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Disclaimer: You know, JKR would probably choke on her tea if she could see what I'm doing to her characters.  You may take that to mean that she has no knowledge of this wee-ficlet and I, therefore, have no permission whatsoever to be doing this.  Hurrah!

Dedication: To everybody who LJs or Blogs.  We REWL!

Author's note: This fic was written because I was pimping out for a Live Journal code.  This is why you shouldn't pimp yourselves out, kids!  ~.^

The long, silly, convoluted, nonsensical story of Draco Malfoy.  With two cameos, some plot holes, several in-jokes and General Disregard for nice relationships between anybody.  So there.

Draco Malfoy did up the final buttons on the back of his dress and nodded to himself in supreme satisfaction before mincing over to the full length mirror in the corner of the dormitory.  What he saw was not something that pleased him.  "Crabbe!  Goyle!"

"Huh?" Goyle's voice was muffled by yards of tulle as he struggled to fasten the garters of his garter belt to his stockings.

"Yes, master?" Crabbe grunted manfully.

That was better.  "Does this dress make me look too...hip-y?"  Draco swiveled to study his butt in the mirror, making sure that the dress wasn't accentuating yet another of his fatal flaws.

"Uh," said Crabbe smartly.

"Ahem," Draco reminded them curtly.  Honestly, where was the respect he'd so dutifully trained into them?

Goyle didn't even look up from his battle before replying, "You have beautiful hips, Master Draco." 

It was a mark of how incredibly stupid they were that neither them had bothered to comment on how the empire waist of the dress strikingly set off the curve of shoulders and the wonderful lines of his arms.  "You don't think I look...big...do you?" Draco was driven to ask.  He wasn't just fishing for compliments, either; a Malfoy was judged on appearance and Draco would not bring shame upon his family.  Not even if it meant stooping to asking fashion advice from nitwits. 

"Uh," said Crabbe again.

Draco waited a full two minutes before asking, "Yes?" in a snappish, yet dulcet tone.

"Uh, purple isn't good," Crabbe said finally and then cowered as though he were about to be hit.

Draco frowned.  "Purple?"

"It's not your color," Goyle added helpfully.  "Dammit, Crabbe, help me with my garters, would you?"

"Purple?"

Crabbe and Goyle struggled with Goyle's accoutrements.  "Uh-huh."

"It makes your hair look...uh...not that good."

Draco stared at his clueless lackeys as the toiled uselessly together.  "Purple?" he screeched.  Crabbe and Goyle started as though hit with a Stunning Hex.  "It's not purple," he shrieked.  "It's a very robust lilac and it's a perfect compliment to my eyes!"

"Uh," said Crabbe.

"Oh," Goyle said a moment later.  "It looks really pretty."

Draco rolled his eyes.  "It's useless to try to get any information out of the two of you!" he said disgustedly.  "I'm going to go out and find somebody who can tell me the truth that I want to hear!"

He prepared to storm off daintily in his fashionably cute strap-y shoes when Crabbe spoke.  "Uh, are you gonna be in the uh...that meadow thing so we can find you?"

"No," Draco said coldly.  "You'll just have to look for me.  And your corset, Crabbe, is done up all wrong.  It makes you look grotesquely bloated."  It would have been a better parting shot, he acknowledge to himself as he traipsed out of the castle, if Goyle and Crabbe actually cared about their appearances.  They didn't know what it meant to have true wizarding pride, Draco comforted himself.  Why, they couldn't tell lilac from lavender, let alone ancient wizard practices from current fashion trends.

"Whoa, buddy!  What bet did you lose?" a voice called out. 

Draco stopped and seethed before whirling to face the owner of the voice, a Ravenclaw boy he didn't know.  "No," he hissed, because hissing was entirely appropriate for a Slytherin, "I did not lose a bet.  I am showing pride in my Pureblood heritage."  He glared showily at the boy, "Unlike some people."

"Whatever," the Ravenclaw shrugged.  "You've got some really cruel friends."

Before Draco could respond to that outrageous statement (Slytherins didn't have friends, they had servants and powerful acquaintances) a pretty witch hurried up and seized the other boy by the arm, dragging him away.  "Bryon, don't you know who that boy is?" Draco heard her whisper.  "That's Draco Malfoy."

"So," he heard the Ravenclaw, Bryon, respond.  "He's wearing a dress."

"The customer is always right, Bryon!" the witch exclaimed and Draco glared not-so showily at the retreating twosome. 

"Don't tell me he bought that at your store, Abby!" Bryon exclaimed as they rounded a corner and their voices faded.

Draco huffed to himself.  As if he'd buy anything from a place called 'Gladrags', he thought, conveniently forgetting about his dress robes and clasp.  "Ha, I'm so much better than they are," he consoled himself.  It didn't work very well because there was nobody to back him up and reaffirm his general greater-than-everybody-else worth.  "Doesn't matter," he sniffed after a moment or two.  "I'll just pop over to the meadow for a bit before finding a true opinion.  A knowledgeable and true opinion." 

The meadow behind Greenhouse Three was filled with vibrant and pretty daisies just waiting to be plucked by delicate hands and woven into crowns by nimble fingers.  Draco was happy to oblige them  and he soon had an armful of pretty flowers; he was humming contentedly to himself and thinking of the new pink chenille shawl he would be buying when a familiar, rude, underclass voice broke into his idyllic reverie. "Oi, little girl, sod off.  I'm trying to get a little privacy."

"I'm not a girl, Weasley," he sneered as a contemptible red-head emerged from the bushes behind Greenhouse Two.  "But I'm certainly better than what you're with," he said cattily as Granger's tousled head appeared beside Ron's.

Granger rolled her eyes, "I'm not going to be offended by some ignoramus who is entirely unable of making a choice to either follow the fashion dictates of transvestitism or not."   She ducked back into the bushes, pulling Weasley with her.

"It's not transvestitism!" Draco said shrilly, once he'd worked out what Hermione had said to him.  "It's an ancient wizarding tradition!"

Ron's head re-emerged, eyes blinking quizzically.  "Ancient...are the Slytherins given Dope-up Potions?" he asked after a moment.  "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard anybody say."

"What would you know...you're friends with a mudblood," Draco scoffed.

Hermione ducked her head back out with a sigh and hexed his daisies into a mass of weeds.  "Shut-up, Malfoy, we're busy with a real wizarding tradition.

"Oh?" Draco tried to sound disinterested, but traditions were important to know...one never knew when they might curry favor.

"Yeah," Ron jerked his head meaningfully at the bushes.  "Old Weasley family tradition."

"It is not!" Draco told him imperiously.  "You just made that up to get Granger to join you back there."

"He did not," came a new voice.  "Honestly, why do you think there are so many Weasleys in the world?  Are you done in there, Ron?"

Draco looked from Ginny Weasley to Ron Weasley.  "You're having a laugh on us," he said uncertainly.

They ignored him.  "No, Malfoy interrupted us," Ron said. "Why?"

Ginny jerked her thumb at Colin Creevey.  "I got sick of waiting for Harry and thought I'd pass the time."

"Some loyalty," Draco snorted and made a mental note to stay away from the bushes behind the Greenhouses lest the Weasley traits infest his unborn offspring.

The Weasley siblings continued to ignore him.  "Done soon?" Ginny asked her brother.

Her brother, for his part, peered behind him and then blushed.  "Nope."

"I'm going to be ill," Draco whined.  They were supposed to be paying attention to him.

Ginny looked at the bushes and then at the boy behind her.  "C'mon, Colin, we can use the other traditional spot in the middle of the Quidditch pitch," she said with a sigh.

Draco glared at her as she left and then he glowered at the rustling bushes for a little while.  Nobody seemed to care and it was boring.  "Fine," he said sharply to nobody in particular.  "I'll just tell your dear Potter where you've been and what you've been doing." 

Despite tromping in a very non-genteel way through the castle doors, Potter did not come running.  Not even when Draco pulled out his wand and cursed a passing Hufflepuff.  "Potter!  I'm cursing innocent students!  Why aren't you coming to save them?"  he said after he'd cursed the fifth or sixth person to walk into the Great Hall; he'd probably pay for cursing McGonagall, but he'd thought that surely cursing the head of his House would have brought Potter on the quick.

"It's probably because you're wearing a dress, boy," the Bloody Baron floated past with Nearly-Headless Nick.

"It's tradition!" Draco fumed.

Nearly-Headless Nick studied him closely.  "Probably from the Headless Hunt," he said bitterly as he prepared to float through a wall.

"Wait!  Oi, hold up!" Draco planted his hands on his hips, forgetting that the dress he was wearing might have made them look very hip-y.  "You're supposed to help the lost students.  Now help me find Potter."

"I'm only supposed to help the Gryffindors," Nick said, "but Harry clapped for the Hunt, so I guess it's all right to help you out this time.  He's in the Fourth Floor Prefect Bathroom.  The password is 'squeaky-clean'."

Draco curtsied neatly.  "Thank you very much," he said politely because manners were important.  And because Nearly-Headless Nick knew the Headless Hunt and Draco wanted to meet Sir Patrick.

"Don't mention it," Nick replied.  "Really, don't."

Draco nodded and tripped merrily up the main staircase and into the Prefect's Bathroom.  "Potter!" he shouted.  "Put some clothes on!"

Harry Potter was sitting in one of the giant baths, staring into some elaborate, fruity mirror with a look of longing on his face.  "Just a few more minutes," he muttered.  "She can't stay in that bath forever."

"Who can't," Draco asked, curious despite himself and trying to sound scathing.  "Your never-to-be girlfriend Chang?"

"Uh huh," Potter sighed gustily.  "Stupid Mirror of Erised; it has morality issues."

"Oh," said Draco.

The mirror seemed to fuzz into blackness and Potter pounded his head against the rim of the bath before asking, "What did you want, Draco?"

Draco frowned cutely.  "I want to provoke you into a fight so that you can tell me what you think, honestly, of my looks."

"You look like a ferret, Malfoy," Harry said without looking at him.  Draco was hurt.

"No, no, no...that's not what I meant!"

Potter sighed, "Look, we're worst enemies.  What makes you think I'd tell you the truth?"

"Because you're the noble, beleaguered hero archtype who is honest to a fault when the issue really matters; you're incapable of not helping those who ask you.  I need to know, Potter.  I've been insulting your friends and hexing students and teachers.  Now tell me...How do I look?!"

It worked.  Potter glared at him, furious.  "Those shoes make your ankles look fat!"

"No!" Draco felt his knees dissolve.  "No," he wailed.

"It's true," Potter said fiercely.  "You look like you're stumping about on canned hams."

"Shut-up!"

"No!  That neckline makes you look busty!" 

Draco felt tears well up in his eyes as he pulled his wand.  "You don't know anything, Potter!"

"I know that you're wearing a dress!" Potter shouted.

Irritated, Draco threw his wand down.  "No I am not; it's an ancient wizarding tradition.  Just like robes!"

Harry Potter blinked and pushed his glasses up.  "But we wear regular clothes under our robes."

"Really?" Draco blinked.  "I thought everybody went...you know...underneath."

"No," Potter shook his head.  "Nobody."

"You're sure?"

Potter nodded.

"But...but my father," Draco whispered, aghast, fingers toying with the cuff of one drape-y sleeve.  "My father said..."

There was a sudden burst of light and the Prefect's bathroom filled with a high, cold laugh.  "Foolish boy...your father works for me," Voldemort said, climbing down off the toilet he'd apparently managed to Apparate onto.

"I knew that," Draco rolled his eyes.  "You were over at the Manor this summer for our cook out.  You brought Wormtail with you."

Voldemort frowned.  "Oh, yes, right."

"Shouldn't my scar be burning?" Potter asked. 

"No," Voldemort explained patiently.  "I'm not here to kill you.  Draco Malfoy's rage and disappointment Summoned me here with ancient magic, because everybody knows you can't Apparate into or out of Hogwarts.  I am required, by magic law, to tell him some pretty hard truths."

Harry tilted his head.  "Oh.  Well.  Could somebody hand me a towel?  I'm turning into a prune in the bath."

Draco whirled, admiring the way his skirt flared, "Shut up, Potter!" he cried as he threw the other boy a towel.  "The Dork Lord is here to talk to me!  He's going to tell me why my father lied to me.  It was all part of the plot to kill Potter, right?"

"It's 'Dark' Lord," Voldemort sighed and Draco blushed and stammered out an apology which was waved away.  "And Lucius Malfoy isn't your father...I am."

"What?" Draco gasped.  "But why...why did my father...I mean, Mr. Malfoy, raise me?  Why did you give me up?  Didn't you love me?"

Voldemort shrugged.  "I lost a bet.  It was either give him my first born or wear a dress."

"Noooooooo!" Draco howled, since it seemed appropriate and he didn't have anything else to say.  He collapsed into a dramatic heap on the floor and whipped his lace handkerchief out of his clutch bag.  "No, no, it can't be," he moaned and tried to cry without getting red and blotchy.

"Sure it can.  Lucius is a twisted SOB.  You wouldn't believe some of the things he dares people to do." Voldemort said as Draco tried harder to cry his heart out.  It was hard because he wasn't sure he had a heart.

Harry Potter caught his eye for a moment and then extended his hand.  "Accio!" he cried and Draco watched as his wand, far too good for Potter to use, arched into his hands. "Flipendo!" Potter shouted, aiming his wand at the walls.  From out of nowhere a towering pillar crashed down onto Voldemort, crushing him.

"Holy crap!" Draco exclaimed, jumping to his feet and hurrying over to stand next to Potter.  "You've killed him!"

Voldemort stirred, shoved some plaster off of himself and sat up.  "What the heck was that for, brat?" he snarled at Harry. 

"I don't know," Harry said with a shrug.  "Hurting Draco, I guess.  I think we're friends since he handed me a towel and discovered that we, he and I, have both been living without our parents.  We're a lot a like and that's a special bond."

Draco frowned and thought about that.  "Harry," he said at last, "may I have my wand back?"

"Sure," Harry said, handing it over.  "What are you going to do?"

"Kill one of you," Draco said.

"Oh."

"Flipendo!"

"Neat!  Draco, you're redeemed!" Harry shouted as the dust from a second pillar settled.

Draco studied himself closely.  "Do you think lilac is the wrong color for The Boy Who Killed Voldemort to wear?" he asked.

"I'm wearing a towel," Harry said. 

"But I'm wearing lilac," Draco retorted.

Harry patted him gently on the shoulder.  "And it's a nice color, not for you, but in general.  But I'm the hero and that means that I killed the bad guy.  Now I have to go find Ginny Weasley and marry her."

"What?!"

"I know," Harry commiserated,  "it's the strangest thing.  I have this urge to confess my undying love to her."

"But I killed Voldemort!"

"No, no, I did.  I'm Harry Potter," Harry said patiently.  "And you're my new best friend, Draco.  That means I get to go find Ginny and pry Colin off of her and marry her and have a dozen kids with her and you get to put on real wizard clothes and apologize to all the people you've hurt."

Draco frowned.  "That sucks."

Harry patted him on the back.  "I'm sure it does.  I wouldn't know, of course, because I'm the hero."

"I think I'm not redeemed," Draco said as Harry fastened the towel more tightly about his waist and set off to find and marry Ginny.  "I think that, since I killed my father, I'm going to go and raise an army of my own and take over the wizarding world to make it free of Potter."  He went looked down at himself critically, studying his hands to see if they were capable of such cruel evil, looking at his face in the water, to see if his eyes were cold and cruel enough to become those of an evil, dark wizard.  He was pleased with what he saw.  Except for one, small, niggling detail. "Maybe if I wore something in a soft butter cream."