Firewhiskey Hurts
Chapter One
1976, James Potter's abode
About lunchtime
Strong summer sunlight forced its way through the heavy curtains and cast itself upon the floor, directly on the closed eyelids of the boy sleeping there. The room was untidy, clothes and magazines across the floor, posters tacked up at wonky angles upon the walls. Four boys, strewn across the room fully clothed but unconscious.
And four empty bottles of Firewhiskey, lying innocently and unassumingly on the ground, shot glasses around them. The boy to whom the sunlight had made its way first cracked a bleary eye and immediately regretted it. Something akin to a rhinoceros had seen fit to make its permanent residence within the confines of his skull and had then started running laps.
"Oh God. That. Really. Sucks." He sat up, his crumpled T-shirt smoothing out. He clasped one hand to his pounding head, just above his right eye, and made the vague yet customary attempt at flattening his hair that was traditional upon his waking up. He tried once again to open his eyes and the first thing he saw was one of the empty Firewhiskey bottles. It faced him, the laughing wizard upon the label looking straight at him.
"Shut up." He muttered and gave it a kick.
"James. What are you moving for are you mad?" came the voice of a shorter boy with short brown hair who gazed at him semi-conscious from the corner. A shorter still, chubbier boy snored loudly a few feet to his right.
"What do you mean, Remus?" James answered, his voice hoarse.
"The room is spinning, how do you expect to stand up? And what the hell is that thing on the ceiling it's looking right at me!" came an equally distant reply.
James cast his eyes up, and saw nothing. Nothing at all. Only a dangling, bare light bulb.
"Okay, Remus. No more Firewhiskey for you mate. We'll get something less potent next time. Like turps."
He gained his feet in one easy half-stumble and walked over to where the curtains were drawn. He swung them open, and stretched, peering out over the countryside beyond – the field that sloped away from the house to the stream, and beyond that the woods. He felt like he might combust in direct sunlight, and so turned away.
"James what the hell do you think you're playing at? Opening the bloody curtains. Bastard." Came muffled protests from James' pillow, in which Sirius' head was buried. Somehow, James had ended up sleeping on the floor while Sirius passed out on his bed. How that had worked out he would never know.
"Come on Padfoot. Get up." James started, going over to shake his friend properly awake. He approached from the wrong angle, a dangerous one, but by the time he realised, it was too late. Sirius' leg lashed out with surprising swiftness and he was kicked soundly in the crotch. James let out a whoosh of air and fell to his knees, doubled over.
"Still a morning person I see Sirius. I should have remembered from last time. My fault."
The reply was not discernible from gibberish. James gained his feet a little more shakily this time.
He dragged the door open despite Peter's choice of sleeping place and left the room into a wood-floored corridor. Across the way was his parents' room, currently vacant as they were on holiday.
He walked to the end of the corridor and descended the stairs. He crossed the corridor at the bottom and entered the bright kitchen. As he did so, four things happened – the kettle began to boil itself, bread dropped into the toaster as if from nowhere, and the fridge swung open.
"Thanks kitchen."
A blackboard affixed to the door changed from blank to a short message in thick white chalk.
S'okay.
James made his way to the fridge, from which he retrieved milk and butter, and then went to the counter. Above the counter on which stood the toaster, a microwave (with which his Dad was cheating on his mother, he was convinced – he was fascinated by it), the kettle, and a flustered owl, was an open window.
"Off the bloody counter. Go on, shift." Muttered James, shooing the owl off of the place where people prepared food. He set down the butter and milk and waved his hands at it. It misconstrued this as an act of aggression and leapt into the air, scratching at his hands with its talons.
"No! Sit somewhere else, I'm not attacking you! Ow! I said I'm not attacking you."
The Owl calmed, after taking a chunk out of his wrist, and alighted upon the back of a chair residing at the small kitchen table behind James. It dutifully held out a leg, and he untied the note that was attached to it. Short and sweet, what he had come to expect from his father.
Back in 4 days. Don't wreck the fucking house. Feed the owl and send it back it's a rental.
James laughed. Too late. A tin sat beside the toaster. He fed the owl and it disappeared through the window again. He screwed up the note and threw it into the bin beside the counter. The kettle whistled a celebration of the completion of its water-boiling mission. He opened the cupboard over the counter and four mugs hurled themselves at him. One hit him above the left eye, knocking him to the ground.
"Merlin's beard; what the hell?" he lamented, clutching his new injury, hoping he wasn't concussed.
The four mugs lined up beside the kettle like clay soldiers with handles. James dragged himself upright on the counter's edge and dropped teabags, also retrieved from the cupboard, into each cup. The water poured itself, he poured the milk in, and dredged each cup with a teaspoon to retrieve the teabags, thus completing the first item on his hungover agenda.
"Right, excellent. Next." He murmured to himself.
The toaster threw the toast blindly into the air and with the practised skill of a chaser, he caught them both. He reached into the drawer from which he had procured his teaspoon, and upon discovering a total absence of knives, he produced a spoon and did his best to butter the toast with that. Carrying a plate of toast, and doing his best to keep four mugs of tea in the air with his wand, he had a semblance of breakfast. And with only one brutal head injury to show for it. It was going to be a good day.
He backed into his room and manipulated the flying mugs through the doorway. The mugs bumped gently into their recipients' skulls until they were grudgingly accepted.
"James you morning bastard you." Sirius mumbled, turning over and sitting up. He was covered by the duvet, but he was evidently in a lesser state of dress than the others.
"What is the deal with the drunkenness/nudity correlation with you Sirius?"
Sirius gave him a thunderous glare, sipping at his tea. James smirked.
"Cheer up Sirius," Remus intervened before bickering could begin, "I'll drink this mate, then I need to get off, there's a couple of errands Marie wants running."
"Alright mate, but you are entirely whipped, you realise that?" James answered. Sirius mumbled his agreement. Peter continued to snore, despite the now-severe blows his mug was now dealing him out.
"You guys are just jealous that you aren't getting any at the moment." Remus joked.
Both murmured their grudging assent.
"What about summer homework? Have you guys started that yet?" Remus asked, changing the subject.
Sirius chuckled, and was swiftly joined by James. After a few moments they were laughing raucously. James managed to compose himself first, while Sirius was still gripped by gales of laughter.
"No Moony. No we haven't. But nice one on the sense of humour I needed that. My head's swimming a little from the mug attack I underwent in the kitchen."
Remus chuckled too.
"What time is it?" Came a groggy voice as Peter finally awoke, and gripped his angry mug.
"Dunno. Daytime." James responded.
"Thanks mate, really helpful. I'd better go lads. See you on the nineteenth eh?" Peter said, livening up.
"Alright. Wait, what's the nineteenth?" Sirius interjected.
"My birthday Padfoot. Don't worry its only the tenth or so time I've mentioned it in two days." Peter sarcastically replied.
"Oops, my bad."
Just then, Sirius had a mood swing. He leapt to his feet, the duvet falling away.
"I've got a plan!" He announced, raising a clenched fist.
"Me too!" James jumped in, turning away in disgust. "My plan is you put on some pants!"
"What?" Sirius asked confused.
Remus answered him, also having shielded his eyes.
"Christ, Sirius, you're naked mate! Cover up! In the name of all that's holy, cover up!" he screamed.
Peter had wrapped his head in a discarded T-shirt.
Sirius looked down at his nakedness.
"Well would you look at that. An unexpected turn of events and one easily resolved."
There was a flurry of motion, and, presuming all was well, they all risked looking.
They immediately returned to their original positions on the matter, averting their eyes.
"If it's easily resolved then get resolving!" bellowed James.
"I can't find my pants, mate. Like at all. Or, in fact, any of my clothes. Wait!"
Another flurry of motion.
"Its safe now guys."
They cautiously risked another look. James' face turned from disgust to horror.
"Mate – not cool."
Sirius had fashioned a loincloth from his favourite T-shirt, a black shirt with 'Led Zeppelin' on the front, and in white below it Robert Plant as an angel, arms outstretched, drawn in white.
"Sorry, improvisation and all that." He retrieved his tea and sat down, continuing to sip at it.
"So what was the plan mate?" asked Peter.
"What?"
"The plan that led to the unfortunate incident a few moments ago." Remus clarified.
"Incident?"
"With your twig and berries hanging out for all to see."
"Ah yes, Incident! What about it?"
"For the love of God, Sirius, you jumped up because you had a plan." James piped in.
"Oh. Of course. The plan was lets go and get whammed." Sirius answered, remembering.
There was a moment's hesitance in which they all stared at him incredulously after the heavy evening the previous night.
"Works for me." James said after due consideration.
"You guys go ahead. I'll meet you later on." Remus said, rolling his eyes. Peter nodded agreement.
"Cool." Sirius and James answered in unison.
"Hey James," Sirius began, as Remus and Peter departed, "You have had an empty house for what, two weeks? And no enormous house-ruining parties. You know, man, you're really letting the side down there."
"On the contrary my dear Padfoot. I have a plan. My parents aren't back for three days. Which means party the night after next. Gives us plenty of time for invites. And booze-acquisition."
"I like your thinking Prongs. But we must attend to more pressing matters."
James stuttered and choked on the mouthful of tea.
"More pressing than booze? To you? Matters like what?"
"Matters like where in the sodding hell did my clothes get to?"
*** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Darkness, silence...all-consuming, gripping her in a cold vice of anxiety and fear. Floating in a void of oily blackness. Reality buckled before her disbelieving eyes. Reality tore, split. Beyond it, violet eyes of madness; and laughter. The sound of unadulterated evil, bubbling, building, pouring through the reality hole, filling the void with it's frightening intensity. She screamed, but the noise was drowned out by –
"Lily? Lily! Wake up!"
"Sod off."
"Lily Evans, I'm your bloody mother! Respect me."
Lily opened her eyes blearily, unable to remember the nuances of her dream. Her long red hair spilled out on the pillow around her, pooling in the crevasse her head had left as she leaned up a little in bed to see her mother bustling around her excessively black room. Her walls were covered in black and white striped wallpaper, her bedclothes were black...her blue door had a large black poster upon which Pink Floyd was emblazoned in pink balloon-like letters.
"I wish you'd brighten this place up, Lily." Her mother said in the light Irish accent she had maintained from her youth in Dublin. She was fussing and collecting dirty clothes from the floor and chair that were her only pieces of furniture besides her bed.
"I know mum."
She tutted and went silent, bustling out again.
Lily peered around her room, and was then diverted by a tapping at the window. A white owl, with eyes like ice. She hurried to the window in her pyjamas, throwing the duvet on the floor, her lithe figure was a hindrance to movement rather than a help. For some inexplicable reason she was clumsy to the point of self-destructive. She swung the window open, and let it in. It alighted on the table and then allowed her to remove the note. The owl waited patiently for her to read the note.
Lily unwrapped it and sighed. It had begun early this year. They hadn't even begun seventh year and Potter had actually asked her out by owl.
Will you go out with me?
Signed, if you don't know by now then you aren't as clever as you make out.
She chuckled in spite of herself. It wasn't that he wasn't attractive, and he certainly had a sense of humour. It was that he could also be a total arsehole when he wasn't thinking – which was fairly often.
She chuckled and wrote a short reply.
No.
No.
No.
No.
No.
There's a few there in advance too, you might have noticed.
Signed, Lily.
She sent Potter's owl away again.
*** *** *** *** *** *** ***