Chapter Two: Hungover You

Leave the mourning to the morning,

Yeah, pain can be killed

With aspirin tablets and vitamin pills

But memories of hope, and of glorious defeat

Are a little bit harder to beat

Frank Turner - 'Love, Ire & Song'

Hermione Jean Granger woke up to begin the first day of the rest of her life. Hermione Jean Granger, co-founder of Dumbledore's Army, got out of bed, irritably brushing her messy hair out her face, and padded to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Hermione Jean Granger, a young woman forced to grow up very fast by the circumstances of the world she had entered at age eleven, used two goes of mouthwash in a probably doomed effort to dispel the vague sensation that something had died in her mouth overnight. Hermione Jean Granger, once described as the brightest witch of her age by her favourite Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, put the glass she had used carefully back on the shelf above the sink, splashed her face, and opened the bathroom window to feel the cool morning air ruffle her hair and calm her racing thoughts.


Harry woke up to the sound of someone moving on the landing and groaned at the pounding in his head. The sunlight streaming in through the window was plunging through his eyes and into his brain like a knife. This must be what a hangover felt like. He had definitely drunk too much last night. On some levels, he wished that Sirius had stopped him before it had gotten out of hand, but he also knew that he had needed to let off steam somehow, and in fairness, the drink had worked. He fumbled around for his glasses, finding them on the bedside table and hastily ramming them onto his face.

No, that was worse. Now he could see everything in sharper detail, and that just added to the pounding in his skull. He staggered out of bed and dragged himself to the bathroom, where he splashed his face and started brushing his teeth only to have to hastily drop the toothbrush so he could bend over the toilet and throw up.

Well, I can add this to the list of things I don't ever want to feel again, he thought wryly, hearing someone on the landing descend the stairs. He staggered over to the open window and let the morning air caress his face, until he was overcome by a fresh wave of nausea and returned to the toilet. As he came up for air, he heard a gentle tap on the door.

"Are you alright in there, kid?" came Sirius' voice. "Can I come in?"

Harry groaned in what he hoped was an affirmative manner and Sirius tiptoed gently into the bathroom, chuckling slightly at the state his godson was in.

"We overdid it a bit last night, didn't we?" he chuckled indulgently.

"What are you doing here?" asked Harry, the words coming out a little harsher than he had intended.

Sirius chuckled again.

"I Floo'd over a few minutes ago, figured you'd be in a right state when you woke up. Then Ginny came downstairs and said she'd heard you throwing up in the bathroom, so here I am."

The older man sat on the edge of the bath and grinned, waving a little potion bottle at Harry.

"And I brought you this," he said gently, "Hangover cure. James always used it the morning after."

Harry took the bottle gratefully and gulped down the foul-tasting concoction inside, shuddering as it took effect. Within seconds, his head had cleared and his stomach had settled enough that he felt confident in standing up from the toilet. Sirius slapped him on the back.

"Breakfast?" he asked.

Harry nodded and grinned weakly, and godfather and godson went down to the kitchen together.


Hermione Granger, a little calmer for the fresh air, shuffled back to Ginny's bedroom, where she was sleeping while she stayed at the Burrow. Hermione Granger avoided the eyes of her now-awake friend as the redhead wished her a good morning, instead slinking back into bed and pulling the blankets up. Hermione Granger lay in bed, still and silent as an empty tomb, until Ginny eventually left the room.


Ginny was awoken by the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut. She yawned, stretched and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. She sat up in bed, absent-mindedly rubbing the soles of her feet, which were aching from the amount of standing still she had done yesterday at the funeral. She could feel a slight pressure in her temples and an ache behind her eyes – symptoms of grief, of tiredness, of the shots of Firewhiskey she had downed last night with surprisingly no objection from her mum. She felt oddly hollow, like somebody had reached into her stomach with an ice-cream scoop and removed everything of substance, but she also felt determined. She had felt the anger bubbling inside Harry last night, she knew that he wanted to prevent the Death Eaters from killing again, and she approved. She would stand with him and fight for that cause, even at the risk of her own life. Hadn't she already risked her life enough times? Dismantle the Death Eaters, get some revenge on Malfoy – and Tom, she vowed to herself – and maybe, just maybe, she could help make sure that the next generation of Hogwarts students didn't grow up in the shadow of the deaths of their classmates at the hands of Dark wizards.

She looked up as Hermione crept back into the room. She didn't really want to talk to anyone right now – it was too early and she was too empty-feeling and far, far too tired – but the older girl looked like she needed some support. However, Hermione crawled back into her bed with an air of determination, so Ginny let her be, and instead hastily pulled on some clothes and made her way downstairs to see about breakfast. As she passed the bathroom, she heard the sound of someone puking – clearly Harry's adventures in drinking were coming back to haunt him. She resolved to check and see if her mum had any hangover potions in the medicine cupboard.


Hermione – a frightened, angry girl with an aching feeling in her chest – looked down at her trembling hands. Her knuckles were white from the force with which she had clutched at the bowl of the sink, and small cuts – the bleeding hastily staunched with a quick spell – ran up the back of her left hand from where she had accidentally dropped her mouthwash glass. She crawled back out of bed, still wrapped in her blanket, and looked at her face in the bedroom mirror. It was unusually pale and peaky-looking, her eyes were red and puffy, and visible tear tracks streaked her cheeks. Along with the visible signs of recent crying writ large across her face, her raw, sore throat was further evidence of the painful, ragged sobs that had escaped unbidden from her body as she gasped for air at the bathroom window. Underneath the signs of the recent of tears were dark shadows under her eyes from too little sleep. She looked pitiful, pathetic, a weak shadow of the confident would-be warrior who had stormed the Ministry on a doomed rescue mission just a couple of days earlier. She felt worse, a hollow shell of a person, a scared little girl in a dangerous, unpredictable world where rules and logic and justice barely mattered in the face of reality-altering magic and rich, privileged criminals. She dropped the blanket to the ground and raised up the bottom of the t-shirt she had slept in, revealing a criss-cross pattern of bizarre but fading scars.

She lowered the t-shirt again and stumbled over to the bedside table, picking up a bottle and downing the medicinal potion within. Madam Pomfrey had been sceptical about releasing her from the hospital wing for the funeral, but had relented when she realised how much being there meant to Hermione. And to Luna, for that matter, who was also still being medicated after the events in the Department of Mysteries. Even at that, however, she had sternly lectured both girls on the need to avoid exerting themselves for the next few weeks. Much as Hermione didn't like that, she had to agree. Glancing once again at her reflection in the mirror, she could see how damaged she was, not just physically but mentally. There was a haunted look in her eyes and a tremor in her wand hand. Much as she wanted to dive right into Harry's plan to take the DA more seriously and push for proper action against the Death Eaters, she was profoundly grateful for the delay afforded by the summer holidays, which would hopefully give her time to mourn and heal. Hopefully.

While she was aware that Harry needed her by his side to see this through to whatever end it led to – and frankly she suspected he would need her to actually plan that far ahead, because there was no way he had – right now she needed space to breathe and recover before taking on that much responsibility. She needed to be her best, for herself, for Harry, for the DA, for everyone living in fear of the Death Eaters, and most of all for Ron, and that meant recuperation. She knew it, she didn't like it – she was never happier than when she was working hard, driving herself to make some new project or difficult piece of homework – but she knew she had to slow down for a while and regroup.

She could hear somebody come up the stairs and then the sound of Sirius' voice, low but recognisable, outside on the landing. Then she heard the bathroom door open and more conversation. She stood in silence, scrutinising every inch of her face in the mirror, waiting until after she heard the sound of Sirius and Harry going downstairs before moving back to the bed and grabbing her jumper off the floor. She pulled it on, ran her hands quickly through her hair, and glanced back at the mirror. She looked... slightly less terrible. It would do.

Raising her chin up high, Hermione went downstairs to face the world.


Harry was on his second cup of coffee when a tawny owl swooped through the kitchen window and dropped a copy of the Daily Prophet in Sirius' lap. Sirius glanced at the front page headline before tossing it to Harry with a grin.

YOU-KNOW-WHO RETURNS: POTTER, DUMBLEDORE VINDICATED

CHAOS AT THE MINISTRY

Hogwarts Students & Parties Unknown in Pitched Battle with Death Eaters: One Dead, Several Injured

Dumbledore, Potter Duel He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named

Several Suspected Death Eaters Arrested, Awaiting Trial

SIRIUS BLACK INNOCENT, PARDONED BY MINISTRY

Fudge To Resign?

Cover-Up at the Ministry: What We Know

The front page was positively covered in large, bold-text headlines, accompanied by two photos: one of Fudge looking distinctly deflated and stressed, and one of Dumbledore with his arm around Harry, leading him away from the assembled press that had gathered at the entrance to the Ministry Atrium. Harry opened up the paper and rifled through it. It looked like the first ten pages were devoted to reporting and analysis of what had happened – not just in the Ministry that night but also in the year building up to the fight. A lengthy editorial titled 'Raid at the Ministry Has Disturbing Implications for Us All' caught his eye and he glanced over it. Phrases jumped out at him as his eyes skimmed over the narrow columns of writing:

Potter has been claiming He Who Must Not Be Named was alive and active in the country since the events of the Triwizard Tournament last June... Ministry prioritised making the public feel safe over ensuring the public was safe... alleged secret society of Hogwarts students devoted to fighting You-Know-Who and defying Fudge's ban on the study of practical defensive magic... presence of an unknown organisation of adult wizards engaged in coordinated activities in support of the six students who had travelled to the Ministry that night, potentially turning the tide of the battle against the Death Eaters. Based on the few positive identifications made of these wizards – specifically Albus Dumbledore, the then-fugitive and last living scion of the Black family Sirius Black, and Black's childhood friend, former Hogwarts teacher Remus Lupin – it is possible that this group is a revival of the secret paramilitary organisation known as the Order of the Phoenix, which fought in the first war against You-Know-Who. However, as both Black and Lupin had close personal ties to the late James Potter, whose son Harry seemingly led the students into battle and ran the alleged 'Dumbledore's Army' group in Hogwarts, the two men may simply have been there out of personal loyalty to their godson and former student respectively...

At this point Harry felt like he was drowning in waves of text, every sentence reminding him of the cost of that night.

...There remain questions to be asked about the identities of Potter's associates. His mysterious Muggleborn companion and possible girlfriend Hermione Granger, whose ties to Potter drew the interest of our readers during the Triwizard Tournament, was positively identified leaving the scene of the battle by our photographer. Granger, according to our limited sources within Hogwarts both now and last year, is either a precocious academic genius with a penchant for social causes or a politically astute teacher's pet with a vindictive streak. The truth is probably somewhere in the middle. According to the Ministry's Office of Records, she has achieved consistently high grades since the beginning of her time in Hogwarts, although it's too early for her O.W.L. results to have been taken into consideration. She was selected as a Prefect at the start of the last academic year, and seemingly enjoys the favour and approval of a number of the school's teachers, along with a tight-knit group of friends that includes both Potter and international Quidditch star Viktor Krum.

Harry snorted slightly, he had wondered how long it would take for Krum to get a mention.

Granger, however, has a darker side. According to students, she runs a shadowy militant organisation calling for the mass firing of House Elves in wizarding employment (one of our sources claimed that Potter, aged just twelve years old, used a piece of legal trickery to dupe one particular wizard into unwittingly firing his House Elf), with zero regard for the social consequences for either group, and allegedly tried to trick Elves in Hogwarts' employ into accepting clothes. All of the allegations and rumours about the so-called 'Dumbledore's Army' group agree that she is Potter's lieutenant, running recruitment and enforcing the group's secrecy with punitive magically-binding contracts. It is plausible that she may have abused her position as a school Prefect in order to pressure younger students into joining. Also a Prefect and very close to Potter was Ronald Weasley – the youngest son of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office's Arthur Weasley – who died during last week's battle, presumably at the hands of a Death Eater or Death Eaters unknown. Other associates include Luna 'Loony' Lovegood, dismissed by several of our sources as a crackpot conspiracy-theorist but nonetheless the daughter of the Quibbler's editor-in-chief and therefore the most likely source of Potter's exclusive interview with Rita Skeeter in said publication this February. With the ruthless Granger – who permanently disfigured a former member of what is informally known as the DA for breaking the group's code of silence – as Potter's right-hand woman and Lovegood providing him with the connections he needs to develop his own propaganda, it seems that what began as a student society with the relatively harmless aim of practicing defensive magic for the O.W.L. practical examinations has turned into something much more sinister. While seeking to prevent the return of He Who Must Not Be Named is a laudable goal, questions must be asked about the circumstances at Hogwarts that led to the formation of an illegal paramilitary organization whose membership is entirely underaged, and is led by a conspiracy theorist, a ruthless Muggleborn social revolutionary and a troubled orphan with a well-catalogued history of mental health issues...

There was more, but Harry couldn't focus on the page. Vaguely, as if at a great distance, he heard Sirius' voice.

"Are you OK, Harry?" his godfather was asking. "Harry?"

He slammed the paper forcefully down on the table and took a deep breath.

"One line," he snarled, "One fucking line. That's all Ron gets. He was close to me, and he was killed by an unknown Death Eater. They don't even have the guts to print that we told them it was fucking Malfoy, or that he's been charged with the killing. They're more concerned with painting Hermione as some kind of wizard Lenin and me as the unstable leader of a terrorist cult than actually talking about Ron or blaming the Death Eaters."

"Lenin?" asked Sirius, confused, as Mrs Weasley reached over and picked up the paper with a trembling hand.

"Muggle revolutionary, overthrew the Russian Empire, established the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, basically changed the world but was completely ruthless about cutting down anyone that got in his way," replied Hermione, barely pausing for breath.

"Sounds like my kind of guy," Sirius grinned.

Mrs Weasley lowered the paper, her face pale. Harry braced himself for a lecture on the fair points the editor had made: they were underage, they had acted completely illegally, Hermione's views on House Elves were far from the norm, and he had knowingly led schoolchildren – including two of her own offspring – into deadly danger.

Instead, she carefully and neatly folder the paper and placed it gently on the kitchen table before speaking in a low, measured tone.

"My brothers didn't die fighting the Death Eaters the first time so that we could sit around a decade-and-a-half later and talk about how both sides of this war are bad."

Hermione's jaw visibly dropped.

"I was wrong, Harry," Mrs Weasley continued, looking him squarely in the eye. "This war affects all of us, and they don't care who they hurt or kill. I remember that from last time. People being pulled out of school because their parents, or their younger siblings, had been kidnapped or killed. Your own parents went off to fight as soon as they left school, as did Sirius and Remus!"

Sirius nodded slightly in acknowledgement, seemingly unwilling to speak in case he broke the mood and changed her mind.

"I spent so long trying to keep you all safe because you're children and look where it got me. You're all rebellious teenagers with your own opinions on this war and how to win it, you –" here she gestured at Harry "– don't seem to have a choice in whether you get involved or not, because He wants you dead, and now the Daily Prophet won't acknowledge that my youngest son is a hero who was murdered by that, that... filth? Well, I'm not having it. Things have to change."

Yes, thought Harry to himself, they certainly do.


Later on, as Sirius and Mrs Weasley sat down to pen angry letters to the Prophet – the former as a wealthy, newly-pardoned wizard with a lot to get off his chest and the latter emphasising the 'grieving mother' aspect of her situation – Harry was sitting fidgeting with the frayed upholstery on the living-room sofa when an owl tapped on the window. It was completely unfamiliar to Harry – a tawny owl with very ruffled-looking head feathers – but he nonetheless opened the window and let it in. It dropped a note in front of him and swooped back out. Curious, he picked up and unfolded the note, noticing Hermione watching him as he did so.

Dear Harry,

I saw today's Prophet, it said some really horrible things about the DA, especially you and Hermione. And it didn't really pay proper tribute to Ronald, I think. If you would ever like to tell our side of the story (I know it's too soon now, don't worry, take your time to grieve!) then my dad and I would love to publish it.

I hope I'll be seeing you soon.

Love,

Luna x

P.S.: say hi to Hermione and give her a hug from me!

He handed it wordlessly over to Hermione, who nodded her approval and went to hand it back to him. As he took it, he pulled her into a quick hug, feeling her relax against his body. When he released her, she looked slightly less tired.

As he sat back down, he heard a knock at the front door and muffled voices in the hallway, and the next thing George was leading a rather sheepish-looking Dumbledore into the room.

"Could I have a private word, Harry?" asked the Headmaster quietly.

Harry nodded, and followed Dumbledore outside to the lane, where the older man began to stroll along gently, seemingly occupied with examining the flowers growing in the hedgerows.

Eventually, Harry broke the silence.

"I know I have to go back to Privet Drive for a bit," he said hesitantly, "but when I leave could I stay with Sirius for a while? I'd like to spend some real time with him now that he's free."

"Of course, Harry," smiled Dumbledore, "that sounds like an excellent idea. Although I may need to borrow you myself for an evening. It is time I started preparing you for what is to come."

Harry nodded. That sounded like a positive step, at least.

"I saw the Daily Prophet today," said Dumbledore gently, "I have no doubt you did too."

Harry glowered and Dumbledore smiled slightly at his expression.

"Please let me caution you against taking any rash action to get back at them," the Headmaster continued, "these issues will be resolved in time but we have to be careful. Not least for your sake."

He held up his hand to forestall Harry's attempted interruption.

"However, I think we need to do something about the completely baseless accusation that you are running an illegal paramilitary organisation in school," he continued, his beard twitching, "so I am thinking of making the DA official. Under the name Defence Association, of course. Professor Flitwick, who was a champion duelist in his youth, has agreed to provide some extracurricular training for your members, and I'm sure we could rustle up a few more volunteers. Perhaps Remus, or Sirius now that he's free, could come in as special tutors?"

Harry looked up at him, shocked.

"You see, Harry, if we make it an official club that the professors interact with, they can't claim you're doing anything illegal and harass you. The core idea of giving students more training to protect themselves is a good one, and now we can make sure that nobody involved will be punished for their actions."

Harry nodded his agreement, his mind racing. If the school was going to officially recognise the DA, then they could train students but Dumbledore would have control over their activities. That was very far from the future he, Hermione, Luna, Neville and Ginny had discussed the previous night. Perhaps a secret society within the group of people they trusted who could operate without the Headmaster's oversight? He realised Dumbledore was still talking to him.

"Hmmmm?"

"I said, is there anything else you'd like to talk about, Harry? I know the last week has been hard on you."

Harry thought of the secret society he found himself planning, of the note from Luna – both its contents and its sign-off – of his worries about how Ginny and Hermione were coping, and of the raw rage and grief that was threatening to claw its way out of his chest.

"No, Professor," he replied lightly, suddenly realising what he needed to do.


Hermione watched Harry and Professor Dumbledore through the living room window as they disappeared down the lane, and went back to planning her summer. She needed to find a way to relax and recuperate away from the war for a bit. Perhaps a weekend away somewhere sunny? No, international travel would be difficult under the circumstances, but she did like Spain...

She only realised she had drifted off when she was awoken by the sound of the living room door closing. Harry had come back from his walk with Dumbledore and he had a determined expression on his face. He looked around, clearly checking to see that nobody was nearby to overhear him, and then leaned over her and muttered in her ear.

"Hermione, we need to figure out how to perform the Fidelus Charm by September."

There went her summer.


A/N: hoo boy that took longer than I thought! In my defence, I went into this fic with a plot outline but no chapter-by-chapter plan, so I spent the last while going into detail on that. I hope you're ready for the long haul because this is going to be a lengthy enough story...