It's getting hard to wake up in the morning,

My head is spinning constantly...

Harry picked a room at random and set the bottle and glass on the bedside table. Falling onto the bed, he sat, staring sightlessly, shoulders slumped, arms resting limply in his lap. There was no way he could stay in Sirius' old room. He certainly wouldn't be staying in his and Ron's old room. He couldn't even force himself to use Regulus' old room, so he sat in this unused room staring blankly at the opposite wall. While the faces of the fallen had paraded themselves before his eyes earlier, Regulus hadn't been one of them. He'd completely forgotten about him and for that Harry piled on more guilt and shame. Regulus had been the first to discover Voldemort's Horcruxes and sacrificed himself in the hopes the evil object would be destroyed.

Just the idea of Horcruxes and someone making such a sacrifice quickened Harry's breathing, heart pounding. Sweat broke out all over. His body quaked. He began to feel dizzy and lightheaded so he squeezed his eyes shut but the images relentlessly marched across his mind's eye.

"No," he pleaded, "I don't want to think of it anymore. Please just go away."

They didn't, however, and the images of the dead, now very much alive and accusing Harry of taking too long to defeat Voldemort and how Harry was tainted with all of their blood on his hands, appeared in his mind like an old muggle record player, going around and around. Crushing his fists against his temples, he began to rock and beg.

"Leave me alone. Please. Just go away."

Several long minutes of this passed before Harry grabbed the glass from the bedside table and flung it, hard, against the wall.

"LEAVE. ME. ALONE!"

He watched the shards fly, twinkling in the early evening light. He felt like those shards, damaged and jagged. Entranced, he picked up a particularly sharp piece and ran his thumb over the tip, pressing slightly. Harry took it back to the bed, his eyes never leaving it. With his other hand, he grabbed the bottle, uncorked it and took a swig. Feeling calmer, he continued to caress the glass as he studied it. An interminably long period of time passed before he reluctantly set the piece of glass on the table top next to the firewhiskey bottle.

Harry noticed the sun had gone down and night had begun its descent. Scooting into the corner of the bed, his back resting in the pocket the juncture of the walls created, he pulled his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs and lay his head upon his knees. He hated the dark, now. It carried too many memories. At that moment, he couldn't think of a single good thing about the inky blackness. Leaving the light to blaze, he settled in for a long wait.

On several occasions during the night, Harry would start to drift off when some sound, real or imagined, would jerk him awake, hyper-aware of his surroundings. Each time it happened, he reached for the bottle to calm himself. Each time he did so, it took a little more of the red amber liquid to get back in control. Finally, as the rest of the world began to wake, Harry fell into a liquor induced slumber.

When next he woke, his head felt like it had been detached, placed on one of those spinning carnival rides and then replaced on his shoulders. His first act was to grab the firewhiskey. Forcing his eyes apart, the first thing he noticed was that it was afternoon. He then realized he hadn't dreamed, not a single thing. Studying the bottle still in his hand, he caressed it lightly, a sardonic smile on his face.

"The first real sleep I've gotten in a long time," his voice scratchy but no less bitter, "and all because of a little drink. You've helped me when I've needed it. You haven't let me down. Who needs human friends when the best friend a person could have is right here. You and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other, I believe."

Putting the bottle on the table, he noticed the glass shard from the previous evening. He momentarily lost himself in its sparkling facade of innocence. Lovingly, his thumb caressed the point, digging in ever so slightly. He watched as a red bead formed but he felt nothing. Pressing harder, the bead grew until it slowly trickled down the side, breaking the shard's illusion of innocence. Noticing for the first time that he was still in his torn and bloody clothes, he replaced the shard and gingerly got up to go look for some clothes.

Not able to face either of the two obvious rooms to check, he opened Regulus' room. It was still pretty much as they had left it all those months ago. Opening the wardrobe, Harry found Regulus had been much taller than himself. Trousers were apparently out of the question. The shirts were a bit overlarge but not as bad as Dudley's had been.

"Well, that settles it then. Kreacher!"

The diminutive elf appeared before his Master. His eyes looked upon the hero of the wizarding world, the one everyone wanted to meet to give him their thanks and filled with sadness. He knew his Master was in need of help but his Master had forbidden him from bringing anyone to the house.

Harry saw the pity in his elf's eyes and it angered him. He didn't need it nor did he want it! His anger made his voice as cold as the Black Lake in the dead of winter.

"Kreacher, Hermione still has my clothes in her beaded bag. I need them. Get my trunk from the Burrow while you're at it."

"Yes, sir. Anything else, sir needs?"

"No, now go."

His answer was the soft pop of elf apparition. Reasons why Hermione still had his clothes and why his trunk was at the Burrow bombarded him. The shaking recommenced, heart pounded, breathing became harsh and ragged. Weakness infused his limbs and he sank to his knees next to the wardrobe, his hands covered his ears in a futile attempt to block out the sounds.

"No, don't think about it. Go away," he beseeched the ghostly memories.

Stumbling to his feet, he nearly ran for his room. He fumbled the cork off the bottle and tilted the remaining contents down his throat. In his haste for relief, he neglected to leave a bit so he could refill the bottle. He tapped his wand against the bottle but nothing happened. Again, he tried the spell. And again, nothing. Realizing what had happened, he lost it. As hard as he could and with a tortured yell, he heaved the empty bottle against the wall. It shattered into tiny glittering pieces. The reappearance of Kreacher stopped Harry from finding something else to throw.

Kreacher took one look at the glass littering the floor and shook his head. This will not do. Master cannot be allowed to hurt himself on all this glass. A snap of his fingers and the glass disappeared then he looked to Harry.

"Don't look at me like that. It's my glass, my bottle. I can throw things if I want and if I don't feel like picking up any of it, I don't have to. Did you get my clothes?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good. I have one more job for you to do. Go to Gringotts, take out some galleons and exchange it for muggle money. Bring it back here immediately after and you can go back to Hogwarts. I don't need you here. I don't want you here."

"Yes, Master," Kreacher despondently replied. He disappeared.

Harry pulled out a pair of jeans from the pile Kreacher had left. His heart still pounded, his breathing still ragged; he still shook but somehow managed to get dressed. By the time Kreacher arrived, Harry was fidgeting horribly, anxious to get out and get what he needed before nightfall. He grabbed the money Kreacher held out, stuffed it into his back pocket and stalked down the stairs on jittery legs. The door flew open before him and Harry practically ran out, slamming it behind him.

Harry had no idea where to go to get what he was looking for. At random, he picked a direction and started walking. He paid no attention to the residences around him. There was only one place he wanted to see. After walking a few minutes, he came upon a large city park, Barnard Park. Children's laughter reached his ears and looking in that direction, he saw a playground. Kids played on swings, slides, one of those half-dome pieces of equipment that allowed them to climb on or hang upside down, among other pieces of equipment.

Without any warning, the shrieks of laughter became echoing screams of terror. His mind turned the joyful chasing games into panic-filled escapes. His already shaky limbs quaked. He broke out into a sweat, battling to breathe as his heart tried to escape his chest. His vision swam bringing images of another reason for shrieks and running. Clenching his eyes closed, he fought the spinning sensation that threatened to bring him down.

When that didn't work, he ran, as hard and fast as he could. He didn't stop until he came out of the residential area and into more of the commercial section. A few seconds later he found what he'd hoped to find. The sign out front said Gerry's. Harry didn't really care what the name was as long as they had what he needed. Opening the door, he walked inside.

The man behind the counter, Gerry, looked up when his door opened. It was obvious the kid had never been inside his store before as the teen stood and scanned the interior. His cheerful greeting died on his lips as he inspected the youth. The trembling he noticed first. Next came the obvious signs of sweating. Gerry watched the young man move among the aisles, eying the bottles as if he were looking for something specific. Gerry kept his eyes on the kid, noting the look of relief and satisfaction that crossed the kid's face when he came upon the whiskey. The way the boy reverently picked up a couple bottles, swallowed, and licked his lips bothered Gerry. In his profession, he'd seen many people with the identical expression and mannerisms this boy exhibited. He wondered what could have happened to drive someone so young to this point. Gerry stood as the boy came up to the register.

"How old are ya, son?"

"Don't call me that," Harry snapped. "I'm not your son. I'm not anybody's son. I'm eighteen."

Mentally, Harry added in three months.

Gerry took in the defiant stance, tense body language, and eyes hard as jade. "Have any ID on ya?"

Harry just stared. Inside, he was beginning to panic thinking this man wouldn't let him buy the alcohol. One hand casually reached into his pocket, his empty pocket. Silently cursing, Harry really started to panic. I left my wand in the house. How stupid of me. Now what am I going to do if he won't let me have it?

Gerry sighed. "Thought not. You don't really need that stuff. That stuff'll kill ya, y'know."

"What I need is none of your bloody business. You going to let me buy this or not?"

Gerry thought long and hard. There were others who would sell this kid anything he wanted without bothering to check for ID. Maybe if I sell it to him now, he'll come back. I can keep an eye on him that way. From the looks of it, he's in serious trouble and has no one. He sighed again.

"I will on one condition." He waited until the boy nodded. "You only come to me for this stuff. No one else."

"Fine."

Harry reached into his back pocket, pulled out the appropriate amount of money, and left. Inwardly, he laughed at the man. If only he knew I would have come here anyway seeing as it's the closest. Harry hurried into the alley beside the store. Setting one bottle down, he fumbled the lid off the other. The instant the strong liquid hit his stomach, he felt calm, relieved, that everything was okay again. Harry spent a few minutes enjoying his bottle before picking up the spare and headed for home. It was getting late and he seriously wanted to avoid being out at night.

Walking back by the park, he noticed the kids were still playing, loving parents calling out to them occasionally. Someone should tell those kids that life isn't all fun and games. They'd be a lot better prepared for it if they knew ahead of time. Turning away, he noticed a young couple, arm in arm, walking through the park. The guy's head bent close to the girl's and said something that made her laugh. Then they stopped and kissed tenderly.

Thoughts of Ginny swirled through Harry's mind and his chest began to hurt. Stupid muggle whiskey isn't nearly as strong as ours. Harry turned away from the romantic scene bringing the bottle, once more, to his lips. Love. Ha. Love breaks you, that's all love does. By the time he arrived back at Grimmauld Place, dusk had fallen. He heaved a giant sigh when the door shut out the night.

That was Harry's routine for a week. Stay up while it was dark. Sleep half the day. Wander the neighborhood with the ever present bottle. Often he tortured himself by watching the kids play at the park, imagining what his and Ginny's kids would have looked like. Little raven haired girls and red haired boys giggling. Occasionally, he came upon a couple and watched as they hugged, or whispered to each other, picturing himself and Ginny doing that. When night threatened, he'd return home and drown his sorrows in his room. Each night, he'd pick up that shard of glass, caress it, test its sharp point and contemplate what it could do. Each morning, he'd fall asleep, bottle on the floor beside his bed, that sharp piece of glass in his hand.