Year Seven at Hogwarts:
Harry Potter and the Naked Lunch: Truth is Permitted.
In which Harry goes from depravity to enlightenment without becoming boring and sanctimonious.
Author's Note: I own none of JK Rowling's characters. All I own is the space between my ears, which I use to do what I want with 'em. Heh-heh-heh. Also, if you don't read "The Unbearable Lightness of Being Severus Snape" you may be a bit lost, but if you'd rather not, you'll still catch on. It's a short story, just one chapter.
Prologue: A Weasley's Wedding, A Werewolf's Holiday.
Bill caught sight of Harry lurching into the bathroom as he adjusted the eyepatch he used to cover the worst of his scars.
At first, he thought to himself that it was only natural that a kid just eighteen or seventeen might want to get drunk at a big wedding, but then he remembered that Harry had seemed a little drunk even before he got there.
Come to think of it, lately, Harry usually seemed a little drunk.
"Awww shit, ya look great, Bill! I can still tell its you! Ya healed up pretty good, din'cha? Bints, they go mad for a bloke wif scars. Not like you 'ave to worry about that, anymore. Right?" Harry slurred.
He braced one had against the wall, and fumbled at his flies with the other.
Tactfully, Bill stepped aside to avoid the inevitable event of Harry's missing the urinal, which, for the most part, he did.
The poor lad was so drunk, he almost fell over and Bill had to prop him up.
"Fuck, I've pissed all down me leg. Oh well! Fuck it! It won't be the first time. Ya look great, Bill! Gotta wear them goddam battle scars like a badge of honor! Give the ol' lady one for me, huh?" Harry said.
He was about to leave the loo with his flies open and his old fellow hanging out.
"Harry, your flies are undone."
"Wot? Oh yeah. No, no I can get out the fuckin' door myself. I been one fuck of a lot drunker'n this in me life, I gotta tellya. Naw, I'm gonna go see if any of those fuckin' bridesmaids wanna ride on the ol' Firebolt."
Harry turned around and lurched out the door.
Bill literally ran into his little brother on his way out .
"Bill, have you seen Harry?"
"No, I've seen a pathetic, obnoxious drunk what looks just like him. Is he always like this, Ron?"
"Who, Harry? No, not really." Ron said.
They heard a woman scream.
"Oh no. Please God, I hope he didn't unzip his pants." Ron said.
"You'd better get that kid to WAND. C'mon, let's go find him."
Hermione often worried about Harry's drinking.
And his drug use.
And his heedless, rampant promiscuity.
Not to mention the streak of mean-tempered cruelty that his substance abuse problems were bringing out in him. But today, after the latest events in the war and two weeks in St. Mungo's, Hermione was able to simply laugh at Harry's antics, and the way Ron chased him around like a frantic mother hen.
Hermione knew a lot more about the current state of the war than Harry or Ron did. Especially Harry. He'd been left out of a few major operations the Order engaged in for two reasons. First, his life was far too valuable to jeopardise at this stage of the game. And second, he was dangerously close to bottoming out, and in his addled state he wouldn't have been useful for anything.
Hermione, however, was used to keeping secrets, even from her closest friends and family. She, after all was a general in Dumbledore's Army, a secret guerrilla force. As such she had been trained by and took her marching orders from Dumbledore's Spymaster, Severus Snape.
So even as she relaxed and had a good time at the Weasley wedding, Hermione had not even the desire to comment to anyone about the "Ministry Mutiny" or the whispers about "the turning of the tide". Ron and Harry didn't even know she had been in St. Mungo's, let alone why.
Hermione was content to keep it that way.
She had her orders and she was going to follow them. Besides, a good spy's worst enemies could be her best friends. They were the people you wanted to spill the beans to the most, but those to who you could disclose the least.
And Hermione Grainger was both a good soldier and a good spy.
Harry sauntered by their table, with one of the bridesmaids, a petite, black-haired former classmate of Fleur's on his arm. It appeared as though the witch was partially holding Harry up, but he winked at Hermione nonetheless, and used his free arm to indicate in the time-honoured fashion of making a fist and waggling it that he was, indeed, on the job.
Hermione raised her glass to him and took a sip of the Coke inside it.
Ron sat down across from her a few moments later, his brow furrowed with worry.
"Have you seen Harry?" he asked.
"He went off with one of Phlegm's- I mean Fleur's- floozy French bridesmaids a few minutes ago. Don't look so upset, Ron. This one wants Harry to unzip his flies." Hermione replied.
"How can you be so calm? Dumbledore's dead, Snape killed him, Voldemort's taken over the entire Wizarding fucking World and Harry, who's supposed to be the one to save us all, is too busy getting drunk and high and shagging any witch who will agree to it to give a fiddler's fuck!" Ron fulminated.
"Things aren't so bad as all that, Ron. Calm down. Have a drink. Enjoy yourself." Hermione assured him.
Ron shrugged his shoulders and sighed.
"Why not? I suppose we could all be dead tomorrow. How about I go and get us both a second helping of dessert?" he suggested.
"That sounds lovely." Hermione replied.
Back at the burrow, Harry slept soundly because he was drunk and shagged out, Ron stayed up half the night worrying, and Hermione received her next orders via owl post.
Grainger,
Apparate at your next convenience the prince's cottage beyond the forest and in the mountains.. Arrange for an appropriate diversion, and pack for at least a fortnight. All is well, and as it was, and as it should be.
Half Blood Prince
Accordingly, Hermione arranged for Rita Skeeter to print a series of stories in the Daily Prophet about her taking a lurid holiday with Viktor Krum in Ibiza. She packed for a month and apparated to Snape's grandfather's cottage in the Carpathian mountains of Transylvania which Snape, his mother, and his grandfather all used for the purpose of staying during expeditions to gather ingredients for potions native only to that most magical of areas.
It was then she realised she hadn't slept for three nights, and she went straight to bed.
Snape himself arrived shortly after she did, and found somebody sleeping in his bed, just like Goldilocks. He made an attempt to awaken her, but to no avail.
Snape was not surprised. In his opinion she had left St. Mungo's far too soon, and she needed more rest and relaxation before the start of the school year. Such amenities would not likely be available to her at the Burrow, with every Weasley on God's Green Earth running about, not to mention babysitting the wreck that had until recently been Harry Potter.
Another one of Albus' miscalculations. No matter. Snape was sure the Potter situation could be remedied nicely once the school year started and Potter was back at Hogwarts.
He was pondering the course of the school years when Hermione shuffled into the sitting room, dressed in a pair of orange cotton knickers and a Who tee-shirt.
"Oh. It's you, Snape. What's the mission?"
"No mission, Grainger. The mission is over, for now. Time for you to get some rest and prepare yourself for 7th year. This is a holiday. Just you and I on holiday together."
"In that case, wake me in a couple more hours. I haven't slept since the wedding. I'm exhausted."
Hermione went back into the bedroom, and fell back to sleep almost immediately after he head hit the pillow.
Snape selected a book from the shelf, settled into a chair, removed one of his English Ovals and lit up.
"Treacher?" he called.
His house elf apparated with a loud crack.
"Oh we is in the mountains! Treacher likes the mountains. Treacher has not had a holiday for a long time!" he said.
The elf pulled up his socks and pulled down his "Hogwarts Faculty '84" tee shirt. Treacher had been in the prince family for years, but he was appalled at the way his Mistress and her worthless Muggle husband treated the young Master, so he cast his lot in with the young Master from the time Snape first attended Hogwarts as a student. Snape, having been so horribly abused as a child didn't like the idea of having a slave, so he freed Treacher.
Treacher appreciated the gesture, but he never left.
"Here is an ashtray for the Master. Now Treacher will check on Miss Grainger . Master is sweating. Treacher will make it nice and cool for Master. Then, Treacher makes dinner!" the little elf announced, happily.
"Treacher, wouldn't you like a new tee shirt? That one is ancient."
"Master is wearing tee shirt Master got at Led Zeppelin concert in 1977. Treacher's tee shirt is not so old."
"True." Snape decided.
"Master should not chain smoke! Even with special portion master drinks, master's lungs must be withered and black!" Treacher admonished him.
"After the war is over, I'll try to cut down." Snape told Treacher.
"Treacher has been hearing that since 1977. Treacher will believe it when Treacher sees it!"
Snape waited until Treacher went off to the bedroom to laugh.
"Just think, if Riddle doesn't kill me, smoking will. How ironic." He commented.
Chapter One: Down and Out on the Hogwarts Express
Harry very nearly missed the Hogwarts Express, completely.
He woke up in the morning and the first thing he was aware of was that he wasn't aware of anything.
"Dudley…" he muttered.
"Dudley! Dudley, c'mon, I can't get out of fucking bed again!" Harry bellowed.
There had been a lot of mornings, of late, when his newly good-natured jock cousin had to help him get out of bed and half-carry him to the bathroom.
He and Dudley had actually had some good times that summer. He turned his cousin on to Led Zeppelin and The Harder They Come, and they spent a lot of time listening to music and smoking weed.
Harry was still laughing about how Uncle Vernon had to come and bail them both out of the nick for underage drinking and disorderly conduct after some PC Plod caught them pissing against the wall outside the pub where they'd been getting completely legless.
Harry, however, was into the whole drugs thing a hell of a lot further than Dudley's youthful indiscretions.
"Duuudleeeey! Duuuudleeeeyyyy! This isn't fucking funny! If I piss the bed you'll 'ave to 'elp me clean it up, you know!' Harry shouted.
Finally, the fact that Dudley did not appear made Harry think that he wasn't at Privet Drive, after all.
He fumbled for his glasses and found them on a nightstand.
He was lying in a strange bed, naked, with a sore lip and dried blood here and there on his chest, with a strange witch snoring away beside him.
"Uggh, she looks skanky. I hope to God I wore a rubber." He said to himself.
Harry stumbled across the room, opened the window and tried to remember what had happened the night before as he pissed into the street below.
He vaguely remembered sneaking out of his bedroom at the Dursleys and taking the Knight Bus somewhere and then somehow getting a fat lip and meeting up with whoever she was.
After that it all became a blur of ganja, shagging, drinking Jack and snorting smack.
He looked around the room and located his trunk and Hedwig.
She had a look of distaste on her face.
"Well, at least I remembered to bring you." Harry told the owl, who hooted, sympathetically.
"Come on, Hedwig, let's get out of this filthy pisshole before we both catch some awful disease."
Harry dressed in a hurry.
He hoped whoever he'd fought with, it hadn't been anyone he went to school with.
He checked to see if his wallet was still chained up to his Levis and it was, but half his money and his Magus Charge were missing.
Henry woke the sleeping witch by prodding her with the business end of his wand.
"Where's me fucking money, you cow?" he demanded.
"Fuck you, sugar." The witch said.
"Wrong answer, princess." Harry replied, sardonically.
"Crucio!" he exclaimed.
The witch began to writhe in pain.
"One more time. Where the fuck is me fucking money, you fucking cow!" Harry shouted.
"Drawer! Drawer!" The witch howled.
Harry moved his wand away, and got his money and his credit card and put them in his wallet.
"That's better, luv."
"You bastard! I'm going to report you for that!" the witch promised.
"Oh yeah? D'you know what comes after avada?" Harry sneered, and pointed his wand at her, again.
"Ah, go fuck yourself. You're full of shit. You don't 'ave the bollocks." the witch replied.
It was at that point Harry realised that he may be in a little bit of big trouble.
She rolled over and pulled up her sheets.
Harry gave her a smack on the arse, and she rolled over, again.
He handed her a little bag of gold coins.
"Look, I'm sorry about that. But I don't like being ripped off, yunno? 'Ere, take this. Keep your pie hold shut about all this." He warned the witch.
She smiled, showing her crumbly, crooked, yellow junkie teeth.
"Cor, look at all his money! You're awright, 'Arry Potter! What unforgivable curse?" she asked.
"Let's keep it that way. Now we're even. No 'ard feelins' right?"
"Wot from me? Naw. You didn't 'it me in the face. Witch like me gets used to a li'le "crucio" now and again, as long as I don't get 'it in the face." She said.
"Well, I , ah, I don't hit women. 'Oo knows, maybe I'll see yer again, sometime." He said.
"Oh sure. Cheers, mate." The witch burbled happily, hefting the bag of money in her hand.
Harry left the witch happily counting the pile of money. He stopped in the stairwell to make sure to look in his trunk to make sure she hadn't stolen his bottle of Captain Morgan's for the train ride, and then he went out into the light of day.
Bleary eyed, rumpled, hung-over, unshaven, and having uttered one-and-a-half unforgivable curses before ten in the morning; Harry stumbled to the kerb, spit reflectively into the gutter, hailed a cab, and fell asleep on his way to the station.
The first thing Hermione had to say to him was that he looked terrible.
Harry carefully emptied his pockets, and out came a series of baggies, all his lovely stashes. It seemed like enough to last him until he could get to one of his connections and score.
"Blimey, Harry, is that heroin?" Ron asked.
"Well it's sure as fuck not rock candy! Don't worry about me Ron, that's enough to last me a month. Relax, I never touch needles, I'm no junkie. But I got a brick of grass in me trunk. Jamaican stuff. Let's smoke up." Harry suggested.
Hermione looked at the two big chunks of what looked just like rock candy in the little baggie before Harry shoved the baggie back into his pocket.
"Oh my God, Harry, that is heroin! And where did that blood all over you come from? What's next, Purple Doom?" she said.
"Aww, I got a fat lip somewhere, I can't remember. I'll change me kit later. And don't worry about me fucking about with Purple Doom. As long as I stick with Muggle drugs, I'm alright. And like I said, this is enough for a month. And I probably won't buy anymore."
He pulled out the bottle of rum.
"Wanna drink, Ron?"
"No thanks, Harry. Christ, this is strong stuff. I'm half-baked, already. Want a toke, Hermione?"
"No thank you, Ron."
Hermione was worried about Harry. And she was more worried that under his influence Ron, who just smoked a little pot here and there would turn into as big of a druggie as Harry was.
"Harry, don't you think you should see somebody about this drugs problem? Hogsmeade has a chapter of WAND, you know."
"Awww, I don't need WAND, Hermione. I'm not gonna be one of those poor sad bastards sitting around eating cookies and drinking butterbeer and pumpkin juice saying how I'm a drunk and a junkie, boo fucking hoo. You worry too much. I just like to have a little fun."
Actually, Harry was pretty sure he was a drunk, and a junkie, and a vicious thug, and about a million other connected and unpleasant things. Between his drug use, his indiscriminate use of hexes and the occasional unforgivable, not to mention various acts of physical violence, like tossing wizards through plate glass windows in Knockturn Alley for saying unkind things about his late friends and relatives, Harry he knew if he was ever found out he could very we'll land in Azkaban for a long time. However, he was also fairly sure that he could weasel out of trouble using his money and a glamour or some illicit polyjuice potion from his connections in Knockturn Alley. Regardless, Harry knew if he kept on the way he was one of his habits would kill him, long before he could get sent off to jail. But whether it was a bar fight, a bad hex, an OD, or choking on his vomit in a drunken stupor, or meeting his fate at the hands of a spurned witch or an irate wizard whose entire family he had fucked and forgotten, Harry didn't much care if he lived or died and if he died, so what? He'd at least have cheated that son-of-a bitch Tom Riddle out of the pleasure of killing him.
Ron started to cough.
"That's all for me right now, Harry. Jesus, my head's spinning."
"This is only the beginning, mate. This year we're all just going to enjoy our last year at Hogwarts and have a good time. No more almost getting me friends killed. No more deaths. No more sacrifices. Fuck that shit. I'm done." Harry proclaimed.
Ron wasn't sure he really understood what Harry was saying, but if it was what he thought Harry was saying, then it wasn't just the ganja that was making him feel good.
"Do you mean, Harry that we are really and truly done with almost getting ourselves killed trying to defeat Voldemort when no one else cares a monkey's?" he asked, hopefully.
Harry looked down over his glasses, rubbed his scar and his stubble, and took a long drag on the spliff.
Then he passed it to Ron.
"Fuck Voldemort. My parents are dead, my godfather is dead, even poor old Dumbledore is dead. And your brother is all fucked up. Let the adults fucking worry about Tom fucking Riddle, the cunt." Harry replied, sourly.
"I don't know. Bill's not too pretty anymore, but he's been telling Fred and George and me, he just fucking goes, now. Fleur is one happy girl, I can tell you that. Maybe I should get bit by a werewolf." Ron replied
"Ron! Your brother was mauled beyond recognition!" Hermione exclaimed.
"He got better! I mean you can still tell it's Bill. He has a few scars on his face, but some girls think that kind of thing is sexy." Ron protested, also
"Don't be so fucking melodramatic, Hermione. I got a scar on me face, and girls find it no end of fucking sexy. Everybody but you, that is. I thought Bill looked alright. I could still tell it was Bill, for fuck's sake." Harry griped.
Uncomfortably, Ron remembered Bill taking him aside at the wedding and telling him that he'd better do something about Harry.
That was right before they had to stop him from asking any more female guest if they'd like to see his Firebolt, and then unzipping his pants.
Ron dropped back into the present.
Harry was one hell of a lot more fucked up than that, right now.
"…I'm done with this saving the world shit. I've given up enough in my life and so have you. So have all of us. Let the fucking adults worry about Mouldy Old Voldy. He's a stupid tosser anyway. Always trying to kill me the same way, which never fucking works. No, I say we just have a normal year at school, and a fucking good time." Harry pronounced.
"Will you two put that thing out? I am trying to read and my eyes are getting all watery." Hermione complained.
"What are you reading?" Harry asked.
"Lady Chatterley's Lover." Hermione replied.
"Oooooo, look who's interested in fucking? I thought you were dead from the neck down." Ron taunted her.
"Maybe I'm just not interested in immature men like you." Hermione countered.
"We all know who Professor Snape's favourite student is. And why. Your boyfriend, the murdering traitor." Ron continued.
Ron didn't actually think that Hermione was really having an affair with Snape. And he'd heard the rumours that all was not as it seemed with Professor Snape and Dumbledore's death. He knew it was all business with them, you could tell by the way they acted towards one another. He was just being snarky.
Harry, on the other hand, knew it was true.
The previous year, he'd gone into Snape's laboratory under cover of his Invisibility Cloak to get the ingredients he needed to make his own smack, based on the notations of the Half-Blood Prince.
As it turned out, he didn't have the skill to make the potion, even with the Half-Blood Prince's detailed instructions.
But…
Harry had thought the Professor was out, so he almost died when he came into the lab from the loo just as Harry was cutting through with his goods en-route to the door. He nearly died a second time when Hermione came in to deliver a war briefing, and Snape locked the door behind her.
It certainly was all, business between them, they even called each other "Grainger" and "Snape". Harry almost died a second time when, without either of them changing their demeanour, Snape sat her on the desk, Hermione hiked up her skirt, then the wicked old screw unbuttoned his robes, unzipped his trousers, produced a one-eyed trouser anaconda that reminded Harry of the Firebolt, and rogered the hell out of her, just like that.
Harry had turned to the wall and put his fingers in his ears. It was horrible, but most of all he just wanted to laugh. It made both of them seem a little more human to him, especially old Snape. Maybe he was a murdering bastard, but it was more likely this was just another of Dumbledore's master plans. The wicked old screw was only human, wasn't he? It was funny to think of the Potions Master as just a randy old Scouser. He supposed the man had to get a nut like everybody else, and with who else but with Miss Cold Fish, herself, Hermione?
Who was anything but cold with the greasy Scouse git.
The murdering bastard.
Sure, right. They had to have an ace up their sleeves, somewhere. There had to be a catch.
There just had to be.
"Eech! Ron, that's disgusting! The idea of any living creature, even a farm animal, going through the degradation of actually being fucked by that filthy disgusting creature is nauseating, let alone our friend Hermione!" Harry protested.
He laughed into his drink remembering that even though he had his fingers in his ears, he could still hear the desk pounding against the flagstones and Hermione yelling his name and Snape growling dirty things at her in his low, filthy Scouse accent.
Hermione was just the type of bird to go for a dirty old bastard like Snape, though.
"The Professor is not a murdering bastard. You're both so fucking immature and what's worse is you don't know shit." Hermione sniffed.
"Oh yeah? Well I read Rita Skeeter's article about you and Viktor Krum and your little holiday in Ibiza. That was all very mature, I suppose." Ron retorted.
Hermione just rolled her eyes.
"I've got the munchies. Come on, Ron, let's find the witch with the goodie wagon."
"Would you like anything, Hermione?" Ron asked.
Hermione's frown softened.
Ron was such a dear boy.
"Something chocolate, I think. Chocolate goes so well with erotica." She observed.
Poor Ron felt a weakening in his knees and a tug in his groin.
"It sure does." He fairly groaned.
"Oh, sorry Ron." Hermione apologised, biting her lip.
Harry dragged Ron out of the berth before he could further make an asre of himself.
"Untuck your shirt, you've got a boner." He told his friend.
"So would you, if you were me. Do you think Hermione has a boyfriend. "
"I wouldn't call it that. But yeah, she's spoken for. And I've met her bloke. You're not her type. She likes beasts."
"I'm fairly beastly." Ron said
Harry put his hand on Ron's shoulder.
"Take it easy, Ron. You'll find somebody."
"I have somebody!" Ron muttered.
Harry pointed his wand at the bulge in Ron's robes.
"De-engorgio!" Harry pronounced.
"Thanks, mate." Ron said.
They were on their way back to Hermione with armfuls of treats when who should come swanning by but their least favourite screaming queen, Malfoy.
"I don't hate him cos he's a queer. I hate him cos he's a right berk." Ron observed.
"I'll have you know, Weasley, that I drive my car down both sides of the street. Which means I get twice as much as you are not getting. Well, look who it is! It's Potter, the king of the rubbish tip, and his secret love slave! I just love the moustache and sidies, Weasley. They're so butch!" Draco exclaimed.
Goyle laughed dully, and Crabbe didn't seem to get it.
"Fuck off, Draco. Why don't you and your two girlfriends go lick one another's ares'oles." Ron retorted.
"Oooo, we're so touchy aren't we? Maybe it's because there's only one virgin in the senior class and I'm looking at him! Let's face it, ducky, all the magic in the world won't get you laid!" Malfoy taunted.
"Draco, its people like you that give all the nice, happy, well adjusted queers in the world a bad name." Harry told him, and steered Ron back towards their compartment.
"I am not a virgin!" Ron protested.
"Ron, having a wank while Moaning Myrtle talks dirty to you does not count as sex." Harry explained.
"Well she wants to do it! It's not my fault she's a ghost!" Ron protested.
"I know." Harry said, sympathetically. "Well, I'm gonna go take a piss. I'll be right back, okay?"
Ron headed back towards their compartment and both Draco and Harry watched him go.
They each looked both ways.
"You got any shit for me, Malfoy?" Harry asked.
"Not much. My father's joined up with WAND again, and now I'm out of business. Crabbe's and Goyle's dads, too." Draco complained.
Harry grabbed Draco by the robe.
"Fuck! You can't do this to me, Malfoy! I'm your best customer!"
Malfoy pushed him away.
"Mind the robe, Potter. Pansy did this embroidery for me. Look, I'm not sure I want to do business with you anymore. You nearly killed me in the loo last year and you were the one who tried to cheat me."
Harry let Malfoy go.
Without Draco, he had to venture into Knockturn Alley by himself, a dangerous prospect considering he was the Boy Who lived on one hand and the amount of enemies hae's made there on the other.
Not that he hadn't done it. Not that he wouldn't do it again.
"That was just a misunderstanding. I didn't rat you out, did I? C'mon Malfoy, don't hold out on me." Harry said, half-wheedling, half-threatening.
"Who's holding out? Don't blame me, Potter, it's not my fault! Would I lie to you? I mean I already know you're willing to kill me, don't I? Listen, I'll sell you what I've got, and I think I have some other connections. Come talk to me again in a few weeks, after I can get to Knockturn Alley. Don't look so worried, ducky! I can't afford to disappoint me customers. Now, show me the money."
Harry opened his palm, which shined with gold coins.
Draco checked it with a wave of his wand to make sure Harry wasn't cheating him, again.
"Goyle, give me the package."
The two enemies looked around again, and Draco and Harry exchanged the money for a brown lunchbag.
Harry went on his way to the loo, and Crabbe, Goyle, and Malfoy returned to their compartments.
"That's going to be the last dope anybody sells to Potter. That poor bastard is finished." Malfoy commented to them.
He made a mental note to report Harry's deterioration to his godfather, as soon as possible.
"I'm worried about him, Hermione. I mean, did you see the way he was just chugging that rum? And he was fucked up when he got on the coach. Not to mention he's filthy, he's got blood all over his clothes and he smells like a rubbish tip. Poor Harry. I mean, fucking smack? What are we going to do?" Ron asked.
"We're going to have to get him some help, Ron. Or else Voldemort is not going to have to go to the trouble of killing Harry." Hermione replied.
"Could someone come to the door? I've got Harry and I can't open it."
Ron opened the door and there was Neville, supporting Harry, who looked unsteady on his feet.
His eyes were rolling around in his head, he was groaning incoherently and blood and a white substance dribbled from his nose.
"Holy shit! Merlin's bollocks! Lemme help you, Neville. Come on Harry. Let's go sit down. No, no more drinks for you. Hermione, could you go find us some coffee? Or something?' Ron said, as he and Neville steered Harry into a seat.
"Where did you find him?" Hermione asked.
She and Ron and Neville did their best to clean Harry up.
"Flat on his face on the floor in the loo. And I'm pretty sure whatever it is that's coming out his nose isn't powdered sugar. Look, if we need to have an intervention, or something, you can count me in." Neville said.
"Neville, don't tell anyone." Ron pleaded.
"I won't. Um, I'm not sure why, but Professor Lupin is on the train. Shall I go get him?"
Ron and Hermione looked at Harry.
"Yes. Please. Hurry." Hermione said.
Neville rushed out.
"But Hermione, we'll get Harry in trouble."
"No we won't. Remus knows everything. Don't worry about Harry, Ron. We are going to take care of him, now."
Ron was about to ask her who "we" included besides the two of them and Ginny, who came in with Neville and Remus Lupin.
"Ron, take Neville and your sister and Hermione into the hallway. Please, all of you, go. You don't want to see this."
Lupin opened the bag he had with him, and took out several vials of foul smelling potions and the biggest hypodermic needle that any of them had ever seen.
A few minutes later they heard Harry scream, and Lupin came out, looking paler than usual.
"He'll be alright until we get to Hogwarts for the intervention." Their ex-professor told them.
In the compartment, Harry was slugging down rum and buttoning his robes.
"Man. What a rush!" he commented.
Ron, Hermione and Neville all had to restrain Ginny.