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As the sun rose over the mountains surrounding Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, one wizard was decidedly unappreciative of the beauties of the natural world. Harry Potter was sitting at the new Eighth Year table, nursing a horrible hangover, and glaring at the imitation sunrise reflected in the ceiling of the Great Hall. Returning to Hogwarts for an eighth year had seemed like a good idea during the summer when he had allowed Hermione to talk him into it, but now he wasn't so sure.
Since their return, sans Ron who was helping George at the shop, Hermione had been on the warpath. She was determined that all the old prejudices which had allowed for two wizarding wars in as many decades should be ripped out by the root. Unfortunately for Harry, McGonagall was on Hermione's side. This meant that he was inevitably forced to assist them in this endeavour.
One consequence of this had been the new mixed-house Eighth Year eating arrangements. In order to make things more pleasant for everyone, though, Harry had suggested a carrot-rather-than-stick approach and proposed an inter-house party celebrating the end of the war. Thus his current headache. Why did he ever think it was a good idea to put Seamus in charge of drinks.
As he contemplated the follies of youth, and how hindsight was always twenty-twenty, he lowered his eyes from the ceiling to notice that Ginny had arrived for breakfast, was sitting opposite him, and had a horrifyingly shit-eating grin on her face. Things had been tense with Ginny since he told her that he didn't want to get back together after the war. She had taken it well, but that didnt mean she was entirely okay with it. That grin was the first sincere smile Harry had seen her direct at him in 2 weeks. And he was terrified.
"Umm... hey Gin. You okay?" he muttered nervously. Her smile, impossibly, widened even further.
"I'm just fantastic Harry. Beautiful morning, isn't it?"
The feeling of impending doom intensified in Harry's gut. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Time to bite the proverbial bullet.
"Why are you grinning like that, Gin?"
"I just thought you should know that I've been quite upset with you the last few weeks. I accepted your right to end our relationship, but I didn't understand why you had. But after last night... I get it. And we're good."
This did nothing to alleviate Harry's concerns. And the hangover headache was difficult to think through. He frantically went through his memories of last night to see what could have changed Ginny's feelings, but he was drawing a blank.
"Er... Okay then. Thanks, Gin." She flashed him another brilliant smile and made her way over to the Ravenclaw table to chat to Luna. Harry, however, was nervous. What had he done? He needed to lose the headache so he could think clearly.
Reluctantly, Harry rose from the bench and shuffled his way down to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey should be able to help. She was never too judgmental.
Harry was aware that there were others in the infirmary, but it was only a vague observation as he made his way to Pomfrey's office. He knocked and waited.
"Ah, Mr Potter," she said briskly as she opened the door. "I thought I'd be seeing you after speaking to a few of the others at your little soireé last night. Here you go." Harry smiled, grimly, at the medi-witch and accepted the potion, downing it in one. "Now, go and lie down for a minute to let your headache settle and you'll be fine. At least it's a Saturday, eh?" she laughed.
He made his way to a bed and sat. He was beginning to remember. There had been music, alcohol, glaring at Malfoy, alcohol, dancing (badly), more alcohol, an argument with... someone, yet more alcohol, and finally... a... broom cupboard? Why did he remember being in a broom cupboard?
Harry sat up like a flash. Merlin's saggy left testicle. There was only one thing anyone went into a broom cupboard for... well, apart from to get a broom, anyway. But who had he been with?
"Potter?" a cracked voice whispered from behind him. Harry slowly turned around and gazed at the sight of a dishevelled looking Draco Malfoy staring at him from the next bed.
"Malfoy," he whispered back, in dawning realisation. "Is that my shirt?"