Train of Thought, Chapter One
Drip, drip, drip.
The clatter of the leaking faucet was deafening in the silence.
Harry momentarily contemplated repairing it with a quick spell but then decided against it. He feared that if there was complete silence in the flat, the noise and confusion in his head might explode with the unpleasant force of a bludger and he'd be forced to apparate to the one place that he most wanted to avoid. The house of a happy couple.
So, on went the dripping as Harry sat staring out of the window.
The sun was setting and velvety ribbons of peach and salmon and lemon rippled across the sky, quickly changing and reforming, introducing new colors and formations to create a one-of-a-kind view.
The faint murmur of London traffic could be heard from the street so many stories below. It was oddly calming to Harry, the normality of his surroundings even when life was not going in a necessarily preferable manner.
Only when an owl flew through the softly fluttering curtains did Harry's eyes come back into focus and his mind snap out of the foggy, rather disconcerting state it had just been in where he had actually described the sunset as including "ribbons of peach and salmon and lemon".
"Thanks," Harry said, and then paused, having caught himself in the act of speaking to an owl, rather than a real human being.
His throat was scratchy from lack of use in the past few days and Harry coughed before unrolling the tightly furled scroll. Inside it was Ron's messy scrawl and all it said was: You can't sit around alone anymore… Harry felt a pain at the word, alone, but he went on to the last few words… I've got an idea.
Curiosity nestled itself comfortably into Harry's mind. He turned over the piece of parchment in his hand and wrote: As long as this isn't one of Hermione's brilliant matchmaking ideas, then tell me more.
And with that, Harry rolled up the scroll again, tied it back to the oak-colored owl's fragile legs and watched as the owl took a step along the deep brown armrest of his sofa before lifting its wings and flying back through the partially closed curtains and out into the dusk air.
By now, the sun had almost completely set and the lights of London were beginning to make their mark on the skyline.
Harry stood and made his way to each of the windows and pulled the curtains together after shutting them. He began flipping the lights on and he turned on the television, a Muggle contraption he had grown used to for the company, to the news. Two well-coifed news anchors sat side by side on the screen while headlines streamed across the marquee below them.
Still focusing on the current piece of news about the stock market crash, Harry stood behind the counter in the small, adjoining kitchen area, doing what most people thought that the Boy-Who-Must-Have-More-Nicknames-Than-A-Celebrity-Couple couldn't do, cook.
Ron often made fun of Harry for certain character traits he possessed, such as being able to cook a really nice three-course dinner or furnish his flat in a way that was actually aesthetically pleasing, rather than like what Ron's flat had resembled before he and Hermione had officially tied the knot. Their new house had been furnished by Hermione, of course.
Harry had always known he was a bit different. Other than the whole being the savior of the Wizarding World thing, that is. He had always just casually nodded when Ron spotted a new girl, without really feeling much emotion towards said girl. And he'd probably spent a moment too long looking into Cedric Diggory's eyes than he should have done.
Eventually, Harry had come to the very obvious conclusion that he was about as straight as a curlicue. As much as he knew that he had very loving and supportive people surrounding him, he still remained a curlicue in a closet for a very, very long time. Until one day, he, along with Ron, Fred, George, and Lee had gone to a pub for a drink.
Or two.
Or a lot more than two, which caused Harry to be so intoxicated that he proceeded to drunkenly bellow for all to hear, his resemblance to said curlicue.
To say that his mates were shocked would be quite the understatement. Since then, he'd been, if possible, even more of an enigma in the Wizarding world. And yet, still quite unnoticed in that of the Muggles.
Now, one would never imagine Harry Potter to ever be lonely. The mere idea might even seem ridiculous but, somehow, Harry ended up very, very lonely. It didn't help that every time he was invited to a friend's house, he immediately was surrounded by couples, married and dating, that all seemed so happy, leaving him to feel fairly pathetic about where he'd ended up.
Gay and lonely.
It wasn't that he'd never dated. He had. It was just that he wanted that perfect guy. The one that didn't allow never-ending trains of thought such as this one to continue on. He wanted the guy who caused for him all of those cliché feelings of being in love.
He wanted, in short, the guy who would make that cursed, rambling train of thought careen off its track and into a brick wall where it would stay and allow him to just enjoy the moment.
Harry was standing at the kitchen counter, waiting for the pot roast to be ready when he heard a sneeze.
He turned his attention sharply from the television mounted on the wall directly in front of him to the fireplace on the wall to his right. Another sneeze and then a cough.
"Sorry, mate," the head of Ron Weasley explained. "I've got a bit of a cold. Have you got time to talk?"
Harry thought about his empty planner.
"Yeah. A bit."
"Great. I got away from Hermione for a little bit so I could talk to you—"
Harry scowled.
"—about my idea. You've seemed pretty off lately and I'm pretty sure it's because you haven't been fucked in a while. "
Harry scoffed, then realized that Ron had actually been intuitive about something and raised his eyebrows. But then, he went back to scoffing because Ron thought he was depressed because of something as shallow as lack of sex.
That was only a little part of it, Harry thought.
"Well, actually, Hermione came to that conclusion but it seemed probable."
Well, there went Ron's newfound intuitiveness.
"Anyway, the idea's my own. I doubt Hermione would approve so just don't mention it to her. Okay?"
Uh oh. Sounded unstable.
"Err… okay." Harry muttered. A feeling of unease crept over him.
"You're depressed, mate."
"Thanks, Ron. Never would've figured that one out on my own, really." Harry replied, sarcasm oozing from his every syllable.
"Right. Well, I think you should do something about it," Ron looked at Harry as though waiting for some signal to continue. When he received none, he still plowed on. "Seven days. Seven dates. Eh?"
"Ron, what are you suggesting exactly?" Harry forehead creased. "Are you saying that I should act like some fucked-up movie character and go on blind dates every night for a week?"
"That's right. Great idea, isn't it?"
"Are you out of your mind? What makes you think that would work? And who's to say that the Daily Prophet won't get word of this and have some twisted field day? Next thing you know, there'll be a new form of the Triwizard tournament reminiscent of the Muggle programme called The Bachelor!" Harry could not wrap his mind around the whole idea.
"Well, I'm not that thick. You don't have to go on the blind dates as yourself. A bit of Polyjuice potion and you'll cease to be Harry Potter each night for just one week." Ron explained.
Harry screwed up his face. It was a horrid idea. Really, it was. But was it worse than sitting at home each night cooking for one, very lonely person and watching the Muggle news? Much faster than he would have liked, Harry felt his resolution fading.
If he were to be very honest with himself, it would be quite obvious that he had never needed much more than a gentle (or not so gentle, as it was coming from Ron) nudge to push him over the edge into irreversible insanity.
Harry muttered something incomprehensible in response to Ron.
"What's that?" Ron asked.
"I said I'll do it." Harry cringed. He was almost positive that he would regret everything that he had just agreed to.
"Great— Oh, hey Hermione….Just talking to Harry…About what? Err, Quidditch. Well, what else do you expect? Alright. I'll be there in a minute," Ron turned his head away from the wall of the fireplace and back to face Harry. "We'll talk tomorrow. Gotta go. G'night."
And, with that, Ron's head disappeared from the flames and regrets flowed into Harry's mind with more agility than the Golden Snitch.
What the hell had he just agreed to?