He felt another body move in the bed and frowned. He didn’t remember bringing anyone home. He opened his eyes fully and blinked in surprise. He hadn’t brought anyone home.
He wasn’t even home.
This room was much smaller than his bedroom, with honey colored walls and worn, meant to be white furniture. He went home with someone? That was rare. Rarer even, was that he couldn’t remember it. Gently he nudged the duvet down and saw a flannel clad shoulder, along with a mass of red curls. No woman he usually spent time with would sink low enough sleep in something so unflattering.
“Just five more minutes, Draco.” The figure murmured and turned, slinging an arm over him and burrowing her head on his chest.
He could only gape. All the women he slept with knew his strict no cuddling policy. He only dated women who had no intention of getting serious, like him. Women who knew his rules and both appreciated and followed them, some even having similar rules of their own.
Before he could shrug the unknown woman off, the sound of a raging stampede interrupted him. Then he felt something heavy land on him before all hell broke loose. There was screeching, barking and what he thought was a demon singing with joy. Something about bells, a bat man and eggs. He sat up, wishing he knew where his wand was so he could defend himself.
The noise turned out to be caused by a giant, slobbering dog, along with two small demons clad in footie pajamas. He rolled out of the bed and stood up, appalled. He never dated women with children. The one exception had been a Mediterranean beauty who liked to hand her children over to a nanny and go for long drives in her Mercedes. And this was definitely not she.
“Mummy, mummy, mummy!” The two children swarmed over the lump under the duvet.
“I’m up, I’m up.” Then from under the covers Ginny Weasley appeared. Had he lost his mind last night? He had to have gotten monumentally drunk if this was where he went. And he didn’t know she had children.
Pausing slightly he peered at the little demons. For children they were rather cute, he supposed, the bigger one a blond boy with deep brown eyes and the smaller one a girl with red curls and bright grey eyes. She’d be a heartbreaker one day, for sure.
“Daddy! Santa’s hewe!” The little boy said, eyes shining like he’d found the answer to world peace. The girl, Ginny in miniature, crawled over to him. Seeing her about to crawl over the edge of the bed, he held his arms out in reflex to stop a concussion and the little girl fell into his arms. Her little legs kicked in the air with excitement and she laughed.
“Santa, daddy! Pwesents!” the boy repeated and bounced again. How long had he been out of it? Daddy? What in the name of Merlin’s underpants was going on here? Were these kids high or something?
Putting the little girl back on the bed, he said to no one in particular, “I have to go.” He grabbed whatever was close and hurried out. Luckily, there was a car in the driveway with keys for it conveniently in the pocket of the trousers he’d found. He had to drive as far away as possible from this hellish place, wherever he was.
o.O.o
Numb, he sat in the car. He’d driven all the way into London, after he’d figured out which tiny little village he was in. Someplace called Ottery St Catchpole. What kind of name was that anyway?
He’d gone to his house, his office, even tried his wizarding office. No one recognized him and his company name was nowhere to be found. The only explanation was some weird alternate reality. A reality where he lived with Ginny Weasley, had two children, a slobbery dog, a small house in a tiny village and wore flannel shirts.
That was the next sad discovery. When he’d finally regained his wits for long enough to look down he’d seen a flannel shirt over a long sleeved tee that maybe once upon a time had been white. Faded jeans with a stain on the knee and to finish the embarrassment off - hiking boots. Hiking boots. It had to be some twisted curse.
He clearly remembered finishing the meeting with the board of shareholders. Then he had decided to walk home. And yet he had woken up in a mental institution where the delusional inmates were convinced he was the man of the house. A dad. A husband. It was absurd. Could it be a brain tumor? Had he gotten a spike through his head like that famous case of personality change due to brain damage? And only now he realized it? What year was it anyway?
A quick rapping on his car window interrupted his personal inner rant. He jumped and peeked out to see a jovial face filling up most of it.
“Dray.”
Nobody called him Dray but Jimmy and this was most assuredly not his friend, the fashionable East Londoner. This man looked round, friendly and had brown curling hair that looked as if he cut it himself, with his eyes closed.
“What the hell are you doing sitting here? Ginny called in a state thinking you’d been kidnapped or the like.”
He could only keep staring. He didn’t know who this was. He was positive they’d never met.
“Who are you?”
“Are you okay there, Dray? You’re kind of pale. You can tell me what’s wrong.”
“I don’t know who you are. I live in London. I’m a CEO. I own a multimillion pound corporation. You have me confused with someone else.”
“As if,” the man snorted. “Draco Malfoy, married thirteen years, salesman, father of two, more like. Listen, I know sometimes it hits you. You’re no longer young, you can’t just jump on the closest plane and dance with hot twenty-somethings on the beach in Bermuda. You have people who depend on you.” The man leaned companionably on the car door, still talking through the car window. “But that passes. Do you remember last year when I was about to have that thing with Billy’s swim teacher? Do you remember what you said?”
“No?” Draco wondered if the wild desperation in his tone was as obvious to the other man as it was to him.
“You told me not to throw away the best part of my life 'cause I was feeling middle-aged and insecure.”
Everything inside Draco objected to the term middle-aged. And why had the schmuck who apparently was his doppelganger not told his “friend” to go for it? A swim teacher sounded hotter than a wife.
“Er…”
“Come on, I’ll get you a drink and walk you home.”
A drink! The first sensible proposition he’d heard all morning. Like a duckling following its mother he trailed after the big man.
Inside the house and down the basement stairs, Draco had stop and blink in shock. The man had to be seriously visually impaired. There was no other credible reason why this…room (and that was a generous term, he thought) in the basement would have a carpet the color of vomit and leather (as if) armchairs in the hue of dog poo. And that was just before you saw the walls. Striped, in green and brown with assorted, mismatched sports paraphernalia plastered all over them. The only thing that made sense in the room was the tacky bar.
The man ushered him in and pushed him down in one of the armchairs before he could protest and a suspicious tang of cheese wafted up as he sat. He’d bet there were cheese crisps enough to fill a new bag hidden in the depths of the chair.
“Here. The good stuff, since its Christmas.” Draco didn’t much care if it had been 100-year-old vintage whisky as he knocked it back. The burn helped clear his head. And made him realize it definitely not was “good stuff”, at least not by his standards. But the man was obviously in a less comfortable financial situation than himself. So he summoned his manners and cleared his throat of the rough fare.
“Thank you.”
“Anytime. Ready to go home? Ginny’s worried sick.”
Home? He wished with all his heart that would mean his airy London apartment and his mother’s dreary Christmas dinner. The man took his silence for approval and almost poured him out of the cheese-chair. Realizing what the man had just said, Draco voiced a beginning dread.
“Ginny?”
“That’s right, let’s get you back to Ginny and the kids.”
“Ginny is my wife.”
“Just keep saying it.”
“Ginny Weasley is my wife.”
“Well, Ginny Malfoy now, you lucky dog, since thirteen years.”
He almost fainted. Ginny Malfoy?
On the way out, being virtually pushed to the door, Draco stopped short. On the wall, framed and hung in the place of honor, was a picture of him and the man next to him, sitting in front of the tacky bar. Smiling and holding beers in a toast to the camera. Under it he recognized his own handwriting, “Bob, may we have many pints at this bar, and remember since I helped build it I’ll drink for free. Your friend, Dray.” Bob? He, Draco Malfoy, built that ugly thing? With his hands and - Merlin only knew what - tools? He didn’t even change light bulbs in his flat, what the heck was wrong with this man who looked like him yet was so completely different? This universe’s Draco Malfoy built things and had friends named Bob who were suburban dads with man caves in the basement. All of a sudden, he felt sick. Bob, as his name apparently was, just cheerily dragged him along like a child with a teddy bear in hand and in a few minutes they stood in front of the house he had left that morning.
“In you go, D.”
He walked up to the door like a man walking to his execution. Before he could knock the door swung open with force and Ginny Weasley, still wearing flannel pajamas and a look of absolute fury stood in front of him. She pulled him close in a hug and memories assaulted his senses as he picked up the scent of her hair, the feel of her skin.
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick!”
For some reason, what shocked him most wasn’t seeing her again, or the hug, it was the telephone she was clutching. The darling of the wizarding world was, in this universe, his wife and they were living in the muggle world. And she used phones. Bizarre. The way he figured he had been switched into this reality by accident, the other (pathetic) Draco Malfoy who lived here was probably in his apartment blessing his luck. But until they could be switched back, he couldn’t give too much away.
“….I’m sorry.” If the poor guy was married to her, he’d better not make things too bad for him. In his experience, women always needed to hear sorry.
“You should be. Liam opened the game it took you two weeks to enchant and you didn’t even get to see his face.”
Was Liam the kid? And why would anyone enchant games themselves? There were professionals who would do that for you. He was fairly sure he owned a company that specialized in it, in fact.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“Why did you leave?” She turned and went into the kitchen. She picked up her wand and pointed it at the kettle on the counter that instantly merrily boiled away. With measured movements she took out a cup, a tea bag and a spoon, making sure to put them down with a little more force than necessary.
“I had to…”
“Yes? What was so important you had to rush out and leave your family on Christmas morning?”
“Ginny,” he started using his most serious voice that tended to convince even the most pessimistic of his shareholders he could solve any crisis that came along. His reasonable voice. “I don’t live here. We’re not married and these are not my children.”
“Don’t joke with me now, Draco, I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m not, I think I may be in a different dimension of some sort where..."
She slammed her cup down on the counter. It may have been thirteen years since he saw it, but he knew that the look she gave him was the signal to fight or flee. So he returned to his earlier strategy.
“I’m sorry I missed Christmas morning.”
Some of the tension left her shoulders and Draco mentally gave himself a high five.
Then the demon yelling began again. Ginny didn’t flinch or move an inch, just gave him a look over the rim of her teacup.
“Don’t try the innocent act with me. It’s your turn. Go on up.” He realized the noise was coming from one of those baby walkie-talkies that was sitting on the counter. His turn to do what? Turn the volume down on it?
Hoping providence would send help, he went up the stairs.
He wasn’t even home.
This room was much smaller than his bedroom, with honey colored walls and worn, meant to be white furniture. He went home with someone? That was rare. Rarer even, was that he couldn’t remember it. Gently he nudged the duvet down and saw a flannel clad shoulder, along with a mass of red curls. No woman he usually spent time with would sink low enough sleep in something so unflattering.
“Just five more minutes, Draco.” The figure murmured and turned, slinging an arm over him and burrowing her head on his chest.
He could only gape. All the women he slept with knew his strict no cuddling policy. He only dated women who had no intention of getting serious, like him. Women who knew his rules and both appreciated and followed them, some even having similar rules of their own.
Before he could shrug the unknown woman off, the sound of a raging stampede interrupted him. Then he felt something heavy land on him before all hell broke loose. There was screeching, barking and what he thought was a demon singing with joy. Something about bells, a bat man and eggs. He sat up, wishing he knew where his wand was so he could defend himself.
The noise turned out to be caused by a giant, slobbering dog, along with two small demons clad in footie pajamas. He rolled out of the bed and stood up, appalled. He never dated women with children. The one exception had been a Mediterranean beauty who liked to hand her children over to a nanny and go for long drives in her Mercedes. And this was definitely not she.
“Mummy, mummy, mummy!” The two children swarmed over the lump under the duvet.
“I’m up, I’m up.” Then from under the covers Ginny Weasley appeared. Had he lost his mind last night? He had to have gotten monumentally drunk if this was where he went. And he didn’t know she had children.
Pausing slightly he peered at the little demons. For children they were rather cute, he supposed, the bigger one a blond boy with deep brown eyes and the smaller one a girl with red curls and bright grey eyes. She’d be a heartbreaker one day, for sure.
“Daddy! Santa’s hewe!” The little boy said, eyes shining like he’d found the answer to world peace. The girl, Ginny in miniature, crawled over to him. Seeing her about to crawl over the edge of the bed, he held his arms out in reflex to stop a concussion and the little girl fell into his arms. Her little legs kicked in the air with excitement and she laughed.
“Santa, daddy! Pwesents!” the boy repeated and bounced again. How long had he been out of it? Daddy? What in the name of Merlin’s underpants was going on here? Were these kids high or something?
Putting the little girl back on the bed, he said to no one in particular, “I have to go.” He grabbed whatever was close and hurried out. Luckily, there was a car in the driveway with keys for it conveniently in the pocket of the trousers he’d found. He had to drive as far away as possible from this hellish place, wherever he was.
o.O.o
Numb, he sat in the car. He’d driven all the way into London, after he’d figured out which tiny little village he was in. Someplace called Ottery St Catchpole. What kind of name was that anyway?
He’d gone to his house, his office, even tried his wizarding office. No one recognized him and his company name was nowhere to be found. The only explanation was some weird alternate reality. A reality where he lived with Ginny Weasley, had two children, a slobbery dog, a small house in a tiny village and wore flannel shirts.
That was the next sad discovery. When he’d finally regained his wits for long enough to look down he’d seen a flannel shirt over a long sleeved tee that maybe once upon a time had been white. Faded jeans with a stain on the knee and to finish the embarrassment off - hiking boots. Hiking boots. It had to be some twisted curse.
He clearly remembered finishing the meeting with the board of shareholders. Then he had decided to walk home. And yet he had woken up in a mental institution where the delusional inmates were convinced he was the man of the house. A dad. A husband. It was absurd. Could it be a brain tumor? Had he gotten a spike through his head like that famous case of personality change due to brain damage? And only now he realized it? What year was it anyway?
A quick rapping on his car window interrupted his personal inner rant. He jumped and peeked out to see a jovial face filling up most of it.
“Dray.”
Nobody called him Dray but Jimmy and this was most assuredly not his friend, the fashionable East Londoner. This man looked round, friendly and had brown curling hair that looked as if he cut it himself, with his eyes closed.
“What the hell are you doing sitting here? Ginny called in a state thinking you’d been kidnapped or the like.”
He could only keep staring. He didn’t know who this was. He was positive they’d never met.
“Who are you?”
“Are you okay there, Dray? You’re kind of pale. You can tell me what’s wrong.”
“I don’t know who you are. I live in London. I’m a CEO. I own a multimillion pound corporation. You have me confused with someone else.”
“As if,” the man snorted. “Draco Malfoy, married thirteen years, salesman, father of two, more like. Listen, I know sometimes it hits you. You’re no longer young, you can’t just jump on the closest plane and dance with hot twenty-somethings on the beach in Bermuda. You have people who depend on you.” The man leaned companionably on the car door, still talking through the car window. “But that passes. Do you remember last year when I was about to have that thing with Billy’s swim teacher? Do you remember what you said?”
“No?” Draco wondered if the wild desperation in his tone was as obvious to the other man as it was to him.
“You told me not to throw away the best part of my life 'cause I was feeling middle-aged and insecure.”
Everything inside Draco objected to the term middle-aged. And why had the schmuck who apparently was his doppelganger not told his “friend” to go for it? A swim teacher sounded hotter than a wife.
“Er…”
“Come on, I’ll get you a drink and walk you home.”
A drink! The first sensible proposition he’d heard all morning. Like a duckling following its mother he trailed after the big man.
Inside the house and down the basement stairs, Draco had stop and blink in shock. The man had to be seriously visually impaired. There was no other credible reason why this…room (and that was a generous term, he thought) in the basement would have a carpet the color of vomit and leather (as if) armchairs in the hue of dog poo. And that was just before you saw the walls. Striped, in green and brown with assorted, mismatched sports paraphernalia plastered all over them. The only thing that made sense in the room was the tacky bar.
The man ushered him in and pushed him down in one of the armchairs before he could protest and a suspicious tang of cheese wafted up as he sat. He’d bet there were cheese crisps enough to fill a new bag hidden in the depths of the chair.
“Here. The good stuff, since its Christmas.” Draco didn’t much care if it had been 100-year-old vintage whisky as he knocked it back. The burn helped clear his head. And made him realize it definitely not was “good stuff”, at least not by his standards. But the man was obviously in a less comfortable financial situation than himself. So he summoned his manners and cleared his throat of the rough fare.
“Thank you.”
“Anytime. Ready to go home? Ginny’s worried sick.”
Home? He wished with all his heart that would mean his airy London apartment and his mother’s dreary Christmas dinner. The man took his silence for approval and almost poured him out of the cheese-chair. Realizing what the man had just said, Draco voiced a beginning dread.
“Ginny?”
“That’s right, let’s get you back to Ginny and the kids.”
“Ginny is my wife.”
“Just keep saying it.”
“Ginny Weasley is my wife.”
“Well, Ginny Malfoy now, you lucky dog, since thirteen years.”
He almost fainted. Ginny Malfoy?
On the way out, being virtually pushed to the door, Draco stopped short. On the wall, framed and hung in the place of honor, was a picture of him and the man next to him, sitting in front of the tacky bar. Smiling and holding beers in a toast to the camera. Under it he recognized his own handwriting, “Bob, may we have many pints at this bar, and remember since I helped build it I’ll drink for free. Your friend, Dray.” Bob? He, Draco Malfoy, built that ugly thing? With his hands and - Merlin only knew what - tools? He didn’t even change light bulbs in his flat, what the heck was wrong with this man who looked like him yet was so completely different? This universe’s Draco Malfoy built things and had friends named Bob who were suburban dads with man caves in the basement. All of a sudden, he felt sick. Bob, as his name apparently was, just cheerily dragged him along like a child with a teddy bear in hand and in a few minutes they stood in front of the house he had left that morning.
“In you go, D.”
He walked up to the door like a man walking to his execution. Before he could knock the door swung open with force and Ginny Weasley, still wearing flannel pajamas and a look of absolute fury stood in front of him. She pulled him close in a hug and memories assaulted his senses as he picked up the scent of her hair, the feel of her skin.
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick!”
For some reason, what shocked him most wasn’t seeing her again, or the hug, it was the telephone she was clutching. The darling of the wizarding world was, in this universe, his wife and they were living in the muggle world. And she used phones. Bizarre. The way he figured he had been switched into this reality by accident, the other (pathetic) Draco Malfoy who lived here was probably in his apartment blessing his luck. But until they could be switched back, he couldn’t give too much away.
“….I’m sorry.” If the poor guy was married to her, he’d better not make things too bad for him. In his experience, women always needed to hear sorry.
“You should be. Liam opened the game it took you two weeks to enchant and you didn’t even get to see his face.”
Was Liam the kid? And why would anyone enchant games themselves? There were professionals who would do that for you. He was fairly sure he owned a company that specialized in it, in fact.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“Why did you leave?” She turned and went into the kitchen. She picked up her wand and pointed it at the kettle on the counter that instantly merrily boiled away. With measured movements she took out a cup, a tea bag and a spoon, making sure to put them down with a little more force than necessary.
“I had to…”
“Yes? What was so important you had to rush out and leave your family on Christmas morning?”
“Ginny,” he started using his most serious voice that tended to convince even the most pessimistic of his shareholders he could solve any crisis that came along. His reasonable voice. “I don’t live here. We’re not married and these are not my children.”
“Don’t joke with me now, Draco, I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m not, I think I may be in a different dimension of some sort where..."
She slammed her cup down on the counter. It may have been thirteen years since he saw it, but he knew that the look she gave him was the signal to fight or flee. So he returned to his earlier strategy.
“I’m sorry I missed Christmas morning.”
Some of the tension left her shoulders and Draco mentally gave himself a high five.
Then the demon yelling began again. Ginny didn’t flinch or move an inch, just gave him a look over the rim of her teacup.
“Don’t try the innocent act with me. It’s your turn. Go on up.” He realized the noise was coming from one of those baby walkie-talkies that was sitting on the counter. His turn to do what? Turn the volume down on it?
Hoping providence would send help, he went up the stairs.
Author notes: I hope you liked chapter two, stay tuned for more!
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