Thursday, November 3rd, was Harry's day off. He didn't need a day off, not really, not after the previous day he'd had. Yet, here he was, back on the couch in his dusty kitchen. Long and narrow, his couch was cluttered with pillows leftover by generations of Blacks. They were covered in insignia, birds of prey and menacing foliage, unravelling at the seams. Harry worked his fingers in between brittle thread as he watched the mundane stretch of street past his kitchen windows.
The day was drab, the light lacklustre and grey. Damp winds patiently ate their path through the gaps in his ramshackle window frames and outside, bouts of yellowing leaves tumbled from the branches of the oak trees, settling on trunks and sticking to windshields. Harry should buy a car, he remembered – a thought from the day before yesterday, which lay one hundred and twenty days in the past. He should buy a car, paint it the most obnoxious colour he could find to add some interest to the hopelessly dreary street, Harry mused, then let the thought be blown away by the indifferent autumn wind.
The wireless was playing scratchy tunes, the ones that always doused his kitchen in a vague sense of melancholy, interrupted sporadically by Warren's tacky howler. No escaped magical beasts. No clouds raining ink or milk teeth. No Muggles getting off to pole dancing Animagi.
Harry's eyes fixed on his neighbour's door moments before it opened. Out stepped dressing-gown neighbour, his brows disgruntled caterpillars, his hand clutching pale sticky notes. Shuffling up the street, he stuck them to leftover rubbish bins, indignantly reminding his neighbours to wheel them back into their yards.
Harry yawned. The Dursleys would have liked the neighbour. His car was perfectly grey and his bins were kept firmly out of sight in a dark, dingy shed where they belonged. Shooting a spell at the sticky notes, Harry watched as they folded into paper cranes, took flight, then disappeared within moments.
The last of the cranes had just evaporated, leaving behind a hint of thin magic, then nothing, when Harry's phone blared its tinny, jangly melody. Jerking upright, he blew out a startled breath, then fished his phone from between the cushions. It was the group chat. Harry wasn't particularly fond of the group chat, but wondered if he'd missed it, during one hundred and twenty days all by himself.
Lads, Seamus texted, took one for the team. Paid the 2 Galleons for uncensored version of howler. Dean made a thumbs up appear below the message and Seamus went on. WORTH IT let me tell you, he claimed, and filthyyy. What followed was a perfect transcription of the howler, sans banshee wails.
What a waste of money, Ginny assessed. It was kinda obvious it was about piss, no?
Well then, Harry thought. This was a far cry from the text chain of the first iteration of November 3rd.
Speaking off Wood's piss kink, Seamus followed up when Harry was browsing Grimmauld's storage for breakfast – tea and a handful of pistachios – Does anyone happen to have his number? It's about time he let go of Warrington and then let go all over me instead if you know what I mean.
Harry grinned at his screen despite himself and Neville got a handful of exploding head reactions in before Hermione swept in, reminding everyone of the importance of privacy and social grace.
Alright, alright, Seamus texted. Are we still on for pub night tho?
Harry didn't much like the pub Seamus favoured, drab and a tad musty and an endless supply of bitter beer, but he was quietly looking forward to going regardless. Fortunately, for once, Harry had got lucky with the day Mysteries had chosen as The One. He wouldn't arrive at the pub empty handed: he'd bring a croquembouche, and he'd bring gossip on Malfoy.
YOU ARE READING
Cut From the Sky
Fanfiction"I'm stuck in a time loop, reliving November 2nd. This is the 111th time I've lived through today." Draco stilled. His moody eyes, the tension in his hands where he gripped onto his umbrella, the careful mask of blankness flickering over his face...
