"Everything feels like it's set up against me, and I just . . . I don't know if I can keep doing it anymore," said Harry.
He looked aside at the cat sharing the alleyway with him.
"What do you think?"
"Meow."
"Ah, yes. Very wise." Harry nodded to himself.
The bum sitting across from him shouted and the cat ran off, hissing. He laughed and turned to Harry.
"Boy, if 'ur looking for a way to forget there's only one cure." He gestured for Harry to come closer as he lifted up his jacket corner. "Have you ever heard of Ogden's Finest?"
"What's gotten into those two?" asked Seamus, stumbling down from the boy's dormitory. "They don't usually start shout'n at each other until after breakfast."
Neville looked up from where he was painstakingly scratching out his potions essay. "I dunno," he said. "They've been at it for a good twenty minutes, too."
"Have they?" said Seamus, surprised. Looks like this one is shaping up to be a right mess, he thought. "Seen Dean, have you?"
"Sitting over there," said Neville. He pointed.
"Thanks, mate." Seamus wandered over.
Presently, several students wandered down from the dormitories, woken by Ron and Hermione shouting. Given the day, Saturday, and the hour, Ron wasn't usually awake yet, there was considerable room for an audience to gather, which it did, though a good portion looked like they were ready to join in if the argument didn't stop soon.
"You take that back!" said Ron. "I will not hear you badmouth the game that this country grew up on."
Hermione counted by saying: "Honestly, Ron. If the whole country grew up on it, then why are they losing sponsors faster than they can catch the snitch!"
Ron spluttered, struggling to form a response. "They . . . they . . ."
She waved away his protests. "Boys," she said, as if that explained everything. "Quidditch is just a game."
Like a train working its way up to a full head of steam, Ronald Weasley was getting ready to explode.
"Just a game!" he spluttered. "Quidditch is much more than that . . ."
Hermione tuned him out—as did the rest of Gryffindor—as Ron went off on one of his tirades about the national identity and pride that was Quidditch. For all the facts and expert opinion he was able to quote, one might be mistaken in thinking that Ron Weasley was some sort of academic. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. His somewhat gifted eloquence and researched arguments when defending Quidditch were nowhere to be found in other facets of his life, a fact sadly lamented by much of his family.
Not to mention that no one could out-research Hermione.
"You'd think someone had insulted his sister," commented Dean.
"Nah," said Seamus. "Ginny would handle someone who insulted her all by herself. More like they took away his bacon."
They sniggered quietly in a corner of the common room while Ron and Hermione spat at each other, one more literally than the other.
It was into this whirlwind of softly shattered pride and hurt stepped one Harry Potter: wizard supreme and extremely hungover thanks to half a dozen bottles of Ogden's Finest Firewhisky—Dalmore 64 Single Hiland, of course.
He was woken from his stupor by a particularly loud and obnoxious voice as Ron caught sight of him and strode over.
"C'mon Harry, help me out mate. We've got to prove to this . . . this heathen that Quidditch is so much more than just a game. Isn't that right?" he said.
"Ugh," Harry replied. It felt like there was a team of trolls pounding beaters bats on the inside of his skull. Never had he wished so much for a purge and peace potion. He'd feel about three times worse for twenty seconds and then be right as rain. Failing that, the solution was to keep drinking. He wasn't so sure of that method himself, but Uncle Vernon and Sirius swore by it, so it had to have some merit, surely?
He pulled a half finished bottle out of somewhere and gulped it down, sighing loudly as the triple distilled dragon venom numbed his headache and clouded his vision just enough that the light no longer stabbed at his eyes.
"Oh, Harry," said Hermione, when she saw the bottle. "I thought we'd talked about this."
"We did have," said Harry. He hiccupped. "I made an 'secutive decision to continue drink'n s'long as you two 'tinue argu'n."
"Merlin, Harry," said Ron. "What's grabbed your goat?"
"Shut . . . just, b'quiet," said Harry. He flopped down onto the divan before the fireplace and warmed his hands in front the imaginary fire. "So warm," he mumbled.
"Uh, Harry," said Ron, nervously. "Are you all right, mate?"
"Oh, of course he's not all right," snapped Hermione. "Which you'd know if you took a second to think about anybody other than yourself."
"So I'm the only one who only thinks about themselves!?" said Ron, outraged. "What about Miss Oh-No-It's-Study-Time, or There's-Only-Three-Weeks-Until-Exams!"
Ron and Hermione descended into incoherent name-calling again, slinging insults back and forth over the common room as Harry lay on the couch and groaned. He managed to grab his wand from his back pocket and pointed it at the pair, wordlessly casting a silencing charm. Mission accomplished, he sank into the divan's fine array of perfectly puffed cushions, memories of last night's debauchery slipping back into his mind.
Daphne sitting next to him. Daphne straddling his lap. And the game with the chocolate and strawberries—Daphne was a very naughty girl! Oh, yes.
"Harry. Harry!"
He swum back to consciousness, irritated and a little bit irked. "What iz it?" he slurred. And he'd been having such a nice dream too.
"We're sorry, Harry," said Hermione. "It's just that Ron can be so thick-headed sometimes, and I, well, I can't stand such ignorance."
Ron opened his mouth to retort but was silenced by a glare from Harry.
"Right, um," said Ron. "Sorry, mate. I can't stand her know-it-all attitude sometimes—it just, ticks me off, you know."
Harry did know. And Hermione's attitude, as Ron put it, could be grating at times, but that was only because she was so often right. It was hard to argue with someone who had all the facts and a well-reasoned argument without feeling like an ass when it inevitably spilled over into harsh words. That was no reason to start calling each other names though.
"Right," he said. Harry pointed his wand at himself and vanished the free alcohol bound to his neuronal proteins. Instant sobriety.
"What is the problem?"
Hermione looked uneasy, while Ron was pointedly confused.
"Woah! Harry, how'd you do that?" he asked.
"Harry, did you just . . .?" said Hermione.
He rubbed his temples, feeling another headache coming on. "Yes, I did," he said. "And we've talked about this. No, I won't stop doing it—"
"But—"
"No buts," said Harry. "I'm perfectly okay."
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Nine o'clock," said Hermione.
"AM or PM?"
"AM, Harry. Honestly, are you not even keeping track of the time now?"
"Eh, days are harder," Harry grinned at his own joke.
"That is not funny, Harry James Potter!"
"Now you've done it," said Ron.
"You!" Hermione whirled on Ron. "Keep your opinions to yourself."
"Yes, ma'am," said Ron sourly.
"Harry, this drinking has become a real problem for you and I want to help you, I really do! But you have to help me help you and I can't do that if you won't listen to me," she pleaded. "What is it going to take for you to give up this drinking?"
"Ah . . . I don't need this shit right now, okay. Both of you just leave me alone for a little while and I'll . . . I'll figure out something."
Harry stood up and made to exit the common room, figuring he'd do something about his grumbling stomach.
Hermione blocked the exit.
"You can't run away, Harry. Not this time," she said.
"Watch me," he snarled. He flicked his wand and Hermione was none too gently shoved to the side. She cried out as she skinned her knees on the carpet.
"Hey," said Ron, rushing to Hermione's side, "you can't do that, we're your friends."
"Friends give each other space, Weasley," said Harry sarcastically.
He marched through the Fat Lady's portrait, slamming it shut on his way out.
The rest of the Gryffindor common room watched on silently, unsure what to make of the latest developments between the troubled trio.
Harry stalked his way to breakfast, tired, hungry and frustrated in more ways than one. He hadn't had a good wank in weeks. And now Ron and Hermione were getting on his case—about drinking of all things! They hadn't even known about it until a few weeks ago.
He rounded the corner into the entrance hall and spied the open doors to the Great Hall.
The smell of succulent bacon and fried potato greeted him as he got closer, setting his stomach to rumbling. It was with a well-deserved sigh and a large glass of coffee that he sat down, at the same time pulling the porridge toward himself and grabbing half a dozen eggs cooked in assorted methods. There were fried, poached, sunny-side-up, eggs benedict, scrambled and so many more.
He was interrupted midway between his first bite by a voice over his shoulder.
"There you are," said Katie Bell. She, Alicia and Angelina stopped behind Harry at the breakfast table, hands on their hips.
"I'll be straight with you, Potter. You're off the team," she said.
Harry was so shocked he dropped his fork in his porridge. "What?" he said. "Why?"
"You show up to the last three practices' drunk and disorderly, you can't even fly, and you have the balls to ask why!"
"You're a disgrace to the jumper, Potter," said Alicia. "Not even the twins have a good word to say about you anymore."
"Face it, Harry. You fucked up. Now either clean up or don't expect to ever fly for Gryffindor again, are we clear?"
"What? No! No, we're not clear. Katie?"
Katie sighed. "Look, Harry. You're our best seeker in decades but this behaviour of yours cannot continue. Unanimous vote."
"Katie this is bullshit and you know it," Harry protested. "I'm the only thing holding this team up as it is. There's no way we'll win the Cup without me."
"You're the only one holding up this team?" Katie said incredulously. "Fuck you too, Potter. Don't bother trying out again while I'm still captain."
The Gryffindor Chasers left, and Harry put his head in his hands.
He groaned. "Can this day get any worse?"
It could, apparently.
"Potter!"
Snape's unique brand of civility for Harry Potter rang out over the Great Hall.
Harry quickly shovelled as much toast, porridge, egg and bacon inside his mouth as he could, careful not to choke. He had to open his throat up to swallow, so much so that he nearly gagged—Daphne would have made a dick joke, and a gay joke and a—
"Potter, there you are," said Snape. The man in question looked sallower than he usually did, something that indicated he had been brewing more than usual.
"Come with me," he said, distaste dripping from his every word. "And clean your bloody uniform, boy. What are you, a savage?"
He obviously hadn't been as careful as he thought he had because there was a rather marvellous coffee stain running down the lapel of his cloak.
A quick scourgify sorted out his shirt, now Harry had to find out what Professor Snape wanted with him.
"Professor," said Harry, stepping quickly to keep up. "Where are we going?"
"Headmaster's office," said Snape. "Don't ask me any more questions, or I'll have you doing detention with Filch until the Christmas break, are we clear?"
That was the second time someone had asked him if they were being clear in as many minutes. Did people think he was dumb?
"Yes, Sir. Crystal, Sir."
Snape looked at him oddly.
The Gargoyle jumped aside when Snape bit out: "Ice Mice."
They walked up the rotating stairway and through the Headmaster's door, only stopping when Snape pushed Harry down into a chair.
"Don't touch anything, don't go anywhere and do not talk to the portraits. Headmaster Dumbledore will be back soon."
Well, with a command like that, Harry was practically obligated to talk to the portraits. He surveyed them, stuck to the wall above the Headmaster's desk and was disappointed to see they were all sleeping. Sherbet lemons it was then. He took a handful and dropped them in his pocket, pulling one out to suck on.
The Headmaster's arrival was as flashy as it was loud. He appeared without warning with a bang and a rush of flame.
Harry jumped a foot in the air as he yelled, "Holy shit."
Dumbledore glanced around at the noise as he brushed his robes down, unperturbed. He caught sight of Harry, who was cradling his bruised elbow and spoke: "The intricacies of international apparition," he chuckled. "Would you care for a lemon drop, Harry?"
"Already got one," said Harry, holding it up.
"Good, good," said the Headmaster.
He sat down and fixed his steeple eyed gaze on Harry's own orbs until a great weight came upon them. "Mr Potter. It has come to my attention that you may have a drinking problem," he said.
"Oh, Christ, not you too," Harry mumbled.
"What was that, my boy?" said Dumbledore.
"Nothing, Headmaster," said Harry. "Just talking to myself."
"Talking to oneself is the first sign of madness, Harry. Did you know that? Why, I started talking to myself at the time I was around your age. So many wonderful secrets and questions, and never enough room in one head to hold them all." His eyes twinkled something fierce. Harry was slightly unnerved by it all. "Did you have something you wanted to talk to me about, Harry? You can tell me anything you know?"
"Can I tell you about the time I snorted cocaine off a hooker's tits, Headmaster?" said Harry. "Because I don't think that's very appropriate, do you? Or the photo album full of naked students on the third shelf?"
Dumbledore rocked in his chair, face reddening underneath his expansive and expertly coifed beard.
"It has been some time since a student managed to make me feel out of place," he said. "But if you want to do this the hard way, then so be it.
"So far this school year, you have been reported numerous times for lateness, dishonest and unseemly behaviour, drug use and drinking and one case of, I quote: 'loud gratuitous sex or else he's strangling a basilisk in there and I don't know what's worse.'"
"Blimey, they got all that?" said Harry.
Dumbledore looked unimpressed. "Mr Potter, if you cannot conform to a minimum set of rules and behavioural guidelines then your enrolment at this institution may become subject for review. As your legal magical guardian, I would become responsible for your welfare. Given that I am a very busy man, Mr Potter, this would constitute you staying full time at the Dursley's under the protection of the blood wards. I will admit," said the old man, "that I do not know you as well as I should, given my role in the war with Voldemort and my association with your parents, but, I assume that you would find this distasteful, if not unbearable, am I close, Mr Potter?"
He was, unbearably so, in fact. Not that Harry was going to tell him that.
"Actually, Headmaster, I think you'll find that I have a something of an understanding with the Dursley's, wherein I leave them alone and they me, and we all get along quite well together. If you think that threatening me with house arrest with my aunt and uncle is going to make me comply with your already shady demands than you have another thing coming."
Is what Harry would have liked to say.
As things were, he was extremely sober, and could actually think about little things like consequences and relative power.
He knew that if Dumbledore wanted to he could have Harry not just over a barrel, but also being fisted by a Silverback Mountain Gorilla too.
He sighed, long and loud.
And again.
And once more, just because he was feeling juvenile and knew that this really was the end.
"I understand," he said.
Harry reached for the belt on his waist and unclipped a disillusioned pouch, made from fake mole skin, and enchanted by dobby to automatically refill itself from the Hogwarts cellar whenever it ran dry.
He dropped it on the Headmaster's desk and leaned back in his seat, oddly happy.
"That's how I've been drinking without anyone finding out. Dobby enchanted it to refill any bottles once they ran out. I guess I can only say . . . it was good while it lasted."
"Hmph," Dumbledore snorted. "Youth."
He cleared his throat. "Very well, Mister Potter, you are free to go. If I hear that you have relapsed at any time I will make live very unpleasant for you."
"Yes, Headmaster."
"Be off now, I'll let Professor Sprout know why you were late."
"Thank you, Headmaster," said Harry. He walked toward the exit feeling lighter than he could remember for a very long time.
"Oh, and Harry?" said Dumbledore.
"Yes?"
"I can make it hurt much more than a Mountain Gorilla."