When I applied for a graduate degree in Journalism, I didn't for a minute stop to think that I'd have to start all over again. The tiny, crammed room in a dirty apartment, the obnoxious, party loving housemates, the constant feeling that nobody back home is missing me while I'm here missing everybody so much it makes my heart ache.

I didn't once imagine the mess I can make if given the right setting, some negative happenings in the bare necessities department, and less than seven days.

My name is Ginny, by the way. Ginny Weasley. And this is my life, interrupted.

Interrupted how? Oh, it's quite the story. Hold on tight.

Boredom is where all this started, I believe. This moving away and starting a new university programme again. It's mad when you stop to consider that I already had a job, an undergrad diploma, friends, family, a cat and an ex boyfriend in Devon. On a second thought, the ex boyfriend could easily be scratched off the list but whatever. It's not like I'm still thinking about it. Or being salty about it. What's done is done and now I'm probably hurting my back irreparably moving boxes around campus, some 300 kilometres away from home.

In all fairness, life in Devon was easy, it had a routine and a sense of calmness to it.

Unreasonably maybe, but exactly the easy, calm routine-y days is what I longed to escape. It's what I thought about when I broke up with Dean - who I went to school with, or when I quit my job at the small advertising agency.

I might as well admit it: I craved the hustle and bustle, dammit. The certainty that I'm my own person: not my Mum's, not my six brothers' baby sister, not the fourth employee in a team of five.

What I didn't ask for, though, was this.

"Bugger all the frickin' stores," I curse under my breath as I exit the tenth shop in the nearby mall. "Have they all ceased to make trousers for human women?"

I need something that's not posh, but also not night-at-the-pub.

I need something that's not jeans, but it's black and proper enough to work for an interview, but also laid back enough to wear with a cosy sweater and my cute metallic boots.

I need to not combust if the next bloody pair only goes up to my knees again.

I'm pretty confident I'll start throwing things if I'll have to take off those old jeans one more time to try on another pair of useless trousers clearly not made to fit my butt but some tall gazelle's who's never had to stress over buying underwear because of course all existing pairs will fit her and won't cut her buttcheeks inelegantly.

Yeah, I'm hot tempered. So what?

I do cool off a bit when I finally find something that has a tall waist, doesn't make me too short, doesn't hover too low over my ankles and is cute. If only it didn't take me four bloody hours and a half.

You know what, maybe I'll give up wearing jeans or trousers altogether.

Maybe I could live only on dresses and midi skirts.

Maybe I'll quickly pop into the Body Shop and reward myself for making it through a terrible first week at UCL and a new disgusting day. Little old me could do with some self care - self love whatever.

And if you were wondering, this is precisely how I end up dragging myself through the September chill, pocket so much lighter (read: mostly empty), multiple masks, cleansers, soaps, face wash and moisturizers weighing down my battered tote. Amongst them, there's one mask in particular I'm dying to try.

Soon as I'm through the door, eyes turned to slits start taking in the mess on the kitchen table, the muddy prints on the floor, the pile of thrash nearly bursting over, and I swiftly decide this day's already been ghastly enough to add another row with Caroline and Juan to it. Some battles aren't worth fighting - or not today, at least.

Messy French woman. Annoying Colombian guy leaving food all over. Stupid multicultural environment.

I am aware I'm starting to morph into my mother's daughter but that's not a happy thought, is it? So I hastily skip to the loo, tea tree peel off mask in hand, as giddy as a little child presented with her first ever toy.

"Pour a small amount of water, then mix until it turns into a paste. Apply over face with brush, let it dry then peel," I read, brow furrowed. Sounds simple enough. I can do this.

Ah, yes, this day is finally getting better. I turn on the tap to draw a nice bath, salts, oils, candles and an episode of Friends included. It's pampering time, folks.

Smiling contently, I mix and stir the gooey contents of the plastic container, aching to try some quality tea tree peel off. And so I mix. And I stir. Clockwise and reverse, like a spirited little witch in front of her simmering pewter cauldron. Mix, mix, mix all my (skin) problems away.

But the goo remains just goo and the masks refuses to appear. How...anticlimactic.

Tentatively, I dip my trusty mask brush inside the greenish liquid and dab it over the clusters of freckles on my cheek, hoping beyond hope; but the stupid, useless thing rolls down my face in a slimy trail as an only result.

I am, however, a determined individual. I don't get sidetracked just because. Thus I try stirring it some more and again I add a stroke of the brush to my face.

A litany of filthy words clouds my mind when the would be mask slides down again and I chuck the container's entire content down the drain, harrumph, wash my face and pat it dry with what I really hope is still an unused towel.

"At least I can soak my sorrows away," I hum through gritted teeth, discard my clothes, ready to jump into the tub for some well deserved R&R.

A high pitched scream erupts from my lips as soon as my poor feet hit the ice cold water, so cold I have no doubt only hypothermia will be waiting for me before the clock strikes midnight. Me, over dramatic? I think not.

"Where's all the hot water? Or the warm water? Or at least the water held at room temperature?" I cry again and shake my fist at an imaginary water company representative who'll definitely hear from me first thing in the morning, ugh.

Disgusting day, abominable week, horrid new apartment. To quote my brother Ron, bloody hell.

I gather my things and show myself out of the bathroom, furious and feeling deceived by whatever company is not providing hot water, by the Body Shop who promised a unique mask, by my own self as I've single handedly jeopardized my own capacity to provide a daily meal for myself. And no, it isn't dramatic - skin care products cost a liver and a toe, I'll have you know. At least if I could've been able to use them...Going to sleep on an empty tummy isn't so bad when you have clear pores and glowing skin, right? Right?

I'm probably going mad. I've never lived on my own and can't be expected to nail caring for myself on the first try, alright? I need to be more responsible and hold tight to my savings. Act like an adult. Take the bull by the horns, grasp the nettle, matters into my own hands. Yeah.

Empowered by my own self, I feel confident enough to pop into the uni's pub on campus, only for a bit. Just till I blow off some steam, since me time got cancelled.

Scarf, jumper, some mints because the quality of my breath is questionable. Swearing in a way that'd surely make Ron proud, I trot down the couple hundred meters from the apartment to the pub, hating every second of it. Strolling through the crispy cool autumn wind is definitely not amongst my favourite pastimes, but a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do in dreary circumstances.

I push the front door open with a swing of the hip and jump over the massive wooden threshold and into the commotion inside. Hoards of twenty-somethings chugging down ale, clinking glasses, laughing loudly, shouting over a Kooks song.

I shiver and close the door behind me, hastily walk towards the bar for one pint. One pint, that's all and then it's right back home for me. Tomorrow might be Saturday, but I want to get an early start and jog, shower (if the water company feels merciful), and start that paper I need to turn in on Tuesday.

Look at me being a proper busy bee. And Fred and George thought I couldn't do this. Ha! I'll show them. I'll show every one of them.

"One pint, please," I shimmy on the tall bar chair and order with an easy smile. I've got this. This Freaky Friday kind of day ends here.

The hard glass zooms towards me and I take a swig. Cold, rich, and a little earthy, it slides down my throat and I shiver again. Not great, not terrible, but it gets better as I take another sip and then another.

I bob my head to Muse's Uprising, humming it, my fingers playing to the music on the sticky surface of the bar.

We will be victorious

(So come on)

I chant along to the chorus and prepare to dive right into the next verse when I feel a pair of eyes and a grin fixing me from nearby. How rude.

I quickly spin around and there's this bloke I've seen before, except now he's not staring nor grinning.

He seems not even to have noticed me. He seems aloof, casually tapping his long fingers on the bar, hair raven black and mussed all over. He seems...fit.

How terribly rude.

Perhaps having another pint isn't too bad an idea. In the name of catching fit blokes in the act of staring, of course.

So I lift a finger quite expertly to signal that this lady's having another cold one and raise the glass in the general direction of my gawky neighbour.

And to my surprise, he does the same: lifts his own beer up, smiles and then downs is like it's nothing. Hmm, now I'm intrigued.

This means war.

"What's up?" I ask chattily, wobbling on my chair till it inches closer to him.

His dark eyebrows shoot up for the briefest second. Clearly he wasn't expecting such a brass move, but here I am. Twenty-four, freshly admitted into a grad programme, and ready to rumble. What's he got?

"Only individual debt, the sea levels probably, and my interest in obtaining a second pint."

Wow. Pretty eyes and a smart mouth.

"You study here?" I go on, knowing full well he does. I've seen him around, lazily sprawled on the grass, back leaning on a lumpy old willow, one hand playing with a battered tennis ball as the other held a number of Bike magazine. I would recognise it anywhere, I grew up with it. My eldest brother, Bill, he fancies leather jackets, fanged earrings and long hair - in spite of Mum's never ending protests. She nearly gave herself a coronary when Bill arrived home on a motorcycle. I was only seven and watched it all from my room, shaking with glee and laughter. It was the best day ever.

Anyway, back to the present and fit sassy blokes.

"Criminal Law, yeah. Two year programme. You?" He dips his head and takes another swig.

"Journalism. One year."

"New meat?"

"Fresh as a daisy," I shrug, then hide my face in a long sip from the pint.

He smiles genuinely and chinks his beer to mine, "Cheers."

"Cheers," I agree and slowly relax. It's been a long, ugly day.

We ease into a friendly, innocent chat, two strangers in a crowded pub, straining to hear what the other has to say over loud rock music.

Soon enough, he draws closer so I don't have to shout myself hoarse, then I do the same. He talks close to my ear, and I do the same.

I find myself telling him about my first week at UCL, describing this waterless, cruel day, ranting about trousers made for super models and savings accounts that are filled only with hopes and dreams because I absolutely did not give them any chance to carry my money.

He laughs as I dive deeper into my tirade and somewhere inside I feel warmer.

"I'm Harry, by the way," he scratches the back of his head and extends a hand.

I smile, involuntarily, "Ginny," and feel his palm with mine. The calluses on his skin graze as our palms slide against each other. It lasts only a second but yet, for a slight moment, I feel like squeezing his hand harder, twining my fingers with his.

Must be the alcohol.

Or the musty scent of his breath as he talks about UCL.

Or the feeling of it hot against the back of my ear, mentioning professors and places I'm bound to forget before the song is over.

Somewhere in between a story about Ron, who we've established he'd like to meet, and a fascinating report on UCL nightlife, I give into the urge to order more alcohol. You know, because that's always a good idea.

I buy us a stronger beer, he buys us shots. We down one each, we order another two. Two plus two equals four.

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila and his eyes are prettier than ever, emerald green and glistening in the dimmed pub lights.

It's warm inside, why do I keep my coat on? Here, extra layers no more. But yes to more tequila!

Three more shots and I've never wanted to dance more in my life. My thoughts are spinning and so am I as I crash into his chest and he laughs and I laugh and we both dance, arms and legs tangled together.

Pucker up, sweetheart. I'm way over my alcohol limits so this should be a fun night.

When I feel heavy metal

(Woo-hoo) And I'm pins and I'm needles

(Woo-hoo) Well, I lie and I'm easy

All of the time but I'm never sure why I need you

Pleased to meet you

Woo-hoo, it's that banger by Blur, I love it. Charlie, my second eldest brother, played it on the guitar all the time. Or was it Bill?

"Pleased to meet you," Harry's voice comes out in a slur.

"Me too, you're pretty foxy," I admit, prodded by his testimony.

"No, the song," he laughs and pulls me hard against him.

My face in the crook of his shoulder, us swaying and shaking to the music, the tequila shots, his cologne, his hands on the small of my back. It's all coming through me in waves, image after image spinning at the back of my eyelids. Oh, fuck.

"Oh, fuck," I moan, dizzy.

Harry stops and looks at me, his nose inches from mine, eyes glazed over. He opens his mouth to ask something that sounds like "You want to?", but nothing makes sense in this noise and uproar.

I find it all funny, it's all tremendously funny actually. I grin widely, my arms encircling him, locked at the base of his messy messy hair. It's all woozy.

His lighthearted grin turns into a pucker of lips - that's the action that usually precedes a kiss, isn't it?

Yeah, it is. He's kissing me! Fit staring bloke is snogging me!

We're snogging. Lips like those are hard to come across, mhm. Our mouths come together hard and strong, lips gliding over each other again and again, making my heart beat faster and hands to tug him lower over me so I can ah -

I was going for the tongue slip, but he's faster. Cheeky boy. Handsome boy.

There's that earthy taste again, of beer in my mouth, the flavour of beer lingering on his tongue. Musty, rich and, oh, so good. My knees feel like butter, I am butter in his hands.

One arm around my middle, he's stumbling, taking us both outside.

"My place?" Harry grins lopsidedly, round specs askew. Such a boy. Lovely boy.

I lean in conspiringly, draw him to my mouth by his jacket, "Do you have hot water?"

"What?" He snorts, but there's nothing funny here. Not on my side. I'm all seriousness and professionalism, yes sir.

"Is your establishment provided with hot water?" I ask again, mimicking a person having a shower. That should help the point come across.

"Uh - yeah?"

Harry staggers a bit as he straightens his back, his glasses, his checkered jacket. He's cute. And I'm - what was the word? Woozy.

Cute boy disappears back inside before I can say "Lead the way" and I'm tempted to go after him and demand he fulfills his promise of a hot shower. But it's good that I don't, because here he is, right back next to me, over me, offering me my coat (huh, I thought it seemed a bit drafty) and a half finished bottle of tequila.

I grab him by the collar and press him to the pub's brick wall, just to kiss him some more for clothing me like that, protecting me from the cold. Such a gentleman.

My knees buckle when the gentleman's hand flies over my arse and squeezes tightly.

"Harry?" I slur against his lips, holding myself up by a handful of his jacket.

"Huh?"

He goes about his kissing business, undeterred.

"Can't hold up."

"What?"

"I can't - can' walk."

I press my forehead into his cheek as I feel my body slide down his torso like goo. I am now the failed tea tree peel off mask. Get me at the Body Shop, I'm unreasonably expensive.

Apparently I'm also a sack of potatoes, because what else can I be hanging loose over Harry's back as he marches into the night, hunchbacked and panting his way home, I hope.

I ascertain that we're both on board with my carefully laid out plan.

"Hot shower?"

He pants and grunts, "Five minutes."

I smile widely over the back of his head. No one's ever made me this happy. I've said it before but what a gentleman.

I must've dozed off a bit because the next thing I know is I'm rolling (more like collapsing in a pile of limbs, really) on what I believe to be his bed. Harry takes a healthy swig of tequila from the bottle, hands it to me.

I drink, the coat goes off.

I drink again, there comes the sweater.

Shots, shots, shots from one mouth to another and all I've got left are my prized blue socks with little orange foxes round the ankles. Guess I should keep those on, don't want to risk a cold on my first month in London. That'd be really silly.

And it's fabulous with socks on, it makes sliding through the hallway, fast ahead to the bathroom, feel like the unique experience it is and should be recognised as.

Still, the lighting in Harry's bathroom is not flattering. My hair's a veritable rat's nest, my breasts not very perky and my eyes a bit too glossy. Nothing that can't be fixed with a hot shower, actually.

"Harry?" I call, holding on to the sink. Who needs posture when you've got sinks.

Harry totters in looking deliciously disheveled and I'm pleased to notice that Criminal Law grad students have time to work out. I could spread this one on toast, with his little V lines, skinny body, and strong arms. Yeah, baby, flex those muscly arms some more.

"Alright, Gin?" He winks and that's it, I'm a puddle.

"Shower?" I croak.

Harry nods soberly as if truly understanding the gravity of the situation at hand. He turns on the taps with a quick work of his beautiful hands and before I know it there's steam coming out of it.

Ah, steam. Steam and hot water are connected, you know. How lovely.

"Ah, yes, splendid," I acknowledge, delighted and crouch down to peel off my socks.

We've already established Harry's quite the gentleman, therefore he gathers me into his arms (taking your socks off proves to be too difficult a task in a state of questionable sobriety) and slowly plants my body inside the steaming hot shower.

In all fairness, I've never been more delighted about being naked in my life.

One strong leg and then the other, and Harry's in with me, water splattering all over, drenching his wild hair, flooding the round lenses of his glasses. He's adorable.

"You're adorable," I inform him.

He takes me into his arms, my back pressed flush against cold bathroom tiles. My legs wrap around his middle and he kisses me gently, then harder, firmer, under the pouring hot water.

All I remember is the taste of tequila, magic, and bliss, followed by oblivion.