Don't start to expect quick updates – it never ends well and initiates the curse of 'No-Updates.'
I'll probably post these short chapters once a week, give or take. Note, there's still a skeleton of an outline, so anything dramatic will probably be on the fly.
No promises.
I'm not a Pussy
(in which men get wasted together)
chapter two
"You fucked the Princess?" Ron exclaimed, his words slurring.
Harry growled. "Her name's Pansy Parkinson, and yes, if it makes you feel any better, I shagged her." He took a long, hard swig. "Several times. On several occasions." He pointed to Ron's wedding ring. "Take, for example, your wedding."
"My wedding—"
"In the Bride's Parlor, to be precise."
An angry squawk managed to fly over the rest of din in the tavern. "You fucked Pansy during my wedding! God's nuts, I didn't even know you two were even in a thing!" The red-head clutched his head with one hand while the other threatened to smash a beer bottle over Harry's head. "Fucking at my wedding," Ron muttered. He took a desperate swig.
Harry, rather taciturn at this point, took it upon himself to swipe at the beer.
He calmly waited for his friend's choked sputtering to stop before continuing. In the meantime, however, Harry lazily gazed over his surroundings. Dimly lit lights lined the low ceiling before narrowing down to solid wood floors tempered with age. The bar he sat at was empty save for him and Ron and a mildly-surprising pink concoction that tasted better every time he sipped from it; the booths looked close to bursting though, and well fuck him if that mousy brown head of curls giving fucking Riddle (wait, he thought belatedly, fucking Riddle?) a lap-dance didn't resemble a certain someone he knew.
Mousy head. Incorrigible curls.
His mind churned. And so did his gut, but he wasn't sure if it was from seeing someone lap-dance Riddle (Ron had proceeded to wave over another beer at this point), or the fact that the pink concoction was finally getting to him.
Fuck—he knew he should have kept drinking the Cosmos. Damn the world if it was too 'Sex In the City,' he needed a fucking Cosmo.
Pansy always made fun of him for drinking Cosmos. Green eyes blearily looked to the clock. Two…two…two a.m.—good enough.
He and Pansy usually stayed up till two watching the telly.
Fuck the telly; Harry shook his head.
But first, he needed to bleach his brain of seeing Hermione vigorously rubbing her derriere (bleach to the power of grass-stains-bleach) all over Riddle's suspiciously dark pants—
(was that a stain? God, Pansy would be just roaring with laughter—)
—and stop Ron from ordering another beer because he sure as hell wasn't the DD today (double d's, his brain drooled.), and where the hell was he again?
Right. The pub. Because he'd needed a stiff drink.
Harry sniffed into his drink, frothy bubbles making their way into his nose. After briefly coughing, he turned to Ron.
A Ron who was no longer there.
Where the fuck was Ron?
On further inspection, he saw a dirty piece of paper squashed into the neck of one of Ron's beers. Plucking it out of the neck took some hand-eye coordination (he only missed once—boo-YAH), and the hastily scrawled note made him squint.
hArry,
gtg parvati wnts mee hme nd ur sorry face is turnin me aff. stop BLLOODY loooking at mione. its creppy man. stop cockblocckking RIDDLE and stop fucckin drinkeing te pink shit u keep hlding. you loook complttly wasted btw. get laid.
RONNNNNN
PEE ES: dont u dare fuckin ordr a cosmo u pusssy
Harry looked at the note for a while. A barmaid came over to take the empty beer bottles. A single thought kept running through his head again and again and again.
I'm not a pussy.
His mind replied in a voice that eerily resembled Pansy's:
You're a fucking pussy.
He could practically taste the vitriol.
Drunk notes are a thing. And they make my head hurt sometimes when I'm still capable of reading.
Don't worry, Pansy will appear in the next chapter (probably!) and Tom will pop out sooner or later.
All mistakes are my own; I am just too lazy to go back and fix my errors (sorry!) and look it over.
xoxo