The Boy Who Drank
Harry Potter opened his eyes. The golden rays of sunlight flowing down between the curtains of his dormitory window told him he had slept into the afternoon. He sat up suddenly as if he was meant to be somewhere but then slouched back into the sheets, the memories of the last week seeping back to the forefront of his mind. Dark emotions intertwined with the memories, along with the faces of Lupin, Tonks and Fred, whose absence still made his insides churn uncomfortably. Harry had spent the past week at Hogwarts, where he decided he should stay, alone for a while. Ron and Hermione, who had been extremely supportive, understood Harry's need for some time alone. Ron had gone with his family back to the Burrow, where they had taken the body of Fred. They were now currently making the arrangements for his funeral, and Harry could not bear to witness their grief and suffering, for which he still felt partly responsible. Hermione had left the day following the Battle to go to her parents in Australia, where she would restore their memories back to normal. She and Harry would arrive at the Burrow tonight, where they would stay for Fred's funeral.
Harry rolled over and found a sandwich on the bedside table, left by Kreacher for his breakfast. He picked it up and ate it, got dressed, picked up some of the possessions that he had taken from Hermione's beaded bag prior to her departure and threw them into an empty, discarded trunk. He closed the trunk and pulled it after him down the stairs, wondering where he should go before he left for the Burrow. Most families had returned to their homes now, and Harry once again felt ghostly as he climbed out of the portrait hole and began striding the empty corridors alone. Voldemort's death gave him a flicker of hope for the future, although Harry still struggled with the reality of happiness, an emotion which had been foreign to him for a long time. After thinking about destroying Voldemort for so long, Harry was quite unsure as to what to do with himself. Not that long ago he had accepted that he would die young, and now, thrust into the reality of a long life ahead of him, free from the iron fist of Mr. Dursley and the threat of death at Voldemort's hands, Harry was gliding through time in a haze of confusion as to what to do next. 'I've killed Voldemort,' Harry told himself for the millionth time, 'Everything is going to be okay now.' He navigated mindlessly through the moving staircases and the Great Hall, trying to block out the harsh memories of war that his surroundings thrust upon him. Hagrid was the only person Harry felt comfortable with right now, so he directed his footsteps through the front doors and out onto the lawn, towards his recently repaired cabin. Though the lawn was still littered with debris and blood, matching the inside of the castle, Harry felt much better being outside, with the warm summer breeze and the nature sounds coming from the Forest. The Hogwarts Express would be arriving specially for Harry and Hagrid at three o'clock, and Fabian Prewett's watch now read half past twelve. Harry had been told by the driver, a few days previous, that a special carriage would be prepared for him and Hagrid, to accommodate for Hagrid's size. After getting to Platform 9 and ¾, they would apparate to the Burrow together.
Harry approached the cabin and knocked on the door. It opened and Hagrid's big bushy face appeared, still scarred and bruised. Harry noticed his eyes were wet. 'Harry!' Hagrid said loudly, and pulled him into a rib-crushing hug. 'Blimey, I was hoping yeh'd stop by fer a visit, I didn't like the idea of yeh all alone up in that castle. Come in, sit down!' Harry sunk into a chair and Hagrid went over to the kitchen, preparing the kettle. 'Where's Fang, Hagrid?' Harry asked delicately. Hagrid dropped the kettle and started shaking. 'Died las' night,' he sighed, picking up the kettle, 'his wounds from the Battle were cursed, incurable. I buried him meself this morning, over by Aragog.' Hagrid sniffed loudly. 'I'm sorry Hagrid.' 'S'okay Harry, he had a good life.' Hagrid fell into his chair and sighed. 'I've bin sad for sure, but to be honest I've bin worried more about how yeh're coping with things Harry. Are yeh okay?' 'I'm fine Hagrid.' 'Hope so,' said Hagrid, rising again to get the kettle. 'I gotta say though Harry, what yeh did was brave in that Forest. Facing You-Know-Who, well, Voldemort, yerself. Yeh showed the bravery of yer Dad that night!' 'Thanks, Hagrid.' Harry felt undeserving of Hagrid's praise and decided to voice this concern. 'I just wish I had given myself up to him earlier Hagrid. I could've saved Fred and Lupin and Tonks and anyone else that died that night.' Harry felt hot tears well up in his eyes. Hagrid handed him tea and patted him on the back, which caused Harry to spill most of it on himself. 'Yeh did the best yeh could, Harry, given the circumstances. Not to mention the fact that yeh killed the bastard in the end! Yeh're a hero now Harry! Everyone'll want to know yeh now yeh've fulfilled the prophecy, Chosen One and all that!' Harry smiled a little, but he still felt sad inside. There was a moment of silence. 'I know what'll soothe yer suffering Harry,' said Hagrid, and he turned around and started fiddling about in his cupboards. When he returned he was carrying a massive tankard of whisky, and two bucket sized mugs. 'Whenever I'm feeling crap, Harry, a dozen or two mugs of this stuff is the way ter go. Yeh don' need ter be a potions master ter brew it either, I make it meself out the back. "Rubeus' Finest Whisky", I almost went inter business selling the stuff to no-hopers down in Knockturn Alley.' Hagrid poured Harry a mug filled to the brim. 'I dunno, Hagrid, I only really drink Firewhisky. I'm not really into hardcore alcohol-' Harry began, but Hagrid cut across him, 'Just give it a go Harry. Yeh can't expect to go through what yeh've been through and not have a few drinks to ease the pain. I'd go insane if I was yeh!' Harry sighed and looked at the mug. In all his life he had never felt so exhausted and hurt, but all the same he didn't approve of Hagrid's drunken lifestyle. Memories of Lupin, Tonks and Fred's blank faces swam to the forefront of his mind, and suddenly he didn't care about his sobriety anymore. Harry threw aside the teacup and picked up the mug with two hands, draining it in one go. The taste was bitter and dirty and had none of the magical qualities of Butterbeer and Firewhisky, though it did smother the pain and blur the dead faces tormenting his mind. 'Good man, Harry,' chortled Hagrid, who was already refilling his own mug. 'I've got a stash under me bed, yeh can help yerself.' Harry stumbled over to the bed and pulled out a large box. He opened it and found it full of small bottles, reminiscent of Uncle Vernon's beer bottles in the fridge at Privet Drive. Harry pulled his trunk over and filled it with bottles from Hagrid's box. He didn't intend to become an alcoholic, but he would need this whisky just in case his grief became overwhelmingly severe in the future. 'Thanks Hagrid,' said Harry happily, 'I really appreciate it.' 'S'no trouble Harry,' burped Hagrid, 'Yeh deserve a good beverage or two.'