A/N: Total crack. You guess what inspired me. Heh.

Bugger This

soberloki

One morning, Harry Potter sat for breakfast at the Slytherin table. Millicent, Pansy, Theodore, Blaise, and Crabbe gaped at the interloper as he settled next to Draco Malfoy. Goyle was already involved in his scrambled eggs, and couldn't be bothered.

"What are you doing, Potter?" Draco demanded, understandably puzzled.

"I've had enough. I'm leaving," Harry said firmly. "I've been the salvation of the Wizarding world since I was a year old, I've been under pressure since I was eleven, and I'm done. The so-called adults can stop the Dark Lord, I'm sixteen and I've never had a proper shag and I'm not a martyr."

Draco wasn't as surprised as he thought he ought to be. "Aren't you afraid to disappoint your followers?"

Harry shrugged. "They'll get over it. Anyway, they might not even notice I've gone." He nodded toward his House table, where his alter-egos were being supported silently but vigorously by the rest of Gryffindor. "They hardly notice which one of me they're talking to any longer."

A little gloomily, Harry noted that Hary was wearing the same clothes he'd had on for three days, and was glaring daggers at his breakfast. Haryr's shirt collar was unbuttoned, and the lacy edge of his camisole could be seen. Harry grimaced. Teal was not his color.

Draco was surprised. Nobody mentioned the alter-egos. Not his mother, not Dumbledore, and certainly not his father, but with a doppelganger named Luscious, Malfoy Senior really didn't have anything to say on the subject.

"Darco and Draoc?" Harry prompted.

Down-table, Darco glanced about and drew a large, shiny blade from a leather sheath built into the leg of his leather trousers, and began carving his initials in his own forearm. Draco snorted in disgust and checked on Draoc, who was wearing a pink satin blouse, brown trousers, and shoes with a Cuban heel.

"Wankers, both. Hopeless. Hary and Haryr?"

"Hary isn't half sane, and Haryr's utterly confused. Doesn't know his arse from his elbow." Harry stared hungrily at Draco's aristocratic hand, where it lay on the table. Briefly, he pondered what that hand might be like at something other than wielding a wand.

"So... you're going. Where?" Draco found himself wondering if Potter's lips had always looked so juicy and delicious, and couldn't recall.

"Thought I might go to London, try getting in a few clubs. Get a flat. Shag some nice-looking blokes stupid. Want to come with?"

Draco turned to Pansy. "Obliviate the lot of them, Pans, and you can have all of my silk shirts when I'm gone."