HARRY POTTER AND THE TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO-GOOD, VERY BAD DAY (R) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: Harry Potter and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry, Harry/Dobby (NOT REAL!)
Word Count: 2,615
Rating: R
Warnings: SERIOUS ICK AND SQUICK IN THE FIRST SCENE. Total crack.
Summary: Some days, you just shouldn't get out of bed. Or go to sleep at all, the night beforehand.
A/N: Written for Harry month at helmet_fest2008, for the prompt 'Harry Potter and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day'.
If you are delicate of constitution, DO NOT READ THE FIRST SCENE. Just scroll down until the italics end.
Blame for those first 106 words rests entirely with redsnake05, and it's only because I fought hard that she didn't make me put aliens and UFOs in there, too.
If you have not read the original children's story this fic was based on, CLICK HERE
Apologies to JKR and Judith Viorst. Real, serious, heartfelt apologies.
Harry struggled against the cords that bound him to the bed. His wand was far across the room, out of reach, and his wandless incantation didn’t seem to be any use against House Elf magic.
“No... please...” he begged, but his captor wasn’t swayed.
He felt the gentle brush of another spell over his bare crotch, and knew it must be completely hairless by now.
“Why?” he gasped through parched lips.
The small figure had climbed up to straddle him now.
‘Dobby must do it, sir,” he explained, his eyes gleaming, “for Harry Potter’s own good.”
Dobby reached down and began to unknot his tea towel...
Harry sat bolt upright in bed with a yell. And gagged.
He ignored the mumbled protest from the other side of the bed, and hurled himself out from under the covers, vaguely aiming himself in the direction of the door. One step, two, and he sprawled, full length on the floor, his legs tangled painfully with his new Nimbus.
Harry swallowed back a mouthful of bile, pulled himself up, and hobbled slowly to the bathroom to throw up.
When he’d finished purging his body of everything he’d ever eaten, he went to brush his teeth and realised his hair was a bit messier that usual. On close inspection, it seemed a bit... crusty.
A moment’s careful thought, and he recalled last night; Ron groaning and jerking spasmodically as Harry mouthed his balls, the wet splatter that Harry had wiped off his cheek, laughing. Apparently, he’d missed some in the cleanup. Quite a lot, from the looks of things.
Harry stepped into the shower with a resigned sigh. At least if he made the water cold enough, it’d get rid of his hard-on.
***
Harry stomped down to the kitchen in a bit of a snit.
Hermione gave him a Look that made him feel about eight years old. It made him angrier.
Ron had that blissful ‘I got some last night’ look on his face, and appeared completely oblivious to Harry’s mood as he munched his toast. Harry thought he might just hate him.
“Mail’s here,” Ron mumbled around a mouthful of toast, just as Harry discovered they were out of Earl Grey and Ron had used the last of the milk.
Hermione enthused over the latest issue of Transfiguration Today. Ron was reading the Cannons newsletter, getting crumbs all over it, the table and the floor Harry had mopped yesterday, and still not noticing Harry’s mood.
“What did you get, Harry?” Hermione asked, as Harry unfolded a rather formal looking letter.
Mr Potter, the letter began. We are writing on behalf of our client...
“I’m getting sued,” he said blankly, disbelieving. “That nutter I arrested last month is claiming ‘unnecessary force’ was used.”
Ron snorted with laughter, inhaling toast and descending into a coughing fit.
Hermione actually giggled, too. “That man with the chicken?”
“Yeah. Him,” Harry said, staring at the bit of parchment, thick and creamy and official.
She slapped Ron helpfully on the back, and casually flapped her hand at Harry, unconcerned. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” she said, going back to her magazine.
“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said, through gritted teeth.
***
When Harry got in the elevator at the Ministry, he was instantly shoved to the back by a crush of people all fighting to get to their offices on time.
“This is my floor,” Harry wheezed, a minute later.
“My floor!” he gasped, a little louder, when no one moved.
The doors closed, and it was at least five minutes before he managed to fight his way to the front of the pack and push the button for his level again.
“You’re late,” his boss growled when he stumbled into the Auror Department another five minutes later.
“Got stuck in the elevator,” he explained.
“Pull the other one,” the grizzled Auror snarled. “You couldn’t even be bothered to dress properly. Slept in, did you?”
Harry looked down at his robes, creased and rumpled from the crush.
“Tidy yourself up and do your job,” the man snapped, stalking back to his office.
“I didn’t sleep in,” Harry mumbled, belatedly, after the door slammed.
When Harry got to his desk, there was a chicken on it that hadn’t been there the day before. It cocked its head and clucked at him curiously.
The other Trainees, hovering nearby, sniggered.
“Bastards,” Harry muttered, and they laughed louder.
He squinted at the chicken, and ran his wand over it experimentally. Just as he thought. A reverse Transfiguration later, and the chicken was gone, replaced by a newspaper.
Potter Unhinged and Dangerous! the headline of the Daily Prophet screamed. I Feared For My Life, Wizard Claims. See Pages 2,5,6 and 7 for our exclusive story. They had a bad paparazzi photo of Harry looking harried and wide-eyed, taken only weeks after the end of the War. Rita Skeeter winked and smirked from the header of the article. The nutter from the arrest looked forlorn and vulnerable. He was cradling a chicken in his arms, and even it looked sad.
He was so screwed.
Harry ignored the open laughter from his colleagues, while silently wishing them seeping, painful ulcers on their genitalia. He sat down at his desk, Scourgified chicken shit off his important paper work, his favourite quill and his Gryffindor mug before staring into space for a good fifteen minutes. He thought about Australia, which Hermione had said was nice, but hot. He wondered if they needed Aurors there. And whether they minded chicken-related indiscretions in said Aurors’ pasts, or if they were willing to overlook such indignities.
After being barked at four different times for four different minor things by his angry boss, Harry finally managed to escape upstairs to buy lunch. When he saw there was nothing left in the bain-marie but chicken cordon bleu, his stomach rolled, and he made do with an apple, and tried not to make eye contact with the friendly old Elf who served him.
As he turned away, he absently ghosted a hand across the front of his robes, as if to assure himself that his bits were still there, intact and as hairy as they had been yesterday. A witch waiting in line gasped and murmured something to her colleague. Harry blushed brilliantly and rushed out as quickly as he could. Tomorrow, he knew, the Prophet would be running a three page exclusive on him masturbating in public.
He wondered, a little wildly, if the witch would be holding a chicken, too, when they took her picture.
***
Since he’d not bought a meal, and he had some time to spare, he thought he’d wander down to Wheezes to grumble to Ron about his bad day. He needed someone to listen, and to sympathise.
Unfortunately, Ron was rushed off his feet.
“No time!” he said, as he hastily stuffed a customer’s purchases into a bag, thanked them, and began processing the next sale. “Just give me ten minutes, yeah? You can wait out the back, just don’t touch anything.”
Harry sat out in the back room, on the safest looking chair, and ate his apple. It was bruised and soft, and he felt rather robbed, having spent a whole Sickle on it. When it was reduced to nothing but a core and pips, he tossed it in the rubbish bin in the corner. There was an ominous rumble.
Moments later, he was choking for air.
“What did you do?” Ron asked, when they stood on the street (a safe distance away) minutes later, surrounded by wheezing customers and curious passers-by. George was inside, Bubble Head Charm in place, decontaminating the workroom, the shop, and his flat above.
“Apple core... bin... in the corner... ” Harry coughed.
Ron’s eyes sank slowly shut in despair. “It was Garrotting Gas in there, brewing cold. You activated it.”
“Sorry... ” Harry spluttered.
“Just... just don’t come by work any more, will you? I shouldn’t have let you back there. I’ll be lucky not to get fired,” Ron muttered, morosely.
Harry apologised again, and went back to work. Because he was late back from his break, his boss shouted at him to ‘just go home’, and that him he’d better be in on time tomorrow. Harry walked out of the Department in a fine fury - and immediately ran into Draco Malfoy.
There may have been words spoken. There may have been sneers involved. All Harry knew was that Draco shoved him first, and said something which involved the word ‘chicken’. Harry punched him.
“A week’s suspension, without pay, Potter!” Harry’s boss roared, when the Aurors pulled him off Malfoy. “Get your act together! Or else!”
Malfoy looked appropriately sad and bruised, though he smirked through bleeding lips at Harry when Harry’s boss wasn’t looking.
Harry wondered if the International Portkey office had an afternoon service, and how late he could buy a ticket and check in for passage to Australia. One way.
***
He went to Muggle London, hoping to buy something new he’d seen in a magazine to make peace with Ron.
“All sold out,” the clerk at fifth store he went to told him. “It’s a problem with the supplier; country wide. I could take your details. We’ll have new stock in six to eight weeks.”
Harry added his name and address to a frighteningly long list of disgruntled customers, and Apparated home. When he walked into the kitchen, an unusual smell assailed his nostrils.
“Ah,” he said. “Your night, is it?”
“I thought we could try something new!” Hermione said enthusiastically, from behind an enormous cookbook labelled Eat Vegan: 1001 Tasty Meals for a Magical New You!
At least two tins of butter beans sat purposefully beside a number of other ominously green and healthy looking things. In a bowl on the counter, bits of something spongy were marinating in soy sauce. When he checked the fridge, there was still no milk, and the butter, cheese and eggs were noticeable by their absence. He didn’t even bother to check the freezer, knowing his not-long-purchased, much-loved, expensive strawberry ice cream would have been Banished, along with any other animal origin products, and replaced with something vile and plant-based.
“Not again!” Harry whined. “Even you hated it last time!”
“We didn’t try hard enough,” Hermione declared, spelling the tins open and emptying the beans into a sieve to rinse. “If we eat this way, we’ll be much healthier. We just didn’t find the right meals, before. There are plenty we didn’t taste.”
Harry gave up, and went to sulk in front of the television. It was no use arguing with her when she went on this sort of kick, which she did every two months or so, like clockwork, before dairy, eggs, and finally meat crept back into the fridge again, as if she thought that by reintroducing them slowly, they wouldn’t notice.
Unfortunately, because he was home a bit earlier than usual, there was nothing on but soap operas. He watched one for five minutes, before he couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’m going for a shower,” he muttered as he stalked past Hermione on the way to the bathroom. She was burning something in a frying pan. It smelt like rubber and grass.
“You had one this morning!” she yelled, continuing to shout something about the water bill, even after he’d shut the door.
The shower failed to relax Harry. He got soap in his eyes, and when he tried to wash it off, the pipes clunked and suddenly the water ran scorching hot. He leapt out of the cubicle, jarring his elbow as he thudded against the opposite wall.
“Sorry!” Hermione’s faint shout echoed through the door. “I needed the water right then, or it would have spread to the curtains!”
Harry sank to the tiles and whimpered. When he emerged, Hermione was gnawing on something charred, grinning falsely and trying not to gag.
“I think it’ll be all right if I add some more soy sauce,” she said hopefully.
Harry huffed, disbelievingly. “I’m ordering a curry,” he said, reaching for the Floo Directory.
“You will do no such thing!” Hermione snapped, eyes sparking with rage.
Harry retreated to his bedroom.
“It’s for your own good, Harry Potter!” Hermione shouted after him.
Harry shuddered. He wondered if Australia had quite so many sometimes-Vegans, and whether they always caved in and gorged on medium-rare steaks when their ‘time of the month’ got close. Well, the female ones, anyway. Based on nearly three years of living with Hermione, they had approximately two weeks of eating burnt beans and undercooked vegetables, and vice versa, until Hermione’s lust for meat kicked in again, and their fridge would be returned to its natural state.
His bed lay stripped and bare. He’d forgotten it was his turn to make it. Ron would have taken the sheets off to wash before he left for work this morning. Harry didn’t know whether he wanted to brave the Vegan Amazon crashing pots and pans with a vengeance, so he sat on the edge of the bed and felt sorry for himself. Even his pyjamas were gone. Ron would have taken them, too, and Harry just knew the only ones left in the drawer were the awful ones he’d gotten for Christmas last year from Molly; garishly patterned with the Hogwarts Express, too long in the legs and arms, and too short in the crotch. He’d wake up with chafed balls, for sure, and without even a pleasant reason for it.
***
Harry knew exactly when Ron tumbled out of the Floo, because he heard raised voices, and the volume of pan crashing increased. It built to a crescendo, and then he heard stomping footsteps approaching his doorway.
The door opened and shut again, rather hastily.
“Bit touchy, isn’t she?” Ron said, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Is it her... er...?”
Harry shook his head. “Two weeks, yet. She’s got that book out again.”
Ron’s face fell. “I had milk chocolate in the fridge. A whole block of it.” He slumped down next to Harry. “Well, most of a block.”
Harry patted his shoulder consolingly. “I understand.”
Ron looked at Harry, sympathy and sorrow in his eyes. “You, too?”
“Ice cream,” Harry told him.
Ron winced. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Harry let his arm drop and rested his head on Ron’s shoulder. “Let’s move to Australia,” he said, suddenly.
“What?”
“I hate my life,” Harry clarified.
“Oh, right,” Ron said, nodding. “I saw the Prophet.”
“I could be an Auror... or whatever they call Aurors in Australia. You could launch Wheezes down under. It’d be brilliant.”
“I’d get sunburnt,” Ron countered. “I’d have to only go outside when it was dark.”
“I’d work the Night Shift, and we’d buy really thick curtains and sleep in the daytime.”
“George says thank you, by the way. Something in the apple core made the gas spread twice as quickly as it normally does, and over a wider area. He thinks it might be the seeds. He’s testing it.” Ron had his arm across Harry’s shoulders, now. His fingers were threaded through Harry’s hair, gently massaging his scalp.
“You’re not fired, then?” Harry asked.
“Nope.”
“That’s good,” Harry sighed, relaxing a little further.
“So, what made you want to move to Australia?” Ron asked, the pad of his thumb rubbing in a firm circle at the base of Harry’s skull.
“Terrible day. Really horrible,” Harry answered.
“Well, it’d do no good leaving the country,” Ron said, with an audible smile.
“Very bad,” Harry emphasised.
“Mum says, some days are just like that,” Ron said, planting a gentle kiss on Harry’s forehead. “Even in Australia.”
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry, Harry/Dobby (NOT REAL!)
Word Count: 2,615
Rating: R
Warnings: SERIOUS ICK AND SQUICK IN THE FIRST SCENE. Total crack.
Summary: Some days, you just shouldn't get out of bed. Or go to sleep at all, the night beforehand.
A/N: Written for Harry month at helmet_fest2008, for the prompt 'Harry Potter and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day'.
If you are delicate of constitution, DO NOT READ THE FIRST SCENE. Just scroll down until the italics end.
Blame for those first 106 words rests entirely with redsnake05, and it's only because I fought hard that she didn't make me put aliens and UFOs in there, too.
If you have not read the original children's story this fic was based on, CLICK HERE
Apologies to JKR and Judith Viorst. Real, serious, heartfelt apologies.
Harry struggled against the cords that bound him to the bed. His wand was far across the room, out of reach, and his wandless incantation didn’t seem to be any use against House Elf magic.
“No... please...” he begged, but his captor wasn’t swayed.
He felt the gentle brush of another spell over his bare crotch, and knew it must be completely hairless by now.
“Why?” he gasped through parched lips.
The small figure had climbed up to straddle him now.
‘Dobby must do it, sir,” he explained, his eyes gleaming, “for Harry Potter’s own good.”
Dobby reached down and began to unknot his tea towel...
Harry sat bolt upright in bed with a yell. And gagged.
He ignored the mumbled protest from the other side of the bed, and hurled himself out from under the covers, vaguely aiming himself in the direction of the door. One step, two, and he sprawled, full length on the floor, his legs tangled painfully with his new Nimbus.
Harry swallowed back a mouthful of bile, pulled himself up, and hobbled slowly to the bathroom to throw up.
When he’d finished purging his body of everything he’d ever eaten, he went to brush his teeth and realised his hair was a bit messier that usual. On close inspection, it seemed a bit... crusty.
A moment’s careful thought, and he recalled last night; Ron groaning and jerking spasmodically as Harry mouthed his balls, the wet splatter that Harry had wiped off his cheek, laughing. Apparently, he’d missed some in the cleanup. Quite a lot, from the looks of things.
Harry stepped into the shower with a resigned sigh. At least if he made the water cold enough, it’d get rid of his hard-on.
***
Harry stomped down to the kitchen in a bit of a snit.
Hermione gave him a Look that made him feel about eight years old. It made him angrier.
Ron had that blissful ‘I got some last night’ look on his face, and appeared completely oblivious to Harry’s mood as he munched his toast. Harry thought he might just hate him.
“Mail’s here,” Ron mumbled around a mouthful of toast, just as Harry discovered they were out of Earl Grey and Ron had used the last of the milk.
Hermione enthused over the latest issue of Transfiguration Today. Ron was reading the Cannons newsletter, getting crumbs all over it, the table and the floor Harry had mopped yesterday, and still not noticing Harry’s mood.
“What did you get, Harry?” Hermione asked, as Harry unfolded a rather formal looking letter.
Mr Potter, the letter began. We are writing on behalf of our client...
“I’m getting sued,” he said blankly, disbelieving. “That nutter I arrested last month is claiming ‘unnecessary force’ was used.”
Ron snorted with laughter, inhaling toast and descending into a coughing fit.
Hermione actually giggled, too. “That man with the chicken?”
“Yeah. Him,” Harry said, staring at the bit of parchment, thick and creamy and official.
She slapped Ron helpfully on the back, and casually flapped her hand at Harry, unconcerned. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” she said, going back to her magazine.
“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said, through gritted teeth.
***
When Harry got in the elevator at the Ministry, he was instantly shoved to the back by a crush of people all fighting to get to their offices on time.
“This is my floor,” Harry wheezed, a minute later.
“My floor!” he gasped, a little louder, when no one moved.
The doors closed, and it was at least five minutes before he managed to fight his way to the front of the pack and push the button for his level again.
“You’re late,” his boss growled when he stumbled into the Auror Department another five minutes later.
“Got stuck in the elevator,” he explained.
“Pull the other one,” the grizzled Auror snarled. “You couldn’t even be bothered to dress properly. Slept in, did you?”
Harry looked down at his robes, creased and rumpled from the crush.
“Tidy yourself up and do your job,” the man snapped, stalking back to his office.
“I didn’t sleep in,” Harry mumbled, belatedly, after the door slammed.
When Harry got to his desk, there was a chicken on it that hadn’t been there the day before. It cocked its head and clucked at him curiously.
The other Trainees, hovering nearby, sniggered.
“Bastards,” Harry muttered, and they laughed louder.
He squinted at the chicken, and ran his wand over it experimentally. Just as he thought. A reverse Transfiguration later, and the chicken was gone, replaced by a newspaper.
Potter Unhinged and Dangerous! the headline of the Daily Prophet screamed. I Feared For My Life, Wizard Claims. See Pages 2,5,6 and 7 for our exclusive story. They had a bad paparazzi photo of Harry looking harried and wide-eyed, taken only weeks after the end of the War. Rita Skeeter winked and smirked from the header of the article. The nutter from the arrest looked forlorn and vulnerable. He was cradling a chicken in his arms, and even it looked sad.
He was so screwed.
Harry ignored the open laughter from his colleagues, while silently wishing them seeping, painful ulcers on their genitalia. He sat down at his desk, Scourgified chicken shit off his important paper work, his favourite quill and his Gryffindor mug before staring into space for a good fifteen minutes. He thought about Australia, which Hermione had said was nice, but hot. He wondered if they needed Aurors there. And whether they minded chicken-related indiscretions in said Aurors’ pasts, or if they were willing to overlook such indignities.
After being barked at four different times for four different minor things by his angry boss, Harry finally managed to escape upstairs to buy lunch. When he saw there was nothing left in the bain-marie but chicken cordon bleu, his stomach rolled, and he made do with an apple, and tried not to make eye contact with the friendly old Elf who served him.
As he turned away, he absently ghosted a hand across the front of his robes, as if to assure himself that his bits were still there, intact and as hairy as they had been yesterday. A witch waiting in line gasped and murmured something to her colleague. Harry blushed brilliantly and rushed out as quickly as he could. Tomorrow, he knew, the Prophet would be running a three page exclusive on him masturbating in public.
He wondered, a little wildly, if the witch would be holding a chicken, too, when they took her picture.
***
Since he’d not bought a meal, and he had some time to spare, he thought he’d wander down to Wheezes to grumble to Ron about his bad day. He needed someone to listen, and to sympathise.
Unfortunately, Ron was rushed off his feet.
“No time!” he said, as he hastily stuffed a customer’s purchases into a bag, thanked them, and began processing the next sale. “Just give me ten minutes, yeah? You can wait out the back, just don’t touch anything.”
Harry sat out in the back room, on the safest looking chair, and ate his apple. It was bruised and soft, and he felt rather robbed, having spent a whole Sickle on it. When it was reduced to nothing but a core and pips, he tossed it in the rubbish bin in the corner. There was an ominous rumble.
Moments later, he was choking for air.
“What did you do?” Ron asked, when they stood on the street (a safe distance away) minutes later, surrounded by wheezing customers and curious passers-by. George was inside, Bubble Head Charm in place, decontaminating the workroom, the shop, and his flat above.
“Apple core... bin... in the corner... ” Harry coughed.
Ron’s eyes sank slowly shut in despair. “It was Garrotting Gas in there, brewing cold. You activated it.”
“Sorry... ” Harry spluttered.
“Just... just don’t come by work any more, will you? I shouldn’t have let you back there. I’ll be lucky not to get fired,” Ron muttered, morosely.
Harry apologised again, and went back to work. Because he was late back from his break, his boss shouted at him to ‘just go home’, and that him he’d better be in on time tomorrow. Harry walked out of the Department in a fine fury - and immediately ran into Draco Malfoy.
There may have been words spoken. There may have been sneers involved. All Harry knew was that Draco shoved him first, and said something which involved the word ‘chicken’. Harry punched him.
“A week’s suspension, without pay, Potter!” Harry’s boss roared, when the Aurors pulled him off Malfoy. “Get your act together! Or else!”
Malfoy looked appropriately sad and bruised, though he smirked through bleeding lips at Harry when Harry’s boss wasn’t looking.
Harry wondered if the International Portkey office had an afternoon service, and how late he could buy a ticket and check in for passage to Australia. One way.
***
He went to Muggle London, hoping to buy something new he’d seen in a magazine to make peace with Ron.
“All sold out,” the clerk at fifth store he went to told him. “It’s a problem with the supplier; country wide. I could take your details. We’ll have new stock in six to eight weeks.”
Harry added his name and address to a frighteningly long list of disgruntled customers, and Apparated home. When he walked into the kitchen, an unusual smell assailed his nostrils.
“Ah,” he said. “Your night, is it?”
“I thought we could try something new!” Hermione said enthusiastically, from behind an enormous cookbook labelled Eat Vegan: 1001 Tasty Meals for a Magical New You!
At least two tins of butter beans sat purposefully beside a number of other ominously green and healthy looking things. In a bowl on the counter, bits of something spongy were marinating in soy sauce. When he checked the fridge, there was still no milk, and the butter, cheese and eggs were noticeable by their absence. He didn’t even bother to check the freezer, knowing his not-long-purchased, much-loved, expensive strawberry ice cream would have been Banished, along with any other animal origin products, and replaced with something vile and plant-based.
“Not again!” Harry whined. “Even you hated it last time!”
“We didn’t try hard enough,” Hermione declared, spelling the tins open and emptying the beans into a sieve to rinse. “If we eat this way, we’ll be much healthier. We just didn’t find the right meals, before. There are plenty we didn’t taste.”
Harry gave up, and went to sulk in front of the television. It was no use arguing with her when she went on this sort of kick, which she did every two months or so, like clockwork, before dairy, eggs, and finally meat crept back into the fridge again, as if she thought that by reintroducing them slowly, they wouldn’t notice.
Unfortunately, because he was home a bit earlier than usual, there was nothing on but soap operas. He watched one for five minutes, before he couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’m going for a shower,” he muttered as he stalked past Hermione on the way to the bathroom. She was burning something in a frying pan. It smelt like rubber and grass.
“You had one this morning!” she yelled, continuing to shout something about the water bill, even after he’d shut the door.
The shower failed to relax Harry. He got soap in his eyes, and when he tried to wash it off, the pipes clunked and suddenly the water ran scorching hot. He leapt out of the cubicle, jarring his elbow as he thudded against the opposite wall.
“Sorry!” Hermione’s faint shout echoed through the door. “I needed the water right then, or it would have spread to the curtains!”
Harry sank to the tiles and whimpered. When he emerged, Hermione was gnawing on something charred, grinning falsely and trying not to gag.
“I think it’ll be all right if I add some more soy sauce,” she said hopefully.
Harry huffed, disbelievingly. “I’m ordering a curry,” he said, reaching for the Floo Directory.
“You will do no such thing!” Hermione snapped, eyes sparking with rage.
Harry retreated to his bedroom.
“It’s for your own good, Harry Potter!” Hermione shouted after him.
Harry shuddered. He wondered if Australia had quite so many sometimes-Vegans, and whether they always caved in and gorged on medium-rare steaks when their ‘time of the month’ got close. Well, the female ones, anyway. Based on nearly three years of living with Hermione, they had approximately two weeks of eating burnt beans and undercooked vegetables, and vice versa, until Hermione’s lust for meat kicked in again, and their fridge would be returned to its natural state.
His bed lay stripped and bare. He’d forgotten it was his turn to make it. Ron would have taken the sheets off to wash before he left for work this morning. Harry didn’t know whether he wanted to brave the Vegan Amazon crashing pots and pans with a vengeance, so he sat on the edge of the bed and felt sorry for himself. Even his pyjamas were gone. Ron would have taken them, too, and Harry just knew the only ones left in the drawer were the awful ones he’d gotten for Christmas last year from Molly; garishly patterned with the Hogwarts Express, too long in the legs and arms, and too short in the crotch. He’d wake up with chafed balls, for sure, and without even a pleasant reason for it.
***
Harry knew exactly when Ron tumbled out of the Floo, because he heard raised voices, and the volume of pan crashing increased. It built to a crescendo, and then he heard stomping footsteps approaching his doorway.
The door opened and shut again, rather hastily.
“Bit touchy, isn’t she?” Ron said, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Is it her... er...?”
Harry shook his head. “Two weeks, yet. She’s got that book out again.”
Ron’s face fell. “I had milk chocolate in the fridge. A whole block of it.” He slumped down next to Harry. “Well, most of a block.”
Harry patted his shoulder consolingly. “I understand.”
Ron looked at Harry, sympathy and sorrow in his eyes. “You, too?”
“Ice cream,” Harry told him.
Ron winced. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Harry let his arm drop and rested his head on Ron’s shoulder. “Let’s move to Australia,” he said, suddenly.
“What?”
“I hate my life,” Harry clarified.
“Oh, right,” Ron said, nodding. “I saw the Prophet.”
“I could be an Auror... or whatever they call Aurors in Australia. You could launch Wheezes down under. It’d be brilliant.”
“I’d get sunburnt,” Ron countered. “I’d have to only go outside when it was dark.”
“I’d work the Night Shift, and we’d buy really thick curtains and sleep in the daytime.”
“George says thank you, by the way. Something in the apple core made the gas spread twice as quickly as it normally does, and over a wider area. He thinks it might be the seeds. He’s testing it.” Ron had his arm across Harry’s shoulders, now. His fingers were threaded through Harry’s hair, gently massaging his scalp.
“You’re not fired, then?” Harry asked.
“Nope.”
“That’s good,” Harry sighed, relaxing a little further.
“So, what made you want to move to Australia?” Ron asked, the pad of his thumb rubbing in a firm circle at the base of Harry’s skull.
“Terrible day. Really horrible,” Harry answered.
“Well, it’d do no good leaving the country,” Ron said, with an audible smile.
“Very bad,” Harry emphasised.
“Mum says, some days are just like that,” Ron said, planting a gentle kiss on Harry’s forehead. “Even in Australia.”