Waking up was hard.

Waking up was especially hard when your brain was trying to forcibly squish itself out of every available space in your head and your stomach was dancing the macarena… which was exactly what it felt like when Harry woke up the morning after the Harpies party.

After a few miserable minutes of trying to keep his stomach contents firmly inside his stomach, he carefully sat up against the headboard, its cool wood soothing the flaming skin of his bare back.

His head fucking throbbed.

Wordlessly he Summoned the hangover potion he knew Hermione had left him and downed it all in one, grimacing at the unwelcome bitter taste. Immediately the soothing balm of the potion extinguished the burning inside his head.

He'd have to thank Hermione later for saving his life – and that was definitely not being dramatic.

Sighing, he leaned over for his glasses, slid them up his nose, and cracked an eye open to survey his surroundings.

It was light. The position of the sun-cast shadows across his room told him it was probably late morning, possibly even midday. A flush of relief came at realising that he was in his own bedroom – at least he'd not done anything too stupid last night and ended up somewhere he shouldn't have.

Heaven forbid he'd woken up at Emma's.

Clothing littered the stretch of wooden floor between the door and the bed. Albeit unusual, it wasn't out of the realms of possibility that he'd been in a rush to get to bed. After all, Drunk Harry was much less of a neat-freak than Sober Harry; a fact learnt through tens if not hundreds of drunken nights and hungover mornings.

However, what really was unusual was that he didn't have any boxers on. In Harry's mind, boxers were categorically always worn when sleeping, regardless of the weather outside. There was something just too exposing about sleeping without underwear… most likely learned behaviour from sharing a dorm with four other teenage boys for the last half of his life.

Whatever… it must have just been hot last night.

After getting dressed, he stepped out into the corridor. Ron's door was wide open revealing a neatly made bed with a smattering of clothing atop it. Obviously Ron had forgone his own flat in favour of Hermione's last night, leaving hungover Harry alone to fend for himself.

Arse.

It was a shame, really… Ron truly was the perfect companion for a hungover day. Such days were a moderately regular occurrence, particularly in this household, and the pair of them just sat on their arses, doing nothing but listening to the wireless and discussing the events of the night before – 'debriefing' as Ron liked to call it.

Only very rarely did they have to piece together the events of the previous night. After a few messy and embarrassing years of testing (and often exceeding) their limits, they'd both perfected the art of getting the 'right level' of drunk. No, they were now both old enough and ugly enough to know their own boundaries, and black-outs and unremembered nights were, blessedly, uncommon these days.

Clearly, though, last night was an exception.

He huffed a frustrated sigh as he made himself a cup of tea. The last thing he could solidly remember of last night was him taking shots on the dancefloor with Ginny and the other Harpies. Ron and Hermione had gone home, he knew that much, but where George had gone he had no idea. Before that was blurry at best but after that was infuriatingly blank.

There was only so much the hangover potion could do, and frustratingly, it didn't bring back memories. His head ached with effort of remembering.

Oh god, what if he'd spilled Auror secrets? Or told people about the new course he hadn't even been accepted on…? Or – he shuddered – done body shots from an eager Harpies fan or something equally as horrific (and equally likely to get him sacked)?

Holy fuck, what if he'd called Emma?! What if he'd found a phone box and dialled her number, which he still remembered despite his adamant desire to forget it. Given the emotional rollercoaster of yesterday, combined with the fact he was alone on his birthday, he definitely wouldn't put it past himself to be so fucking pathetic.

'Oh fuuuuck,' he groaned, rubbing his eyes, trying to press away the hundreds of embarrassing scenarios now twirling in his mind's eye.

As he rested his clammy forehead against the table, the mug almost too hot in his hands, a vague, distant, very blurry memory flickered in his mind like an old TV.

— — — — —

A trail of hot kisses made their way down his neck and he couldn't help but moan under his breath. The wall was solid behind him, and he was glad for its very real support, for the risk of him losing the ability to stand was substantial, both because of his drunkenness, and also the utter euphoria that threatened to overpower him in that moment.

Her mouth made its delicious journey back up his neck, but it wasn't enough; he tilted his head to bring her lips back to his in another open-mouthed, heated kiss. His fingers pressed hard into her hips, pulling her impossibly closer, and he felt her reciprocate with a tug on the hair on the back of his head.

In an almost frenzy, he propelled them to the opposite side of the corridor, the furious dance of their mouths not the slightest bit interrupted by the sudden movement. A breathless noise escaped her as they collided clumsily with the wall, but she recovered quickly, grinding her hips into his with renewed enthusiasm, frantically pulling his body flush against hers. His thigh pressed between her legs, and she let out a sultry moan as she ground against it.

Nothing but a blissful blankness filled his mind as she took his bottom lip between her teeth–

— — — — —

A loud slam snapped him out of the memory, causing him to jump so hard he spilt half his mug of tea all over the table. Beneath his shirt his heart was pounding uncomfortably fast.

'Bugger,' he cursed under his breath, standing up to get the tea-towel to mop up the mess.

Hermione wandered into the kitchen with a considerably worse-for-wear-looking Ron trailing behind.

'Oh hey! I wasn't expecting you to be up yet,' said Hermione brightly.

He mumbled distractedly in reply, still trying desperately to swallow the potentially catastrophic memory before he descended into a blind, shame-driven panic.

'You okay? Did you find the potion I left for you?' asked Hermione. Her voice was concerned, motherly almost.

'Yeah, I'm better than I was, thanks to you. Pretty sure you saved my life this morning.' He took a breath to try and lessen the reddening of his cheeks — the last thing he needed was Hermione cottoning on.

'Yeah, we were feeling pretty rubbish this morning, too. Ron still is, I think.'

Ron did indeed look terrible. His face was pale and his wild hair was sticking slightly to his temples. He grimaced at Harry's sympathising look.

God, being hungover was the worst.

'Why don't the pair of you go and sit down and I'll make us some bacon sandwiches?' said Hermione.

'I think Kreacher would be happy to do it, if you'll let him. He's back from Hogwarts for the summer so doesn't know what to do with himself.'

She pursed her lips for a moment. 'Well, if he wouldn't mind…'

Before she finished her sentence, Harry summoned his house elf, who promptly bowed to them all and greeted them enthusiastically.

'Hello Kreacher,' Harry said, 'How are you?'

'I am very well, Master Potter, thank you,' said the elf in a posh, gruff sort of voice. 'It is good to see Young Master Potter, Master Weasley and Miss Granger.'

'It's really good to see you too, Kreacher,' said Hermione with an almost fake cheer. Hermione still didn't quite know how to act around Kreacher, even after all this time, but then that wasn't surprising given the rather sudden and strange 180 in his feelings towards her during the war. Now, she always treated Kreacher with a nervous, overly polite manner, as if he'd one day return to calling her a Mudblood.

Ron usually took the piss out of her for this, but testament to the severity of his hangover, he didn't even appear to register Hermione's tone, much less comment on it.

'We were wondering if you might be so kind as to make us some bacon sandwiches?' Harry asked. Although Kreacher was 'his', he also hadn't quite got used to having a servant, and always felt very strange asking him to do things… especially inane things like make him and his friends breakfast because they were too hungover to do it themselves. That surely was taking the piss.

But any awkwardness he felt at the request was immediately abated when Kreacher's face lit up in sheer delight.

'Of course, Master Potter. Kreacher would be delighted! Thank you for this honour!' He bowed deeply and hastened to work, practically shooing them out of the kitchen.

They made their way down the short hall to the living room, plonking themselves down on the two large sofas. Immediately Harry wrapped himself in a blanket, as if it could protect him from having any more embarrassing flashbacks.

'I wish we had a house elf,' muttered Ron grumpily. Hermione glared at him but otherwise said nothing, settling down into Ron's arms and conjuring a book.

Harry laid himself down against the cushions and dangled his legs over the arm of the sofa, closing his eyes in relief. Now that he'd been up for all of 20 minutes, he was starting to flag a little, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and succumb to sleep. Unfortunately for him, his brain was never going to let him sleep while the events of last night were still an infuriating mystery.

Testing the water, he asked Ron, 'Do you remember what happened last night?'

'Vaguely, but it's blurry.'

Interesting…

Ron didn't remember much either. He didn't sound angry, which told Harry one of two things: one, he hadn't noticed or seen Harry making out with anyone, or two, he saw but didn't care. Knowing Ron, it was likely the former… Ron absolutely would have brought it up by now if he'd seen anything.

But then again, Ron and Hermione had left earlyish, so unless he'd made out with this girl before that (which he was 98% sure he hadn't), then they would never have seen him anyway.

Bollocks. There went that line of thinking.

He screwed his eyes up in frustration. That blasted memory he'd had earlier was irritatingly inconclusive – a recollection only of feelings and sensations… incredible sensations, but fleeting, faceless sensations nonetheless. Who it was he was making out with, and probably later on shagging, was infuriatingly unclear.

This was the sort of shit that got you in trouble. At a party where considerable numbers of journalists, high-profile guests and members of the wizarding public were in attendance, it was the height of stupidity to make out with anyone. Was this not exactly the sort of gossip and stupidity that got Julie Selwyn unceremoniously kicked off the Harpies team for her private (albeit morally wrong) affair?

And all for what?! A drunken, post-breakup, likely terrible one-night-stand with a stranger… which he couldn't even remember.

How very fucking cliched.

His fingers rubbed angrily against his forehead, no doubt leaving red skin in their wake. It didn't matter, though. Perhaps he needed a bit of self-flagellation or hungover suffering to make fucking sure he never did this again. It was absolutely and categorically Not Worth It.

Sighing, he tried desperately to think of something else, but it wasn't long until his mind had returned to the night before, no doubt desperate to punish itself for its own failings.

He couldn't linger long on the betrayal of his own memory-forming centres before another memory pushed its way firmly to the surface of his brain, this time much more solid than before.

— — — — —

It was totally overwhelming, what was happening between them in the dark corridor in the back of the pub. He couldn't think of anything but her — her roaming hands and the heat of her body against him as they kissed with a fierce desperation, her fingers currently stroking the patch of bare skin just above his hips. Every touch seared a trail of delicious heat, flooding his mind with desire and igniting his whole body.

But he craved more. More of this, more of them, more of her.

Suddenly, as if she'd read his thoughts, her fingers hooked through the beltloops in the front of his waistband and pulled his hips firmly towards her. The message was loud and clear.

They broke apart, foreheads touching, eyes closed and panting hard.

'Let's go back to mine.'

— — — — —

'Oh, wow! Thank you so much, Kreacher,' Hermione exclaimed.

Like he'd been electrocuted, he jumped again, eyes instinctively darting to Ron and Hermione to study their faces. At their complete lack of attention in him, his stomach swooped with relief that his recent explicit thoughts hadn't been somehow broadcast to the whole room. Of course, there was no rational reason why they would have seen what he was thinking, but he was relieved all the same. It went some of the way towards dampening the shame and embarrassment that had risen up in his stomach at the recurrence of a second memory.

Absentmindedly, he watched Kreacher edge his way into the room carrying a large teetering tray of steaming hot teas and bacon rolls. Ron's face perked right up as he took one from the tray – this was his sworn-by hangover cure.

In contrast to Ron, the hangover game with Harry went always the same way: have no idea whether you were ready for food or not, eat the food anyway, and be either instantly cured and ready to face the day, or vomiting everything up for the next 3 hours and spending the rest of the day in a miserable ball in bed. Until he took the first bite, he'd have no idea.

So he did. Surely it would be fine…

'How was your night, Harry?' Hermione's tentative voice asked him over her own cup of tea.

'I had fun, I think. I don't really remember much after we started dancing.'

'Ah.'

That was all she said. It was very unlike Hermione not to chastise him for not remembering a night, saying that he was 'way too old to be pulling stunts like this'.

At that moment, he'd be entirely inclined to agree with her.

Nevertheless, her strange behaviour made him glance at her, trying to glean whatever he could from her blank face. What was stranger still was that when she noticed him looking, her mouth twisted into a very un-Hermione-like smirk, one eyebrow raising silently on her forehead.

She knew. How she knew was another question entirely, but there was absolutely no doubt about it: the git actually knew what happened last night and wasn't telling him. Again, this was for one of two reasons… one, she disapproved of his actions and wanted him to suffer through the ignorance alone, or two, she didn't want to say anything in front of Ron. This was a tricky one, though, and knowing Hermione, it was likely a mixture of both.

Fuck.

A quiet groan left his lips as he broke their eye contact. What had he done?

'You alright, mate?' asked Ron through a mouthful of bacon roll. 'Too early for the sarnie?' He shot a sympathetic look at him, having witnessed enough of Harry's hangovers to know the drill by now.

'No, it's not that. I dunno. Just feel like I did something stupid last night.'

'Like what?'

His eyes flicked to Hermione, who was looking anywhere and everywhere but him… she may as well have been whistling a tune, for fuck's sake. So much for her helping him out breaking the news to Ron, then. Traitor.

'I, err… I think I might have brought someone back here last night.'

After a stunned silence, Ron's face lit up and he raised both hands in the air in celebration.

'Who?!'

'I… I don't know.'

He barked out a laugh. 'Way to go!' he cheered. Hermione rolled her eyes good naturedly. 'It's about time you stopped moping over Emma.'

'I'm n–'

'You know what they say after all… The best way to get over someone is to get under s—'

'I'm fairly sure that wasn't the reason he did it, Ron,' interrupted Hermione, her somewhat pointed tone cutting him off very effectively.

Once again, he made eye contact with her, although this time he glared at her hoping she'd get the hint that he was over this game now. She clearly had a point, but he was fucked if he knew what it was.

'Why do you say that?' said Ron, confused. Obviously he'd picked up on Hermione's tone, too.

Vindication flashed through him. 'Yeah, Hermione. Why do you say that?' repeated Harry sarcastically.

She raised a withering eyebrow. 'Oh, I don't know. Just an observation.'

'Wait, did you see him with this girl? Do you know who it was?'

'No and yes.'

Harry blinked.

'I'm sorry, what?!' he cried, just as Ron said, 'Huh?'

She ignored Harry and answered Ron calmly.

'Your questions… no, I didn't see him, but yes, I know who it was.'

He couldn't do anything but gape at her in outrage. What the fuck?!

'Well, tell me then!'

'No! If you're stupid enough to get drunk enough to forget, then maybe you deserve to find out and sort out the mess on your own!'

She carried on, but he was no longer really listening. There it was... The lecture he had been expecting right from the off. It somehow made it all better to hear Hermione's predictable ramblings about how stupid and irresponsible he'd been – it reminded him of their Hogwarts days.

He grinned at Ron as she continued to rant at him… something about being in a room full of people who could ruin his career… and Ron grinned back. These sorts of conversations (i.e. the ones where Hermione reamed them out for doing something moronic) were mercifully rare these days, although it was always nice to hear the old hits once in a while.

Harry sipped on his tea and waited for Hermione to lose steam, Ron idly stroking her knee in a calming motion. Once she'd stopped, suitably red in the face, she huffed and crossed her arms rather petulantly.

Ron turned to her after patiently waiting for his turn to speak and patted her knee lightly.

'So… who was it?'

'I'm not telling you?'

'Will you whisper it to me?'

'Nope.'

'Spoil sport,' he huffed. After a beat, 'Will you tell me later?'

They all burst out laughing, the mood finally breaking, although Hermione's laugh was mostly exasperation rather than humour. Maybe enough time had passed that it was acceptable to find the whole situation laughable…

One flash of a memory – a small hand on his thigh, a hot tongue against his neck – banished all hilarity instantly, like being dunked into an ice bath.

This was torture. He just wished he remembered what he'd done, or more specifically, whom. From the two vague memories he had, it seemed like the sex, or at least the lead up to it, was considerably above average for a one-night-stand. Perhaps that would dissuade his co-conspirator from going to the Daily Prophet.

Immediately, large black letters of the Daily Prophet's gossip pages floated across his imagination.

Harry Potter: One to Wed or Terrible in Bed?

Ugh, he couldn't take it. Fuck it, tomorrow he'd march down to Witch Weekly and just confess, get it all out in the air. I'm sorry, I fucked up, I was drunk and getting over a breakup and I would appreciate your understanding and discretion.

No, that wouldn't wash, the bunch of gossip-hungry vultures that they were.

Unfortunately, Hermione was the key to this. He'd have to beg her, shamefully or otherwise, to tell him who it was and then apologise to them profusely for… whatever it was he did. Embarrassing and painful, but over in a flash.

That was it. That's what he'd have to do.

He sighed, trying desperately to still his mind. He had a plan, and he was going to stick to it, so he didn't need to dwell on it for any longer. Hell, it had already ruined his day, and it wasn't going to ruin any more. What was done was done.

Ron and Hermione were talking quietly over on the other sofa, but he didn't even try and listen. There was no way Hermione would tell Ron today so, for now at least he had company in his ignorance.


Feeling slightly less wretched after the sandwich – thank Merlin it had gone that way – Harry dozed on and off all afternoon. Ron had put the wireless on and soft music played in the corner of the room, but all in all, it turned out to be the perfect hungover day.

Almost.

At around 5 that afternoon, Ron went to his room to fetch his duvet, apparently wanting to settle in on the sofa even more fully. Harry listened to his plodding steps moving away from the corridor before Hermione cleared her throat very unsubtly.

Opening his eyes, he found a piece of folded-up parchment hovering in front of his face. Confusion pulled his brows together as he plucked the parchment out of the air.

'I was told to give this to you,' she whispered.

He opened the parchment to find just one line, neatly written. But it was one line that tilted his whole world on its axis.

Stop overthinking it. We were drunk, these things happen. See you soon. Gin x

And just like that, a memory, clear as day, thrust itself to the front of his mind.

— — — — —

They were both panting furiously between messy kisses as they desperately tried to rid themselves of their clothes. Naturally, his room was almost pitch black, and they stumbled towards the bed blindly, giggling and grabbing onto each other for support.

She made it to the bed first, splaying herself out across the large expanse of duvet and arching her back to discard her bra. Harry couldn't take his eyes off her as he struggled urgently with getting his leg out of his trousers and boxers. Her hair was fanned out over his pillows, and her skin, pale and blurry in the dark, positively glowed against his dark sheets.

As soon as he was free, he crawled his way over her and immediately took her finally exposed breast in his mouth. An almost feral moan escaped her lips at his touch, and the tight grip of his hair in her hands tightened even more with each suck of her nipple.

Hips were furiously ground together as their mouths found each other again, and every rock of their hips, separated by one flimsy layer of fabric, sent shockwaves through his entire being. When her hand found his cock a moment later, hands slightly cold against his warm skin, he swore he saw stars.

But still he needed more.

Without hesitation, he leaned back onto his heels and hooked his fingers through the waistband of her knickers and pulled them hastily down her long legs. Immediately, she dragged him back on top of her and sucked the skin of his neck, where his pulse was beating rapidly.

'Fuck me, Harry,' she breathed.

Her breath tickled his ear as she said it, but the words hit him straight in his chest. Involuntarily, his hips jerked forwards, connecting with her centre in a way that intoxicated him far beyond the alcohol in his blood.

With that, he lined himself up and pushed inside her.

— — — — —

…inside Ginny.

…for the first time.

The blinding flash of panic, all consuming and completely mind-bending, hit him like a freight train, constricting his throat to the point he couldn't breathe. He stared at Hermione, hoping to Merlin that she could help him to make sense of this world-moving, soul-splitting, honest-to-god bombshell that had just blown up in his face.

But her face showed nothing but a sympathetic grimace.

Shit.


The week following the 'Ginny incident' yielded nothing but confusion for Harry. Work had provided little distraction from the thoughts running on a never-ending treadmill in his mind. Instead, the hours of lonely surveillance had only served to give him time to think about the hopelessly disastrous mess he'd found himself in.

He'd not managed to speak with Hermione either, though he wasn't sure whether that was a blessing or a curse. If there was ever a time where Hermione's loyalty was torn, it was this. First and foremost, Hermione was his best friend, but he'd not forgotten that Hermione was also Ginny's best friend… it was quite possible that Harry was being painted as the ultimate bad guy in this situation, being 'one of those guys' that slept with a girl when she was drunk and feeling down. Hell, he'd be the first to crown himself 'Arsehole of the Century' if that was the case!

But the more he remembered of that night, the more he replayed every interaction, every flirtatious look, every subtle touch, the more he was convinced that they were both consoling each other.

Also, it hadn't been him that had left in the morning…

Regardless of who had started it, he couldn't get over how utterly reckless they'd been, snogging in a public place in front of so many people, many of them reporters and colleagues. Ginny could get sacked for all he knew!

It had taken many a harsh self-punishment to put that one to bed, and even now, almost a week later, he wasn't quite sure whether he was actually over it or whether the sheer stupidity of his actions would come back to haunt him in weeks to come.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Then there was her letter — the blasted thing read so many times that it was now flat, ink smudged. Her neat handwriting was achingly familiar, and her use of her own nickname made Harry's heart squeeze every time he read it. Because—

Could he ever call her that again? Had he fucked up their relationship for ever more?

'…These things happen.'

Did they? Harry had hardly had enough relationships to decide whether it was normal to shag an ex and move on from it. This could have been normal behaviour for all he knew, although if everyone felt this entirely wretched afterwards — so inexplicably guilty and confused beyond words — then he would be surprised if anyone ever did it more than once.

But that lead to the perhaps even more terrifying thought… if this wasn't a common occurrence, if it wasn't normal to drunkenly sleep with one of your friends (who happens to also be your ex-girlfriend and your best mate's sister and your other best mate's best mate), then how on earth did you move on from this?

And it was that dangerous question that had plagued his thoughts since that day — that glorious, hungover, delightfully oblivious day.

As far as he could tell, they had only two options. One: forget about it and move on, pretending like it never happened; or two: acknowledge that they did it, laugh about it and chalk it up to a drunken mistake.

If one thing was clear from Ginny's letter it was that she thought option two was the way to go. She thought it was a drunken mistake and that they could move on from it. So that's what he'd do.

But there was one thought, one nagging question, that his mind had repeatedly stumbled over, never quite managing to answer despite the endless agonising back and forth.

Was it just a drunken mistake?