Chapter Text
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking several times in a futile attempt to focus. Dazed, he reached out with his left hand, groping for his glasses on the nightstand until he finally found them and put them on. Sitting up in bed, a faint dizziness washed over him, prompting him to lean back against the headboard and let out a heavy, tired sigh while trying to sort through the jumble of memories—some vivid, others hazy.
He remembered drinking in his living room with Ron, talking about work, life, and everyday matters. He also remembered hugging Ron goodbye as he disappeared into the fireplace. Up to that point, everything had been fine.
He frowned, trying to dredge up more from yesterday, closing his eyes as memories slowly resurfaced.
Well, it had been a mistake to keep drinking after Ron left—but at the time, the idea of a few more drinks had seemed perfectly reasonable. That had led him to finish several bottles without noticing, already deep into his drunken haze. He couldn’t even remember how he had gotten to bed. He didn’t care much, but he tried to piece it together, straining every last bit of brainpower—which was a lot for Harry Potter, a man of action rather than thought.
Failing, he gave up on retrieving the rest of yesterday’s memories, assuming nothing too terrible had happened. How wrong he was.
He slid slowly out of bed, and when he stood, his body wobbled slightly from the returning hangover and the lingering traces of alcohol. He sat back on the edge of the bed, cradling his head in his hands, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Once it did, he scanned the room for his wand. Not finding it, he decided it was time to check the state of Grimmauld Place’s living room.
He descended the stairs slowly, his hand brushing the wall for support. At the bottom, he peeked into the living room and sighed with relief: nothing too bad. A few spells would have it looking as good as new. With purpose, he stepped inside and began searching for his wand. Minutes later, exhausted, he collapsed onto the sofa, listening to the portraits murmuring about his “lack of manners” and “poor taste,” according to the Black ancestors. He ignored them, long used to their chatter, resting his head on the arm of the sofa and closing his eyes.
After a few minutes, he decided enough was enough. Sitting up, he whispered a nonverbal spell to summon his wand, which flew—who knows from where—straight into his face.
Harry closed his eyes at the impact, catching it in his lap. With a few subtle movements, he whispered:
“Evanesco.”
The scattered bottles vanished.
Feeling a small sense of satisfaction at the restored order, he got up and went to the kitchen for breakfast. Not wanting to summon the house-elf, he rummaged through the cupboards and found some cereal. Eating it standing up from a bowl of milk he had conjured, he didn’t even glance at the morning newspaper—a mistake, Potter. Once finished, he searched more thoroughly for a potion to ease his hangover.
In the quiet of the… morning? Afternoon? Harry realized he had no idea what time it was. He raised his wand and conjured a Tempus: 11:54. A sigh of relief crossed his face—it wasn’t too late. Well, it was late if he counted work, entering around lunchtime. The advantage of being Harry Potter was that being late rarely mattered.
Not wanting to overuse his fame, he ran upstairs to his room, drank a potion to ease the hangover, and changed into a black turtleneck and blue jeans. Back in the living room, he cast firmly:
“Accio robe!”
The robe flew into his hand. He grabbed it, then tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace.
“Ministry of Magic!”
As the fireplace flared to life, Harry stepped in, hurriedly pulling on his robe.
He emerged from the fireplace with a faint smile, thinking about the cases he’d recently solved, slightly impatient for the new ones to be easy—a tall order for an Auror. Walking toward the magical elevators, he paid no mind to the gazes he’d grown used to over the years.
Arriving at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he stepped out and headed to his office, hoping to find Ron there.
He noticed the stares were sharper than usual, accompanied by whispers, murmurs, and giggles. Harry shrugged and continued. Ron appeared, mouth full of food, looking like he’d just seen a spider. He hurried toward Harry, dragging him into his office and slamming the door shut in panic.
“But… what?” Harry stammered, staggering slightly, eyes wide. “What was that, Ron?”
Ron looked flustered, shaking his head, voice trembling. “Mate…” he muttered, before the door burst open, revealing a flustered Hermione—a statement in itself.
Hermione scanned the room for Harry, closed the door behind her, and exchanged a quick look with Ron. Once they silently agreed it was enough, both turned to Harry, who stared back, bewildered.
“What’s going on?” he asked cautiously, sensing the tension in the room.
Hermione glanced at Ron, seeing him frozen and uncertain. She sighed, realizing it was her turn to speak. Watching Harry’s expression, she immediately knew he had no idea what was happening. “Uhm…” she began, hesitant, looking everywhere but at him.
Ron, snapping back to reality, whispered, “Brother…” He approached Harry, placing a hand on his shoulder and conjured a chair behind him. “You’d better sit down,” he said firmly.
Harry hesitated, eyes narrowing at Ron, then turned to Hermione, desperate for answers. Hermione, sensing his gaze, looked at him with compassion and a faintly maternal expression. She lingered a moment, searching for the right words.
“Harry…” she finally said, her voice full of compassion and sorrow, with something else he couldn’t quite place—but the tone alone told him he needed to sit down, and that what she was about to say wouldn’t be easy to hear.