Dancing to the Lizard King

Here’s some more fluff. Finals are over, I just barely made Dean’s List again, so hopefully I’ll get to write more now, without the distraction of schoolwork (not that I actually ever let schoolwork distract me from the infinitely more entertaining realm of fanfic). I got “brit-picked” on my last fic and it was just about the coolest thing ever, hope I didn’t screw this one up too bad, but if I did, feel free to let me know. I also think I screwed the World Cup match up thing up (I’m much more adept at understanding the World *Series*). Sorry ‘bout that.

disclaimer. . . if the rowling house is getting too full, I’d be happy to take in harry and lupin, till then, they’re not mine. don’t own the doors or ‘touch me’ either.

-- jamie

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I’m drunk.

I don’t even know that drunk covers it. Is there a stronger term? One that expresses a state of inebriation such that you can’t figure out which way your wand should point? One that lets people know that if they suggested that you spent the rest of your night with your trainers on your hands in an effort to get a better grip on your ale, you’d probably not only consider it, but actually do it?

No? There’s not? Ok, drunk shall suffice then.

I guess I have to explain a thing or two first. I have an amazingly articulate inner commentary while “drunk.” It doesn’t often manifest itself into my actual speech, but I can think rather clearly while thoroughly sloshed. I’ve thought about this and it’s inherently uncanny likeliness and can only draw a single conclusion. There’s a part of my brain, the one that deals with Voldemort and Death Eaters and all things evil, that refuses to shut down. Refuses to take a break. Refuses to feel the effects of buckets and buckets of the wizarding world’s finest ale.

Constant vigilance and all that.

While this theory has never been field tested, I think that this part of my brain remains minimally active throughout most of my nightly activities and I reckon that should some mortal danger enter the pub, say a dementor, that area of my brain would take over, kick the shit out of the speech-slurring, stumbling, part and conjure a proper patronus.

Bet I’d sober up right quickly too.

Such is life as Harry Potter.

Unfortunately (or, fortunately, I suppose), no mortal danger has been seen this evening and I’ve already done more stupid things than I can count.

See, this all started seventh year. Quidditch recruiters were coming from teams across the world to watch Hogwarts matches. I was recruited by the Flaggington Fireballs, a team that incidentally has the same colors as Gryffindor. Ron, while not having been recruited, tried out and made the team as a reserve beater. We’ve been playing for almost three years now. Ron’s no longer reserve and our team actually beat the Cannons just this afternoon. I suspect this caused some inner conflict for Ron, but he knocked bludgers with the best of them.

And so here we sit, in The Pointy Hat pub, celebrating our win. We have to celebrate the little things, there’s no hope of finals in the future. The Wasps and Puddlemere United are almost shoe-ins for the World Cup.

Our keeper, who looks and acts startlingly like a female Oliver Wood, and who incidentally is dating him, proclaimed upon our entrance to the pub that we each were only allowed three drinks, owing to a need to start training for our next match. She has obviously not resigned herself to the World Cup match-up that the rest of us have. She even told the barman not to sell us more.

Ron, showing more intelligence that he ever displayed at school, has recruited several pub patrons and, more importantly, quidditch fans, to buy us drinks. I think I’m on my seventh, but I can’t be sure. People keep calling out, “Another pint for The-Boy-Who-Lived?! Of course!” That’s my life, not just my night, so it’s all blurring together.

Despite this fluid and eloquent speech inside my head, so far tonight I have fallen down or walked into a wall no less than six times. I always sustain more injuries at the after-game parties than I do at the match. I’ve also roared like a lion at the couple on a date in the back, I think I then explained to them the significance of the roar, pointing out the Gryffindor colors and hence, the lion. I don’t think they understood, in fact, they looked quite nervous, but what do I care? I’m drunk. But most importantly, and ultimately the crowning achievement in my idiotic blunders, was calling Hermione on the floo network. Hermione, who is now an assistant professor at one of the most prestigious higher wizard education institutions in all the land, appeared to be up grading term papers. I insisted, nay, begged that she come join us at the pub. It took twenty minutes of cajoling and a promise that I wouldn’t drink more until she arrived, but she’s going to be apparating in any minute now.

I have to say I lied.

How am I to refuse a shot from Gerald-you-went-to-school-with-my-son-have-this-shot-on-me? Clearly, etiquette dictates that I couldn’t NOT take the shot. So I downed it.

I have faith that once Hermione gets here, should she deign herself to indulge in some spirits, she’ll catch up quite quickly. Never could hold her liquor that girl.

“Hermione? Hermione can’t hold her liquor? Look at you Mr. Let Me Draw a Scar on the Other Side of my Face and No One Will Notice who I am.

Did I mention I have a tendency to selectively say things out loud?

“Listen, Ron, it seemed like a good idea at the time, and besides, it sorta worked, no one’s looked at my real scar all night.”

“That’s because you smudged the ink and it looks like a quill attacked your eyebrow.”

“Oh, sod off, Ron. At least I wasn’t snogging with an underage wizard in front of Merlin and everyone.”

Ron looked horrified for a moment and then shrugged, “At least I was snogging *someone*, or is that why you called Hermione? Hoping to see a little action, Potter?”

“Sod off doubly. Hermione and I are just friends. Everyone knows it.”

“No, what everyone knows is that the two of you have been denying your feelings so long it’s a wonder they haven’t packed up and split into another personality. Really, Harry, I’m hoping this alcohol loosens the tight grasp you have on denying your happiness enough to get things straight with Hermione. You don’t want your stuff to shrivel up and fall off do you?”

He’s joking, right? I mean, “stuff” can’t just shrivel up and fall off, can it? Sure, it’s been a while since I’ve used it, but it wouldn’t just stop working would it?

No, no, of course not, Harry. Ah, the voice of reason again. I’m just waiting for the right person.

“The ‘right person?!’ Blimey, Harry! Hermione couldn’t be anymore right for you.”

Blasted faulty brain to mouth line!

“She’s got brains, looks, a tongue to match your-”

=POP!=

“Shut it, Ron,” I hissed before Hermione’s body came into full view.

I ran over to greet her and over-estimated the capabilities of my feet, one took off and the other stayed planted and I ended up tumbling over a wooden chair.

“Harry! Are you okay? I thought you said you wouldn’t drink anymore?!”

“No, Herm, it’s ok, I’m fine, it was a rough match, my muscles are just tired.”.

Truth be told, my head was spinning. It felt like my brain and my skull were rotating in opposite directions. It made for a pretty skewed view of things.

“Oh. Ok, then. Did you boys win?”

“Oi! Yeah, we won! Didn’t we fellas?!” Ron belted out, raising his glass to the team crowding around a square table in a corner of the bar.

“Aye!” They answered back and Ron took a long, messy swig from his mug.

Hermione took in the scene and looked me over once, I had an urge to fix my hair, and stand up straighter, but I settled for blushing like a schoolgirl.

“So, um, how’ve you been, Herm? Haven’t talked to you in a while.”

“Harry, we just exchanged owls yesterday. You’re going to help Fred and George out at the joke shop when the season’s over, and I’m renting a flat in Hogsmeade to help with my research on adolescent and elder wizard relations in a public forum. Is this ringing a bell?”

It wasn’t ringing a bell at all, I couldn’t remember if I had remembered to put my boxers back on after my shower this evening, let alone something talked about yesterday.

“Er, yes, sorry, it’s been a long day. Can I buy you a drink?”

She was still looking at me warily, but replied, “Sure, Harry, whatever you’re having.”

“Are you sure, Hermione? Are you REALLY sure? Because this robust ale that I’m partaking in is some of the strongest brewed today. Can you handle it?” I tried for a leer, I reckon I went cross-eyed though.

She rolled her eyes and smirked at me, “If you can handle it, Harry, so can I.” I got the feeling she was talking about more than the drink, but I didn’t pursue it.

“What’s that ink on your forehead?”

“Um. . .”

Think quick, Potter.

“Ron was giving his number to some witch and asked me to fetch him a quill from the barman.”

“That doesn’t explain why it’s on your forehead.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. Never mind that though, how about that ale?”

“All right, want to take a stool at the bar? I’d rather not surround myself with your sweaty quidditch buddies. I’d already taken my shower before you flooed.”

I was torn between explaining that we’d all showered after the match and imagining Hermione in the shower. Instead I nodded and led her over to the bar with a hand on the small of her back.

The shirt covering her back was so warm and soft and lovely that I actually tripped again during the ten paces it took for us to get to the bar. She gave me a peculiar look, but I ushered her onto a stool and called out to the barman before she could say anything.

“Can I get a pint for this young lady and another for myself while you’re at it?”

The barman, whose name I think is Thomas, nodded and filled the order. Apparently “Thomas” was fooled by the ink on my forehead. I *told* Ron it would work.

“Well, what’s new in the world of professional quidditch?”

“Nothing interesting. Looks like Puddlemere and the Wasps are going to the Cup. We’re just playing to finish out the season now. I don’t want to talk about that though, I can talk about that with them. How’s university?”

“It’s going well, I miss being a student though. It’s quite a switch to have to grade the papers instead of writing them.”

“Yes, you would. How about, er, your love life? Anything there?”

“Subtle, Harry, real subtle.” Ron had sidled up to the bar with a witch on his arm, at least this one did look to be of age.

“Shut it, Ron.”

Hermione watched our exchange with a bemused look and then turned back to me, “No, nothing, one of the other assistant professors told me it’s because I carry myself like someone who’s already taken. Isn’t that odd?”

“Yes, terribly odd, I mean, who would you be with? It’s not like you’re in love with your best friend or anything.” Ron apparently hadn’t left the bar yet and I tried to jab him hard with my elbow, I missed and ended up smacking the bar.

I howled in pain and Ron howled in laughter and left to weave his way back through the tables, witch #2 of the night in tow.

“What’s he on about, Harry?”

“Oh, you know, Ron, always plotting something. I think it’s his brothers’ influence. This week he’s dead set on us realizing our love for each other.” This was said with a ‘That crazy Ron,’ look, but I was really trying to hide just how much I hoped he succeeded. Alcohol has a tendency to bring out honesty in my emotions, even if I manage not to voice them.

I guess she didn’t know how to respond to that and instead took a long pull from her mug.

Rather than try and decipher the look on her face, I concentrated on staying upright on the stool and trying to convince that constantly vigilant part of my brain to make sure that the other part of me didn’t try and just out and kiss Hermione.

Which was fast becoming something it was dead-set on doing.

The smashed part of my brain was quickly grabbing onto how she smelled (clean from the shower with the musk/vanilla/spicy scent of her perfume), how she looked in her clingy green t-shirt, blue jeans, and brown loafers, the way her hair was tied up in messy knot on the back of head, the sound of her voice, the way her hands gripped the mug. . .

“Harry. . ?”

“Oh, erm, sorry, did you say something?”

“I asked how your love life was going.”

“Ha! You mean my lack of a love life. One of our chasers set me up with his sister. Scariest experience of my life. She was wearing this crazy outfit that must’ve been painted on and the most impractical shoes I’ve ever seen. She kept going on about her job at Warlocks. You know, that hair parlor down on Diagon Alley? She said she cut Gilderoy Lockheart’s hair once, but that he seemed to vehemently deny his identity. Imagine that,” I said, grinning at her.

“Only you, Harry Potter, would begrudge a girl impractical shoes.”

“What can I say? I like my women sensible.”

She blushed at that and signaled for another ale. I had barely touched mine in an unconscious effort to balance out Hermione. I guess I figured if she drank steadily and I stopped for a while, sooner or later we’d hit upon the same level of sobriety.

We sat in silence for a bit then, Hermione sipping at her drink and I making patterns in the condensation on the side of my mug.

Think of something to say to her, you prat! I berated myself, you dragged her out, at least make sure she’s having a good time!

“Herm. . .”

“Harry. . .”

We both chuckled uncomfortably. I knew why *I* was uncomfortable, what was going on in that head of hers?

There was very little time for resolution, however, because there was a clatter of coins and some cursing in the back, followed by Ron’s loud, “Let me pick the first one!”

Guess they’d found something to make the old muggle jukebox in the back work. Hermione followed my train of thought and muttered, “Oh, we’re in for it now. I’ve seen Ron around muggle music. It’s not pretty.”

Just then the jukebox kicked to life and the catchy intro to a song filled the bar followed quickly by Jim Morrison’s voice, pleading “Come on, come on, come on, now TOUCH ME babe! Can’t you see that I am not afraid?”

Ron sauntered over to us, and winked obnoxiously in my direction, “Maybe you should listen to the man, he was the king after all.”

“Of lizards. He was the Lizard King.”

“So?” Ron snapped, “You’re not the king of *anything*. I’m just saying maybe you should take advice from someone who’s been there.”

Well, Ron was drunker than I was. No denying that. I’d reached a point where I don’t think I’d even entertain the idea of putting shoes on my hands, let alone doing it.

“Sure, Ron, ok, I’ll do just that,” and I reached out and clasped his shoulder.

“What are you doing?!”

“I’m touching you. Isn’t that what you, or Jim, rather, said I should do?”

“I meant for you to touch Hermione!” He half-hissed, half-whispered. Nice that he tried to whisper after she’d heard the ENTIRE conversation.

“Oh, whoops. Guess I misunderstood.”

“Misunderstood, my foot! You know what? I give up. If the two of you want to spend the rest of your lives celibate and miserable, go ahead. I’m going to get another drink!” And he stormed off.

I chanced a look at Hermione and saw her staring back at me intently.

“Er, sorry about that, Herm, he gets rather haughty when he’s been drinking. . .”

“He’s right, you know.” She said quietly, pushing her mug away from her.

“Excuse me?”

“I AM miserable. AND celibate. And that professor at the university was right, I DO act like I’m taken. I only came out tonight because I thought if we both were drunk, maybe then we’d stop this stupid dance.”

I thought about this for a moment, the intensity of what she said penetrating the last traces of ale, bypassing any part of my brain and going straight for my heart.

“Dance, eh? Maybe we should start a new one then,” and I stood (without falling, thankfully) and offered her my hand. She took it and we headed out to the dance floor, as the Lizard King crooned on,

“Now I’m gonna love you till the heavens stop the rain

I’m gonna love you till the stars fall from the sky for you and I. . .”

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I warned you it was fluff! Sappy, sappy, fluff! Hope you enjoyed it anyway, feel free to leave a review and let me know what you thought!

-- jamie

effectivelyabsent@yahoo.com