Lost in Transfiguration

Chapter 2: The Boy Who Lived on the Dole

October 28, 2004: 3PM GMT

In the darkest, smelliest bedroom in the darkest, smelliest flat on the second floor of 3/72 Whitecastle Street, London, a young man with floppy black hair and a great ruddy scar on his forehead woke up on top of a pile of crap on his bed.

"Ermph."

Reaching down for a pair of trousers, Harry James Potter fumbled with his other hand for his glasses, setting them crookedly against his nose. He rolled out of bed, recoiling slightly when he stepped in something sticky on the way out. He staggered into the kitchen, pulling open the pantry door to find half a container of Horlicks and a box of soggy Cruskits. He shrugged, pouring himself a glass of water instead, and wandered off into the lounge room for the daily activities.

Ron was plastered onto a brown corduroy sofa in his drawers, staring listlessly at the Adamscope in front of him. He was watching the end of the midday movie on Lifetime about a female lawyer fighting for justice. Or something. You could usually tell what the movie was about by the day of the week. Mondays had female doctors fighting for a child's life, Tuesdays had battered wives wrecking revenge against their attackers and Wednesdays always had to do with growing up and attaining womanhood. Harry nodded to him, and Ron grunted in response. It was a beautiful friendship they had; one so close and in-tune with each others' needs that they truly could revert to cavemen around each other.

"S'nothing to eat in the pantry. Want go down and get kebabs?"

"Nah, Lupin should be back soon, said he'd go to the shops after his job interview."

"All right."

Harry settled in beside Ron, and fixed his eyes on the screen. It was 3PM, and time for Minister Voldemort's daily televised speech - compulsory viewing for all in the wizarding community. It was a bit like the Queen's Christmas speech, only Voldemort wasn't the snappy dresser that the Queen was.

"Who's cooking tonight?"

"I am. I can't be stuffed, might pop down to the shop and pick up some fish and chips instead."

"We had that last night, but."

"Yeah, well, we can have it again."

"I'm sick of fast food. Can't you just put some tinned sauce in with pasta? That'll only take, like, three minutes." Harry wondered whether his sudden inability to stomach junk food had evolved from a deep seated desire to rise above the squalor of their environment and their existence; was he inwardly struggling for some semblance of art and beauty, especially within the realm of culinary delights? Nah. Probably because they'd lived solidly off junkfood for the past six years, much to Hermione's chagrin.

"Nah, stuff it. Fish and chips."

"Whatever. Shush - it's on!"

The credits to the midday movie faded out, and the great ugly white mug of Lord Voldemort flickered into view on the Adamscope, resplendent in black robes and what looked like Jack White's entire bottle of foundation. He glowered for a bit, as he was so good at doing.

"You know, Harry, he looks a bit like an older Ralph Fiennes," Ron said, scratching at a scab on his knee.

"Yeah, I noticed that, eh."

"You know what I reckon? I reckon that blue robes would really suit him."

"Yeah?"

"Well, think about it, black just makes him look all pasty, I reckon a nice royal blue would really bring out the red in his eyes."

"Nah, he's all veiny. Blue would just make him look like an old lady's thigh."

"True, eh. Shh! He's going to speak now!"

"All right, all right. It's not as though he says anything different anyway. He's just going to glower for a bit, wave to his supporters and then go on about the pain of being surrounded by filthy mudbloods and halfbreeds."

"Isn't he a mudblood?"

"Yes. And Hitler was part Jew."

"Who?"

"Shush up."

Lord Voldemort, Minister of Magic and the Artist Formerly Known as Tom Riddle, opened his mouth, glare still firmly affixed on his face.

And coughed.

Reaching into his pocket and rolling his eyes at once (the guy's a multitasker, what can I say?), he pulled out a pack of Throaties, popping one into his mouth. Swishing it around for a second, he resumed (after what must've been ten minutes) the sentence he had yet to start.

"Good afternoon, minions."

"S'up, V-Lo!" Ron said, mocking a salute.

"You're all pathetic wastes of human excrement. I despise all of you - mudbloods, loathsome swine, dirty, dirty half-breeds--"

"He's a right ray of sunshine, in'he?"

"--ought be exterminated, oh the pain oh the pain of it all--"

"Gary Oldman would turn in his grave if he heard his characterisation of Dr Smith being wrecked like that."

"--mark my words, you will all burn and perish in hell!" Voldemort ceased his ranting, digging into a pocket inside his robes and pulling out a piece of paper. "Oh, yeah, if anyone's seen a silver ladies' watch, blue face, please return it to Cathy Avery. Great sentimental value, small reward, yada yada yada."

Harry threw a shoe lying on the ground in the direction of the Adamscope, and the power cut out. Ron stretched and yawned a bit, scratching his armpits. "Mail come yet?"

"How would I know, I only just got up. Check the door."

"Yep, it's here. Accio mail."

Ron undid the bundled up parcels, sorting envelopes into piles. "Bill - water. Bill - elec... er, you know, stuff that makes our lights go on. Bill - heating. Bill - library. Postcard - Luna. Ooh, look, Agony Aunt column's out already!"

He tossed a copy of Witch Weekly to Harry, who flipped it over to the back pages. To supplement the meagre income of the Potter-Weasley-Granger household, Lupin had lent his considerable literary skills to writing a weekly advice column, a venture which brought in an extra five galleons a fortnight. However, there had been far less commiseration and far more condemnation of late, which always made for great reading, though was likely to eventuate in a lawsuit sooner or later.

"Oy, Ron, listen to this one. 'Dear Aunty Clara. I'm in the biggest spin about my relationship. Recently, I've been dallying in an affair with a man who is my soulmate, however I'm still married to my husband. Whatever should I do? This new man makes me feel like a special and treasured person. Love, Confused, Berkshire.'"

"What was the response?"

"Hang on a bit. Here we are: 'Dear Confused, Berkshire. What the hell is wrong with you? Has nobody any respect for the sanctity of marriage anymore? You are an absolute disgrace, and I can't believe you would stoop so low as to cheat on your husband! You make me sick! You are neither special nor treasured. Burn in hell. Love, Aunty Clara.'"

"Wow. He's not bitter at all, is he?"

"I suppose he finds it easier to be rude when he doesn't actually know the person."

"Not true. He gives Umbridge a bit of hell, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, well, everyone gives her hell, it's like a rule."

"You reckon he's having a mid-life?"

"Maybe, I don't know. It's not like him to be this mean though."

"Maybe he just needs a good dirty shag."

"That's a mental image I can live without, thankyou. He won't be getting laid if he doesn't shave that ruddy moustache off though, he looks horrible."

"Yeah, but then you got that massive bloody overbite."

The front door opened, and Remus Lupin almost fell through the frame, smelling strongly of gin. The good suit he'd put on that morning for his job interview was wrinkled and dusty, and there was a large cut on his hand.

"Don't you two have anything better to do than discuss my facial hair?"

"You're drunk, aren't you."

"Quiet, you, I have a stinking great headache."

"What happened to your hand?"

"Got into a fight with the pavement."

"So, you get the job?"

"Yes, I start Monday. They've got me working nights, though."

"At least you've got a job."

"Yeah, I know."

"Hey, weren't you meant to do the shopping?"

Lupin looked sheepishly about the room. "Well, I was going to, honestly, but--"

"Let me guess. You were on your way to do the shopping when you decided to take a detour through Picadilly Circus? To do a bit of... er... negotiating with your soon-to-be ex-spouse? Then, after she knocked you back, you wasted all our food money on booze, didn't you?"

Remus Lupin rolled onto his stomach and started crying loudly. Harry and Ron looked at each other nervously, as if to say to each other 'go on, it's your turn to comfort him this time'. Silently, their fists met, and after a particularly ferocious (albeit silent) game of 'paper scissors rock' Harry spoke up.

"Lupin, we understand this must be really hard for you, but she's gone, man. She's not taking you back either from the looks of things."

"What did I do wrong?" he whined through a pillow.

"It's not that you did anything wrong - well, not to our knowledge, anyway - it's just that... well, she prefers women. And you might read Jane Austen and all, but you ain't no woman."

"Oh god, I'm a failure!"

"Cheer up, gov. You got a job now and everything. You don't need a woman in your life. Look at Harry. He's got all he needs. He's got an Adamscope, he's got a kebab place down the street, he's got a double bed, and he's got the entire Boz Scaggs album collection."

"Got a pretty decent stash under my bed too."

"Sure, he mightn't have got a bit of slap and giggle in three years, but he's doing all right for himself."

Lupin and Harry both stared up at him. "Er... thanks, Ron. I'll definitely be your source of solace when Hermione dumps you on your arse."

"You're the best, Harry."

"Oh, come on Lupin. Let's go down and get us a kebab. All right? Celebratory kebabs because you, my friend, are employed, and are thus shouting, because I don't get my Dole money for another three days. You coming, Ron?"

"Bring us back a chicken one, would you?"

"Chicken. You're a weak little man, aren't you Ronald?"

"Only saying it's healthier, that's all. 'Doner' is just Turkish for 'surprise' anyway, and I don't think that 'surprise' is a word that ought to be used in conjunction with meat."

"Fair enough. Come on."

Harry grabbed Lupin by the sleeve, heaving him in the direction of the front door and down the stairs to the street. Lupin wrenched his arm out of Harry's grip, straightening his coat sleeves, and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Clouds were starting to gather above them, and the poor sodding Muggles who shared the footpath tied their overcoats tighter around their waists. Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, lowering his head to keep his neck warm. Lupin, heated up with the wonders of alcohol, sauntered ahead, tripping over his shoes and clutching onto Harry's arms.

"You right there?"

"Fine. Just rehearsing for the audition of the new 'Singing in the Rain' musical that Lifetime's putting on."

"Maybe you ought quit drinking again."

"Harry, I love you like a son, but you're a stupid boy."

"Easy on. Come on, this way." Harry grabbed at him again, pushing him through plastic fringing into a dingy hut off the street. Sitting Lupin down in a plastic deckchair, Harry strode up to the counter and banged on it with his fist.

"Oy, you lot, a bit of service, eh?"

A portly man in an apron and rubber gloves emerged from the kitchen, freezing and sneering when he saw Harry at the counter.

"How can I help you, sir?" He emphasised the 'sir' with a subtext of 'I hate your bleeding guts'.

"You know, Fudge, that little paper hat really suits you. I mean, I didn't know you could get paper hats in lime green, did you Lupin?"

"Errgh."

"Honestly, Fudge, the service here is terrible. You're obviously just as mediocre at hospitality as you were at politics."

Lupin sniggered in the background. Fudge's face turned a delightful shade of purple.

"Order something and piss off."

"Just the usual for me today. You know how I like it - and don't skimp on the tomato today. You are such a skinflint. And while you're at it, just a regular chicken kebab and... what did you want Lupin?"

"I want Chinese flavour."

"You can't bloody order Chinese flavoured kebabs!" Fudge exploded, throwing mounds of lettuce onto a tortilla.

"Yes you can. In China you can."

"Well, this isn't China, you know."

"That's very interesting, Fudge," Harry said, tapping a sickle against the glass countertop, "I'll have to refer you on to the Department of MAKE MY FUCKING KEBAB AND BE SMART ABOUT IT!"

Fudge squeezed the bottle of sweet chilli sauce that the top came off, spilling half a litre onto Harry's kebab. Fudge swore loudly, wiping his sweaty forehead on his sleeve. "Dolores, get out here and help me out immediately!"

A second stubby figure emerged from the darkness of the backroom, and Lupin's face lit up when he saw the look of utter loathing plastered on hers.

"Why, good afternoon Dolores! How are you today?"

Umbridge uttered something that sound remarkably like 'vile half-breed'. Lupin pretended not to notice. For the first time all day, he was genuinely happy in the pursuit of his new favourite passtime: pissing off Umbridge. You could always get a rise out of her, and since the Health Inspectors came they weren't allowed to store poison on the premises anymore, meaning you were guaranteed a kebab that was no less a health hazard than normal. Besides, he was drunk anyway: chundering was inevitable.

"I'll assume you said 'can I take your order, you devilishly handsome werewolf you'. Regular felafel kebab, onion, tomato, mushroom, lettuce... you reckon chillies today, Harry?"

"Feeling a mite adventurous today?"

"You're absolutely right. Double chillies."

Fudge shoved Harry's finished kebab onto the counter, swiping at the pile of sickles. He punched in the order into the register, pulling a couple of knuts out and flinging them in Harry's direction.

"Tut, tut, tut. Can't count very well, can you? I should have got three sickles change. Typical, really, for someone who kept saying that Voldemort was gone forever. Whatever, I don't care. Just make it snappy with those last two orders." He pulled the kebab out of its little foil bag, taking a bite out of the end. He scrunched up his face. "You know, I know times must be hard for you and all, but you're bloody stingy with your meat. A little extra compressed rat-meat on a log isn't going to send you destitute, you know."

Another two kebabs were shoved into his hands. "Get out! Go on! I'm sick of you lot coming down and abusing us!"

Harry tossed a kebab in Lupin's direction, knocking him out of a light snooze, and turned back to Fudge. "Yeah? Well you bloody deserve it. All you ever did was act like a pack of arseholes with your heads stuck in the sand. Every bit of this is your fault. Come on, Lupin, we're going."

The werewolf stood shakily, following Harry out of the hut and into the glare of the overcast afternoon. He gnawed like a hungry dog on his food, and Harry stopped to tie a shoelace.

"What you going to do this afternoon?"

"Might go round to the Fletcher's for a bit, have a game of cards with Dung."

"Yeah? I'm off home, I reckon, Snape said he was popping round this arvo to drop off some goods. You'll be home to take your Wolfsbane, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. If I forget, owl me, all right? I'll see you lot later on then."

"Turrah."

Harry headed back up the street, fumbling for his keys in front of his flaky front door. However, on further examination the door was unlocked, and he clambered up the stairs in the darkness, stopping on the second floor landing and pushing his door open. Inside his flat, Ron was still on his usual settee, Snape towering above him. He turned as Harry entered, a look of utmost disgust on his face.

"Potter."

"Snape. Hope I find you well this good day. Gee, don't need a shower now you sprayed me with all that saliva."

"Twenty points from-- ugh, force of habit."

He shoved a flask of Wolfsbane potion into Harry's hands, and he nearly dropped the kebabs. He tossed one to Ron, and took a seat.

"So what else you got in stock today, Snape?"

A snarl formed around the corners of his mouth. "What I usually have, Potter. Speed, crystal meth, ecstasy, marijuana--"

"What's on special today?"

"There's nothing on special, Weasley! I'm a drug manufacturer, not a bloody supermarket!"

"Well, I won't get anything unless it's on special. Dole hasn't come in yet, and I've only got nine sickles to spare. What can I get for that?"

"Two tabs of ecstasy, or a bottle of homebrewed absinthe."

"Oh boy! That sounds good!" Ron delved into his pockets, but Harry rushed over and caught his arm.

"Ron, what was the most important thing that Lupin ever taught us?"

"Erm... that the words 'homebrew' and 'absinthe' shouldn't go together, ever, lest we want to wake up in Massachusetts married to Mundungus Fletcher?"

"Good point. We'll grab the eccies today thanks."

Snape threw them at Harry.

"What's the deal with angry old people throwing stuff at me? I'm the customer, you know, I'm always right! All day I've been copping this abuse!"

"Well, you've only been awake for an hour, really."

"See! An hour! Even worse! What's on the Adamscope?"

"Dunno. Flick it on."

"Ahem." They both turned to face the imposing figure of Severus Snape. "I require my payment before you partake in the drugs."

"Oh, yeah. Ron, can you cover my share today?"

"Fine, whatever." Ron handed his money over to Snape, who melodramatically flared his robes out and Disapparated with a loud crack. Harry settled in, picking up his partially masticated kebab.

"I'm a bit bored."

"Yeah, same."

"Ron, do you ever... you know, think about what our lives could have become if we beat Voldemort six years ago?"

Ron swallowed his mouthful thoughtfully. "Dunno. I reckon I'd be able to get another pair of shoes, at least."

"What's happened to us, Ron? Look at us, we're pathetic! We can't even get real jobs, and we have the frigging Gestapo coming around in the morning to collect the rent."

"Reckon we shouldn't have bought those drugs?"

"I don't know. There's something seriously wrong with the world. It shouldn't be this way, you know? We should've defeated them! What went wrong?"

"Well, for a start, we probably shouldn't have surrendered to the Death Eaters. Wasn't a good idea to put that ruddy great 'Order of the Phoenix' sign out in the front yard either."

"Yeah, good point."

"Get over it, Harry. We're still alive and relatively healthy--"

"Aside from our cholesterol levels."

"--and we have all our friends still--"

"Easy for you to say, you still have your parents and family alive."

"Shut up! Honestly, considering the outcome things could've been worse. Way worse. We could have Hermione's job, for instance."

"Yeah. True. Whatever, I think I've spent enough time awake today. Seventeen hours of sleep really takes it out of you. Night, Ron."

"It's only four thirty, but."

"Way past my bedtime."

"You'll be back for the O'Reilly drinking game, won't you?"

"Yeah, yeah. Back in a bit."

.

Scribble, stamp, punch, drop. Scribble, stamp, punch, drop.

Hermione's eyes watered as she filed the final Ministry report on Competition Legislation, noting, for the ninetieth time that day, that anti-competitive measures were the new black with the Ministry.

"Oh, Mudblood!"

She shuddered, and turned to face Draco Malfoy, who was leaning against her desk suggestively. Well, from his end it was suggestive. From her end, it was the final piece of evidence to prove to herself that suicide was a most valid option.

"Yes, Junior Undersecretary Malfoy?"

He strode up to her, waving a piece of parchment in front of her. "Do you notice what colour you've written this memo in?"

"Blue, sir."

"You do know my predilection for the colour green, don't you Mudblood?"

"It doesn't work very well with the Duplicify spell, sir. You know that you need at least two copies of each of these."

"Couldn't you just write them out twice?"

"Now, sir, that wouldn't be very good business practices. If I were to do that, then I wouldn't have enough time to do the rest of what is asked of me in this position. Sir."

Draco blinked for a second, and Hermione thought momentarily that she'd got one over him. It wasn't particularly hard to do, but it was rather a short-lived thrill, because his eyes resumed that horribly seedy gaze.

"Come here, Mudblood."

"Ugh." She walked over, her stiletto heel catching in the rug. "What is it, sir?"

"You've been a very bad girl, Hermione." The emphasis on her name made her want to scrape his genitals off with a cheese grater.

"You're married, you dirty sleazebag."

"Is Pansy here now? I think not. Now, bend over my desk like a good little girl, won't you?"

"You've finally seen 'Secretary', haven't you? I don't care what anyone says, James Spader can't be any creepier than you. And besides, for someone who hates Muggles you seem to know a lot about their erotic movies and pornography." She bent over the desk, picturing, amongst other things, a far happier place. It could be anywhere, she realised, that had Draco Malfoy's head impaled upon a stake.

"Silence!" He brought a hand down hard upon her backside. She rolled her eyes, inspecting the chipping clear nailpolish on her left hand.

"You're a naughty girl, Mudblood! Take that, and that!"

"Hurry up, would you? I have to make that delivery over to Number 10 by five."

"Shush! You will address me as master! And that!"

"Ouch! Bloody hell, are you that deprived at home that you have to take it out on me? You're a bloody menace."

"Yes, and you're a bloody Mudblood!" With that, he smacked her with his open palm, and she cried out loud, pulling herself off the desk and catching his ear with a round-house punch. He rubbed it a bit, grinning.

"Hadn't you best go off and make that delivery then?"

Hermione made a light humphing noise, and turned on her heels, straightening her skirt and fighting every last shred of dignity not to turn around and bury her heel into his chest.

.

An hour and a half later, she Apparated onto her front doorstep, pushing the door open to find Ron asleep, surrounded by filth. She slammed the door, and he awoke with a start.

"Hi, love, how was your day?"

"How was my day... this place is a HOVEL! Ron Weasley, I tell you, I work all day, busting my arse for that utter sadist, only to come home to a dirty pigsty! I'm sick of it! If you and Harry don't start pulling your weight--"

"Easy, easy." He led her onto the sofa, and sat her down. "What happened?"

"It's just a lot of little stuff, Ron. We have those cretins coming along tomorrow morning to pick up our rent, my feet are killing me from these bloody shoes, and I'm bloody pissed off! I tell you, I'm that far away from killing those idiot Malfoys."

"Sheesh, you'd bloody think that little spiv Malfoy finally saw 'Secretary' from the way you're carrying on." She crossed her arms and nodded. He slid his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in. "Poor Hermione. Poor, poor Hermione." He pulled the elastic from her hair, and his face was nearly engulfed by it. "Don't let things stress you out, love. How bout you and I go out tonight, just the two of us for a romantic dinner. All right?"

"You haven't cooked dinner, have you?"

"Not at all."

She stood, storming in the direction of the bathroom. The door slammed shut, and a piece of plaster fell on Ron's head. He could hear water running through the pipes above his head, and he lay back down on the couch.

His rest and relaxation was cut short, however, by a smart knock at the door. Fumbling about for his wand, he muttered Alohomora, the door opening to the ugly shaved head and pudding bowl haircut of Crabbe and Goyle.

"Rosencrantz. Guildenstern. How lovely to see you both."

"Where's the rent?"

"Come off it, you know we don't have to pay till the final Friday of the month. Tomorrow is Friday. Thus, today is Thursday, and we don't have to give you a red cent."

"Where's the rent?"

"Persistent, aren't you? Did your mothers smoke in pregnancy? I hear that damages your brain. Not Friday, no rent. Got it? Now rack off, it's time for O'Reilly, and I get the feeling that he's going to be using the word 'ideologue' today, and trust me, I want to get utterly smashed off my face."

Goyle nodded at Crabbe, who swiftly crossed the room and picked up Ron by the collar of his teeshirt. He squirmed a bit, eventually slacking off.

"Rent. Now."

"Help, Harry, Hermione! Ouch, let me go you great big idiot!"

The bathroom door swung open, and Hermione stepped out dripping wet, wrapped in a towel. Crabbe and Goyle swung an appreciative look over in her direction, which ended with her fist meeting Crabbe's nose.

"Let him down, you savant." Ron was dropped to the ground, and he nursed his neck and shoulders. "What are you two doing here, rent isn't due till tomorrow."

"New rules. Cough up."

"Just bloody pay them already, all right Ron?"

"Erm..."

"What?"

"D'you reckon that you could just... you know..."

"You've spent our money on drugs again, haven't you?"

He nodded. She rolled her eyes, and reached into the handbag on the ground. She pulled out a handful of gold, and pressed it into Goyle's hand.

"There. Now go away."

They nodded, Crabbe scrambling to his feet, and they Disapparated before she had a chance to shoot a decent hex in their direction. She glared down at Ron, who decided that cowering was a fantastic strategic move, whether she was in a towel or not.

"You spent our rent money on drugs."

"Oh, come on Hermione, they were on special!"

She turned on her heels, locking herself in the bedroom. From the sounds of things, there were a lot of drawers and cupboards being opened, and Ron heard a most distinctive sound: a suitcase being pulled down from storage space and dumped onto a bed.

"Hermione, please! Let me in! We can talk about this!"

"Go away, Ron."

Harry's bedroom door opened, and he stuck his head out. "What's going on out here?"

"Bugger if I know. Let me in!"

"No!"

"You breaking up with her, Ron?"

"No, we're--"

The door opened, and she stepped out, pulling a jumper on over a skin coloured bra. "I'm fed up with this, Ron! I really am! You do nothing all day, not even a bit of tidying up, and then you go and squander all the money I make on drugs! You're bloody pathetic."

"Please, Hermione, I can change, really, I'll go to a Muggle takeaway place and get a job, anything--"

Clothes shot into her suitcase, folding themselves neatly as she shoved shoes on top of them. "Seven years, Ron! Seven years and not a bloody marriage proposal or anything! I'm getting fed up, I really am, this is just... ugh!" She prised a blouse out of the grip of one of Ron's jerseys, and flung it in the direction of her suitcase.

"But I can change--"

"Too little, too late." She slammed the suitcase shut, and pulled it off the bed. "Ron, I need more than this, all right? I'm twenty-four now. I need a bit of stability in my life. I'm sick of living on kebabs and refried cod, you know?"

"But Hermio--"

"I'll be at Tonks' for the next few days if anyone wants me." She strode past them, knocking a cup of tea off the arm of a chair. "Crookshanks, where are you? Come on, you stupid thing..."

An elderly orange cat pulled itself out from behind the sofa, and she picked him up with her spare hand. He coughed up a bit of lolly wrapper, and looked rather displeased at being held.

"Goodbye, Ron."

"But, wait--"

She slammed the door, a loud crack indicating her departure. Harry looked at Ron, whose mouth was agape and his face drained of colour. He gulped a bit of air, and looked utterly helpless.

"You right, mate?"

"She... she... she..."

From the bottom of the stairwell, Harry could hear two familiar voices singing drunkenly, the volume increasing until they thudded to the top of the stairs and swung the door open, Mundungus Fletcher leaning on Lupin's shoulder. They stopped singing when they saw Ron's face, and sobered up a bit.

"Ron, you okay?"

He shook his head. Lupin disengaged himself from Mundungus, and patted him on the shoulder gently. "It's all right, Ron. Us men can tough it out."

He nodded, sinking onto the settee. Harry sat down beside him.

"I ought go make youse a nice cup 'o tea then, shan't I?" Mundungus slurred, and he disappeared into the kitchen. Lupin took the space beside Ron, still patting him on the shoulder.

"Sorry, Ron. Is it our fault?"

"Nah, mate. Reckon it's all mine." His voice choked up, and he turned his head down so the others couldn't see him crying. Harry felt him shaking, and flung himself onto his best friend.

"It's okay, mate, we're here, all right?"

"I don't want any bloody cheering up! Oh god, I'm such a bloody twat, what have I done? I'll never get another girlfriend..."

"Sure you will. Plenty more fish in the sea."

"That's a lie. Look at Lupin, he's still single after six months." On those words, Lupin stopped patting him on the shoulder.

"Come on, Ron. Just give it a couple of days and she'll be right as rain. Just tidy the place up a bit, go get a job or something. She'll come around."

Ron stopped sobbing, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He looked up at Harry, sniffing. "You think so?"

"Of course I think so. Now, you know what we should do now?"

"Start tidying up and try sell those drugs to get some rent money?"

"We can do all that tomorrow, all right? What we need to do now, however, is get really, really, really drunk - so drunk that we fall on the floor like idiots."

"Hear, hear," Lupin said. "I'll go grab the Pimms then, shall I?"

"Top idea, Lupin! Dung - you got any of that tequila left from your trip to old Mexico?"

"Aye, laddie, but it was claimed by Maggie, the dirty bint."

"Come on, lads. Let us scrape together our resources and throw Ron the biggest, drunkeningest party ever to be thrown in this flat! Let's forget, for a night, that we were defeated like 'Waterworld'. Let's not remember our surnames, let's... fuck it. Let's get boozed."

And so the night raged on in the humble Potter-Weasley-and-formerly-Granger household, where the wine did flow into a beckoning river of Dionysian delights; a true Bacchanalian orgy of testosterone, alcohol and tales regaled of monsters never really fought. They indeed forgot about their pitiful reality, their soggy carpet and their escalating bills, and for one night they were invincible men of the world.

***