[fic] Harry Potter and the Things You Have To Do To Get By In Prison
SPOILERS: None!
WARNINGS: Crack, probably.
DISCLAIMER: All characters property of RoRo and her various publishers. No infringement intended and no money is being made.
When Harry Potter woke up this morning, he hadn't the faintest idea where he was.
On any normal morning, he'd have opened his eyes to see himself surrounded by the curtains drawn tightly around his four-poster bed, disallowing any nasty invasion by sunlight. This was what was expected.
This was not, however, what he got.
Instead, he found himself lying on a cot, covered only by the thinnest of blankets in an alarmingly stained shade of ecru. Which may once have been white, and which only served to make things seem even worse.
His feet were also cold, and he never, ever slept without socks. He'd learnt about sleeping in the cold from living with the Dursleys for so long, where even the meagre cost of heating his tiny little cupboard was deemed more than his worth, and so he had to make do with any ambient heat he got from the rest of the house; his vents were always kept tightly sealed. So, socks. And many, many jumpers, come wintertime. At least Dinky Duddums had his rolls and rolls of flab to keep him warm. Harry had often thought that his cousin was much better outfitted by nature to live in his cupboard during the winter. Unfortunately, the Dursleys didn't see it that way.
He looked down at his feet. No socks.
And then he noticed the jeans. Which he hadn't been wearing last night; at least, not that he could recall.
"Oi, Potter! Breakfast!"
A harsh-looking matron with a nasty-looking truncheon at her side slid a tray in through a slot in the bars (BARS?!?) near the end of Harry's cot.
At this, Harry fairly leapt out of his bed and onto the cold, cold stone floor.
"Where...where am I?" Harry's throat was dry, and he was barely able to swallow, so his voice came out a bit more squeakily than intended.
"Surely you know the answer to that," a not-terrifically-soothing voice spoke from somewhere to the right of Harry.
Harry looked over and saw the speaker. He, too, wore the same jeans and striped, button-down shirt. He, however, also had socks. Along with a rather lascivious smirk.
"How do I get a pair of those?" Harry nodded at the other man's feet. A dream, that's what this is. If I just go along with it, this will all go away...
It was then Harry learnt the importance of the barter system whilst enjoying his stay in prison. Amongst other tricks of the trade, all of which he intended to inform Fred and George of once he got out.
******
A FEW MONTHS LATER
******
"Harry's absolutely going to kill us if he finds out we're the ones who signed him up for that reality prison camp show," Fred sniggered madly as he wrote on the label of the newest tape he'd recorded.
"You have no idea," Harry's voice, somehow rougher than they remembered it, spoke in low tones from the doorway.
WARNINGS: Crack, probably.
DISCLAIMER: All characters property of RoRo and her various publishers. No infringement intended and no money is being made.
When Harry Potter woke up this morning, he hadn't the faintest idea where he was.
On any normal morning, he'd have opened his eyes to see himself surrounded by the curtains drawn tightly around his four-poster bed, disallowing any nasty invasion by sunlight. This was what was expected.
This was not, however, what he got.
Instead, he found himself lying on a cot, covered only by the thinnest of blankets in an alarmingly stained shade of ecru. Which may once have been white, and which only served to make things seem even worse.
His feet were also cold, and he never, ever slept without socks. He'd learnt about sleeping in the cold from living with the Dursleys for so long, where even the meagre cost of heating his tiny little cupboard was deemed more than his worth, and so he had to make do with any ambient heat he got from the rest of the house; his vents were always kept tightly sealed. So, socks. And many, many jumpers, come wintertime. At least Dinky Duddums had his rolls and rolls of flab to keep him warm. Harry had often thought that his cousin was much better outfitted by nature to live in his cupboard during the winter. Unfortunately, the Dursleys didn't see it that way.
He looked down at his feet. No socks.
And then he noticed the jeans. Which he hadn't been wearing last night; at least, not that he could recall.
"Oi, Potter! Breakfast!"
A harsh-looking matron with a nasty-looking truncheon at her side slid a tray in through a slot in the bars (BARS?!?) near the end of Harry's cot.
At this, Harry fairly leapt out of his bed and onto the cold, cold stone floor.
"Where...where am I?" Harry's throat was dry, and he was barely able to swallow, so his voice came out a bit more squeakily than intended.
"Surely you know the answer to that," a not-terrifically-soothing voice spoke from somewhere to the right of Harry.
Harry looked over and saw the speaker. He, too, wore the same jeans and striped, button-down shirt. He, however, also had socks. Along with a rather lascivious smirk.
"How do I get a pair of those?" Harry nodded at the other man's feet. A dream, that's what this is. If I just go along with it, this will all go away...
It was then Harry learnt the importance of the barter system whilst enjoying his stay in prison. Amongst other tricks of the trade, all of which he intended to inform Fred and George of once he got out.
******
A FEW MONTHS LATER
******
"Harry's absolutely going to kill us if he finds out we're the ones who signed him up for that reality prison camp show," Fred sniggered madly as he wrote on the label of the newest tape he'd recorded.
"You have no idea," Harry's voice, somehow rougher than they remembered it, spoke in low tones from the doorway.