newyn - could you give me a copy of Outlook Good? I'll swap with a copy of Have A Nice Trip, ie, the draft Glori had submitted to us (PK fic mods) when she applied for an author account. Thanks.
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EDIT months later: here are excerpts from Glori's version. I'm putting them here for reference of future readers including staff of other fanfic archives. While we may never confirm that this has also been plagiarized, we have done so for Glori Phiverpoff's
other story.
This fic is rated R, so I've snipped some parts and had put *** in some words.
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Have A Nice Tripby Glori Phiverpoff
Rating: PG-13/R -ish for language.
Category: General/Romance/Humor
Summary: Harry gets slipped a mickey.
~+~
PART 1: Harry's heavy thoughts
Hermione's hair looks just like melted chocolate. Well, at least I think so. I've never compared it to melted chocolate before, to be honest, but earlier today I heard this guy down in one of the dungeons—that geeky kid, what's his name?— comparing it to melted chocolate. I haven't been able to shake that metaphor out of my mind since then. He said it with this kind of heartfelt sigh, if I remember correctly, and got a little misty-eyed. Hermione has that effect on the poor dungeon lads. I think every one of them would chirp "which one?" if she told them to cut off an arm, and I'm including that girl with the fierce hair and rather frightening musculature.
But she's sitting here next to me right now, her hair looking like newly melted chocolate in the middle of this arse-numbingly boring meeting in Kingsley's office. Rolling my shoulders, I sigh and look around said office for a minute. I wonder if I'll ever get the chance to get one like this: you could play a decent game of Quidditch on this conference table alone.
I turn to my left and almost snort coffee out my nose. Hermione's got on her 'I'm so interested' face— she's even pulled out the thoughtful little frown between her eyebrows. I know this look. It is really rare, but Ron and I get it sometimes when we keep talking endlessly about Quidditch, and what it really means is, 'If you'd just be quiet, maybe I could slip into a full-on coma without seeming rude.' Mrs Granger raised her daughter to be polite, as well as mule stubborn. Hermione is even pretending to take notes on whatever the hell Cormac McLaggen is talking about. Merlin, I bet she's already listed all the Prime Ministers and is working on countries and capitals of the world by now. I take a look at her notepad. Crap, she's going for alphabetical instead of geographical! She really is bored. I can count with one hand the times Hermione hasn't payed attention in an Auror deparment's lecture. And I'm still not using three fingers.
I think of a couple of highly effective ways to get her attention. Well, highly effective up against the door of my flat on Thursday's night, anyway, but I bet it would work anywhere.
I'm sort of sliding across the small area of table between us when I feel a sharp little toe in my shin. I know this toe, too. It means business. It means 'Remember to keep your distance when we're at work. It also means 'Don't even think about messing with me right now, because you know I don't have any serious qualms about hexing you.' She's damn good at that, too. I almost bet she could take out Little Harry at 50 yards, with the mood she's been in today. PMS can make her a real sunshine.
<snipped>
... It's like my head feels full of lead all of a sudden. Maybe Ron and I shouldn't have had those Butterbears in our lunch time. Hmm. Oh wow, look at this: this chair kind of spins. You can swing back and forth, and if you let your eyes go a little hazy all the little squiggles on the ceiling look like writing. Like Runes, maybe. Sh*t, my head feels really heavy. I'm having a nice, floaty series of flashbacks... ah, the day Hermione punched the crap out of the ferret... Those were damn good times. Even with Voldemort and all... Man, I'd take him again if only to get out of this stupid meeting. I'd even—
There is a sudden, sharp pain in my thigh, and I bolt upright in my chair. What the hell? I glance to my right, expecting to see Ron staring to the front with a sh*t-eating grin on his face, but he's...asleep, it seems. I turn to my left again and Hermione's... She stabbed me with her pencil!? Yeah, don't even hide it, missy. Ever hear of lead poisoning, Hermione? Graphite poisoning, whatever. I shoot a glare at her, rubbing my wounded leg, but she just angles her notepad so I can see it better. PAY ATTENTION. All caps. Underlined. Oh, right, like we're going to be tested on the capital of Singapure later. Ron's even snoring a bit, for Merlin's sake, and he's not being stabbed. I sit back again and start dreaming up ways to make her pay. A few ways are really tempting right now. Damn, I'm starting to feel a little tingly.
<snipped>
Hermione's still sitting there next to me, neat as a pin in her dark robes, and I flash a proud smile around the table because I know exactly what she looks like under them. Cormac McLaggen, the Assistant Deputy Head of the LDA, and our second in comand (Merlin only knows who he had to screw to get that position), catches it and scowls. Oh, if you only knew, boss. That big lantern jaw of yours would hit the floor. I swallow a snicker and look back at Hermione. One of those awful, Ministry Approved Decor spotlights over the conference table is shining right down on her. It makes her hair kind of glow, and her skin seems even more translucent than usual. She looks like she's being beamed up. No... wow, she looks like an angel. Oh sh*t. I'm in love with an angel.
Isn't that a song?
She's so pretty. That isn't news, of course. I lay next to her and look at her all night sometimes, thinking about how pretty she is. But that's in a general, God-damn-my-life-is-good-now kind of way, and right now I'm noticing the specifics. With really startling clarity, in fact. It's intense, like when you can hear colors. She really is mindblowingly pretty. Look at those eyes. Man, who has eyes that gorgeous? They're like... chocolate. No, wait. Her hair's like chocolate. Her eyes are—her eyes are like honey and cinnamon. Like swimming pools of hot cinnamon. Yeah. Big and wet and like dark swimming pools of cinnamon. Damn, that's really poetic. She likes poetry. I wonder if she'd like to hear that? Yeah, I bet she would.
"You have gorgeous eyes, Hermione."
I have to say it in kind of a stage whisper to make sure she hears me. The guy on the other side of her—Tom? Don? John?—leans forward and looks at me with his eyebrows jiggling all over his forehead. One of them seems to be spelunking while the other's on its own personal Eiger quest.
"Hey," I say amiably and look back at Hermione. She has gone all still like she does when she thinks there's a cockroach on her. I've seen her calmly count the maggots when making an especific potion, but mention the possibility of a cockroach in her immediate personal vicinity and she totally wigs out. She hasn't moved a muscle. Maybe she didn't hear me? Tomdonjohn heard me. Maybe she needs me to clarify.
"They're so big and warm," I elaborate, and there is a definite dreamy quality in my voice. "Like swimming pools of cinnamon."
Besides me, I hear Ron snort. I ignore him.
"Potter?" our real boss, Kingsley, is doing that laser eye thing he does sometimes, and I give him a little wave. That's my name, don't wear it out, mate.
A tiny muscle twitches in Hermione 's jaw, and she darts a glance at me that, if that hadn't been so damn poetic, I would think meant serious imminent danger to my person. There is a skitter of sound around the table, like autumn leaves blowing down the sidewalk, but Hermione doesn't say anything. She does turn kind of a leafy color, though, and bites hard on her lip.
Oh, Hermione, you don't have to remind me. I love that mouth. I love the crazy know-it-all crap that comes out of it most times. I love the way it tilts up into a thousand-watt smile when I say just the right thing. I really, really love the way it closes around a straw, or around, erm, other things.
I am suddenly just totally f**ing overcome by my love for her. I lean closer to her.
"Your mouth is so beautiful," I whisper. "Have I ever told you that?"
She makes a little chocking sound. "Not in a room full of people, no, Harry," she hisses.
What people? Aw, to hell with them. My poetic soul is on fire, and she's got a mouth like a naughty Victorian postcard. I feel a little swoony. "It's shaped just like a heart. I want to—"
"Mate—" Ron starts, and I see he's trying hard not to laugh. What's his deal?
"Potter, what the hell is going on?"
I look at Tomdonjohn to see what the problem is, but he kind of twitches in Cormac's direction. Oh. I can't help grinning. McLaggen looks like he's about to have a coronary. Not that coronary's are funny, per se, but I can practically see steam coming out of his ears, like that cartoon bull on the whatsisname show. The arrogant prat hates to be interrupted. I can feel Hermione looking at me now, too. I don't mean metaphorically, either. I can feel two little hotspots on my face where her eyes are landing.
"Harry, look at me," she says quietly. I do, of course, because she's Hermione and I'd do anything for her. And there she is, looking at me. I feel a little misty myself, just like that geeky kid in the dungeons. Hermione looks deep into my eyes. Oh, hey, baby. I'm right here.
She frowns a little. I guess I said that last part out loud.
"Miss Granger?" Kingsley prompts. "He'd better be having a stroke."
She doesn't even glance his way. That's my girl. Keep it all on me, Hermione. "No, sir. But from the look of his pupils, I'd say he's on something." On something? It must be some seriously good sh*t. "Harry, how do you feel?"
"I feel excellent," I smile, and lean forward for a conspiratorial wink. "How do you feel?"
She frowns a little deeper, but it's not her 'you're a dead man' frown. It's her 'as soon as I figure out what the hell's wrong with you and get you better, you're a dead man' frown. "Did you take something— some kind of medication?"
Medication? Oh, wait, that's ringing some distant bells. Like church bells. Sanctuary...sanctuary... I shake my head to try to dislodge the fog and the hunchback that have taken up residence there. "No, you know...just some Tylenol or something. I can't remember. I had kind of a headache." An idea occurs to me then, and it's absolutely f***ing brilliant. "I bet you could kiss it and make it go away, though. You know, like when you—"
McLaggen clears his throat nosily from across the table, and a giggle slips past my lips. Ron is losing his fight against laughter now.
Kingsley stares at me. "Miss Granger, he's obviously in no shape to be here. Find out what he's on and where it came from, if you please."
"Yes, sir."
I don't know why, but she looks a little relieved. Oh, hey, she's yanking me out of my chair and dragging me toward the door. We're getting out of the meeting? Hell, now I'm relieved, too. I'm a little worried about that medication thing they were talking about, though.
"Hey, Hermione, do you really think somebody slipped me something?"
"Looks like it," she says through completely clenched teeth. Impressive.
"Well, at least nobody's hurt, yeah? It's not like I was hexed or something."
"I'd say that's not out of the possibilities yet," she answers, and that doesn't seem very comforting all of a sudden. In fact, I'm not feeling the love at all here. "Come on, Harry."
"I'll follow you anywhere," I say in my most agreeable voice. Because, you know, I would. "Shouldn't talk about that in front of Cormie boss, though— he's still got a thing for you. Did you know that, Hermione?"
"Get him out of here!" McLaggen shrieks, and I swear a totally new vein pops out on his forehead.
Hermione me drags me out by the hand while I wave bye-bye at Ron.
~+~
PART 2: The St Mungo's Healer Lady
You'd think I'd have met a man who gets hurts this much, but this is the first time that Harry Potter has ever walked into my room. He certainly is a cool drink of water. Too bad he's looking like a derranged rabbit right now.
All right, to be fair the bloke's completely stoned. But seriously, who could manage to get stoned, against his will, inside the Ministry of Magic? Well, Mr Potter, it seems.
His friend I know. In fact, everyone knows her, what with being one of Harry Potter's best friends and all. But besides that, she's an Auror, she's a muggleborn witch, and she knows lots about healing— we share those things, we stick together. Not that Hermione Granger and I are the best of friends, but we've had lunch once or twice and always stop for a chat when we see each other in the halls. She's the kind of witch that makes the rest of us look good. Cool, competent, clever, easy to respect. I just don't understand why she has so many odd friends.
Harry is poking around among the cotton balls and bottles of potion, and Hermione is ignoring him with the practiced indifference of the mother of a toddler. It's been a while since I've had toddlers, so apparently my tolerance level isn't what it was.
"Mr Potter, why don't you have a seat on the table?"
He looks up at me with lovely, totally vacant green eyes, then looks over at Hermione. Apparently he expects any order he really has to follow to come from her. She arches one eyebrow skyward, and he meekly climbs onto the examining table, all fidgets and twitches and knee-jiggling energy. She's good. She turns back to me with an expression that makes me want to give her a gift certificate for a massage, or at least a double of Firewhiskey. "So what have you found out?"
"The first test didn't tell us much," I reply. I flip my wand in the air to show her the results, and she frowns at the lack of useful information.
"What's this?" she asks, immediately zeroing in on the one out of place fact. Like I said, she's good. "Is it some sort of potion that's making him act like this? It looks like the effects of...of Amortentia."
"Hmm, I don't think so. It is some kind of drug, but it's not magical. An alkaloid, it would appear. Probably plant-derived, but I don't really know anything else yet. I sent it to the dungeons along with that 'Tylenol' bottle you brought to have it analyzed. I'd like to pull some blood and do some tests. Might give us a clearer idea, if it's a Muggle drug."
Hermione nods and heaves a weary sigh.
"Okay, Mr Potter, time for the fun stuff." I walk over to him with one of our newest phlebotomy kits, and he looks immediately suspicious. "We're just going to run some blood tests to see if we can figure out what you've got in your system. Would you hold out your arm, please?"
He doesn't. In fact, he pulls it closer to him protectively. "I want you to do it, Hermione." He finds her eyes, and her eyebrows arch up. He pulls out a puppy dog look that I'm sure works for him all the time. My 10-year-old has that same look. There's no defense against it that I know of. "You know how to do it so it doesn't hurt."
Hermione sighs and moves toward him. "He gets hurt a lot in our work," she says, with a glance in my direction.
"I've heard," I nod, and see Harry's head nodding along with me.
"But he doesn't like Healers much, which is why I'm usually the one who mends him up. I've taken some courses, as you know... Besides, he claims to have very sensitive nerves." His head bobs up and down earnestly, and she obviously can't help the small smile that lands on her mouth. She ties on a tourniquet with practiced ease, then takes his wrist, turns his arm over, and starts scrubbing the site on the inside of his elbow.
"That feels pretty good," he murmurs, smiling drowsily at the top of her head.
She runs a fingertip over the skin. Good veins. Should be easy. She reaches for a needle and uncaps it carefully. "Hermione?" They both look up at me, startled. I hold out a pair of gloves. "Universal precautions?"
Hermione blushes. "Oh, um..."
"Oh, Merlin," Harry laughs. "You forgot to take precautions. That's supposed to be my job! Like the sexy hocus-pocus." She winces, and glances at me helplessly. He sees her discomfort and apparently totally misunderstands it. I hope he's not this dense when he's sober. "Not much point, doc," he elaborates helpfully, as if it's possible not to get what's going on. "Anything I've got, she's got."
Hermione turns her eyes to the ceiling and either says a prayer or counts to ten. Either way, she jabs that needle in his elbow pretty good.
About ten minutes later the results come back from the dungeons, and I go to find them in the waiting area. They are sitting in the two closest chairs to the wall, and he is picking at her. Reaching over and touching her repeatedly— just like my ten-year-old, but unlike my ten-year-old he's trying to snake those rather nice hands of his into places they just don't belong, at least not in a public place like St Mungo's. As I open the door, she swats at him with an expression of deep exasperation and hisses, "Would you stop that? What does 'discretion' means to you? Don't think I won't introduce you to some canaries, Harry. And no, I won't feel guilty this time either."
I make a mental note to ask her about that another time, because it has to be a good story. "How's he doing?" I ask from the doorway.
Hermione looks harried and completely annoyed. Harry still just looks stoned. "Whatever it is, it's got quite a kick. The effects don't seem to have lessened at all. His pupils are still pinpoints, and his inhibitions are still not nearly inhibited enough." She shoots him a warning glare as his hand edges toward her again, and he wisely backs off. "Have you found anything out?"
Harry makes a brave face. "Give it to me straight," he says seriously. "Am I pregnant?"
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Hermione sighs, and he flashes her an unrepentant smile. I bet that also works for him all the time.
I clear my throat in a show of solidarity with his long-suffering, erm, partner. "I don't know what's going on, Mr Potter, although I feel fairly confident that you're not pregnant. Whatever this substance is, it matches the contents of the Tylenol bottle, and it's similar to such Muggle drugs as morphine or codeine. It's not something I've ever seen before, but at this point my best guess is that the effects will be roughly the same as an opioid. So you'll be higher than a kite for a while—how long depends on the dose and how this stuff is metabolized— and then you'll come down. Probably."
"How sure are you?" Hermione asks warily.
"About...85%." She looks like she doesn't think those odds are good enough, and I shrug apologetically. I feel for her. She's got a 180 pound pre-teen on her hands. "I think you've got a very long night ahead of you, Hermione."
~+~
PART 3: Hermione's loving, caring ways
"Merlin, Harry, it's not bad enough that you always go head first into danger without thinking? Now you have to put mysterious crap in your mouth, too?"
"I told you, Hermione," he whines. "I thought they were yours."
I stop in my tracks and feel my hands fisting on my hips. Oh, God, it's true. You do turn into your mother. He keeps going for a couple of steps, notices I'm not next to him anymore, and trails back. I don't care how good-looking he is, nor how adorably clumsy he looks at the moment. Right now I could rip that pretty head off and stuff it down his throat. "How many times have you seen me take Tylenol?" I demand. He does a panic face, and I can practically see him scanning through his memory and looking desperately for name brands on every pill bottle he's ever seen in my hand, not that there have been many. "I'll give you a hint—none. I only take Advil, because Tylenol gives me hives." He stares at me for a minute, and then his eyes widen and his mouth drops open a little, not unattractively. I snort.
"Hermione—"
I hold up a hand to stop the pity party. "Has that ever worked?"
"Several times, as a matter of fact," he says stiffly. Or what would be stiffly, if he wasn't swaying lightly to some internal music.
Damn it, he's right. "Well, it won't this time."
I take off down the hall again. Smart boy that he is, he trots after me. I don't even look back at the muffled thud as he veers into a fake ficus. "Why are you so pissed off at me?" he asks when he finally catches up. "I'm sick! I've been taken advantage of! What if this stuff had been lethal?"
I stop again, and he halts his forward momentum with the help of a handy doorknob. "Exactly," I say, leaning up into his face. It's my fierce voice, and that little glimmer of fear in his beautiful eyes tells me he recognizes it. "One of these days, Harry, it be lethal. You're going to run out of luck, and there's not going to be a damn thing I can do to help you. And then you'll be gone, and I'll be alone, and I'll spend the rest of my life railing against the injustice of losing you not to a megalomaniac group of Death Eaters, or even wanabe Death Eaters, but to a mysterious bucket of pretty pink goo!"
His eyes drop to his shoes, shamefaced. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he says softly. "I didn't think."
"No, really." And looking up at me through those ridiculously long lashes isn't going to work, either. He frowns, but apparently thinks better of saying anything. Or maybe he's reliving the Stones at Altamont in his private little fantasy world. It's impossible to tell. I feel myself relenting slightly. He acted like an idiot, but I do love him. Far beyond reason, I sometimes think. I tug at his sleeve, a much nicer tug than the one I was thinking of giving him earlier, and he looks up hopefully. Well, that did it. He hasn't yet figured out the value of that look, but I'm such a sucker for it. "Come on," I say, with just the hint of a smile. "Let's get out of here."
"Where are we going?"
"My place."
"Ooh, Hermione—"
I stop him with an eyeroll. "If you think you're getting lucky tonight, I'm taking you straight to St Mungo's again, because you're beyond delusional. You're going to lay down and sleep it off where I can keep an eye on you."
"Will you tuck me in?"
"Harry." It's impossible to miss the warning in my voice, but somehow he does.
"Will you rub my head until I fall asleep? You know... just like I like it." He waggles his eyebrows.
I stop and glare at him. It's so weird to see him acting like this."Those canaries lasted almost an hour last time, right? You want me to make a new record?"
He squints at me for a minute, fuzzily, and then I see just the slightest clearing in the drug haze. "No, ma'am," he mumbles. Normally that would make me kick his fantastic backside, but this time he's got it just right.
By the time we get to my flat he's semi-conscious, at best. I stagger up to the door under the dead weight of his arm and shove him none too gently into my bedroom. It's like trying to wrestle a freshly killed deer onto the hood. Well, I imagine it is. I've never killed a deer, but I'm starting to see the attraction of shooting large, wild, hairy things. My own personal Bambi topples onto the bed in a move closer to a Sequoia than anything animate.
I slip off his robes and his gunboat shoes, open the collar and cuffs on his shirt. I wonder if I should roll him onto his side so he doesn't choke on his tongue? A quick image of me levitating six feet of unconscious wizard into St Mungo's makes me decide it's worth the risk. I'll just stay nearby so I can hear the gurgles. I pull a blanket up over him, and I can't help smiling at the low, snuffly nonsense that comes out of his mouth. "Night, sleeping beauty," I whisper, and plant a soft kiss on the scar on his forehead.
Except, of course, this stuff turns out to be toxic or something. He sleeps like the dead for hours, never even twitching a muscle, and then shortly after midnight the moaning starts. I'm stretched out next to him, and I lift up to see him grimacing in pain. "Harry, what's wrong?"
He turns and looks at me, and his eyes are lucid but fever bright. "I don't feel good," he whispers.
"Talk to me." I go into trauma mode for about the thirtieth time since I've known him. He's enough to keep me interested in taking medical courses. "What hurts?"
"My stomach."
"Where? High? Mid? Low?"
"The whole effing thing," he groans, gasping a little at what must be a particularly vicious pain.
His skin is clammy, and I have a sinking suspicion I know what's coming next. "Do you need to throw up?"
His eyes widen. He hates throwing up. I mean, nobody likes it, but he really, really hates it. "Oh—Merlin!"
He staggers off the bed and into the bathroom just before the retching hits. I wince at the sound of him emptying his stomach violently. This is not going to improve his disposition. I pad into the kitchen for a glass of water and a cool compress.
He's slumped on the floor of the bathroom when I return, leaning his head back against the wall with his eyes closed and a grimace of absolute disgust on his face. He takes the water with a murmured thanks while I check him out. Sweaty and— let's face it—fairly icky, but his pupils are getting back to normal, and the intelligence has returned to his face. I'm surprised to realize that I like sick,
gross, normal Harry more than beautiful, clean, vapid Harry. His pulse is a little fast, but strong and regular.
"I hate puking," he groans.
"I know."
"Am I dying?"
I smile and brush back his damp hair. God, I hope that's sweat. "No, you're not dying."
"Are you sure? Because I think I'd welcome that right now."
"You're getting better," I assure him.
"Oh, obviously."
Note to self: remember that Harry is an incredibly irritating patient sometimes. "You're just heaving up everything you've eaten today," I tell him cheerfully. "There's probably more where that came from."
He eyes me with something like loathing, and I feel quite a bit better.
Unfortunately, I'm right. For the next hour he alternately hurls into my formerly pristine toilet and whimpers on the floor of my bathroom, but finally he seems to have gotten rid of everything in his system. Including, possibly, his pancreas, judging from that last round of heaves. I shuffle him slowly back to bed and sponge over his smooth, trembling body like I'm Florence freaking Nightingale. He's miserable, he's behaving like a pain in the arse, but he's better. Oh, yeah—and I love him. Because you know it's love when you're cleaning up puke at 2 a.m.
"Hermione?" he rasps.
"Yes, Harry?"
"I guess now everyone at the Ministry knows about us, uh?"
"Hmm, I guess so."
He moves around, looking for a more comfortable position.
"Hermione?"
"Yes, Harry?"
"You're not mad about that, are you? About everybody knowing we're together?"
"No, Harry. Of course I'm not mad. It was about time, really. And it wasn't like you did it on purpose, anyway."
"Hermione?"
Sweet Morgana, he's not going to sleep tonight.
"Yes, Harry?"
"Next time this happens..." He looks at me with deep, sparkling green eyes.
"Yes?" I prompt.
"Would you please just hex me and wake me up when it's all over?"
I smile and pat his cheek tenderly. Poor love. "Sure, darling. Now go to sleep."
"Your eyes do look like swimming pools of hot cinnamon, you know?" he says, reaching for my hand to draw me closer to his mouth. Thank Merlin I remembered to make him brush his teeth.
"Mmm, you're so poetic."
"I think I read it in a fortune cookie once."
I smack his shoulder. "Shut up."
"And your mouth is shaped just like a heart..."
"Harry..." I warn.
He grins and lifts his head, chasing my mouth. I faint to one side and the other and he laughs and follows me.
After a few moments he growls deep in his throat and curls a hand around the nape of my neck, pulling my mouth down on his.
Hocus-pocus indeed.
~+~
You're welcome to email that author about Glori's ripoff. You still have a copy of the email I sent to the other authors she had plagiarized from, right?
No harm done in you making the posts here, though.
Thank you for telling me, I was wondering if you could redirect me to the proper thread, I have been trying to find the right one, but hadn't been successful. Although, I would appreciate a much kinder response this time. 
Thank you.