𝗷𝗮𝗻𝗲, harry potter

˗ˋ 127

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND
TWENTY SEVEN
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-: fifth year :-

── IN WHICH HARRY'S HUNGOVER

. . .

When Harry Potter woke up on the 8th of March 1996, it was with a pit in his stomach and a pounding headache. It was a Monday, which meant it was never going to be anything great, but the day before Gryffindor had lost to Hufflepuff by ten points and whilst, yes, Harry had the stupidity to feel some kind of inkling that had he been the one to catch the snitch (albeit Ginny was one of the best flyers he had ever seen) he might have been able to catch it before the points were racked up to 200-odd, he had joined several of the other Gryffindors in drinking away their sorrows with the alcohol sourced by Fred and George in case of a impromptu celebration party.

And even though Ron had woken him up by attempting to shove one of those magical hangover potions down Harry's throat at the sound of his alarm clock going off once again - he had been reaching out from the depths of heavy Gryffindor-coloured covers to slap the hunk of black plastic on his nightstand so far - he didn't feel any better by the time he had showered and almost strangled himself with his own stupid tie.

He had drunk twice the amount of those potions than he felt was probably the legal limit, if the wizarding world had any kind of laws surrounding that kind of thing and still, nothing could divide the feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had forgotten to put on his glasses twice, and when he finally found them the third time, his eyes were drawn to the Chudley Cannons calendar Ron kept by his desk, days which had been crossed off with Hermione's bright red felt tip pen, and the pit in his stomach only deepened.

Straight through, as though his stomach had fallen to the pits of hell and no hangover-fixing potion could ever remedy it.

Because it was his girlfriend's birthday and because of Umbridge and Voldemort he could do nothing but pray to find a quiet moment to sneak out of the castle and send his letter and present. And of course, that quiet moment would never come because Umbridge had her little band of cult followers stalking the corridors.

"What's up with him?" Ginny asked, when he finally arrived at breakfast this morning, slipping into the left over space, reaching for one of the stacks of buttered toast and sipping tea from Ron's cup, glaring down at the lengthy wooden table as though it was laden with all kinds of breakfast foods that could so easily fix everything on the usual day.

"Hungover... and it's the 8th of March." Hermione snapped closed her notebook as she looked up.

"It is? I thought it was the seventh." Ron remarked, moving his mug to the other side of his plate, where his now-glaring friend couldn't reach. "What's so special about the 8th?"

"Nothing." Harry replied. "Absolutely nothing at all." He teeth bit at the inside of his lip, the stupid scar on his forehead twinging. "What lessons do we have today?" His question came out more of a grumble than anything, reaching to making his own cup of tea.

"History of Magic, Potions, Divination and... Defence Against the Dark Arts." Hermione replied, slowly. Warily. "Is your scar hurting, Harry?"

"Yeah. It always does." He replied. 

Hermione and Ron exchanged glances. 

"You don't think this could be related to something... someone else?" Hermione asked, tentatively. 

Harry didn't want to come off as a dick, and he knew he did sometimes. He could be cold, angry, overwhelmed with everything constantly happening around him when he didn't mean it. His tongue pushed against his teeth, biting back some kind of snappish reply about it obviously not being about his scar or his hangover or the fact he was banned from playing Quidditch and that there was a scar carved into his hand that would never fade, much like the one engraved in his forehead. 

And he didn't want to be too clingy, too reliant, but nothing had ever made sense, he had never felt so comfortable with someone, never knew anything like how Jane made him feel. Like he was normal, like he wasn't being hunted by a crazed dictator, like he didn't hold the fate of the rest of the wizarding world in the palm of his hand whenever Voldemort's plans came to fruition. 

Cedric had died because of him. His parents had died because of him. Neville's parents sat in St. Mungo's, unable to talk to their own son because of his, Arthur Weasley had been attacked because of him. None of it would ever be okay, he would never be able to forget that, but somehow, even for a moment, Jane allowed him to relax. 

And now it was her birthday and, because he was Harry Potter and there was danger in every shadow, every dark corner, every little crack and crevice he came across, there was no way he would be able to talk to her, to wish her well, to even let her know he was thinking about her. Somehow that was worse than his headache and absolutely everything else. 

"Can you tell Binns I'm not feeling well, if he even notices that I'm not there." Harry murmured, pushing himself up from the table. 

He could certainly afford to miss History of Magic that morning.  

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a/n
harry just loves his gf 
ok, he can be dramatic sometimes 
but seriously the guy has severe 
ptsd