AN: Eurgh! I am not happy with this chapter, It took me forever to write and 'whines' it was haaard! ... I suppose it does what it should though but just not quite how I wanted it too...
Anyway, still - hope you like it...
A year ago, when Harry had first started looking to buy his house, there had been a few things he had to keep in mind. Firstly it needed to be close to Hogwarts so that he could get there quickly should the need arise, secondly It needed to be far away from people, because Harry had surpassed the definition for 'anti social' some time ago. On the other hand, it needed to remain close to civilisation so that he would be able to hear if the sky started falling.
The end result of this actually had him moving into a heavily warded, 2-bedroom, muggle apartment in the centre of London. Money obviously had never been a problem, and he liked the place, even though it only technically fulfilled one of the requirements – the other ones he made applicable with brute magical force.
So it was to this beautiful bachelor sanctuary, untouched by anyone but him for months, that he apparated after his near death prediction…
"You had better be a welcome home prostitute" He frankly told the 20-something year old woman, who stood in a fluffy pink dressing gown in HIS bachelor pad lounge room. She of course, who had been screaming since about one full second after a complete stranger 'popped' into her parlour, did not concur with his hopeful assumption… In fact she didn't do anything but scream, even when her jock boyfriend walked in, she just looked pointedly at him (still screaming) then swivelled her head back around to lock eyes on Harry, who she pointed at as she screamed even louder, as if it actually made some kind of grammatical sense.
"Look", Harry started, raising his hands apologetically in front of him, "I'm tired and neither of you are my type, so just skedaddle out of my house if you don't mind."
"Arrrghhrr" the burly man released his battle cry as he launched himself across the room at Harry, "Get out of our house you pervert!"
He was brought to an abrupt stop by a flick of Harry's wrist.
"Clearly you've both made a mistake," Harry spoke out slowly, "this is my house." The ape incarnate looked back to his blonde girlfriend, both seemed fairly confused.
"Honey" he began laughing amiably, "I think we've made a mistake, this is his house." She giggled along with him and both prepared to vacate, then Harry added, seeing another pink atrocity in the distance.
"You'd probably better take away all the pink things too."
"Sweetums, let's collect all the pink things first" the 2-limbs, 1-brain short of a golden retriever girl suggested.
"Chop-chop" Harry encouraged as they set to task. Finally, about five minutes later he was able to slam the door behind them, having regained his now, near perfect bachelor house to himself.
"Did you miss me Phineus?" he playfully addressed the stoically frozen, man's portrait that hung over his couch. The portrait remained frozen at first, and then ever so slowly the ice blue eyes moved to point down at him. It wouldn't have been noticeable, except Harry knew it was supposed to move, and was waiting, smirking at it and tapping his foot rather impatiently. The smirk must have jogged Phineus' memory, because as soon as he saw it all muggle painting pretences dropped, his eyes narrowed down at the boy.
"Potter" he spat, looking away from the boy disdainfully.
"Oh Phinny I knew you loved me" cried Harry, springing onto the couch and planting a kiss on the lips of a now spluttering, mussed 16th century man.
"Get away from me you despicable excuse for the human species! I love you about as much as I'd love a pair of hernias. Which is almost as much as I've loved having to live with those two imbeciles for the past Merlin-knows how long. Which I blame entirely on you and that low-life great grandson of mine, putting a wizard portrait – a pureblood no less, in a dirty muggle yard sale. The scruples of the pair of you know no lower boundaries. So no Potter, I don't miss you and I certainly do not love you" he snarked finally.
"Well Phinny that just isn't nice" started Harry, teasingly childish, "I saved you from a fire, you mustn't be looking properly, it's Harry" he concluded commandingly.
"First of all you arrogant whelp, that kind of magic does not work on portraits, and secondly you look nothing like your father. If anything I'd say you've de-aged since our last encounter" Phineus told him superiorly.
"Perhaps you'll recall then that I was the one that set the most Noble House of Black on fire?... because I didn't like one of the portraits?... but I got you out because I thought we were friends?" Harry questioned innocently suggestive, "But I suppose… I mean if you don't remember…" Harry trailed off cheerfully. There was no threat in his voice but it was definitely lurking around somewhere in the room.
"Of course not, Harry my dear boy how have you been?" Phineus jovially addressed him.
"Can't complain Phineus, can't complain" Harry replied conversationally, both fully but deniably playing the game now. "Apparently my father James Potter is also doing quite well." He added.
"Hmm" Phineus stated pensively, polite confusion written on his features, "I seem to be most absentminded today, do remind me – what was your dear mother's name?"
"It seems to be a day for it" answered Harry with false cheer, "Lily Evans was her maiden name and you know I seem to have forgotten where I placed my beer"
"Butterbeer?" questioned Phineus disdainfully, dropping the false act.
"Pfft hardly" said Harry, also dropping his faux manner and falling into the easy friendship he had held with the sarcastic portrait, "you know like the muggle liquor, anything's fine actually"
"Those two usually drank things from that immense, glossy white box in there" Phineus answered, nodding his head towards the kitchen.
"Ah the fridge, of course" Harry berated himself as he crossed into the next room, pulling open the modern appliance, slowly squatting as he searched for his prize. At last on the bottom shelf he found a 6-pack, "Why Johnny I think a walk sounds lovely" he addressed the whiskey cans as he carried them all back to the couch and flopped down bonelessly.
Now Harry had experienced and overcome many addictions in his 18 year life span but alcohol had never been one of them, nor was it going to become one, he was adamant. When Voldemort first started targeting him with visions of raids before Harry had mastered occulemency, he had taken dreamless sleeping potion, approved at first, then he had hidden the fact that he was still taking it, then his friends found out and still he couldn't stop. It had been Hermione that sat up countless nights with him, waiting for insomnia, cravings and withdrawals to stop. Desperately learning occulemency with every ounce of determination they possessed and so one day that addiction was over.
When Mrs Weasley, and with her the last of parent-like affection had fallen, and drowned, screaming in an acid pit – he had run away. He told wizarding Britain to go get fucked and turned into the rebellious teen he thought he had always wanted to be.
It was Hermione who spent months tracking him down, who sat and cried with him, who danced with him because he said he needed it, who reminded him of who he really wanted to be.
She took him away and once again sat through countless hours of withdrawal symptoms, brought on by a wide array of muggle and wizarding party drugs alike. It was Hermione who held him when he was shaking, who always rubbed his back when he threw up and most of all reminded him that he was not alone in his grief and so one day those addictions passed too.
They say though, that the nature of an addiction means that it never truly passes, that the temptation is always there but the will gets stronger… or something like that. Not as far as Harry was concerned, he had regularly been injecting himself with parieus – the essence of pepper up potions, for months, it had not been noticed and it was his final addiction. From the day their situations were reversed and he held a shaking Hermione as she bled out from a horcrux destroying gone wrong – he told himself that he would never have another addiction again, and he had not, because, he told himself, there was no one to help him back anymore and he owed it to Hermione, not to make her worry.
Drinking however, had always been something he was against, well in public anyway. In fact, the few times he had been out with friends it had always been Hermione who was the biggest drinker, but she was a fun drunk, always dancing and giggling. Ron, when he had still been around was a very sullen drunk… he had a tendency to be a very sullen person too, but he was a worse drunk, not that he survived long enough for it to be a problem.
Harry had drunk himself to drunkenness once in public, only to discover he was a very chatty drunk, not to mention completely uncoordinated. When he had woken up the next morning with what looked like it could have been McGonagall's sister, not at all liking what he could remember of his conversations the night before, he decided he wouldn't fancy doing it again.
So he didn't drink in public, and he very rarely drank at all, considering he always needed to be ready for a fight at all times during the war, but when he did drink he liked to completely wipe himself out so much that he had trouble remembering his own name the next day, it was nice to be able to forget for a while. Plus it couldn't be good for his health so he figured it was a nice passive aggressive way to speed things along, mind though, he was a bit of a cockroach and chances were a nuclear explosion couldn't 'speed things along', for him anyway.
Sometime between his deep contemplation and his third and fourth cans, Harry curled in the lounge and fell into a peaceful sleep…
The sun was a wavering bloody orb low in the sky, sounds from the battlefield still rang out over the land. He had been fighting for ten hours straight, he was exhausted, dirty and covered in blood – and during the guerrilla warfare he had been fighting in the dense Devon forest most of the afternoon, he had spotted a cave, just a few strong enchantments and it would be perfect.
He stalked his way through the forest, his muddy complexion and dark clothing blending him perfectly into the dappled leaves and moist ground that barely remained lit. Trained ears picked up the sounds of other soldiers, allies and enemies alike, doing the same. Right now though, Harry was not hunting them, he was just trying to find that cave. Unfortunately for Harry, someone had found the cave before him.
Where previously there had been a small clearing, as a brook cut through a circle of willow trees, just to the left of which was a small outcropping boulder, leading into a small cave – that could of course be charmed into quite nice accommodation. Now the whole clearing was dense with growth, a rudimentary but clever defence, because it was not traceable magic. Whereas Harry would have just put up strong wards to keep people out completely, the wards were easily tangible… but it worked for Harry, because he was strong enough to back his wards up, and anyone who felt them knew it. Most people however, made the mistake of using wards, when there were plenty of others who could break them. So Harry figured he would either be spending the night in smart company… or quite possibly dead company, he wasn't fussed.
None other then Draco Malfoy sat propped up against the back of the cave, drooling like he was Merlin's-own solution to Britain's water shortage problems. It was obvious from the way he sat, straight-backed against the smooth wall of the cave, head lolled precariously to the side, the cave's entrance in his direct line of vision… He hadn't planned on falling on asleep.
AN: What? What do you call that? What kind of author cuts off midway through a dream sequence?
A review whore!
No she's not! She wouldn't!
She is.
That's right... after all this time of clinging to my superior intellect authoress highground, and getting (I would like to use the phrase bugger-all but nay I do have a few lovely reviewers - kudos to them) not a lot of reviews... I have decided to start dealing in bullshit... no i meant cookies, so everyone that reviews can have an imaginary cookie (or biscuit if you're like me and not at all American) but just the one, because I wouldn't want you to get imaginarily fat... not to say that you are imaginarily fat, but maybe you should make healthier food choices and have and imaginary apple instead...?
Anyway, moving on from the imaginary nutrition epidemic... I figured seeing as this story is now over the 10 000 word mark that I want at least 100 reviews. Because if 100 people write 10 words each then I'll still be really bad at maths, but doesn't that feel more even to everyone?
hmm yes... I must stop updating so late at night... now review! Otherwise I'll have to eat all these imaginary bickies (aka the kid name of biscuits... actually just thinking... is cookie perhaps supposed to be short for something?)
ahhh must shut self up
goodnight
Katty xx