Subspace turbulence

**Disclaimer: **J. K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, Paramount owns the rest of the universe, I mean Star Trek. But it's Humor/Parody anyway, so...

**Author's Note:** Written to fill a prompt on the LJ st_xi_kink_meme.

Rated M for implied non-con and a very bad pun.

**Subspace Turbulence**

When the planet Vulcan died, the boundaries between Worlds trembled. Double-headed animals were born, rainbows appeared in the night skies of several planets, every single cup of coffee in the Q continuum was suddenly cold and stale, and in one of the corridors of Hogwarts, a swirling vortex formed.

The only living being near it, a blond, slightly singed boy in leather pants, was sucked into the vortex. As he had been extremely distracted – having just seen one of your friends die in a fire, then having your life saved by the person you consider your greatest enemy will do that to you – he had no time to do anything about it, not even time to scream. The vortex closed and vanished without a trace.

---

When it opened, for seconds only, Draco was tossed out – elsewhere. Unfortunately, his head collided with a metal bulkhead. He felt a sharp pain, felt something warm starting to trickle down his forehead – blood, probably. He tried to stand up, but he couldn't find the strength to do that. All he managed do was to turn his head to a side. That was when he spotted the tops of a pair of black boots directly beside him.

They belonged to a big man in strange, red clothing. Red Shirt mumbled: "Oh great, another stowaway! But it seems it's sickbay, not the brig for you. Having a lucky day, huh, cupcake?" Before he could even try to answer, the big man lifted Draco up and slung him over one shoulder. Then everything went black.

---

When he came to again, Draco felt much better. The pain in his head was almost gone. He lay on a cot or something like that, he heard strange beeping noises, occasional moans and the sounds of people moving swiftly. Obviously, he was in a hospital, but not at Hogwarts. St. Mungo's? He opened his eyes a bit and wished he hadn't: The lights were much too bright and definitely not candles. This was MUGGLE LIGHTING. He was among muggles, wandless, defenseless. He had to flee.

Just this moment, a man in green robes – no, those weren't robes, it was just a muggle healer's coat – walked into his sight.

"Oh, you're awake", Green Coat said. "You had a concussion, but we fixed that. Oh, and that ugly tattoo of yours – listen, kid, sooner or later it would have given you a real nasty inflammation, and besides, it wasn't regulation, so be grateful that none of your instructors spotted it. And dammit, you're much too young to get THAT drunk anyway – you did that yourself, didn't you? What the hell did you use? Klingon boot polish? I almost broke the dermal regenerator …"

Slowly, slowly, as the words sank in, unspeakable terror grew in Draco's heart. His lips trembled as he looked at the inside of his forearm, and his worst fears came true: where the Dark Mark had been, now there was only a smooth, slightly reddened patch of skin. HE WAS DEAD. The only chance he had was to act NOW, to rejoin the ranks of the Death Eaters before the battle was over. He bolted for the door, barely registering the protests of the blue-skinned (_blue-skinned?_) woman he had to shove aside.

He heard the doctor's angry voice behind him: "Dammit, I didn't say you're fit for duty…" But then he heard a woman' cry out: "Dr. McCoy! Come quick, the Elder …", and the doctor turned and ran over to her.

Fortunately, the corridor was empty. Draco concentrated on his mantra: "_To the Dark Lord, to the Dark Lord …"_ and performed the one spell he didn't need a wand for and had mastered very well: He disapparated.

---

It was, again, a rough landing. He fell on his hands and knees in a puddle of water, but nearly as soon as he touched the ground, somebody he couldn't see grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him to his feet.

But Draco didn't struggle and was less afraid than before, because he knew that he had arrived where he wanted to go. It wasn't the Forbidden Forest, like he had expected, but a place he had never seen before, but, he thought, was even cooler: a huge cave full of metal bridges and platforms, stretching farther than he could see. In front of him was a platform with a metal desk on it. Maybe it was an altar of sorts, because a middle-aged muggle in a gold colored shirt lay on it, bound. A human sacrifice, perhaps? And even nearer to him, but facing the muggle, stood the man he had been looking for, whose bald, pale head and black leather robes were absolutely unmistakable. The Dark Lord looked even more imposing than he remembered him.

So he cried out: "My Lord, it is I, Draco Malfoy! I have returned!"

And the man turned. And the world stopped to make any sense at all. For the man was white-skinned and bald, but he also had strange runes covering his face, and strange ears, and most definitely a nose.

And the man who wasn't Voldemort asked: "What the hell is that? One of yours, Christopher?"

In a monotonous voice that made Draco suspect that the man was under the Imperius Curse, the muggle called Christopher answered: "No, Nero, I have never seen this boy in my life, neither on the ship nor at the Academy. And his name wasn't on the crew manifest, either."

It seemed that this wasn't the answer Nero had expected, for now he turned to Draco and asked, in a low, dangerous voice: "So, how did you beam on board the Narada?"

The only answer Draco could think of was: "Huh? I don't know what you're talking about! What's a Narada?" This earned him a blow to the head from the man behind him. A blow so hard his vision blurred and he would have fallen to the ground, if Nero hadn't caught him.

Pinning Draco against the wall, Nero, looking him straight into the eyes, said: "That wasn't necessary, Ayel. He's no threat. If he knows anything, he'll tell it soon enough. But I doubt he does …"

Now, Nero lifted Draco's chin: "But after all that hard work at Vulcan, I think we deserve some fun. Don't you agree, pretty boy?"

Draco understood all too well what Nero meant. He tried to think of a way out of this, but his mind was empty. Because he didn't know where he was – and because Nero was touching him – he couldn't even disapparate. In his desperation, he yelled: "How dare you to speak to me like that! I'm Draco Malfoy, Master of the Elder Wand!"

Nero, as Draco had feared, wasn't impressed at all. With a menacing grin, he said: "You, boy? You're the Master of the Elder Wand?"

With that, Nero gripped Draco's right wrist so hard he almost broke it, pressed the young man's hand against his huge, hard erection and said: "No, I don't think so. I am."


End file.
