The characters and situations of the Harry Potter series are copyright J.K. Rowling. The characters and situations of the Draka series are copyright S.M. Stirling. They may not be used or reproduced commercially without permission. The use of these characters and situations is not to be construed as challenge to said copyright. They are merely borrowed for this work of non-commercial fanfiction, from which the author derives no financial benefit.

Warnings: Gratuitous silliness. Out-of-characterness. Parodic elements. Polyamoury. Femmeslash. Heterosexuality. Suggestive elements. Cute, cuddly, and misunderstood Draka. Yours Truly.

Pairings/Triplings/Insert-number-here-ings: Ginny/Hermione/Luna. Ginny/Hermione/Luna/Millicent. Ginny/Hermione/Luna/Millicent/Gwendolyn Ingolfsson/Winifred Makers. Future Harry/Ginny/Hermione/Luna/Millicent/Gwen/Winnie/?+ implied. Past Harry/Ginny implied. Past Hermione/Ron implied. Past Pansy/Millicent implied. Pansy/Draco implied.

***

Hermione Granger yawned, stretched, and set down the book of Victorian spells she'd been leafing through all evening. "I wonder... what is 'the power the Dark Lord knows not?'" She poured herself more tea from the pot that sat on the scarred endtable she and Ginny Weasley had found in a storage room, to match the battered couch that Luna Lovegood had conjured from midair, or possibly an alternate dimension.

They had redecorated the drawing room of 12 Grimmauld Place a few days previous, taking advantage of the facts that Kreacher's head had joined his ancestors' on the wall and Mrs. Black's portrait had been encased in concrete. Both of which had been accomplished within minutes after Sirus Black's last will and testament, naming Harry James Potter his sole heir, had been read.

Ginny Weasley giggled. "Being dishy. And damned snoggable." The aforesaid sole heir was currently at his Muggle relations' home in Surrey, soaking up a final year's supply of genetically-based magical protection. Which, along with the disappearance of Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks into a locked bedroom, the departure of Molly and Arthur Weasley for the Burrow, and Ron Weasley's attendance at his brother's stag night, meant that the three girls could spend the evening in their night clothes, giggling about the aforesaid Harry Potter.

Hermione shook her head. "Really, Ginny... just because you get to snog the handsomest boy at Hogwarts doesn't mean you've got the right to rub it in."

"Why not?"

"Cos it's cruel. Here we are, all of us in danger of attack by masked Tommy-worshippers every day, and you've seduced him away from us. You could share, you know?"

"But you've got my brother!"

"Ron? Spare me. He kisses like a dead fish. And sometimes he forgets and calls me 'Krumm.' If he wanted a threesome, he should have said something back then. Viktor wouldn't have minded."

"Hermione. Truly?"

"'Truly' what?"

"You fancy Harry?"

"Yes. And, just for the record, I fancy you and Luna as well."

Luna closed her copy of Snappdove's Hippogriffs of the South and set it on the table. "Hermione? If you wanted a foursome with us, why didn't you tell me? Or Ginevra?" Before Hermione could answer, Ginny and Luna had hugged her close and kissed her on the lips.

"Harry's birthday is five days from now," Ginny said. "We'll tell him once we spring him from his durance vile."

"And whatever shall we do til then?" Hermione said.

"Well," Luna said, "we could take a telescope up to the roof and watch the Lesser Xats roosting on the moon. Or we could search old issues of the Prophet for coded references to Cornelius Fudge's war against the Goblins. But personally... I'd suggest we practise for what we'll do after we tell him." She fingered the top button of Hermione's pyjama top.

Much later, the three of them lay in each others' arms in Hermione and Ginny's bedroom. "It occurs to me," Luna mused, "That our Ginevra might be exactly right."

"About that trick with the practice Snitch? Absolutely," Hermione nuzzled Ginny's neck. "Let's try it with Harry sometime."

"She is quite right about that," Luna said. "But what I was really thinking about was 'the power the Dark Lord knows not.'"

"The sixteen year old Tom Riddle," Ginny said, "was passing handsome, but the current version doesn't sound to be worth much. And McGonagall told me he was never known to so much as hold hands with anyone when they were at Hogwarts together. But how could that defeat him?"

"Well..." Luna said, "we three are quite taken with Harry. And each other. So... what if Harry's women are the force that defeats Lord Moldieshort?"

"Us?"

"Not only us. We'd have to select others, of course."

"Luna! You mean we'd assemble a... a... harem for Harry? A harem of luscious, gorgeous, deadly, combative, capable, bisexual women? How utterly... completely... absolutely..." Apparently Hermione had run out of adverbs and adjectives alike.

"Delicious? Brilliant?" Ginny said.

"Tommorrow we start," Hermione said. "After breakfast, with a visit to Miss Bulstrode?"

"Her?" Ginny said.

"We could use a Slytherin," Hermione said. "She's on the outs with Malfoy due to the breakup of the Inquisitorial Squad. And with Parkinson, so Winky tells me, due to Parkinson's admission that kissing her was only meant as an attempt to turn Malfoy on. She's about the best duellist at Hogwarts who's not in the DA, her family has a long history of grey magick but none of black magick, and I'm told she fences thrice weekly at a salle in Holborn."

"We'll talk about it tomorrow morning, Hermione," Ginny said, stilling her with a finger on the lips and a final soft kiss.

***

Millicent Bulstrode proved most willing. Not to mention fetching in black leather fencing garb. And out of it.

"Now, my darlings," she said that afternoon, lying amongst scattered pillows on the much-enlarged bed in what had been Ginny and Hermione's room alone in Grimmauld Place, "I've been thinking about this plan of yours. The 'army of Harry-and-each-other-lovers.' It's brilliant, but where will we get the rest of us? We could use a Hufflepuff, maybe Susan Bones, and perhaps we could recruit a few others from Hogwarts, but..."

"That's not a very sizeable fighting force for defeating the Dark Lord? Was that what you intended that charming ellipsis to mean, my dear Millicent?" Hermione said, stroking her cheek.

Millicent nuzzled Hermione's hand, and Ginny's that covered it. "Yes."

"As it happens, I've got a plan. When I went home to my parents' at the end of term, I raided the local bookshop. Combined with a few obscure spells from a book Professor MacGonagall was kind enough to forget on my table one day in the library, I think we can find ourselves plenty of willing comrades-in-arms."

"Who?" Ginny said.

"Well, to start off... her." Hermione reached under a pile of rumpled clothes and fished out a paperback novel. On the cover, a red-haired woman gestured towards a painting of a hairy wolf-baboon clutching a rifle.

"Gwendolyn Ingolfsson? Hermione, are you mad?" Millicent said. "I mean, she's sexy as all hells, but she'll try to take over the world."

"Not if we get the young version," Hermione said. "At sixteen, I think-- wait a minute. You've read this?"

"But of course. We're not all noses-in-the-air-at-anything-Muggle idiots in Slytherin. Besides, Steve Stirling is a Squib. And a cousin of mine."

"Oh."

***

They sat in the drawing room again, having established it as a cross-universal Apparition Point and warded it with explosive-propellant-suppressing charms. Which latter, fortunately, had proven unnecessary, as Gwen Ingolfsson, encountering four unusual girls of about her own age on her evening run, had been more than willing to try a quick jaunt across time and space.

"Well," Gwen said, "this is pretty convincing. Especially that bat-eared houseserf with the socks. Y'all really must be witches from an alternate universe where magic works. And, given the rest, I suppose it's only reasonable that I take your word there's no Domination here."

"Yes," Hermione said, "that's about the extent of it. Except Dobby isn't a serf."

Millicent elbowed her. "Leave the girl alone, Hermione. We can raise her consciousness later. I'm just glad she's not calling us feral serfs."

"Y'all don't seem terrible serf-like to me, Miz Bulstrode. And if those-there wands ain't sidearms, I'll eat a ghouloon." Gwen smiled. "Besides, I've never much wanted to be a frog. So, y'all are fighting some kind of... magical warlord? And you think I'll help?"

"We think that's possible, yes."

"Why? Don't you realise that I'm genetically engineered to side with capital-E Evil? To conquer and dominate? To rape and murder and ruin in the name of my Race?"

"Something makes me think you don't like it so much."

"Not really," Gwen said. "I mean... the cute serf girls to warm your bed bit is kind of fun. So is the hunting tiger bit, and the cool black uniforms bit, and the being fantastically fit and deadly and sexy bit. But... I don't want to go kill the Yankees so they won't kill me and Ma and Winnie-that's my girlfriend, and I wish she were here because she just loves scientifiction and stories about wizards and magic. I don't want to spend all my time ruling. I just want to make out with Winnie, and a few other people besides, and to... to paint, and write songs, and put a 'Commit Senseless Acts of Kindness and Meaningless Acts of Beauty' sticker on my aircar."

"We haven't got aircars, but you could have a Muggle car," Hermione said. "They're sort of like your autosteamers, only with internal combustion engines."

"Weird! Why? Was your world designed by a scientifiction writer obsessed with dead-end technologies?"

"I don't think so," Millicent said. "But in our world we think your world was designed by my cousin. I quite like him, myself, but there are folk who'd call him something along those lines."

"Whyever for?" Gwen said. "We don't use any dead-end technologies."

"Dirigibles," Hermione said.

"Well, they are oldfashioned, but they're so lovely to fly on. They're comfortable and quiet, and the ride's so smooth... you can just sit in your stateroom by the window and watch the landscape go by and kiss your girlfriend."

"But they're not very efficient, and they're slow, and-" Luna elbowed her.

"You could have a broomstick, Gwen," Ginny said. "They're lots more fun than a Muggle car!"

"A broomstick? Truly? Like the ones witches ride in stories? Does everyone have one in your world?"

"Not everyone," Hermione said. "Only magical people can use them. But you've got fairly high magical potential, and we'll have to get you a wand, and blackmail Professor McGonagall into letting you into Hogwarts, so..."

"I think I'd like that," Gwen said. "Would you teach me how to fly?"

"Sure! Harry and I will," Ginny said.

"So," Gwen said, "this Harry of yours. I have to sleep with him as well as the four of y'all, do I understand that correctly?"

"Yes," Ginny said, "but he's quite lovely. It's how he'll defeat the Dark Lord, in the end. So many sweet, kind, gorgeous, dangerous girls will fall in love with him that no one will be able stand against us." She smiled sweetly at Gwen. "I rather like the idea of making a Harry sandwich with you. And of watching Hermione and Luna and Millicent make their own Harry and Gwen sandwiches. And then trying some of the other combinations."

"I don't know," Gwen said. "I mean... sure, I like the idea of boys. But they're so gross. Really! Winnie's cousin Alois has gone into orbit over this Yankee wench. Met her at a chess tournament, of all things; some fool in Yankeeland thought we could all learn to be friends and love each other if we just got young Draka and young Yankees together and they played games. And some other fool on our side thought it would be a great way to gather more so-called intelligence and lull the Yankees into greater complacency.

"So, Alois meets this wench, and they commence to write back and forth, and then they link up a perscomp channel so they can 'chat.' And then she introduces Alois to this gods-curst game called 'Knights and Sorcerers.' And Alois goes just as orbital for that as for her.

"Some days he wants to start the Final War right now so he can have her for his very own bedwench. Other days he wants Winnie to convince me to use my allegedly enormous influence on Uncle Eric the Archon to have her made a Citizen so they can marry and have lots of cute little super-superhuman offspring when they're not defeating the Alliance and becoming the Unquestioned Evil Overlord and Overlordess of the Galaxy."

"Well," Ginny said, "Harry's not like that. He's very cuddly and sweet, and he's never played 'Knights and Sorcerers.' He likes Quidditch. So do I, actually."

"Quidditch?"

"It's the Wizarding sport," Hermione said. "I could take it or leave it, myself, but Harry and Ginny are quite obsessed with it."

"You forgot me, dear Hermione," Millicent said. "I'm hoping we can make our own Quidditch side. With Harry for Seeker, and Ginny for a Chaser, and I for a Beater or Keeper. And I think Gwen would make a lovely Chaser."

"Could you show me?" Gwen said.

"Of course," Luna said, and drew her wand from behind her ear. "I announced at this game last year, when Ginevra played Chaser for Gryffindor. Or would you prefer a game between other Houses, sweet Millicent?"

"Not at all, my dear Luna," Millicent said, stroking Luna's bare foot. "I rather liked that match. That prat Malfoy, and those fools Crabbe and Goyle... I should have been Beater, did you know that? And I wasn't, only because that stupid ferret wanted his bodyguards on the pitch to protect his little arse."

The final word and wand-flick of Luna's spell brought the game to tiny life, as images floating over the table. "Oh my!" Gwen said. "How magnificent! I must learn to do that."

"Convinced?" Hermione said.

"Well... do you know what will happen at home if I leave? I do have my duty to think of."

"If you stay," Hermione said, "your mother will start the Final War. And your Tantie-Ma, your surrogate mother, she'll turn out to be an Alliance intelligence agent and run off to Alpha Centauri. You'll become Archon, and marry Alois, but he'll die in a hunting accident and centuries later you'll wind up stuck on an alternate Earth and trying to take it over.

"I marry Alois? No way! Let that freak have his Yankee. But... could I bring Winnie?"

"I think we could manage that, Miz Ingolfsson," Hermione said.

"Call me Gwen. We are getting married, aftah-all."

"Gwen. I'm sure we could use another Draka in the family."

Several hours later, Gwen and Winnie having been properly welcomed, they were all in bed again. "So," Luna said, "who's next? A barbarian, perhaps? I always did rather fancy Red Sonja. She always reminded me of someone else."

Ginny glowed. "I'm not so sure about that," Gwen said. "She sounded awfully thick. And quite exclusively heterosexual. Not so much like our Ginevra."

"What? You've read Robert E. Howard?" Hermione said. "Inconceivable!"

"No, only unlikely. Books from alternate universes used to fall into my grandparents' library, sometimes, when I was on school holidays. Temporal rebound always snatched them back in a day or two, but I can read ten thousand words a minute, when I have to.

"Besides... Red Sonja was in Marvel's Conan comics, not the Howard stories. And a clutch of spin-off novels. Also, I'm told, an awful movie. But I never saw that, because the tape wouldn't fit in our player."

Hermione blushed. "Sorry."

"We don't expect you to be perfect, Hermione. Just brilliant, and brave, and a bushy-haired goddess of seduction..." Gwen eeled her way over Ginny and Millicent to kiss her on the nose. "And with that, perhaps we should get back to business?"

Hermione sighed. "I suppose you're right."

"After we woke up," Winnie said, "I started reading this book Saber and Shadow. Shkai'ra and Meghan sound quite lovely. We might could use an archer, and someone with magic that's not quite like yours with the wands. And if we need to fight as horse cavalry, or sneak around in a city and slit throats, who better could we find?"

"I think you're right about them," Luna said, "but first we might look at this." She held up a trade paperback, emblazoned with Japanese characters and drawings of cute, big-eyed people fighting with each other. "Ranma ½ seems to have some suitable recruits. Especially if Ranma and Akane do get married after the end of the last volume."

"I still think it's going to be Ranma and all four fiancées," Millicent said. "But Kasumi, now, she's got to be tired of keeping house for her father and that idiot panda. And we're rather badly in need of a logistics specialist."

***

Petunia Dursley was normal, thank you very much. So was everyone else in her street, Privet Drive. Not as normal as Petunia and Vernon and their Dudley, of course, but, then again, no one was quite perfect, with the exception of Her Majesty and the dear Queen Mother. Perhaps Mrs. Figg wasn't quite as normal as the rest, but at least she had the decency to be well into her seventh decade. Old age pensioners, like the aristocracy, might safely be allowed a few eccentricities.

Petunia valued the normalcy of her street. And even more so that of her home. So, she was pleased that this was to be the last day that her roof would shelter the head of her ingrate nephew, the one whom she and Vernon had tried to save. She'd hoped they'd make an accountant of him, or at least a decent ordinary criminal. How long had she laboured to correct him? How often had she worried, even prayed for him?

Naturally, she hadn't done so much of the last as to make a spectacle. Her family were good members of the Church of England, putting in the appropriate two appearances a year at the quaint Gothic church in Little Whinging High Street. It wouldn't do to strain the Good Lord's hospitality by visiting Him every week, as if He hadn't actual problems to concern Him.

Such as the horrible creatures who wore freakish clothes, waved sticks, chanted in Latin, and went about turning teacups into mice, like Petunia's worthless nephew and her late misguided sister. And all the other sorts of degraded savages that unfortunately still inhabited the world, such as the Irish, tribal Africans, rock musicians, and Americans.

All of which might perhaps be found amongst the crowd which had appeared in the street a few minutes ago, rendering it somewhat less quiet and considerably less normal. She forced her eyes to fall on the nearest of the lot, and realised that all were... female. Certainly they weren't ladies. Nor girls. Even "women" seemed too decorous.

Their dress ranged from the overly-covering, in the form of robes and leather suits and several sorts of metal armour, to the inadequately-covering, in the form of... best not to go there. Thank God Dudley was still enjoying his well-earned slumber, as she'd have been forced to cover his eyes, even though he was nearly a man grown. All of them seemed to carry weapons: swords, spears, guns, even large cooking utensils. Not a one looked to have ever come near a proper hairdresser, and several had locks of hues that did not belong in nature, let alone on a human head.

Even worse, at least half were accompanied by animals. The horses were bad enough. They were necessary for the Trooping of the Colours, of course, or when ladies and gentlemen rode to hounds, but surely large, live, dropping-producing animals had no place in a modern neighbourhood. The assortment of huge birds, great dogs, giant mice, reindeer, reptiles, and bizarre mixed-up things, however, didn't belong anywhere.

This must all be her nephew's fault. "Harry!!!" Petunia called. "There's a mob here! And if they've not come to hang you, you'll regret it! Now come downstairs and let them take you away! Now, you worthless, stupid, ungrateful boy!"

"Auntie, dear," Harry said, coming down the stairs, dressed in freakish clothes, his accursed stick in his hand, "mayn't I take a moment more, to bid adieu to the fond abode of my childhood memories?" She would have slapped him for his cheek, but today he was an adult, according to the freaks' laws, and able to use his vile arts wherever he pleased. God alone knew what he might do now, with that last small restraint on his wickedness removed.

"Out, boy! And tell those creatures to be gone."

He opened the door. And paused for a moment, apparently surprised at the scene. "Ginny? Luna? Hermione? What is going on?"

The three nearest the door threw themselves at him. Petunia hoped they didn't intend on carrying out some disgusting ritual in her front garden. Or, if they must, that at least they would be gone before Mrs. Bouquet next door noticed. She bolted the door and wedged a chair beneath the knob, just in case, before heading for the kitchen and the bottle of sherry.

"Harry! Our leader! Our husband! Command us!" came the shout from outside, a score of voices or more. Petunia shuddered with horror at her sudden terrible realisation. "First to bed, and then to victory!"

Instead of the sherry, she reached for Vernon's scotch. It wasn't very ladylike, but she needed the additional alcohol. At least a water-glass-full of it.