Disclaimer: Harry Potter and assorted stuff created by J.K Rowling, blah blah blah and so on and so forth, does not belong to me. I don't even own the plot. It comes from watching too much TV.
Author's Note: Hello people. If you are reading this, this means you have successfully put up with me and my story for 6 chapters. I do apologise if it isn't as comprehensive/meandering/intelligent as the other excellent fanfics you have doubtless read elsewhere on I'm slowly running out of steam.
This chapter is dedicated to Wei, who introduced me to the world of fanfics with a very steamy, obscene and practically pornographic Dramione fic 5 years ago, at the tender age of 12. Thanks.
Mrs. Thomas glared icily at Harry, waiting patiently for him to stop laughing.
'And what, may I ask, Mr. Potter, is so amusing about Jane Granger?' she hissed.
He swallowed. It was like being at Hogwarts again, with McGonagall interrogating him. 'Uh, nothing, ma'am,' gulped Harry, desperately wishing he hadn't said anything at all. 'It's just…nothing.'
'I'm going to bed,' said Mrs. Thomas curtly, casting him a look so frosty Harry shrank into his chair. 'You had better go too, it's very late.' With that last remark, she swept past him up the ancient staircase and was gone.
Alone by the dying embers of the fire, he reflected on the events of the day. Why won't Hermione come back to me? The question, so simple, and yet with such a complex answer haunted his mind constantly.
She needs proof.
A little voice in the back of his mind whispered what he already knew but dreaded to hear.
Harry buried his head in his hands in complete and utter desperation. Hermione was a practical person, interested in solid facts, the complete opposite of Luna. His lips quirked into a smile as his brain conjured the image of the dreamy Ravenclaw. Luna and her Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.
Currently, she was in Sweden, searching for evidence that her beloved creatures existed. So determined was she, she refused to marry Ron until she managed to sight a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. He in turn was at his wits' end, having tried every trick and ploy to dissuade her, going as far as to dress up as one of the blasted things. In typical Ron style, his Snorkack's horns were straight.
Hermione would love to hear that, he thought and his cheerful mood was instantly dampened.
To try and drive her from his mind, Harry thought instead about Jessie but even that was fruitless. She was the spitting image of her mother, except for the eyes. The exact opposite of me, he thought wryly.
In a physical effort to clear his head, Harry stood up and walked over to the dining hall. It was deserted, given the late hour, and the only sound was from the majestic grandfather clock in the far corner. Luckily for him, the fire gave off enough light for Harry to see where he was going and there was no need to use magic.
He approached a dark indistinct shape which he later found to be the silverware cupboard and ran his hand over the polished oak, enjoying the smooth sensation of the cold surface when he suddenly froze.
His fingertips were clearly touching a bottle.
Harry moved his hand upward, feeling the cool glass gradually taper into a sleek neck. It was a wine bottle, most probably left by a lodger after dinner. Wrapping his fingers around its neck, he gave it a shake and he distinctly heard liquid sloshing inside.
The wine bottle was still half-full and he automatically began raising it to his lips, a habit born of years of Firewhisky.
Harry caught himself just as the rim touched his lips.
'What the hell am I doing?' he said aloud, staring down at the bottle in disbelief. Every fibre of his being protested mightily when he lowered the bottle a fraction. Cold beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, testifying to the massive internal struggle.
His initial alcohol cravings had been dulled earlier when he was dealing with the emotional rollercoaster with Hermione. Now, alone and depressed, the urge came back, hitting harder and unrelentingly, demanding to satisfy its thirst.
The alcohol had helped him at first by numbing his pain but it always came back later. He knew it would.
With a jolt, he realised the bottle was coming closer to his mouth and he slammed it back onto the countertop angrily, ashamed that his resolve was still weak.
Outside, a clap of thunder echoing noisily reminded him of the rainstorm still raging outside. Harry stood at the counter, motionless, willing himself to let go of the bottle but his fingers remained tightly clamped around the bottle's neck.
Let go, urged the voice in his head.
Deep down inside, Harry was ashamed of the broken-down alcoholic he had become. Though everyone around him never said it out loud, he could see the bitter disappointment in their eyes, even Ron's and Ginny's, whenever they looked at him. He knew how far he had fallen, recalling the memory of when Ron had so easily dodged his spell not so long ago.
Impulsively, he strode out of the boarding house into the forest. Allowing his feet to guide him, Harry found himself standing in a clearing.
Again, the wine bottle rose to his lips and paused there. Harry's knuckles turned white as he gripped it tightly, straining to stop from drinking. The thirst burned more intensely and he watched helplessly as the bottle inched towards his lips.
It was then the faces of Hermione and Jessie sprang into his mind.
A fresh burst of will-power surged forth and Harry flung the wine bottle onto the grass, where it shattered, spilling its contents.
He stared, awed by what had transpired, as the blood-red wine seeped into the ground as it was diluted by rainwater. A powerful elation flooded his mind, and Harry knew he had finally overcome his worst enemy: himself.
He tilted his face upward to the sky, spreading his arms and letting the rain soak his clothes again.
Without warning, Harry poured out his emotions in a wordless roar, giving voice to the shame, hurt, anger and guilt he had accumulated over the past five years.
At long last, he slumped to the ground, exhausted by the violent outpour. When he looked up, Harry's eyes were filled with a burning determination.
'Never again will I allow myself to be controlled.' The vow was said quietly yet forcefully and the sky thundered in response.
Slowly, he got to his feet and left the clearing. The last of the wine still clinging to the shards of broken glass was finally washed away by the driving rain and vanished into the grass.
Author's Note: Sorry if this chapter seemed clichéd or too dramatic. Like I said, I watch a lot of TV. Next chapter up next weekend!