that though, since it meant that the old man – who'd most likely been the driving force behind the ritual that had been used to kidnap him – was unhappy. And him being unhappy made Harry feel happy, and Harry liked being happy. It was a thing.

"Oh, and just so we're clear. I'm going to be forcing a magical contract out of each and every one of you that you'll forcibly avoid this ritual or one similar to it in any shape or form, to ever be performed or recorded ever again after I've been sent back to my own world." Harry's smile held a sharp edge. "It'd hardly be fair for me to be summoned a second time, simply because you failed to stop the rise of a second Dark Lord, after all."

"And why should we do what you say?" Snape sneered at him through his broken nose.

It was kind of ironic, that Snape was the only one he could consider as 'Snape', amongst those gathered around him. Mostly, this was because he actually cared about the people the rest of them were attempting – and failing – to imitate.

Secretly a double-agent or not, Snape was still a git, after all.

"Because clearly the contract you've bound me to by summoning me here doesn't include a safety-clause for yourselves. Which means that I can torture you all to death, if I wanted to." Harry noted dryly, not mentioning that he wasn't especially fond of torturing people top death, and that he was more likely to simply sit down and start explaining Shakespeare to them until their minds shattered from the strain. "So it really is in your best interest to not give me a reason to do so. Besides, all I'm really doing is destroying a possible back-up plan for you in the long indeterminate future, and surely you can keep the Dark wizards in check all on your own once that old Voldie is gone?"

There were some grumbling about this, but none of them were willing to speak up and draw his ire to them in particular. Most likely because they'd just seen him disable half of their numbers, and he'd recently threatened – in a roundabout way – to torture them all to death.

Self-preservation, the one thing that Gryffindor never openly advocated. In no small part because Hogwarts didn't actually teach its students how to be sensible individuals.

Seriously, who puts all the hard workers in one House? Those people should be scattered around properly, so that everyone could be bullied into doing their homework in a sensible manner by their close-knit circle of friends.

Harry and Ron had really just lucked-out that they'd ended up befriending a girl who hadn't understood the whole concept of only showing the traits of her House.

Ambitious, book-smart, hard working, loyal, and a complete idiot about charging straight ahead with a plan that only worked on a purely theoretical level. A true Gryffindor if there ever was one. Not like Ron and his peculiar mix of ambition, cleverness, and loyalty to the point of completely forgetting about his own safety.

They were both Gryffindor-brave, indeed. But they reached that bravery through completely different means. Because Hermione wanted to do what was right, even when it was wrong. And Ron wanted to help his friends, even when he didn't want to do that at all.

It takes a special kind of twelve-year old to walk into the forbidden, spooky woods, at night, following the trail of their greatest phobia, on the off-chance that one of their friends actually had given them good advice, simply because his best friend is crazy enough to think that it sounded like a good idea and he didn't want to let him go out there on his own.

Though many people questioned both his sanity and his dignity – running naked through Diagon Alley, dodging two furiously protective witches could do that to a guy's reputation – nobody would ever consider questioning him on his choice of friends.

Except maybe Malfoy, but he was mostly just a dick, so nobody really cared much about what he thought.

Still, the group surrounding him didn't seem to have that Gryffindor-stupidity trait, because instead of reacting to his veiled threat by yelling incoherently, they were accepting that it was a sensible thing for him to threaten them for. Which it was, so the lack of Gryffindorishness was appreciated, if not originally expected considering his own memories of the people they were attempting to disguise themselves as.

Reasonability wasn't exactly something he'd expected from Dumbledore's Order. But that was probably due to his memories of them trying to 'protect' him from information that very much concerned him, no matter what they said.

Keeping children from the front-lines is all well and good in theory, but when you're dealing with a child-soldier who had a mass-murdering terrorist – who also happened to be the leader of the opposing side – gunning for his life? Trying to protect him from the front-lines would just cause everyone to start tripping over each other's feet until someone cracked their head open on the furniture.

Unfortunately, he hadn't figured out a way to phrase it that would make them see the idiocy of it, before the entire Order had gone to ground after Dumbledore's death. And after that, it was quite pointless indeed to even bother thinking about it.

Harry clapped his hands together with a happy smile as he looked around the non-protesting room. "Glad we've got that settled!" He exclaimed brightly. "Now, do any of you have any idea about anything going on with the war? Because that'd be useful to know."

"We have a very good grasp on the situation." The bearded old man interjected. "There's really no need for you to-..."

Harry groaned, and with a few well-placed hexes sent the old man tumbling unconscious to the floor. "Lovely." He smiled at the sight. "Now that the old man – whose retarded plan put you in the mess of potentially being tortured to death at my amusement – is out of the way, I think we should return to the task at hand. Namely, information. So, spill."


A/n: I honestly don't know where this one was going, only that it was probably going to end with Astoria and Gabrielle somehow hunting him down to the new dimension and dragging him off to get drunk, because that's what they do.