The next couple of chapters play with timelines, as a warning.
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EPISODE FIVE:
The Worst Monday
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He could sense it from the moment he entered the building, when the security guard had looked at him, frowned, and suddenly busied himself with paperwork that didn't exist.
If he was perfectly honest, he could sense it from the moment he'd first pulled up in his parking spot and noticed that the other cars that usually parked next to him were several spots away.
Not to mention the fact that he'd bloody well sensed it ever since he'd rolled out of bed (literally; the makeup crew would have fun covering that bruise).
Today was going to properly blow.
And to tell the truth he hadn't exactly rolled out of bed, per se. He'd never rolled out of his bed. But he wasn't sleeping in his bed. Currently he was sleeping on the sofa. He'd washed the sheets four and a half times (the washer had broken from overuse), he'd changed pillows, he'd placed the bed on the other end of the room.
But whenever he went to lie on it - or, damn it all, sit on it! - he couldn't get it out of his mind. He played some soft Beethoven on his record player, the Beatles, effing Simon & Garfunkel; but the sounds were drowned out.
During "Symphony No. 9" he'd hear, in his head but so real it seemed there, "God, Minnie, you're so hot!"
During "Yellow Submarine" he'd hear, right on top of Ringo's vocals, "Oh yes, Seamus, drive in harder!"
During "Mrs Robinson" he'd just hear grunting and wet, slapping sounds, and goddamn it if that wasn't some brilliantly sickening irony.
And even when the noises went away for the briefest moment he would tentatively place his palm on the bed and remember that his boss and dick coworker had fucked here and it was forever tainted.
His neck hurt - the sofa was a pull-out, but Ron had broken the handle on one of his romps with Romilda Vane. Ron claimed it had been someone else, but Harry knew very well it wasn't; after all, he'd come out of his room to get a drink of water and had witnessed, much to his dismay, Ron in the full monty breaking the handle in half.
His new mattress would be there when he got home. Bless Remus.
So, for his troubles in hosting that gala on Friday, he'd received a bruise on each cheek, although the one on the left had thankfully healed by this point and only hurt when he put an unreasonable amount of pressure on it.
Annoying, but he couldn't find it in him to be properly mad over the cause of that bruise. That wouldn't make things any less awkward, mind, but c'est la vie. He'd adopted that motto from Sirius ever since the Boating Incident when he was twenty-one. Three days on a boat with no motor in the middle of the Caribbean. Sirius had just raided the alcohol cabinet, shrugged, and said, "C'est la vie! Let's drink ourselves to sleep, fuckers," and that had been that.
Good times.
Dennis Creevey was standing in the elevator as he entered. Upon his entrance, Dennis laughed nervously, stepped out into the hall, and called out, "Oh, hi, Seamus! Here, I'll come get that from you…"
Harry scowled at the elevator's closing doors. Seamus was off on assignment.
"Hello, Harry," said Luna as he took a seat at his desk. "Good weekend?"
"Not so much," he muttered.
"Ah, predictable. I sensed a strange aura about you. Nargles are probably feeding on your happiness." She reached into her desk, pulled out something, and shoved it in front of his face, beaming. "Here! This necklace will protect you from misfortune."
"A necklace of onions." Harry blinked and silently wondered why he was shocked. This was Luna, after all. "Er, I'll pass for now, Luna. Thanks."
She shrugged and dropped the necklace on his desk. "I think you'll reconsider."
At that moment several doors opened - literally, not figuratively, although for Harry a door to hell might just as well have opened.
First, Severus Snape stepped out of his recording booth.
Second, Minerva McGonagall emerged from her office.
And for a kicker, Hermione Granger returned from the break room.
"Granger!" McGonagall barked, and Harry knew she was officially in superhuman mode, that rare mood change when their usually strict-but-sane boss would transform into, in Ron's words, "an uber-bitch." She had stepped into her office just like any other normal person, but with a quick change of attitude she had emerged something more than human, a transformation from Minerva McGonagall to something that could only be called the Hot Flash.
"Yes, Minerva?"
Even Granger had to know what was coming. The Hot Flash was anything but subtle in her ways.
"That story is too short! We need at least six minutes out of it, and right now we've got three!" Stomp, stomp, stomp, spitting all over the room, and she stopped at the elevator door for added emphasis. "That may have been enough in Coventry, but not in London!"
Exit the Big Bad Wolf, who, from the look on Granger's face, had huffed and puffed enough to blow her self-confidence down.
"What are you looking at?" she growled, making eye contact with Harry.
"Don't mind her," he said.
Granger paused her glare but the ceasefire was more ephemeral than an agreement between Israelis and the PLO (not to mention the Israelis and Egypt, etc), and soon she was storming out of the room, too.
"My God, Potter," drawled Snape, "she dislikes you even more than she dislikes Weasley."
"Shut it," Harry spat.
"Annoyed, Potter? Unsure what to do when they're not asking for your autograph or opening their legs?"
And Snape snorted his way into the break room. Rat bastard.
Harry's eyes traveled downward in defeat and landed on his desk. "On second thought, I think I'll take this."
"I knew you would," said Luna as she helped Harry fit the string of onions around his neck.
"What's wrong with McGonagall?" he asked, feeling a keen fool with his new jewelry.
"Ratings are out," said a morose Ernie.
Harry saw no problem with this. They nearly always won. "So?"
"News 2 just barely beat us."
Nearly being the key word.
"Damn it!" Harry slammed his fist against the desk and rocked back in his chair. "And I thought we had a pretty strong run there! Damn it twice! At least it wasn't News 3. Diggory I can stand."
"Diggory's a right lad," agreed Ernie. "But Edgecombe annoys the living shite out of me. She's always trying to take my leads."
"Hello, Ronald," said Luna. A very tired Ron stopped, looked at her with half-lidded eyes, and nearly dropped his coffee. Luna grabbed her things from her desk, smiled, and stood. "Goodbye, Ronald."
Off she went to the break room.
"Something's bothering Luna," Ron noted, taking a seat next to Harry.
"Oh yes," said Harry, taking extreme pains to be delicate in delivering the bad news to Ron, who had an infamous temper when it came to ratings. He needed to be honest but somewhat circuituitous; encouraging, constructively critical, and hopeful.
"We fucking lost the ratings war, Weasley," Ernie said.
Harry had been planning on saying something to the effect of, "Due to circumstances beyond our control, there was a mishap regarding the sweeps ratings and News 2 is ranked ahead of us at the moment, but don't worry, it'll be fixed in a jiff!" but Ernie's worked just as well.
"You lying sack of shit!" Ron roared, hopping upwards and kicking over his chair. "I know there is no goddamn way we lost ratings this month! We had a fucking golden week, for Christ's sake! Platinum, really!"
"I'm sure it's just an aberration, Ron -"
But Harry was cut off. "An aberration? No, it's a damned screw-up, that's what it is! An embarrassment!" Ron kicked the side of Harry's desk and threw his coffee towards the back wall, hitting Hannah Abbot in the side of the head. "We're the number one team in this town!"
"OH MY GOD!" Hannah screamed. "MY FACE! IT BURNS!"
"Nice going, Weasley," Zacharias Smith muttered.
To which Ron picked up his swivel-top desk chair and whacked Smith on the back of the head with it.
"That's enough, Ron!" Harry stated firmly, jumping to his feet and grabbing Ron's arms. "You can't throw a temper tantrum every time something doesn't go your way! We just barely lost out to News 2. You know Diggory and his lot - they've come close before. They were due. It's just a one-time thing. It'll keep us focused."
For several seconds Ron struggled but eventually common sense prevailed, signified by Ron's deep breath.
"You're right," he said. "Diggory's a proper lad. Don't mind him at all. Chang's one of the most annoying anchors in the city, which just makes me respect Diggory more for dealing with her, but I can handle that. At least it's not Malfoy."
Harry agreed: "That's what I said."
"Sorry about that, Hannah," Ron called out. "Should've controlled myself."
"No kidding, you prick!" came the screamed reply.
"I'm going to call an ambulance," said Neville.
"Fuck," said Ron.
"I think Zacharias is knocked out cold," Ernie announced.
"Fuck," said Ron.
"Hey, all," stated Dean.
"Arse," growled Ron.
"Fuck," muttered Dean.
"All right," Harry said, keeping a close eye on Ron in case the youngest Weasley son decided to ruin his relaxed mood by beating the living crap out of the man that had despoiled his little sister. "Let's just settle down for a mo, okay?"
"I'm settled."
Dean shook his head violently when Ron turned his back to him. Harry sighed.
"Let's give Diggory a call," Ron said. "Haven't had a chat with the man in a while. Kind of want to congratulate him myself, just so he knows that this is a temporary thing. Course, Diggory'll probably be going national soon… good-looking arse."
"Diggory's arse is good-looking?" sniggered Zacharias, who had just regained consciousness.
"Harry, can I borrow your chair?" Ron asked in a calm voice.
"Let's call Diggory," Harry decided.
"Hello?"
There was a reason Cedric Diggory was so popular, the pair were instantly reminded - a reason outside of his ridiculous good looks (and sans mustache!). He had a voice like velvet. Chocolatey velvety goodness, with cherry filling. Delicious…
"This is getting somewhat sexual," Harry whispered.
"Oh, was I narrating aloud again?" Ron wondered.
"Hello?" Cedric said again.
"Hello, Cedric," Ron stated into the receiver. "Just heard about the sweeps ratings. Good job on that, mate."
"Oh, thanks, Ron. We're joking around over here, having a good time. We're convinced they must have got it wrong! You guys had a really strong week. Golden, really."
"Ha, I thought so, too," Ron replied, grinning with gritted teeth. Harry noticed that the phone was pressed up against Ron's face so hard it was almost bruising him. "But good job, Cedric. We keep hearing buzz about you going national. Say it ain't so, Joe!"
A laugh from that charming man. "Oh, I don't think so. I'm happy where I am. And everyone knows you and Harry will get pulled up before I ever will. I'm a talking head, to be honest. You two are proper journalists."
"Quiet, you modest bastard!" It was hard to tell if Ron was joking, but Cedric let out a nervous chuckle nonetheless. "Ah, here's Harry."
He passed the phone, and Harry gladly saved Cedric from the terror that was Ronald Weasley.
"Good job again, Cedric," said Harry, somewhat honestly and with a happily low amount of bitterness.
"Thanks, Harry," Cedric replied. "Cho says hello."
"Well tell Cho hello for me," said Harry uneasily. (He'd had a brief fling with Cho Chang at one point, if an aborted one-night stand could be called a fling. Unfortunately for Cho Chang, Harry wasn't much into S&M. Especially when it involved steak knives and pagan rituals.)
"Ask her if her sex change came with a warranty," Ron piped up. "She's been looking rather mannish lately. I think she's relapsing."
"Cho, I think Ron wanted to tell you something," Cedric called out, always the oblivious nice guy. "What was that again?"
Harry said hurriedly, "Just hello and how is she. By the way, we should buy you drinks to celebrate your victory. Us anchors."
"But not Chang," said Ron.
"The men, anyway," Harry corrected himself.
"Ha, I don't think Cho would want to come anyway," laughed Cedric.
"I'll stab her in the sternum if she does," stated Ron seriously.
"I look forward to it," continued blissfully ignorant Cedric.
The conversation ended before the News 2 anchor heard and fully comprehended anything Ron might say; Harry had, as Seamus would say, talk-blocked his best friend. Which was much more understandable than cock-blocking, so Ron couldn't be too put out.
"Move aside, emergency personnel!" said a serious-looking chap in bright blue trousers, a gaggle of serious-looking chaps in similar attire following him.
"Over here!" Neville called.
"So that party was pretty crazy," said Dennis Creevey as a conversation starter.
"Wouldn't know," Ron groused. "Passed out for most of it with a teddy bear."
Zacharias Smith smartly decided not to comment.
"So." Dennis shoved his hands in his pockets, then took them out, then put them back in. "Did you ever get out of that cage, Harry?"
Harry glared at the younger Creevey brother. "Dennis, where the hell am I now? Do I look like I'm in a cage?"
"Oh. Right-o. Sorry."
And Harry would have felt bad about his shortness, but Dennis should've expected that when he questioned Harry about That Night. Ugh.
The serious chaps in the blue trousers bustled by them, carrying Hannah on a stretcher.
"Sorry, Hannah!" Ron called out, trying to sound cheerful and apologetic at the same time.
"Fuck off, Weasel!" Hannah screamed back.
Ron smiled weakly. "See you later!"
The elevators whirred shut and Neville came over, placing his hand on Ron's shoulder.
"I think she'll be fine."
"Really?"
"I think so, at any rate." Neville's hand squeezed Ron's muscle in a comforting way. "And even if she isn't, she can still sue you for being one of the dumbest men in Greater London and throwing a cup of scalding water at her face. Not your finest moment."
"No," sighed Ron, "I suppose it wasn't. I really should work on my temper."
"No kidding," snorted Zacharias.
Ron's hand moved for the nearest empty chair, but somehow he restrained himself. But barely.
"Hey, lads," said Seamus as he placed his briefcase on his desk. "Saw an ambulance outside. Hope somebody's hurt, or else they've gone through a spot of bother for nothing."
"Ron threw a cup of coffee at Hannah's face," Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily.
"That's terrible," was Seamus's reaction. Then: "You drink coffee?"
"Coffee is amazing," Ron defended himself. "Except when it's on your face."
"Whatever, Weasley. I'm gonna go get myself a cup of tea. Anyone want one?"
(Seamus had been a waiter once and had never quite kicked the habit. Women loved his generosity, except when they thought he was implying that they were fat. Which happened more often than you would think.)
But a funny thing happened on Seamus's way to the break room.
Minerva McGonagall stepped out of the elevator with a large stack of files in her hand.
And then she walked toward her office.
Two converging forces, perpendicular, at equal speeds. A squared plus b squared equals one hell of an awkward conversation (times itself).
"Seamus." The words escaped from McGonagall's mouth through some miracle, as her lips never seemed to part.
Seamus held his head high and regarded her respectfully (well, as respectfully as you could regard someone you'd seen starkers and been fucked silly by). "Minerva."
Then Seamus stepped into the break room and that was that.
"Wow," commented Neville with a low whistle.
"Wow indeed!" Ron exclaimed, taking joy in anything that made him feel less terrible about ruining Hannah's face and life in general. "And to think that they shagged on your bed, Harry!"
Harry twisted his onion necklace and grumbled: "I'm getting a new bed."
"Might want to get that entire room checked out by an exterminator," Ron responded. "Never know what kind of sick stuff those two might have left behind."
"Ron."
"Did I go too far?"
"Yeah."
"Right." Ron leaned back in his chair, kicked his feet up on his desk, and chewed on his fingernail. "Where's Granger? Imagine you two have a lot to talk about."
"She's working on her story, I think," Harry said.
"So you have seen her," said Ron with some satisfaction.
"Wasn't much of a conversation," Harry muttered.
So the day went by, lurking past like a beat-up 1964 Ford lorry. Harry didn't see Granger again before it was time to head to the studio, and for once he wasn't entirely disappointed about that. Pretty though she was, she was also a handful when angry, which seemed to be all of the time, or at least as long as "those inbred dolts known as Potter and Weasley exist in this dimension," as he imagined she'd say. If she didn't seem to mean it so forcefully it might have been cute.
"I want focus," barked McGonagall during makeup, marching back and forth with one hand behind her back, the other hand a beat-bopping with each spit-out syllable. Her anchors listened attentively, because if they didn't who knew what the Hot Flash might do in her rage. "I want you to feel the story. I want you to understand why these stories are important in our day and age! I want you to think what Diggory would do."
"Fuck what Diggory would do," Ron muttered as Daphne Greengrass covered up a slap mark on his cheek (courtesy of Hannah's best friend Susan). "We're not Cedric arsing Diggory."
McGonagall's face was immediately an inch away from his nose, her eyes narrowed. "You'd better start caring, Weasley. Because Diggory is the best in London right now. I want you to present the news with a vengeance in your heart. Make the other news stations pay."
Daphne winked at Harry as she moved to do his forehead.
"You don't have to want to win," the crazed station head continued. "You just have to not want to lose, very badly. I hate losing. Losing is despicable. And we musn't lose, you see?"
Daphne pushed aside Harry's fringe and did some touch-up around his famous lightning-bolt scar, barely hiding her smirk.
"And we've been playing not to lose! You can't do that. You have to want to win! You have to play to win."
Daphne actually giggled, but it was covered up by Ron's indignant exclamation: "That makes no sense at all! That's a load of tripe! Are we supposed to play to win or are we supposed to hate losing? Your motivational tactics actually make me want to go do a worse job than I was already going to do."
"You'd best do a good job, Weasley," McGonagall hissed. "You're not ready, I can tell. You play like you practice. Ever heard that expression? My nephew is a striker for Everton. They have that posted on their clubhouse wall."
"Everton also blows," Ron commented.
McGonagall jabbed her finger in his face, huffed, and suddenly walked away.
"That was bizarre," Harry said.
"No kidding," Ron replied, letting out a sigh of relief.
"Here, take a look."
Daphne swiveled Harry's chair around so he faced the mirror. His reflection smiled back at her. "Daph, you're a doll. I nearly fall in love with you everyday. I don't know why I'm not head over heels for you already."
"It's probably because she shags girls," Ron explained.
Harry punched Ron in the arm and Daphne laughed.
"Well," she said suggestively, batting her eyelashes at Harry, "that's not always true, is it?"
Harry blushed and Ron's faced contorted into an expression of confusion. Or, to be more accurate, Ron's face reverted from an unusually lucid expression into its more regular expression of confusion.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
But Ron would never find out, because at that moment Hermione Granger entered the studio. She was out near the control booth, still visible from the makeup stand a ways off the main set, and Harry immediately flinched.
"Great," he breathed. "Just what I needed."
Daphne's eyes followed Granger as she slowly walked towards them, engrossed in the stack of papers held between her hands. And then Daphne turned to Harry, chewing a strand of her brown hair.
"I heard what happened on Friday," she stated. Harry groaned. "Bad luck there. You really screwed that up."
"Thanks."
"You fancy her, don't you?"
He let out a bitter laugh. "Imagine I might, if she ever stopped trying to kill me."
"Hm."
Then she plopped herself down in Harry's lap without warning. Harry let out a grunt of surprised pain, and was unable to stop Daphne when she waved to Granger and said, "Hello, Hermione!"
Granger looked up, saw Daphne, frowned for a moment, and then put on an icy smile. "Good afternoon, Daphne."
"How's the story?" Daphne asked with evident interest.
"Fine, fine. Much better than last week."
Daphne wiggled her bottom against Harry's lap and he bit his lip. Damn her. Damn Daphne to hell.
"That's good. Later, Hermione!"
Granger walked into the control room and Harry immediately spat out, "What the hell was that?"
"Oh, don't pretend you didn't like it," Daphne pouted. "I was just helping you out, that's all."
"Helping me out?" said Harry incredulously. "She already thinks I'm a womanizer!"
"She thinks I'm more of a womanizer," Ron boasted.
"I'm playing this subtly," Daphne answered. "First of all, I'm engaging a woman's natural jealousy. Despite what she says she must feel some attraction toward you to hate you so much - well, she doesn't hate you, I think, she's just very mad at you, or disappointed in you, and the point remains. However, when I talk to her later, I'll mention what a wonderful friend you are, especially to a gal like me who's not looking for romance, to show her that you consider women for their friendships rather than just their knickers."
"You're still sitting in my lap."
"Come on, Harry. It's nothing sexual. I'm almost a lesbian, after all, and we have a nearly perfect platonic history, give or take a few nights. And even then there were other people there."
Ron's eyes bugged out and Daphne laughed, hopping up to her feet. She smiled conspiratorially to Harry, leaned in close, and whispered, "I forgot how excitable you are!"
Then she walked off. Damn her again.
"I think I'm in love with Daphne Greengrass," Ron blurted out.
Then Luna walked by, flinging her hair over her shoulder and whistling a merry tune. And knitting. While she walked.
"Well, maybe not quite," Ron sighed.
"You're pathetic," Harry said, and then qualified, "in a good way."
"And you've got a better chance with a quasi-lesbian than you do with Hermione the Horror Granger."
Harry couldn't argue with that, all facts considered.
"Fuck me, someone's moved the vodka." And Ron looked around suspiciously, scaring off an intern (Nigel? Norris?) and doing no good in locating his valuable alcohol.
"Found it," said Harry.
Ron shot up. "Where?"
McGonagall screamed at someone as she walked back into the control room, vodka bottle in hand.
"Oh damn it all."
"I think you're going to want to get a new bottle," Harry remarked.
"I've got a 45 oz of Guiness underneath the desk, for special occasions and emergencies." Ron adjusted his cufflinks, furrowed his brow, assessed the situation. Harry could tell that Ron had entered Nightly News mode. "I'll save you some if you want it."
"I'm fine -" Then Lavender Brown came walking into the studio with half her midriff showing and a face full of makeup, and he changed his mind. "Yeah, pour me a bit, would you?"
Ron nodded and headed for the desk. Lavender smiled at him, and he gave her a friendly slap on the bottom as he passed. "Hello, Lavender! Nice top!"
She giggled and Harry contemplated smashing his chair into the mirror and stabbing one of the resulting shards into his temple.
"Hi, Harry," she said.
"Hi, Lavender," he said, trying to hide his exasperation. Trying and failing, trying and failing. "That's a nice blouse you're wearing. I'm wondering, when will your three-year-old niece want her shirt back?"
The meteorologist scowled good-naturedly back at him, sticking out her tongue in the most mature fashion. "This blouse, I would have you know, is extremely fashionable at the moment, and is in the height of style all across the world."
"I agree. It's extremely fashionable in schoolhouses and brothels all across the world." Which was somewhat paradoxical when you considered it, but equally true.
"Do you really think it's a bit much?"
"Well, it depends. Are we speaking absolutely or relatively? Because compared to your skirt - nice knickers, by the by, magenta is one of my favorite colors - the blouse is rather conservative. At least I can only see part of your bra. And you have a lovely belly button, by the way."
"Shut it, Potter." She shook her head and swooned, a little melodramatically. "I'm doing this for the team, Harry. Ratings are down."
"Is there a direct relationship between ratings and clothing?" Harry wondered aloud. "The less viewership, the less clothing you're supposed to wear? Damn it, I should just go without trousers today. Not that anyone would notice, sitting behind a desk."
"Viewers want to see this," Lavender said, pulling her blouse open even more.
"Yes, Lavender, you have lovely cleavage," Harry agreed, "but you're supposed to be covering cold fronts and the like, not serving as a masturbatory aid."
She stood and seemed to consider whether she should be grateful or angry or just resigned to her inclination toward nudity. Then: "I suppose you're right. I'll change the skirt and put a slightly longer skirt on. But not much longer," she stated emphatically, waggling her finger at him.
"Wicked," Harry said, relieved. "We don't need any complaints from parents, after all."
Lavender laughed and plopped herself in Harry's lap, much as Daphne had, and threw her arms around his neck. "Harry, you're a saint, you know that?"
"Er."
She planted a sloppy, friendly kiss on his cheek, pressing her chest against his in an unintentionally sexual manner. And, of course, at that moment Hermione Granger walked by again, saw the sight, huffed out audibly, and said something that sounded remarkably like, "Pig."
"Thanks for the talk, Harry," said Lavender, hopping up right as Granger entered the control room. "Off to change!"
She scurried away, leading Harry to ask no one in particular what it was with women and his lap today. At the very least, could the women in question have been romantically interested in him?
Oh, the pains of the life of the saintly, occasionally vain, and allegedly (though not proven) sexist anchorman.
That pain was why he found himself doing shots with Ron before the show. Shots of Guinness weren't exactly high-class - hell, who even did shots of Guiness? - but it was better than nothing.
"Just one more," Ron muttered. "Just one more."
Then Seamus came by and took the whole damn can and they were both too shocked to follow him. Besides, the poor bastard needed it more than they did.
"We're live in one minute!" Dennis announced.
"Bloody life," sighed Ron. "First the Hot Flash takes my bottle and now her Irish boytoy takes my backup can. Don't suppose you have any weed?"
"No."
"Oh well. Wouldn't be professional, after all," Ron said, and Harry cracked a smile that hurt his blistered lips and smeared the powder covering his bruises.
"Thirty seconds," stated Dennis.
He saw her, behind the glass, standing with Daphne Greengrass, just as Daphne had promised. To his surprise, she was looking back, arms crossed over her chest, and she didn't even look like she wanted to kill him. She hardly seemed to acknowledge that he existed, but then she blinked and he knew she was regarding him, trying to crack his code.
"And we're live in five -"
Harry looked at his notes, watched Dennis's hands count it down the rest of the way.
Four, three, ("Fuck it," he mumbled), two -
One.
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