Title: Fridays at Half Seven
Prompt(s): Optical Illusion, Time Capsule
Rating/Warnings/Kinks: NC17, Polyjuice gender-bending, Dub-con

Word Count: +12 000 (all parts together)
Summary: Five years after the war and all is not well. The dream Harry had of a family, a happily ever after, was just that: a dream. Ginny has left him and his friends are caught up in building their own lives. With nothing more interesting than the latest Quidditch scandal to report on the media has turned to stalking Harry, documenting his slow descent into infamy. If only there were a way for him to escape their unwanted attention…

A/N (Beta's/thank you's/et al): People I owe big froufrou drinks: Ziasudra, Lesyeuxverts and R. Thank you! And an especial thanks to Djin! Keep the games running, girl!

Go Team!

Disclaimer: I don't own them, I only borrow them.

THE BOY WHO DRINKS!

Wizarding Hero: Saviour or Souse?

The bold pink letters flashed in tune with Harry's headache. They promised exclusive pictures on page three. He made the mistake of looking. The animated image of himself sicking up into some convenient bushes behind… well, some Muggle pub, pushed him over the edge. He heaved, and the remains of something he did not remember eating splattered onto the floor. A not insignificant part of it hit the Prophet. Harry only thought it fair.

Something pecked at him insistently, making impatient hooting sounds. Harry tried to shoo the owl away. It nipped his finger. Hard. He tossed a coin at it. A shrieking owl and a broken window later, Harry decided that the world was conspiring to kill him by making his head explode and that he was going to hide under the blankets till it died in a fire. Or at least until it stopped spinning –

He woke again a couple of hours later, marginally less hung over. And groaned. His bedroom was a mess of broken glass, feathers and …

He barely made it into the bathroom this time.

Stupid war, stupid victory, stupid celebrations. This was all Voldemort's fault.

Harry rested his head on the floor. The smooth cold tiles felt better than they had any right to. He closed his eyes. Just for a second, he promised himself. Just. One. Second …

He woke shivering.

A hot shower and a vial of leprechaun-strength hangover cure later Harry was still not ready to face the world, especially with the muffled explosion noises coming from his study.

Bloody reporters bloody found him in bloody Muggle London. He was going to bloody crucio the next bloody bug he came across.

The mental image of a tiny bespectacled Skeeter writhing in unspeakable pain… Harry left the bathroom showered, dressed, and with a smile on his face.

:::

Harry gave the study door an experimental nudge. There had not been an explosion in at least 10 minutes. It stayed locked, even when he kicked it. Balancing the tea pot, Quibbler, sandwiches and the bowl of chocolate trifle between left hand, chin and elbow, he fumbled in his right hand back pocket for his wand. The door opened with a flick. Harry took a step back and cursed himself for not blocking the Floo before going out clubbing last night. The room looked like someone had celebrated Chinese New Year in it. Red bits of paper covered every surface. The air smelled putrid and the exploded Howlers had left stains and scorches on the carpet. Harry kicked the door again. Hard. For one second, he contemplated just closing the door and eating in the kitchen. Let Kreacher deal with the mess. But no, that would not do, not since Ginny… The kitchen felt empty without someone to share it with, without a family. He sighed and entered his study. In moments like this, he all too bloody well understood why Ginny had left him for Dean. He would too, if he could, with the fucking media circus that was his life.

Setting his breakfast down on the desk, he banished the mess with a few well aimed cleaning spells. The mess disappeared and, damn it, with it his copy of the Quibbler. Angrily downing half a cup of tea, he grabbed a broom from the rack above the fireplace and stomped out —through the back door — into the yard. The spring air was still crisp, even on a sunny afternoon like this. The sky clear and blue. He flew high and fast, chasing the golden sparkle of the Snitch through the azure sky. A few exhilarating dips and dives later Harry looked at the tiny brass ball fluttering in his fist and frowned. It should have been fun. Was, once, with Ginny. He did not notice the high-pitched metal screech as his fist closed too hard around the Snitch, crushing it. A tiny golden wing fluttered to the ground below.

:::

The week passed and Harry weathered — as well as to be expected — the aftermath of snickers, hushed conversations and concerned enquiries about his well being. He did hex the bloke who had surreptitiously sniffed his coffee mug for booze. And damn, it had felt good.

The weekend, Harry thought, did not come nearly fast enough. On Sunday noon, Harry sat down in his study, a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of butterbeer to his right, next to a tightly rolled piece of parchment. He ignored the bright red Ministry seal and reached for a ham and pickles sandwich. Work for the next couple of weeks, as always around Liberation Day, was an insanely busy time for the Auror corps. At least that would keep the media from badmouthing him for a change, the bastards. They loved singing his praises this time of the year. What was it about that time of the year, though that brought all the nutjobs to the yard to play? He reached for a tuna sandwich – and with them came the paperwork in triple copy. Offing Voldemort had been easy compared to this … oh yes, no one had asked him to write up a stupid report afterwards.

Harry rubbed the dark circles under his eyes. Sleep and coffee really were not the same, not even close. And the Ministry frowned on pick-me-up potions. He had stayed up late the last couple of nights to process files on the self-proclaimed Dark Lord #4. At least, Harry groaned, his division did not deal with disorderly conduct. That was Ron's job. Drunken fights on that day – oh fuck – that week, were a nightmare. Every effing barfly needed to make their view and allegiance known with hexes, fists and bottles. On the downside, though, there was that dreaded fancy dress Ministry of Magic Gala he was obliged – and guilt tripped into by Hermione – to attend. He wondered if Ginny would be there. She was good at keeping the simpering birds away. Damn. Ginny and Dean. Right. Happy, happy family. Why was it that he could not have the simplest things? Others managed to have families, why didn't he? Harry glared at the parchment before him. That blasted speech. If he could have gotten away with it he would have used the same script every year. Well, if he could have gotten away with it he would have spent the day with his good friend Ogden. He bit into the sandwich, savouring the taste. Kreacher just knew how much Miracle Whip he liked. Harry noted, with satisfaction, that the glob of mayonnaise, which had dripped onto the posh creamy parchment, was leaving a slowly spreading stain of grease. Memorizing the speech was its own form of Crucio, but at least he didn't have to write the tripe himself.

He was halfway through reading the mind-numbing dribble he was supposed to parrot Saturday-next when he heard the Floo chime. Puzzled, since he was not expecting anyone this afternoon, he looked up to see Ginny's face hovering in the flames. Grateful for the interruption, he scooted his chair back and walked over to open the grate for her.

"Ginny, what a pleasant surprise."

"Harry, how are you? Can I come through for a second?"

His smile wavered for a second. She didn't used to ask.

"Hiya, great to see you!" Harry extended a hand.

Ginny's smile was a bit watery but she took the proffered hand, gracefully stepping out of the fireplace into Harry's study. He followed her sweeping glance, watched her nose wrinkle in disgust, and was suddenly ashamed of the mess. Ginny brushed soot off her clothes. Still using the cheap kind of Floo powder, he sadly noted, why wouldn't they just let him help?

"Harry, got a minute for an old friend? We… there is something I have to tell you." Gesturing at the scrolls on his desk. "I am not interrupting something important, am I? I mean, I can come back later."

She flinched a bit when he rubbed the soot from her cheek. She wasn't 'his' anymore, how could he forget?

"No, not really. For you, always." Harry tried not to let his disappointment show, but his smile suddenly felt forced. He tried to shrug it off. It was good having her here. The house always seemed so much more cheerful with her around. He had wanted it to work, had wanted them to have a family. Harry Potter never got what he wanted… Looking around at the mess that was his office, he gestured towards the door.

"Why don't we have a cuppa in the kitchen?"

Ginny nodded tightly, preceding him out of the room and into the kitchen in brisk, measured strides. Draping her coat over the back of one of the three pine chairs, she sat down next to the window while Harry busied himself with kettle and teapot.

"You take your tea black with two sugars, don't you Ginny?" Should he try to convince her to stay? Just a little, cheer her up? Maybe for supper…

Harry placed a cup in front of her.

"You know, we should do this more often." He gave her an encouraging smile. "Have tea I mean. Or maybe dinner? You know, we could… on Saturday, after the speech? What do you think, Ginny?"

Harry peered at her over the rim of his spectacles. Ginny didn't meet his eyes.

She sipped her tea in silence, staring out of the window into the winter barren garden. The tick tock of the grandfather clock stretched into leaden silence. Harry sighed, put down his teacup and turned towards the cabinets.

"I am sure Kreacher has some biscuits hidden somewhere…" Harry opened and closed drawers, rummaging through cupboards. She'd always liked the walnut ones, hadn't she? Now where the effing hell were they?

"Ah, there they are. What kind would you like? I have lemon, raspberry tarts, ginger… and I am sure the walnut ones are somewhere in here too!" He winced, hiding in the cupboard again. I really have to stop babbling like an idiot, Harry thought. He pulled out several curiously shaped tins.

"Hey Gin, remember when we bought this at the harvest fair near your parent's place?" He held up a copper Snitch-shaped cake pan, admiring it. Ginny continued staring into her tea, fiddling with the spoon.

"Harry…"

"It was raining thestrals that afternoon and you were wearing only a light jacket. The rain got through no matter how many times we cast that repelling spell. And you hair got all curly and cute and …" Harry smiled at her. "Oh Ginny, don't you remember…" He reached out for her hand, heart warm in pleasant memories.

Ginny stiffened and stared at their joined hands, looking up at him with big brown eyes, swallowing hard. She shook her head.

"Ginny…" He smiled and stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. Ginny flinched, trying to free her hand from his grip.

"Harry! I am getting married."

He pulled his hand back as if it burned. The pan clattered onto the floor.

"What? Who?

"Dean."

"Oh… Is that why you're here? To tell me gently?" Bitterness was clear in his voice. Rule number one, Harry. Rule number one. You never get what you want.

"Harry, it is not as if this is out of the blue." Her voice took on that annoying clipped tone she used when angry at him.

"But, but last year you said you were not ready to… take that step. You told me…" The sudden image of Dean — not him, never him — standing next to her at Platform 9 ¾ waving their children good bye… It made Harry's heart heavy.

"Harry? Look, I'm sorry …" She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a cream—coloured envelope.

He shook his head, running his fingers frantically back and forth through his hair, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

"It's alright, Gin. I wish you all the best. I hope that… Right. Do you still want those biscuits?" He proffered her the tin with a fake cheerful smile. "They are really very good."

Ginny stood up, reaching for her coat, clutching her purse in front of her like a shield.

"You really don't have to leave yet, I mean … I am fine with it. Really."

Ginny shook her head taking a step towards the Floo.

"Can we not have tea together, as friends I mean? Friends … These biscuits are really good!"

She looked at her watch. "Oh my god, is it really that late? Harry, look…" She gave him a sad little smile. "I wanted to be the one to tell you." She stood, still clutching the envelope. "I'm glad Ron didn't blab last Thursday." She placed the envelope on the table, and Harry had to force himself not to pick it up.

"Ginny… we can still be friends, can't we?"

She grabbed a handful of Floo powder, turning her back on him. She nodded. "I would like that, someday."

The Floo flared green and Harry kicked a chair. Its leg broke.

"Incendio!" Paper burned and rose, raining ashes onto the kitchen floor.

So much for his dreams of a happy family. Harry decided that it had to be 5 pm somewhere and reached for the Firewiskey.