Harry yawned hugely as he stumbled into school, a pile of paper in his arms.

Man, he had not missed homework, not at all, and muggle term papers he had learned, were just as stressful as their magical counterparts.

"Whoa HP, you look like Rufus on a crash after a 3 day sugar high," Ron's cheerful voice chirped happily as he was fiddling with Kim's locker printer.

Harry "glurged," gave his friend the stink eye and swiped Ron's coffee, making the teen give an indignant "heeey!" before Harry shuffled off to class. The last thing he needed was to have that one-man teaching faculty Mr. Barken give him detention for falling asleep in class again.

Fortunately, the day was boring, but uneventful barring a slight mishap with the lunch lady and accidentally blowing up a pot of potato salad, but otherwise Harry managed to keep up with his school work and avoid detention.

Harry gave a sigh of relief as the end of day bell rang, shuffling his History textbook into his bag and groaning as he rubbed his back. His backpack was filled with not only textbooks, but a wide assortment of books from the library for a few projects he had due for other classes, not to mention the continued research into his new world. His back was aching and he longed for a good lightening charm. Unfortunately for him, his latest little experiment with a pie in his backyard had left the confectionery somewhere in the stratosphere, where currently there was no telling when it would finally where off.

Meanwhile...

Dr. Drakken bit his lip in concentration, the bat jiggling slightly in his grasp. He had studied the geometric angles and applied forces in the making of the "Perfect Swing." 10 years he had been a card carrying Supervillian, and in his decade of evil, it was only now that he was able to finally join the Western Hemsophere Supervillian League Softball team, and he was determined to not be the biggest loser at this year's Sunday game, which was currently attended by a wide variety of Supervillians, lackeys, goons, sidekicks, under cover spies, and mad doctors.

That monkey-man show off was currently manning first base, wearing a condescending sneer on his face. Drakken growled, fingers tightening on the bat. That freak of mutating super science was always making fun of him during the Annual Supervillan Picnic. In front of him, the blood of sport in his eye was Kilgrave on the pitcher's mound. The mad Scot stereotype was winding up the shot, his patented kilt flapping up in the wind move flashing Shego, who was currently on second base, filing her nails grimacing and covering her face yelling.

"Damn it Kilgrave! have you ever heard of boxers or briefs?!"

"I like a bit of a breeze in me privates!" Kilgrave called back, and with a smirk, hauled his large rotund form into a decent, if exaggerated, pitcher's form that somehow managed to flash third base as well, and let loose the ball in a streak of creamy white.

'Aha! perfect! a fast ball! I calculated for this!' Drakken thought gleefully, 'Kilgrave is so predictable!'

Drakken slightly adjusted his angle and swung forward, already practically hearing the satisfying crack of a home run ball...

SPLUT!

"Ahhhh! Shego! it's in my eyes! its in my eyes! it burns!"

Kilgrave strode over and swiped a finger along Drakken's face as Señor Senior, Senior called Strike 3! much to the groaning disappointment of Drakken's teammates.

Kilgrave strode over and examining the flailing Drakken, who was on the ground, rolling around and clutching his face. The mad evil golfer suddenly reached out and ran his finger down one blue cheek, gathering a yellow and white gob from the pile that was obscuring Drakken's face and gave a taste, then said approvingly.

"Lemon meringue, not bad."