A Promise to Quit Drinking
This particular drabble is Rated PG-13/ R for relatively strong language and slightly graphic description of violence. Turn back now if this might offend you.
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"No offense, Harry," Ron said bluntly, surveying his best friend over the kitchen table. "But you look like shit."
"How come when people start a sentence with 'no offense,' it's usually offensive?" Harry mused aloud.
His voice sounded gravelly, and it hurt to talk. Almost as much as it hurt his eyes to be sitting in the sun-drenched kitchen of the Burrow after the night he'd had.
"Because it's usually something you need to hear, pleasant or not," Ron said, calmly adding his customary three spoonfuls of sugar to his tea.
And I needed to hear that I look like shit?" Harry asked with a half smile tugging the corner of his mouth.
He compromised on the need to close his eyes against the light that was trying to burn it's way in, and squinted at his best friend blearily, making Ron laugh a bit sourly.
"Yes," Ron confirmed. "Because if Mum catches you looking like that…. Bloody hell, Harry! You're still wearing the same robes you had on yesterday!"
"So?" Harry said carelessly, gulping down his tea for the lift he prayed it would give him. "I was too tired to change into pyjamas. Cut me a break."
"Too drunk you mean," Ron corrected.
Harry just sneered and poured more tea into his cup. He had no intention of telling Ron where he'd been all night.
"What time did you fall out of the Floo, anyway?" Ron asked, trying to keep a conversational tone to his voice. "I know you couldn't have apparated in that shape."
"Sod off, Ron." He said it quietly. He was in no mood for this right now. Her had spent the last twenty hours stalking a pair of Death Eaters. They had been two of just a few dozen that had held out after Harry had taken Voldemort down; just pale imitators of the Dark Lord, grasping for power that would never be theirs.
"I will not sod off!" Ron said loudly, banging his hand sharply on the table for emphasis and causing Harry to grip his head and moan in agony. "It won't bring her back, you know." Ron's voice was quiet once more, with a hint of sympathy – or was it pity? – in his voice. Harry didn't much care at the moment.
"Sod off, Ron," Harry repeated, his voice stronger now. "It makes me feel better."
He knew that Ron would think he was talking about getting drunk, and not about what Harry had really been doing with his nights. He cast his mind back to just six hours earlier, and relived the moment when he had cornered those two pieces of filth in that little alley. He pictured how he had hit one of those Death Eaters in the chest with a Reductor curse, and watched dispassionately as the man had bled out beside his already dead companion, flecks of his flesh and blood scattered around him. They had taken her from him – from them – and they would have to pay. They would all be made to pay. Harry was seeing to it personally.
"It won't make anything better, Harry," Ron persisted, having no way of seeing into Harry's mind to the truth of the matter. "Merlin! I can still smell the whiskey on you!"
Harry nodded absently. He supposed Ron would; he'd had a bottle of it broken over his head last night as he'd cornered his prey in a seedy little pub, just before they'd run for it. He wished that he'd had the opportunity to get a shot of it into him, instead of just soaking into his robes.
"When are you going to stop this?" Ron asked sadly. "Everyone is worried about you."
"Soon," Harry answered truthfully. There were only a few more left to collect the balance of his vengeance on.
"Why not now?" Ron demanded.
"You didn't see her Ron!" Harry said fiercely, suddenly on his feet and glaring at the other man. "You didn't see what they did to her…what was left of her." He shuddered at the memory. He had seen. His fists were clenched against the scarred and scrubbed oak of the Weasley's kitchen table, but his fury burnt itself out when he saw the wetness clinging to Ron's lashes as his words hit their mark.
Ron took a deep, shaking breath and said, "You weren't the only one who loved her."
"I know," Harry said, sinking back into his chair and burying his face in his hands. "I know."
"Promise me you'll stop," Ron pleaded urgently, his voice only a whisper. "Promise me you'll stop drinking."
"All right, Ron," Harry said with a sigh, scrubbing his hands over his jaw, which was blue with stubble. He knew that he was lying to his brother-friend by omission, but al least he could give him this much. "No more drinking."
"Promise," Ron said, with happiness and disbelief in his expression all at once.
"I promise," Harry said quietly. Honestly. "Nothing stronger than butter beer."
"You swear it?"
"I swear it."
Ron sighed in relief. For want of anything better to do with his trembling hands, he refilled their teacups, and composed himself.
"It will be okay, Harry."
"I know," Harry agreed. He would make sure of it..
