Written for AlwaysPadfoot's "52 Weeks of Writing 2013 Competition," Week 1.
Compulsory prompt(s) used: New Year, Resolve, Drunk, Textbook
Optional prompt(s) used: 'Well, this year I'm going to...'
Bonus point prompt used: 'Did you hear about that party?'
"I hereby propose a toast," I muttered, "to solitude." There was no clinking of glasses. No laughter. No harmony, no smiling with friends. It was a solitary toast to solitude. The Firewhiskey burnt as it went down. It was supposed to. "This year," I murmured to myself, "I resolve to get drunk."
And so it went.
The evening was my own; I didn't have to share. I turned the volume of the record player in the Common Room up as high as it could go- all the others were home for the holiday break; of the snakes, it was just me left at Hogwarts. There was no one left to bother. I played everything I could think of- the wizarding artists Lucius had sent me (probably out of pity), the Muggle artists my mother enjoyed so much- what was that man's name? Yes, Jackie Wilson. His appearance radiated swagger, his voice was irresistible. Even the Slytherin women loved him until they realized he was a Muggle.
Lonely teardrops, come home, come home- just say you will. I'd given up on hoping Lily would ever "come home." Indeed, Lucius was beginning to refer to my taking the Mark as "coming home." I restarted the song. Just give me another chance, for our romance, I slurred the lyrics, come on and tell me that one day you'll return. I was dancing alone, arm around the waist of an imagined dance partner.
My heart does nothing but burn crying, as did my throat with that damned Firewhiskey. Why did I think that was a good idea? What was my problem? "Well, this year I'm going to never do this again," I muttered to myself, although I knew it was a lie. I took off the vinyl without even bothering to turn off the player. Even in my drunken state, I made sure to gingerly slide the record into its sleeve and set it on the nearest table.
I stumbled to my room and almost made it into my bed, but fell down from a bit too far away. I reached under the bed and pulled out my dear Potions textbook, the one with my notes scribbled throughout, my work of art, the magnum opus of my school years. I assumed it would make a decent pillow.
And so it did.
I woke in the morning and tidied the Common Room so as to leave no trace of my private party. It was less a matter of them not knowing and more a matter of not giving them a reason to be irritated. I was used to the looks- glares, even- from those of my own House, but I always tried to ensure that I wouldn't get on their nerves. Keeping out of the others' hair made sure I could be left alone.
When the others returned, they- as I had hoped and planned- had no idea what I had done. Instead, they were all discussing their own holiday nonsense. "Did you hear about this party?" "Did you hear about that party?"
I was proud of my own party. My own private party.