Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, et cetera, et cetera. All I own is this plot. Bummer.

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait, folks. For some ££ reason, I couldn't post this new chapter. This chapter is rated PG-13 for adult themes, strong language among them. Well, anyway, enjoy!

Before Harry had even realised what was happening, he found himself standing at the foot of a quaint footpath leading up to a cottage nestled in the forest. Ron was standing beside him, carrying a bulky suitcase.

'Have a good time, mate. We'll pick you up in two weeks, alright? And don't try to escape.' The final sentence was delivered with an unusual sharpness.

Before Harry could even open his mouth, let alone protest, Ron Disapparated with a faint pop, the suitcase falling with a thud. He had to content himself with a drawn-out sigh which turned into a grunt as he picked up his luggage. It was uncharacteristically heavy to Harry, yet Ron had been able to lift – no, tote – it with such ease. Firewhisky, though an excellent temporary Memory Charm, apparently did nothing else for him.

Harry was forced to half-carry, half-drag his suitcase along the footpath, swearing heartily under his breath as he did so. He would have very much liked to swear aloud but was wary of Dean's aunt catching him. Somehow, he had a nasty feeling that she would wash his mouth out with soap.

At long last, Harry reached the cottage. His heavy knock was answered almost immediately by a plump, cheerful woman, dressed neatly in a simple dress and an apron.

'Welcome, dear,' she boomed, enveloping Harry in a massive bear hug and squeezing the air from his lungs. 'I'm Rachel Thomas. Dean told me you'd be coming.'

Harry nodded weakly, gasping as she released him.

'You'll be staying in Room 16 on the second floor, third door on your right.'

He took the key from her hand and hauled his suitcase up the stairs. From what he glimpsed as he made his way up, the bed and breakfast exuded a homey atmosphere, warm and inviting as Number Four, Privet Drive never was. In fact, it strongly reminded Harry of The Burrow and he half-expected to see dishes washing themselves in the sink.

His room was comfortable enough, with a standard single bed complete with matching nightstand and a large carved dresser standing majestically opposite them. A door in the hallway presumably led to the bathroom. Harry dumped his suitcase to the side with a sigh, collapsing onto the bed in the next instant. The back of his throat burned uncomfortably.

Merlin, I need a drink, thought Harry guiltily, squashing the thought a second later.

'Fuck this,' he said aloud to no-one in particular. 'I came here to get clean.'

His resolve was tested by a wave of nausea, then an overwhelming urge to drink. Harry staggered to his feet, made his way to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face.

Placing both hands on the rim to steady himself, Harry turned on the tap with a shaking hand. He gulped the water greedily, savouring the coolness on his parched tongue. As the burning thirst subsided, a movement caught his eye and Harry looked up. A wild-eyed, dishevelled man stared back at him and Harry tensed. It took awhile before he realised it was his reflection in the mirror hanging over the sink.

How long had it been since he had last seen himself? The broken-looking wreck Harry saw was a far cry from the handsome young man he had once been, seven years ago. The Firewhisky had done more than he had expected. Fine lines creased his forehead and outlined his mouth. Dark circles around his eyes and bags beneath them testified to sleepless nights and alcohol abuse.

In a fit of rage, Harry drove his fist into the mirror. Remorse and the horrible sensation of self-pity washed over him and he sank to the floor, sobbing like a child. Blood and tears mingled on the tiles, forming a macabre puddle.

He drank to forget, to try and erase the hurt and guilt from his mind. But in spite of his efforts, he'd wake up every morning replaying the incident in his mind. Eventually, Harry had taken to drinking all day, lying there on his bed with a bottle glued to his lips and tears leaking from his eyes.

It was a stupid thing to do, he reflected bitterly. Desperation behaviour after spending five years searching for Hermione. He should have known that she could never be found if she didn't want to be.

Harry slowly came to his senses, feeling the dull throbbing in his knuckles. A rough mess of scabs had formed over the cuts and dried rivulets of blood on his skin cracked as he moved his fingers gingerly, wincing as he did so. He fumbled for his wand and easily cleaned the mess, repaired the mirror and healed himself.

Magic can do every damn thing except the things that really matter.

If only his life could be mended with a flick of a magic wand.

Harry jumped when a knock sounded on the door. 'Mr. Potter? You seemed awfully tired just now so I've taken the liberty of bringing your dinner upstairs.'

He opened the door and took the loaded tray from her hands. 'You really shouldn't have gone to all this trouble, Mrs. Thomas.'

'Oh, it was no bother, no bother at all.' Harry hadn't intended to let her in but she smoothly pushed the door open and walked in.

'How do you like your room? It has an excellent view of the main street of Little Brompton, really the best view in the guesthouse.'

'It's marvellous.'

She whirled around and scrutinised Harry in silence.

'Are you ill, dear? You look a little pale.'

'I – I'm fine, really,' he began, only to be chivvied into bed.

Mrs. Thomas placed the tray on his lap. 'A grown man like you ought to be taking care of himself,' she said sternly.

Harry bid her goodnight and as the door clicked shut, lifted the cover off the tray. It was beef stew, a rich and hearty homemade dish which he relished.

Tomorrow would be different, he promised himself as he drifted off to sleep. He would recover.

Author's Note: That's it for one chapter. I'll be revealing the painful memory very soon!