My scar was aching again.
I pinched the top of my nose and closed my eyes, willing the pain back down to a manageable level. Once the ringing in my ears had receded, I reached out to knock on the door and then caught myself in mid-stretch, deciding against it. I dug my fingers into my robes and slid my wand out slowly, casting a silent unlocking charm and slowly pushing the door open. I turned my wand on my feet and produced a nifty silencing charm before I crossed the thresh-hold, crouching. I figured that if I could make it to my room unseen I could buy myself at least five minutes of peace and quiet before...
Sadly, I underestimated the Chudley Cannon's rug completely, burying my goateed chin in the linoleum tiling just inside of my front door.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps approached from the north, and I was completely unable to move to defend myself. I knew closing my eyes and praying would not help, but that knowledge didn't keep me from doing it anyway.
"Harry! Is that you?"
The disembodied voice came around the corner only a moment before the actual body, sliding to a halt some five meters in front of my now bleeding chin. Then it laughed. Uncontrollably.
"Bloody hell, Harry! Trip! Rug! AHAHA!"
The voice dissolved into giggles and random combinations of the words "trip" and "rug". I looked up, bewildered, wondering what Dobby was doing in my apartment instead of at Grimmauld Place where I had left him, and why the hell he was laughing at his master. I opened my mouth with half a mind to tell him to punish himself, but instead found one of those red-headed bastards staring at me from up above, smiling like Christmas had come early and pointing his index finger in my general direction. As much as I normally enjoyed Ron's childish and immature sense of humor, I could have done without his fuck-wit self at this particular moment.
"Fuck off, Ron," I mumbled, climbing to my feet and picking up most of my broken pride. Not all of it was there to find. Sighing, I looked up at the still guffawing Ron Weasley, somehow resisting the urge to kick him. Wondering why he was home this early, I opened my mouth to ask him that very question when a woman's voice came floating daintily from the kitchen.
"Ron,” it screeched like nails on a chalkboard, “Look. I only have fifteen minutes before I need to be back on campus and I'm not wasting all of this whipped cream. Get back in here and--"
Before I could place reach my wand to stab my emerald eyes out of their sockets, I had the privelege of seeing a completely nude Hermione Granger walk around the corner, whipped cream chasing what she probably assumed was a tantalizing path up her legs and over her chest. While Ron turned his body to look at her and waved his long arms in a belated attempt to cover her up, I still received a long glimpse of her overgrown bush and the pair of Ron's yellowing underwear caught around her left foot.
Her girlish squeak of embarrassment was only slightly louder than mine, and I dove into the living room to my left, barrel rolling all the way to the fireplace. I momentarily contemplated using the poker to dig out my eyes, but after deciding that the memory would still live on in my nightmares and, also, that it would hurt very much, I rose again, determined to look somewhat calm before I reached the hallway again. After all, I tried to tell myself, Harry Potter stood strong the face of adversity, unflinching before Dark Lords, and he was not afraid of any vagina, no matter how horrid, how terrible, how fearsome, or how sharp it's teeth were.
The screaming had died down since then, so assuming it safe to proceed back to my room, I slowly stepped into the hall, taking deliberate footsteps in order to announce my presence. Thankfully my two roommates had decided to take their sexual deviant selves out of sight. Taking a deep, thankful breath to gather my senses, I continued walking down the hall to my room.
My thanks was short-lived; by a cruel twist of fate my head turned to the right upon crossing by the kitchen, gracing me with a picture of Hermione's ass in the air, her face seemingly attached to Ron's lap. Worse than that however, was the blow-up pig in the corner of the kitchen accompanied by a half-empty bottle of clear liquid that I was sure wasn't anti-bacterial soap.
Well, almost sure.
After throwing up twice and brushing my teeth three times I felt considerably better. My scar was still aching, but now it was a welcome release to the pain of what I saw happen (and from the sound of it still happening), in my kitchen. Deciding I would be eating take-out until I could burn everything in the kitchen and replace it, I walked over to my window sill.
Hedwig napped in her cage, and for the first time that day I smiled looking over at my old friend. She slept more and more now in her old age and, fearing a repeat of Errol, the Weasley's ancient (and still alive!) owl, I rarely sent her out to deliver mail. It was silly when I could just apparate half-away across the world in under a minute and hand the recipient a damn postcard.
Looking out across the Diagon Alley streets I was both elated and annoyed to see the amounts of people walking about. Since the fall of Voldemort, Diagon Alley had seen a huge increase in business, but they also seemed to know that I lived in the apartment directly above Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. I closed my eyes at the number of camera flashes that went off from the ground below, once again wincing at the pain in my scar.
To think, just under a year ago I had fought off a dragon with a sword transfigured from a broken toothpick and a shield made out of used toilet paper. Everyday I had to deal with hooded figures trying to murder me. I would check for poison in my meals and point my wand at the door while sitting on the toilet. Sometimes there wasn't even a door. Occasionally there wasn't a toilet.
Now my biggest fear is a randy grandmother turned fan-girl sneaking into my bedroom to get an up-close view of Hairy Potter and the Philosopher's Stones. The fountain of youth if you will.
Every-fucking-day I come home to the instrumental sound of fuck from somewhere in the house that I'm paying the rent for, and it's never pretty. Educational perhaps, but more often it's sick and perverse in a way I couldn't explain--not because I don't want to, but because to call back the memories would exhaust my magical core. I have memory-charmed myself so many times that I'm not sure how to do it properly anymore.
Of course, that's never stopped the Boy-Who-Lived.
As the pictures begin to die down I escape the window, searching my watch for the time.
Fuck, I realize. She'll be here soon. Then I'll have to take her to dinner at a fancy restaurant and whisper sweet nothings in her ear until she decides to go back home. It's times like these that I wish Voldemort was still around. Turns out we had a lot more in common than I wanted to think.
Seems he couldn't get any fucking pussy either.
I head to the bathroom to begin dressing for the date, my warped mind pondering what it must have felt like to have an actual reptilian trouser snake.
It's twenty minutes into dinner and she still hasn't stopped talking about the wedding she's planning. I nod and grunt at regular intervals, even going so far as to add polite input when she gives me a look like I'm not paying attention.
I'm not. Still, she doesn't have to know that.
Occasionally I scratch at my balls just to see if I still have any manhood left. They are still there, but the general vibe I am getting is that they are pissed at having to put up with this bitch's shit all of the time...
"I have to use the shitter!"
A glass shatters in the distance and heads turn to look at me. Her mouth closes with a resounding clatter of teeth, surprised at my suddenly vehement interjection into her tirade about how many people will be at our wedding.
Blushing at my stupidity I amend myself softly after clearing my throat, "Excuse me, dear. I have to use the loo." Her lips morph into a frown, but before she can say anything I slide out of my chair and dash. On the way to the bathroom the waiter gives me a look like he understands what I'm going through. Before I reach the door I can hear one of the women chefs scream the word written on his nametag. As he turns, a curse on his lips, he runs into the back. One foot into the loo and I can make out a voice saying the words 'shnookums' and 'babykins'.
I spend ten minutes sitting on a clean toilet seat, checking my watch to see if enough time has passed. I'm not sure enough time will ever pass, but eventually I stand and flush a completely empty bowl, pushing open the stall door and moving to the sink. I wash my hands in a blue gel that smells like the beach and wipe my hands on my trousers, taking a deep breath and heading back to my table.
She gives me a narrow-eyed look like she knows what I was doing. I give her a forced crooked-smile. She frowns and continues talking. I wait.
Walking back through London holding her hand with the world wrapped around her ring finger, I ask her if she would like to go to a club. Or a pub. Or a brewery. Basically, I want a tall glass with a strong kick. Somehow, by the grace of Merlin, she agrees to come along to a club. Smiling, I promise to show her a good time.
In the seediest, dirtiest, haziest bar in London I'm on my fourth glass of something that looks like it will hurt tomorrow morning. She's on her fifth glass of something that looks like it will hurt later tonight. I don't have a lot of experience with alcohol, but her sheltered life did not include more than a few Butterbeer at a time. She's, in the strictest sense, fucked up.
I haven't smiled this much since Playwizard released that centerfold of the Patil Twins. Who knew Padma could wiggle her toes while they were pushed up over her head? And who knew Parvati had a foot fetish?
Ginny Weasley is in the middle of the dance floor grinding up against a pole that, apparently, she thinks is me. Twice a bouncer has tried to get her to leave but couldn't because he was laughing too hard. I understand completely.
The bar smells like everyone inside it wants to have sex. It occurs to me that this may, in fact, be the reason I'm here. I buy the most expensive drink at the bar for a blonde standing with what I think is her brother. I'm rich; I can do these things. When the bartender hands it to her I can tell by the man's face that he's not her brother. I laugh, blow her a kiss and continue to watch my fiancée make a complete ass of herself.
An hour later and I don't think I've ever smiled so much in my life. After the third try, the bouncer, with a fat, balding manager screaming at him, looked over at me in misery. Pitying him, I walked over and, after waving my hand in front of Ginny's face and getting no response, offered the manager a glass of what she was drinking.
Eventually she ends up with her ass on the floor crying, and when a nearby woman attempts to help her up only to be rebuked by a threatened Bat-Bogey Hex, I grab her from the floor and escort her out of the building, a barely concealed smirk on my face.
Meer moments later I swear that I've never seen some one throw up the same way she does. I once saw Ron drink a fifth of Vodka before a trip into the depths of Gringotts, and this doesn't even come close to comparing. There's almost a strange beauty in the way she makes choking noises just after vomiting.
I decide I must be drunk.
The back alley behind the club is now painted yellow with her puke, and the only thing I can think of to make this situation more laughable is Colin Creevey's camera and Griphook the Goblin, standing respectfully from his spot in one of Gringotts' carts, Ron's spew all over his face. Smiling with glee at the thought, I hold her hair back, and continue to whisper comforting things in her direction.
Despite the fact that tomorrow morning Ginny Weasley will probably decide to never drink again, I am glad that she has, and is, enjoying herself. In fact, as she attempts to take off my pants with her teeth, I am enjoying myself for a change. Her teeth are somewhat sharp, and she's drooling worse than Fang, but I'm too drunk too care overly much. A few minutes later she takes off her top and I am presented with a two handfuls of smooth white titty. A few minutes later she takes off her bottoms and I am presented with two handfuls of smooth white ass.
We have never gone further than simple groping. I couldn't give a fuck right now. Actually, upon further consideration, I decide that I can and will give a fuck, and if she would stay awake just a few minutes longer...
She whispers something that sounds like "Flake splee" with a saucy, drooling grin, and I assume she means "Take me". For a moment I hesitate. Harry Potter wouldn't take advantage of a poor, drunk virgin no matter how well he thought she deserved it.
It's almost enough to sober me up. Flashes of Dumbledore followed by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley run through my mind and, despite her hand down my underwear and my pants at my ankles I begin to reconsider.
But just before I reach to pull my pants up, and with my mouth open to tell her to stop, I remember the words Alastor Moody said to me just before the arm of a giant ripped him apart like a stuffed sheep.
Fuck 'em.
As odd and inappropriate as it seems, this gives me the courage to continue.
As I begin an action that should have happened long ago, a pure, shining white light envelops the two of us. Somehow I am unsurprised by this. I continue with my rhythm and, as she moans and says “Ardour,” the light begins swirling in and out of different colors. As she shudders the light blinks out of existence, but minutes later when I begin to climax I can feel a vibration around the entire room before everything in my vision goes completely dark.
Skeet Skeet Skeet.