A/N: This fic has been sitting on my hard drive for months now. I initially started it when a small scene for a potential fic jumped into my head, and I just had to write it down. Then I started writing more, and then I had maybe two chapters, and then I realized I didn't even a semblance of a plot outline and gave up. But I'm pretty content with what I've written so far, and so I'm going to post what I have in hopes my muse will throw some ideas at me. This probably won't be continued, but if you happen to read it and enjoy it, please let me know! I'm open to ideas and inspiration.

Also, I'm allergic to research of any kind, so this fic in no way follows canon. Tentatively, this is placed sometime before the LoTR books but after the Hobbit. I'm ignoring the HP Epilogue, but feel free to imagine this is set after book seven. Yeah. This fic is kind of the worst.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and LoTR belong to their respective authors, and I'm just playing around in their sandbox. Also, this is unbeta'd, so please be kind and don't be afraid to point out any mistakes.

Pull the Other One (it's got bells on)

Chapter One

Once upon a time, there was a meadow.

This meadow housed many types of creatures, from insects to rodents to songbirds of every color and size. The grass was green and dotted with multi-colored patches of flowers. A trickling stream added quiet acoustics to the otherwise silent glade, and on that particular day, the sky was blue and the sun was shining.

This meadow was beautiful. It was also quiet, peaceful, and completely untouched by human hands.

On one particular day, a voice broke through the quiet sounds of nature to say:

"Ugh."

The denizens of the untouched meadow had no experience with voices of any kind, and as such, the sound managed only to startle a solitary finch into flight.

The stream bubbled, a fish jumped, and the sounds of wildlife prevailed for the space of five minutes.

Then:

"No really, that's just... Ugh. Bugger. The worst."

A chipmunk, cheeks stuffed full, froze a foot from a dark, crumpled lump; determining no immediate danger in its future, it chittered before swiftly moving on.

A minute later, the lump unfolded enough to seem vaguely humanoid, before saying:

"Oh fu-blurghfguuggh."

This singularity unpleasant sound garnered a bit more attention. A few flightless creatures of the meadow poked their heads out from behind trees, bushes, burrows and trunks, vaguely curious.

As a grey hare fearlessly hopped a few steps closer to investigate, Harry Potter rolled carefully onto his side and croaked: "Ugh. Bloody hangovers. The worst."

Some Indeterminate Time Ago:

Pour, drink. Pour, drink.

Number... Number three? Four? No, maybe it was six... So hard to keep track.

Harry thought about that for a moment longer before shrugging and downing the next shot. A half-empty bottle of fire-whiskey sat on a side table, in perfect reach of Harry's outstretched hand. The table itself was missing a leg, and it was so moldy the thing had practically turned green, but—well. It served its purpose well enough.

The alcohol burned going down, and after coughing a bit, he leaned contentedly back into the moth-eaten cushions of the Massive canopy bed in Sirius's room.

There was nothing better than throwing back a couple shots of the good stuff on your one-and-only be-getting day.

He let his eyes drift across the room; he'd been in this room for less than an hour now, and already he felt like fleeing. He hadn't been here since... When was it? Sixth year? Fifth? Oh no, that's right, the Locket.

Now that was a mess.

The memory pierced the pleasant fog he'd fallen into, and with a grimace, Harry shook it away and reached out, clumsily pouring another shot.

(If the black family matriarch knew he was shooting her precious alcohol back like water, she'd probably die all over again, the cunt)

After all this time, here he is, in the house of his dead godfather, hiding like a coward from his many fans, with a house-elf who hated him and no one to celebrate his 17th birthday with. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

If this is what I get for killing Voldemort, I don't know why I bothered, he thought darkly.

Eight months had passed since he successfully ended Voldemort's reign of tyranny, and things were going just wonderfully.

Like most things 'wonderful', the days following the Final Battle brought with them a few surprises. Or, well, not-surprises, really.

Being lauded as the hero of the Wizarding world sucked way more than Harry had expected it to. That being said, as he grew up experiencing much of the same awe and hero-worship, it didn't come as a surprise, so it wasn't that unbearable—still unpleasant, sure, but bearable.

Ending up stuck as a paper-pusher in the Auror's Department was another unpleasant, but bearable, not-surprise.

After the battle, Harry was accepted as an Auror and was able to enjoy his new job for an entire week before things went south. With his popularity rankings over-the-top and his face plastered on every Wizarding newspaper in the country, one would think that that would make him a hot commodity in the Ministry; this, unfortunately, was not the case.

When he was reassigned, his friends were surprised. As an actual Auror, Harry was well aware how inconvenient it could be to be going undercover, only to have your cover blown within a matter of minutes. So when the order came for his transfer, he was disappointed, yes—disappointed, but not surprised.

Thus Harry ended up with the title 'Departmental Overseer of the Internal Affairs Division' and all the mountains of paper-work that came with it.

It was exactly as boring as it sounded.

After those not-surprises, what came as a real surprise was the subtle shift in his relationship with his two closest friends.

While the final battle and all the moments leading up to it brought a distinct closeness among the three of them, in days following the death of the Dark Lord, they all inevitably got caught up in their respective jobs and responsibilities. Days turned to weeks, and 'I'll see you laters' turned to, 'maybe next times' which soon turned to, 'I'll have to take a rain check'.

Before they knew it, the bonds tying them together began to unwind and fade; and one day, Harry opened his eyes to discover that he was (once again) adrift, and alone.

Harry moodily flicked at a stray droplet on the shot glass, and pushed those thoughts into the past where they belonged. Still, he couldn't help but think of his friends, just for a moment: Hermione, with her brilliance and quick wit; Ron, with his stalwart support and invaluable sense of humour.

Nearly a year now, he thought wistfully. I wonder what they're up to...

(I wonder if they even remember)

He inhaled deeply, waved a hand at invisible feelings of resentment. He was as much to blame as they were; pointing fingers would do him no good.

At least Hermione had tried, in the beginning. He couldn't say the same for himself.

Harry flipped his legs over the side of the bed and stood abruptly (and needed a moment to stop the room from spinning). Bugger this. It was his birthday; it wouldn't do to go thinking about stuff that would make this day even more depressing than it already was.

Swiping a hand at the near-empty bottle, he ignored the glass and took a swig. This house was dark and dank and bloody depressing; what he needed was human company and alcohol that wasn't accompanied by ominous wall-hangings.

Harry nodded to himself, decided.

A flick of his wand later, his clothes were passably muggle-like, and he was ready to go. He turned in the direction of the door, ready to be rid of his filthy surroundings, only to stumble. He slapped a hand against a grimy cabinet and thought, woah.

Had he really drunk that much?

Never mind. Drunk never stopped a person from getting more drunk, or being happy.

There was this cute bar down the road a few blocks; it wasn't magical in the slightest, which would be the perfect balm for Harry's overactive paranoia, and was close enough that he wouldn't have to risk splinching himself apparating back drunk.

That settled, Harry weaved his way carefully out of the room and down the stairs.

He made it to the bottom with only a few close calls, and while he was busy trying (and failing) to pat himself on the back for a walk well done, Kreacher popped into existence a few feet to his right, nearly giving him a heart-attack.

"Kreacher," he slurred, slapping a hand dramatically on his chest, "You scaaaared thu' life outta' me."

Hmmmm? he thought absently, slurring? What tosser's slurring like that, now?

"Master," the elf spit out the name like a curse. Harry grimaced. Ever since he'd taken the Locket from Kreacher and refused to give it back, the damn elf had been a bloody pain.

"Yeah, thas' me. Whaddaya want, eh?"

"It's Master's birthday," the creature sniped, before muttering under his breath, "Nasty half-blood, daring to celebrate the day of its birth."

Harry ignored this because he was used to it, and also, the ground was spinning. Just a bit.

"Well yesh' Kreacher, I do know it's my birthday, seeing as it's mine, yeah?" he drawled. Hmmm, maybe no going out just yet; he should probably take a nap first.

Yes, a nap sounded wonderful.

"Well, Master," Kreacher began, a nasty smile appearing on his face.

This was Harry's first clue. Kreacher + smiling never ended well for anyone involved. (They don't talk about the Big Damn Balls incident for good reason)

Sadly Harry, by this point, was much too preoccupied with the swirling patterns in the wallpaper to notice.

"Kreacher is thinking Master needs a special birthday present," the elf continued. He was looking all too gleeful, and he had his hands behind his back.

This was Harry's second, very obvious clue. Again, he missed it; his stomach was starting to revolt. Alcohol without prior eating was never a good thing, especially for Harry, who hadn't stopped to consider that a practically virgin-drinker should not pop his cherry with hard liquor.

"Look, Kreeeecher," Harry moaned. The room was spinning very badly now, and he was a few seconds away from up-chucking all over the faded carpet. "Can' thiz wait? Imma-I gotta-m'gotta go. Down. No, up. To... to the john, yeah, gotta go-"

While Harry was occupied trying not to redecorate the hallway, Kreacher pulled something out from behind his back.

A book, Harry thought, rather stupidly. What's he got a book for-

Harry, right around this time, finally clued in that something was wrong.

The next three seconds passed in slow motion:

His hand snapped to his wand, hard-earned instincts not failing him even now-

-but he was too late, Kreacher had shoved the book in front of him with both hands, was shouting incoherently about 'his precious Master Regulus', was shouting something in a language Harry's ears couldn't even comprehend, and then-

-and then-

-everything went white. And then it went black.

Present

Awareness came at a slow crawl.

Even as Harry blinked at a small boulder inches from his eyes, his mind took its sweet time registering its new environment.

Uncomfortable surface. Soft-ish green stuff under his face. Random animal sounds.

….What?

It took a minute more, but the memories began to dance at the forefront of his mind, giving Harry a wonderful glimpse of his less-than-intelligent life choices. He groaned, feeling his head throb dreadfully.

When I get my hands on Kreacher, his first thought began.

This was about the moment his stomach rebelled, and every drop of alcohol he'd consumed did its best to crawl right back out his throat.

"Oooooh, gross gross gross," Harry groaned when he was finished, wishing for water.

Kreacher. That bloody bellend.

What was his problem, anyway? Harry'd been a great Master to the pathetic creature. Well. Pretty great. The The Locket thing was unfortunate, but some things couldn't be helped, like the Locket being a Horcrux, for example.

Maybe I could have given him the fake Locket, came the sudden thought, too late to be of any use.

Oh well.

But anyway, he'd been a wonderful master, which was going to change as soon as he got his freaking hands around the bastard's neck.

The little shit was dead. So dead.

But before that, Harry thought as his stomach gave a queasy roll, gotta figure out where the fuck this is.

Getting to his feet was hard; staying on his feet was harder.

The ground shifted and rumbled under his feet, and he had to breathe slowly and carefully as he slowly took stock of his surroundings.

It was very... Green. That ruled out the backyard of Number 12, but still left open the possibility of this being a Death Eater's hideout, and just about anywhere else in the world.

He took a cautious look around. Trees, grass, flowers, movement-a field mouse, which Harry narrowly avoided killing-more trees, more grass, more wildlife.

And no sign of anything else within a two-hundred meter radius.

His head was exploding. Harry flopped down on the ground and rested said head in his hands.

What the hell was this shit, now? Was Kreacher's intention to kill him via too much exposure to nature and, ugh, sunlight?

He didn't recognize anything-which wasn't really a surprise, because grass looked the same no matter where you went-and there didn't appear to be any sign of human activity. He could be on the other side of the world for all he knew.

He tried to come up with a plan for a few seconds, but one, he was having a hard time concentrating and, two, the chirping was too much, it was just, too much.

Moaning pathetically, Harry smashed both hands against his eyes and collapsed on his back.

Fuck this noise. It was his birthday (was it still?), he was tired, he was hungover, Kreacher was an asshole, and he just didn't care any more.

Lying down felt very, very nice. The world even stopped spinning for a while. Surely it wasn't going to become any less of an annoyingly idyllic and disgustingly beautiful day if he slept through a few hours of it.

Dropping his hands and rolling to his side, Harry did just that.