Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters owned by J.K. Rowling, and the title, 'Crosseyed and Painless' © Talking Heads.
Crosseyed and Painless
Two heads, one dark and one the same fiery red as the bottle of liquid they both had a hand on, emerged triumphant from Madam Rosmerta's back room. Hoarse whispers could be heard as they crossed the floor toward their table and long-abandoned butterbeersbefore setting the bottle on the seat next to them, guilty grins barely suppressed.
"Well, that's that." The redhead sighed with obvious satisfaction, "We've finally accomplished what Fred and George had been trying to do for all their trips to the Three Broomsticks, and Rosmerta wasn't even looking!"
The other youth shrugged, brushing his unruly black hair out of piercing green eyes only to have it droop back to its original position a second later. "Well, if it's what you wanted, then drink up," he reached for one of the two glasses they had taken easily from behind the bar, filling it almost to the brim with the infamous liquor known as Fire Whiskey.
Two glasses apiece left them almost unable to sit up in their chairs, and although they had been relatively quiet drunks for this amount of time, things went downhill when Ron broke into a rather croaky rendition of "Your Mother Married the Horntail", an old bar room song courtesy of Charlie, his dragon-taming brother. Rosmerta spotted them almost before the first chorus, and promptly shooed them out into the street, where the freezing wind seemed to bring them to their senses for awhile. However, the bottle was still tucked safely under Ron's cloak, and once its level had beenfurther diminished, the two of them could barely stand, let alone form coherent sentences.
"Ron," began Harry, then promptly forgot what he was going to say as his knees buckled, leaving him flopped in the dirty snow, glasses slightly askew. He seemed to think this maddeningly funny, and soon the two of them were doubled over with giggles. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and the sudden heat of lips pressed against his own. Harry pulled back immediately, shock sending his stomach a foot or so below its normal resting place. "Ron, you're drunk,"
"Naw, 'm not…"
It was here that Hermione found them.
"What the hell do you two think you're doing?" she shrieked, rocketing toward them from out of nowhere, it seemed.
"Hermione!" Ron had enough sense left to sound shocked, "You don't know what you're saying!" But it became entirely too clear in the next moment that it didn't matter what she said, for she hauled both of them up off of the ground and began to lead them, still fuming, back toward the castle. Rolling his eyes at Hermione's back, Ron trudged obediently behind the her, waiting until she worked off the worst of her anger before speaking up warily, words still faintly slurred, "Er, Hermione, might I ask why you think it's such a crime to have a drink in the Three Broomsticks? I mean, come on, I'll come of age in two weeks…"
"You…are…a…prefect!" The measured anger injected into those words caused Ron to take a step or two backward, looking as though he would have put his hands in the air if Hermione hadn't grasped his forearm firmly. They reached the North Tower and the fat lady's portrait without further incident, where Hermione promptly sat down in the nearest arm chair to glower at them for the rest of the night, or at least what little Harry could remember of it, for he fell asleep after less than ten minutes, his arm draped casually about Ron's shoulders.
--fin--