I'm Not My Own

Ning

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; I am not JK Rowling; I am not doing this for money. The "old in-out in-out" is a quote from Burgess' A Clockwork Orange. Title is from Regina Spektor's "Apres Moi le Deluge." I am not making any money from using these quotes.

Rating: Eventually R, but this chapter is only PG.

Warnings: Sexual, alcoholic, and war references.

One: Drunk

"We did it." I say this with an incredulity that makes me want to heave.

"Yeah," Ron agrees. His red hair is matted to his forehead and there are streaks of mud across his cheek. "We're alive."

He says this with the same hollowness.

I clutch my stomach and grit my teeth to make sure a sickness doesn't pass through my lips.

We are still standing in the battlefield, our hands stained bloody and our wands glowing faintly. Hexes, curses, spells are heavy in the air and it stick to our skin like leeches. I know our faces are blank canvasses: our mouths slightly open, our brows furrowed. Ron and I look confused; Harry just looks tired.

What we're really going through is disbelief. What we're really trying to grasp onto is the fact that we're alive. Oh, glorious blood-soaked day! How fresh and pure the stale scent of dead bodies is now that it holds a different meaning.

This is the end.

I think I whispered the last two words out loud Harry and Ron look at me. Ron, a silly grin that shows his teeth but doesn't crinkle his eyes. Harry, taking a brief break from staring at his palms.

"We have to begin the round-up."

Ron and I nod at Harry's words.

"Yeah," we agree.

Already bodies are moving from the heaps of corpses.

And so it goes. We part, and we would have said, "all right, mates, see you tomorrow," but we can't because the home we live in is our home and we'll just see each other, waiting patiently in line for the bathroom and Ron will go first because he's the quickest and then Harry will go and take almost all the hot water as he screams and howls and everyone will have this sad pained look in their eyes but I will be the only one who goes in and calms him down, all the while the thought nagging if I will have any hot water, and what is in the cupboard to drink tonight.

---

Tonight is the first night of celebration, and we wait patiently in our humming skin for Harry to say the words we've been waiting to hear.

Everyone's breathing is a little erratic but it may just be because of the unlimited amount of alcohol that has been served. But the air is trembling with an intensity that bounces off everyone else and most of us are grinning like dopes.

Harry has one fist gripping a cup of whiskey, his eyes half-closed, "The War…

"The War…" He jabs his finger out uselessly a few times, and we're still waiting.

I get chills as I realize that everyone's holding their breath. It reminds me of the dead people I have killed and gathered. I let out a breath because the realization makes me nervous and I'm ready to finish my own Firewhiskey but Mrs. Weasley looks at me with her hollow eyes and I stop. I stop myself and smile weakly. I think to myself, bloody hurry up Harry so we can just drink.

"Ish over. 'Sh'over." He keeps repeating those two words as if the feel of them is alien to his mouth. "It's over," he mumbles before he opens his eyes. His darling green eyes. How mesmerizing and scary they can be at the same time and I know he's seeking me, seeking Ron. And we both notice that, and we walk towards Harry, our cups firm and full in our hands. And we look at each silently; stupid naïve grins on our faces as everyone continues to party uproariously. Harry kisses me on the forehead, hugging us and Ron fingers the ring on my left hand.

Then he starts rubbing the small of my back.

And I think to myself, why not?

So I don't avoid his eyes and I don't push his hand away and Harry notices and says go ahead man except he's really drunk by this time and it's rather difficult to figure out what he's saying but we do because isn't that what friends are?

And so Harry slaps our backs and I lurch a little forward thinking to myself: just don't spill. Just don't spill. And my drink doesn't and I greedily gulp it down, my throat burning, my eyes watering, my stomach warming.

I know what's going to come, I know he wants to do the "old in-out, in-out" but I'm still nervous. That's acceptable, though, right, right? So I tell Ron, wait.

Hold on.

I'll be back.

Stay with Harry.

He nods and he kisses my lips and whiskey is pungent on our breath and I think the only reason why I grab him closer a little more is because I liked that smell and I liked that taste. I'm greedily moving my lips on his, tonguing the flavor in his mouth and I'm getting thirsty, and I pull back and Ron says, wow.

His lids are heavy and the way he stares me and murmurs wow gets me excited. I squeeze his bicep tightly for a moment and then go off to find the rest of the liquor.

I'm there, pouring myself another shot to get myself loose (ha ha) and calm, when a hand stops me from pouring another one. Even though I'm of legal age, I get a little scared that it's Dumbledore who's caught me (even though I know he's dead), or Snape (even though he's dead, too), or Lupin (where is he, anyway?), or someone else, names I can't even begin to formulate.

But then hot breath is by my ear and I twitch a little, but all he said was, Granger, how many have you had?

And I turn to Malfoy, does it matter?

I laugh at him, it's over!

I wrap my arms around his neck, molding my body to his in a tight hug, we're alive.

Something inside me makes me shudder against him when I say those words. We're alive. Oh god, I grab his cheeks and press my lips against his in a sort of bewilderment, and then I ask him, are you happy? We're alive, the war is over, we're alive, are you happy?

I say, thank you. Do you have a condom?

The poor sod looks so confused that I giggle again and I try to pour myself another shot but I miss the cup and some liquid splashes onto my fingers and I curse a little, bringing my fingers up to my mouth to suck the alcohol off. He says, cut it out, Granger. Don't drink anymore, you're sloshed already.

And then I respond (stupidly, I will tell myself when I have sobered, I told him stupidly, but then forget about it): I can't. Oh Malfoy, I can't! You see, Ron wants to have sex right now and I mean, why not, right? We should, right?

He looks so disgusted and I hear him mutter under his breath, fucking shit. He says, fuck. I think we both need more shots. Fucking revolting, you lot.

So we toast and then we smile at each, his hair the same color as the bright lights above us, almost blinding, I swear, and I want to say, oh, Malfoy.

Oh, Malfoy.

But then his eyes squint, eyes steely, and then I feel a hand on my hip, and it's Ron and he says, you ready?

I think to myself, as ready I will ever be.

But I say to him, yes. Yes yes yes.

So we go upstairs, each step heavy and punctuated with laughs, and kisses, and teenage groping because essentially that's what we still are. And then we open the door to his room and we stumble on to the bed and later think, well it's only the first time. But then I also think, we're alive.

We really shouldn't be. We are supposed to be dead. Where do we go from here?

And then I pass out, feeling Ron cup my cheek, pressing his lips against my sweaty skin.