The drugs weren't working anymore.

I figured out this little tidbit about three nights ago, after the fifth night in a row that I woke up shivering, bawling my eyes out and with a raging hard-on.

My shrink had stopped being effective about six months ago, but I kept going because, honestly, what the fuck else was I going to do? It's not like I had any other pressing matters on a Tuesday night. I went to the little man every other Tuesday, and he proceeds to try to psycho-analyze me. Since he has already picked me apart seven times over, he just gives me a battery if drugs with names that sound like Swahili. Praxalatitin or something and the like. Useless.

No, the drugs weren't working anymore, because my mind was so fractured that I was talking to myself about how my drugs don't work as a large black man repeatedly punched me in the jaw.

It hurt, kinda. With one last hit, he threw me to the ground. My head impacted the sidewalk with a dull thud, and then he and his white buddy proceeded to kick me until they cracked my ribs.

I spat up blood sullenly as they stole my wallet, and then they were off.

Well, fuck me, yeah? I am the god damn savior of the whole world, and I just got mugged by some two-bit chavs in a dark London back-alley. "Fuck me," I say through split lips and bruised cheeks with a fist imprint, and I light up a fag, because, fuck you, lungs. You're my bitch.

Hear that, lungs? I'm fucking filling you with cancer smoke and there isn't a damn thing you do. That's right, cough, you little tart.

Shit, I hurt. You know, that big black man punched me right in the eye? It's why it's swelling shut right now and I am bleeding from a gash across my forehead, which is sending blood down through my eyebrows into my other eye.

You know, there is something to be said to watching a man punch you in slow motion. It's the adrenalin, you know. Makes everything slow down. I could see his knuckles, each one etched out of his hand, his fingers curling down and around into a rocket, destination my face. Fucking surreal, man. His middle knuckle had a tiny scar on it. I could see it because it was stark white. I bet it stung when he hit me.

Serves him right. I'm stumbling out of the alley, into the street proper. Why didn't I fucking apparate? Oh, that's right, I'm fucking terrified by wizarding transportation. Apparition especially. I've been through a war, man. A fucking war, dig? I've people misplace where they were going. Land in walls, like, literally, half in, half out. And if they are really bad, the half that is sticking out just sort of, like, slides along the wall, leaving a trail of blood and intestines.

Heavy shit, man.

So, I am stumbling down the street, fag in split lips and dripping blood into my remaining good eye, and wheezing through cracked ribs and teeth and smoke. Fuck, it feels like I just had sex, almost. Almost. But I was the woman, and my date wasn't so gentle.

And it wasn't one of those bullshit 'Shh, shh, it's okay, girl, you know I love you, you know I love you, baby. We can work this out, baby girl, make it work, because I love you girl, and I know you love me too, yeah?' and then you kiss and cry and fuck like little desperate rabbits. Nope, this was full on non-consensual prison yard shenanigans. And that black mans' knuckles were each named Bubba and his little white friend was named Curly, but Curly is just sort of like a cheerleader, man, ya dig? Like he only does his job so that Bubba doesn't notice him, and he looks you in the eyes and shrugs, like, 'Sorry, man, but it's you or me'. And then Bubba has his way with you.

It certainly felt like Bubba had his way with me.

Fuck you, Curly.

As I am ranting to myself, I remember why I was coming this way. Ron. Hermione.

Yeah, they'll help me, sure as sure. My best friends in the whole world, sure as sure.

Hermione is a genius, you know. Like, a full on Einstein level brain inside of a fuzzy headed package. And she works as a secretary in the Ministry because fuck England, you know? But it's okay, because it pays well, and she has the Hogwarts graduation papers and the war medals to prove that she is brave and smart and pretty and, God, Hermione has saved my life more times than I care to admit. And not just in the war, dig? We all saved each other in the war, that's just how it went, because we were soldiers, kinds, but no uniforms and no training and no real plan or chain of command once Dumbledore died and it all went to shit. But, Hermione, yeah, she saved my life, yeah? Like, saved me from drowning in a ditch in a pool of my own whiskey vomit saved, just up a plucked me out and cleaned me up. And then slapped me good and hard because, "Harry, what were you thinking? You could have died, and then what would happen to Ginny and the kids and me and Ron?"

And I think I mumbled something inconsiderate to her, because I was drunk, and then she brought me to her flat. I slept on the couch.

But, yeah, Hermione's an angel, and a genius and beautiful and nice a smart, and she is married to Ron, who is my best mate and he's a ginger and… and he's my best mate, see?

I stumble up to the stoop of the modest house that is bigger on the inside because magic, fuck yeah. And I take a long drag on my fag and I ring the doorbell. I put out the fag in the wall next to me, and it leaves a nice dark stain on the red brick. And Hermione opens up the door, and I promptly fall face first through the threshold to the musical sound of her screaming my name in terror.

Hermione.

Her-my-oh-nee. Herr-mi-o-ni. Herhm-i-o-nee. Or, the Bulgarian version, Her-mo-nih-ni. Herm-oh-nini.

Said girl is currently dabbing at me in the doorway with a conjured cloth, already wet from water and my blood. In a moment, Ron is in the doorway.

"Shit, mate, who'd you piss off? It looks like you picked a fight with Hagrid!"

It was a monument to how distracted his wife was that she didn't scold him for language, especially with the children in the house.

I mumbled something about that not being far off, and he grinned at me. "C'mon, Herm, let's get him inside and cleaned up." He lifted me up, and then half walked, half dragged me inside their home. Hermione got her wand out and ready, and then started a battery of healing spells and diagnostic charms.

"Oh, Harry, what did you do? You've three broken ribs! Your skull is close to fractured! Broken teeth, internal bleeding-"

"Shit, mate, you really did piss off Hagrid, yeah?"

"Ronald! Language! This is not a joking matter, Harry is in serious danger!"

"Well, let's fix him then, yeah?" And Ron pulled out his wand and started in with some spell or other that I'm sure he learned from the war. My chest certainly felt better, and a moment later my eye wasn't as swollen, and the blood stopped flowing into the other. My jaw still ached, but I figured that I deserved that, anyway.

Slowly, with Hermiones' help, I stood up. "Thanks," I murmured. "What time is it?" Ron cast a tempus spell, and the numerals said 11:46 in the clear air. "Ah, good. I need a fucking drink."

"Harry James Potter! What are you thinking? You've just gotten off Death's Doorstep, and you immediately think of getting drunk?"

"Pretty much," I said to her.

"What would your children think? What would Ginny-"

She cut herself off before she dug into the wound too much more. Me and Gin had been divorced some eight months prior. I was a drunken slob, she was cheating, and our children were caught in the middle. Fuck me, but it still hurts. Fuck you, Ginny. Although, I suppose it was for the best. I sure as hell don't know what the fuck I'm doing however many years after the fact. My name is Harry Potter, and I am thirty-eight years old. I am a divorced father of three, I am bleeding, hurt, and painfully sober. Fuck me.

"They'll never know," I say to her, and I can almost hear Ron nodding along with me. "Will they?"

"I…" She looks forlorn and lost and scared, because this certainly isn't how we imagined our lives after we came home that last time, isn't it?

"Will they?" I say it again, twisting the knife further into my best friends' guts, and I am almost laughing with glee because, yes, she is starting to feel just as shitty as I do. Good. Misery and party favors and whatever else they say.

"No, Harry," she says quietly, and I don't know whether to cheer or burst into tears at how easily I have broken the morals of the best person I have ever known.

"Good." I stretch, slowly. Get the kinks out, Potter. All of them. "I'm not going to do much, 'Mione. Just a couple shots to sooth my nerves, yeah? I was just roughed up a bit, and I want to feel like it's alright, yeah?"

Ron jumped in. "Yeah, mate, we get you. Be safe, right?" He gave a look to his wife, and she didn't fight it- this time. I've seen them go at it, at Hogwarts, at home, in front of who so ever wanted to watch the slow degeneration of a nuclear family. I'm surprised they are still going it, honestly. The sex must be wonderful.

I lazily wave at them over my shoulder as I walk out the door, my head clearing more and more with each step. That's all well and good. Time to get shit-faced.

Ever since I killed Voldemort, my money hasn't been good at the Leaky Cauldron- by which I mean, Tom and Hannah have been nursing my burgeoning drinking problem. All for free, which was good, seeing as my wallet had been stolen by two chavs about an hour beforehand. Very good, as I have a powerful need to not remember tomorrow. I smile and wink at Hannah, who giggles cutely and slaps my hand playfully across the bar.

"I think," I slur after my seventh shot- Sorry that I am a liar, Hermione, but you knew damn well that I was-, but, anyway, I was slurring kinda badly by now, and everything was a bit blurry. "I think that I will stay overnight, luv," I say to her with a grin on my face that was somewhere close to a leer. She smiles and nods and tells Tom.

I like Hannah. She's a good girl. Better wand work than most would think from the small, shy Hufflepuff- but, then again, the Houses don't mean a fucking thing now, after twenty fucking years, do they, Potter?

Come to think of it, Hannah ain't too shy, either. I fucked her, you know. And, yeah, I was still married at the time, but that's okay, 'cause Ginny was cheating on me, too, at the time. All the time, actually. But, yeah. Girl was naughty, and a screamer, too, but those days are years gone now, yeah? She has a shiny ring on her finger and I can't remember who put it there. It may have been Neville, but fuck if I knew, because the guy- shit, he saved my life, too, all our fucking lives, and I haven't the foggiest idea what hole he has crawled into. Maybe he was dead, maybe. Or maybe, shit, I dunno, he was fighting dark wizards in Moldavia or some other shithole country. Fuck it.

But, anyway, she's leading me up to my room- it even has a little plaque, saying Harry Potter slept here, and Tom charges triple for people to sleep in my piss-stained sheets because wizarding Britain is a sad, lonely place. I vomit on the stairwell, but I miss Hannah's shoes by inches, so I don't mind, and I doubt she does, because, ya know, magic. It's about this time, with vomit dripping down my face and a pretty girl dragging me to a room that screams kitsch that I haven't used magic in weeks. I have been living as a muggle for almost a month now, and I have no real reason except that fuck the Ministry. Oh well. Booze is booze is violence, you know? And as Hannah drags me into bed, cleaning up my mess like I suspect a mother would, I am gurgling incoherently something that might have been a come on at one point.

Hannah just smiles, kisses me sweetly on the cheek, and then leaves, turning out the lights and gently closes the door. It takes me twenty minutes of tossing and turning before I realize that I am crying.

I don't really have a home, you know.

Not to say that I don't have a place, dig? I have a flat with a TV and a bed and a dresser filled with my old clothes and a fridge with moldy food that I should really clean out. It has light yellow wall-paper. I fucking hate that color. Makes me sick to my stomach, and my stomach is weak as is.

Fuck that place, man.

I have a car, too, yeah? I don't really have a license, but the Ministry gave me this nifty card that becomes whatever I need it to be. So I sorta learned as I went along, and didn't crash into anything too badly. My car is a certified piece of shit, but she still goes vroom when I push, so there is that. And I can drive around for forever, because, as I've said, fucking magic, man. Aww, shit.

But, yeah, it's five pm the next day and I feel that bar bug hittin' me, but I don't want to go to the Cauldron again, dig? Because I've stolen enough of Tom and pretty little Hannahs' money and I don't want them to start thinking that I have a problem, because I don't, but, sometimes, ya know, you just need to let go and get absolutely fucking hammered. But I've got a new wallet, new cards, new cash, and I am feeling so fucking good right now that it should be illegal.

Anyway, I drive around until I find a place I think will work- some muggle bar called The Highlight. It's about as cheap and shoddy as such a highbrow name would indicate, but that's okay, because I won't care what I am drinking after about twenty minutes, if I have anything to say about it.

You know, I slept in the Underground last night. Yup, just went down to the nearest exit I could stumble into and napped on the stairs. They let me sleep off my drunk down there, and then I went home. By which I meant that I went into a coffee house and sat there for six hours. I must have stunk horribly. Oh well. Fuck baristas. But I have a new shirt and a new sense of need for whiskey.

But I don't have a problem, no, and the bartender here seems so nice, doesn't he? And I already have a shot in me- courage for the nights binge, see? And, I swear, everyone at this bar is my friend, and so is the fifth shot of whiskey and vodka and rum and tequila-la-la-la…!

Fuck, my head hurts. I think I hit it on the bar. Someone is rubbing my back, and Jim Morrison is crooning out some tune over the juke and life is good again. Yeah, so what I got mugged yesterday? I have a half dozen new friends and at least one of them seems to be very pretty.

Three hours later, I'm still there, and I have traded in most of my friends in for new ones, but that's okay, because my main friend is the barkeep, and he is looking more and more like keeper. The Highlight is a small time affair- you've seen one dive bar, you've seen the rest, dig? No matter the country, only thing that changes is the tone of the slurs.

I am well and truly fucking sloshed by now, yeah, and my buzz is kinda wearing thin. But the girl next to me- fuck me if I can remember her name right now, but she's nice and soft and pretty in that whiskey goggles sort of way, but I suspect that she would be cute in the morning anyway, so what's the harm? I need to relax and let go and get laid, I think.

Shake, shake, shake to clear my head, and the girl is really catching my eye. I think she said that her name was Brittany. I like what I see, but, after the dry spell I have been in- which, to be fair, was partially my fault- I would settle for much less. Like, wet and willing settle type, which, as god damn Harry Potter, I shouldn't have to fucking settle, because fuck you, that's why. I'm a god damn hero, dig? I even have a medal in my flat that I don't really live in, and it says Harry Potter, Real Life Fucking Hero in solid gold, solid fucking gold, man, because fuck the Goblins. Creppy fuckers.

But, anyway, this girl, man, this girl. She was chubby, in the cute, a little gone to seed sort of way, where it didn't turn her into a ravening beast, just accentuated the nice things, right? Big hips, great tits, and a smile a mile wide. Fuck, I'm rhyming. Still a bit drunk, but I'm sobering up real quick because this chick is giving out signs, man, and they are all leading me right between her legs, from her toothy grin and glittering eyes to the slutty looking dress that ends just before you would consider bringing her home to mum, yeah?

Not that I had a mum to bring her home to, which is kinda in my favor at the moment. I guess maybe Molly fills that role, but- fuck no, I am not thinking about god damn Weasleys right now, I am thinking about all the dirty things I am going to do to this girl. And how!

Somewhere between her eyeing me up and me undressing her with my eyes, we start the kissing, because fuck the heart to heart when I feel like this. And we stumble outside into the darkness out back, because we want to fuck and I have a car. Her smile leads me behind her gladly- all smoky and sultry and slutty- and my eyes roam all over, settling on her big ass only long enough to see that her dress was even shorter than I thought, but that's even better for me, isn't it?

We stumble over to my car, and I unlock it with the beeper, but while she is going for the door, I pounce, hands going around her waist and lips to her throat, grinding into her from behind, and my hands are roaming worse than my eyes ever did, one going down down down and the other going up to fondle her great huge tits, all soft and silky and if I don't get Inside this girl in a minute I am ripping the dress off right in the parking lot, and I doubt she'd mind. But suddenly the rear door to my piece of shit car is open, and I am crawling in after her and enjoying the view.

It's a tangle of limbs and lips and need, and suddenly I am inside of this girl, and she's under me and moaning out incoherently, which is probably best, because I never gave her my name. But I am inside of this chubby sexy girl and she is loving every fucking second because fuck yeah, bitch, I'm Harry FUCKING Potter and I know how to please a god damn woman, dig? And she is so tight and hot and wet and it's god damn amazing and then, fuck, Jim Morrison iis in my fucking head again-

Show me the way to the next Whiskey Bar…

And I am pounding into this girl at break neck speed- or, I guess, break cock speed, but that is an unsexy thought right now, and it does not mesh with my current existence, which is deep inside this chick, because, god Damnit,

Show me the way to the next little girl…

I fucking deserve this, man, I really do, and she is moaning out in time with the thrusts I make into her like my own personal god damn symphony, but I can feel my cock, man, and it ain't digging it to hot, yeah? Like slowly, I'm getting smaller and smaller inside this girl,

Oh, don't ask why, Oh, don't ask why…

Shut the FUCK UP, Jim, this is fucking serious, I can't fucking blow this, I can't, because I can't break a fucking dry spell and just fucking die off, no, I refuse, fuck you Jim-

"Baby? Baby, did you cum? Did you cum for me baby?" Fuck me sideways, and I say back to her,

"No, no, I'm just a bit, out of practice, ya know? I'll be fine, just, just give me a minute, kay?"

And she nods, and to pass the time I start with the fingers, because they can't go fucking limp on me (Although they have done that before, but that was Lockharts fault, and he died with the mind of a six year old, so he got his), but I just can't do it, I can't get it up again because Jim FUCKING Morrison is crooning Alabama Song in my head-

Ooooh Mooooooooooooooooooon of Alllll-a-baaaaaaaam-aaaa, we nowwwww…

-and the girl under me, whatever the fuck her name is, she still loves it, but I can tell she is losing interest real fucking quick, because who the fuck loses it while inside of a fucking bird, yeah?

Me, Harry James God Damn Potter, that's who.

I mean, fuck me, man! Can't I catch a fucking break? And this girl is looking up at me past her own big titties with this look of disappointment, because, really, who the fuck likes it when their lover conks out like a little bitch? Fuck me, man, and that's all I can think because I have to fucking scream it to hear it past the goddamn Doors, because it's getting louder and louder and pounding in my head and I have a headache,

WE NOOOOOOW, MUST SAY GOOD-BYYYYYYYYYYYYE…

Shut the FUCK up, Jim! And I stumble out of my own fucking car and I can barely see straight and I need a fucking drink, and of course it will be god damn whiskey, because what else is good enough, yeah? The girl is calling out after me, but fuck her, I can't even deal with this right now

WE'VE LOOOOOOOOOOST OUR DEAR OLD MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMAAAAAAA…

I am really starting to hate this song, and once I stumble in all my good friends have gone with my buzz and my good time, and the barkeep just tells me that I have "Had enough, friend," but FUCK YOU, I'll say when I have had fucking enough to God Damn drink, because I need this to sleep tonight, and I just want to fucking forget every bad thing that has happened to me, because fuck me but there is a lot, a whole lot, so much that it blots out the sun and the moon and the stars, and the life of Harry James Fucking Potter is just an ink blot on a white page, a poem for some kid who doesn't now that angst and self-harm aren't in vogue anymore, and the man who is bothering me with the "Hey, buddy," and the "Hey, man," and the grabbing my shoulder outside the stupid bar isn't helping my fucking mood one goddamn bit,

AND MUST HAVE WHISKEY, OHH YOU KNOW WHY!

And I know that it isn't my fucking fault, it isn't, it's everything in my life right now, because I've lost my wife and my kids and my sex drive and I'm a drunk fucking vagrant that is living off the hospitality off of his two best mates and Jim Morrison is screaming and singing into my skull and it hurts so FUCKING BAD, and when did I start screaming, and, more importantly, when did I start punching this man repeatedly in the face, and, most importantly, why do I enjoy it so god damn much?

Because, shit, man, I couldn't even stop myself if I wanted to right now, dig? And I think I am still screaming out that "IT'S NOT MY FUCKING FAULT!" Because, really, it isn't, it really fucking isn't, and I may have issues, but Ginny is the one who started cheating first, and I only did so after, and it's not as if I'm a bad guy, right? I mean, sure, I'm currently beating an innocent man to death for trying to help me out of my semi-drunken stupor, but it's isn't my fault, not my FUCKING FAULT, and I'm not a bad guy, right?

Right?