the cadence of part time poets

Chapter 22: Aftermath

My head hurts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus,
It's that kind of mornin';
Really was that kind of night,
Tryin' to tell myself that my condition is improvin',
And if I don't die by Thursday I'll be roarin' Friday night...

- "My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink, And I Don't Love Jesus" Jimmy Buffet, 1976

Mary had been right, sixteen felt completely different from fifteen. Before that morning he'd been simpler, less world-weary, and perhaps might've even been able to see the humour in his current circumstances, but now, at a fresh sixteen, Remus would've done just about anything to free himself from the penance that came with a night of heavy drinking.

After spending his birthday mixing liquors and drinking their weight in vodka, whisky, and tequila—though where that had come from, Remus still wasn't sure—the four boys woke up to the sound of Benjy Fenwick mercilessly banging two pots together outside their door.

"UP AND AT 'EM BOYS!" He shouted through the wood. "THE EARLY BIRD GETS THE WORM, RIGHT? OR IS IT THE HANGOVER, POTTER?"

Remus sat up on his bed and felt instantly sick. His mouth felt like sandpaper and tasted like a cross between a muddy puddle and the dregs at the bottom of a three day-old beer. Across from him Sirius stared back, dark hair falling over his face like a limp curtain.

"Who fuckin' ratted to the dorm monitor?" Sirius grumbled.

There was a groan, and next James was upright, his dark skin looking distinctly ashen. "Got caught on the way in last night," he grimaced. He appeared as though he might elaborate, but cut himself off when he clapped his hand over his mouth and nearly hung himself with his bed curtains, busy making a beeline for the toilet.

Remus sighed and looked to his alarm clock—7AM. "Who's going to tell Potter he actually got caught coming in this morning?" He sighed, tugging his sheets back and swinging his legs around the side of the bed, only to step directly onto Peter, who must've passed out on the floor between their beds.

"Ah! Fucking hell, Pete!"

"Stick a sock in it, Lupin," Peter moaned from the floor, head propped up on a small pile of Remus' books.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"LET'S GO LADS, THE DAY IS YOUNG AND SO ARE WE!"

At Benjy's insistence, all four of them hauled themselves out of bed by 7.30 and made the trek down to the dining hall, moving like the living dead. The trolley was to be avoided, out of sheer fear for losing whatever hellish sludge was left in their stomachs on the ride. Instead they took the regular path to the Hawkings Dining Hall, squinting and wincing in the bright morning light only to be assaulted by the fluorescents once inside. Plenty of kids turned to stares as they crossed the hall to their regular table—and why wouldn't they? For them it was just a regular Thursday, not a morning to deal with the repentance of drinking way past the normal human limit.

"Hey Cindy," Sirius said, stopping by another table to tap a girl on the shoulder, "got a hair bobble? Lost mine."

"Uh, yeah, here you go," Cindy mumbled, taking the elastic from around her wrist and holding it out to Sirius, eyes as wide as a goldfish. She'd probably never seen the great Sirius Black looking so ragged, but at least he wore the look with some sense of achievement. Remus didn't even want to think about how his hair looked.

Slumping down at the table, Peter gave a horrible groan, cradling his head in his arms.

"Whose idea was it to wake up today?" James breathed, sagging down next to him.