shower starting up on the other side of the wall, and he glanced around the unfamiliar room.

“What the fuck,” he said out loud, and thankfully, this time he wasn’t interrupted. Of course, this also meant that he didn’t get any answers either, and he was stuck in a room he didn’t know with a Malfoy who was expecting Harry to join him in the shower and either Harry had hit his head harder than he thought or the entire world had gone mad while he’d been unconscious. He had to get out of here. He had to…Hermione. Yes, Hermione would know what the fuck was going on, he just had to find some clothes…

Harry got out of bed, flushing bright red as yet another twinge reminded him of just what his body thought he’d been up to the night before, and then stopped, disoriented. He had no idea where his clothes were. Maybe there’d be some that would fit in the chest of drawers? He pulled one open tentatively, resolutely not looking at the photo frames scattered across the top. He decided not to think about why his favourite Cannons T shirt was folded up next to several pairs of jeans that looked like they’d fit him perfectly, just pulled out a pair and scrabbled around until he’d found some underwear and some socks and threw them all on.

He was just dropping to his knees to look for some shoes—aha, there they were, shoved under the bed—when Malfoy’s voice floated out from the bathroom. “If you’ve gone back to sleep in there, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Harry froze, one trainer on and one off. He didn’t have a clue what to say. He pulled on the other shoe and stood up, walking hesitantly over to the open door, as close as he dared. “Er, I’ve just remembered, I, er, need to talk to Hermione about something,” he called.

“What?”

“Er, sorry? I’ve got to go.” Harry found his wand, laying on the bedside table, and snatched it up, disapparating to Brook Cottage before thinking about it any further. If he had to be within shouting distance of a very naked Malfoy for much longer, Harry thought he might start crying.

Harry found himself standing on the porch of Ron and Hermione’s cottage before he remembered that they were still on their honeymoon and wouldn’t be there to help him anyway. He was just about to apparate to his flat, when the front door opened. Harry slipped off the top step, startled.

“Harry? What are you doing here, mate?”

Harry whimpered and threw himself at his best friend. He didn’t care that Ron was still in his dressing gown and pants, or that he was probably making a right tit out of himself; he was just so glad to see him.

“Er, okay, sure,” Ron said, patting Harry on the back awkwardly. “Not that I’m not pleased to see you, mate, but is there a reason we’re hugging on my front doorstep?”

“You’re here,” Harry mumbled, then frowned and straightened. “Wait, why are you here, you’re meant to be on holiday.”

“I am? That’s news to me, to be honest.”

Harry shook his head. “Never mind, you’re here now, that’s all that matters.” He grabbed a

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