Vinous {H.S AU}

Three.

Harry.

Family dinners fucking suck.

Especially mine.

It usually goes like this: Mum preps and cooks dinner for me, dad and Rowan my older sister. Dad gets back from work and complains drearily about somebody he doesn't like there, already on edge for some reason or another none of us can help. We sit. We eat. We wait for the explosion to happen. Sometimes it doesn't, but majority of the time it does.

I'm sat on the right of Rowan, Mum opposite her and Dad opposite me, eating slowly, mostly pushing my food around my plate, not hungry at all. I hate coming back home for Sundays, but I promised Mum I would. Rowan still lives at home because her hearts too big to leave.

Dad feels pissed. His aura makes the energy in the room drop a thousand degrees.

"How's that shithole of uni then?" he asks, shovelling his mouth with the shredded pork Mum made. The same shredded pork he said ten minutes ago was the worst dish she's ever made. I shove my knife into the chunk of meat and cut it into smaller portions, seeing how much smaller I can make them, until they just disappear.

"It's alright, I've got an essay to write but it's not due for another few months so I'm not stressing." I force myself to swallow the chunk on my fork like a normal person and ignore the lump in my throat rising. Dad scowls over his glass that he's sipping from and rolls his eyes dramatically. "For what? What's it about, bet it's a piece of piss."

I see Mum from the corner of my eye grimace, hating that he's putting my achievements down like he always does but I subtly shake my head at her, telling her silently that it's alright. Anything for a quiet life.

"Just about love and what it means. It's all dumb anyway. How was work?" I try and change the subject ingeniously, so he doesn't think too hard about the redirection. Rowan's finishing off her plate, always the one to finish food first, and looks between us as we talk. It looks like her eyes are playing table tennis. Dad starts a rant about a guy called James he hates, something about how he doesn't do his job right but I'm zoning out, not listening.

He gets up and goes to the kitchen, opens the whiskey cupboard and pulls out a dark bottle, pours a quarter into a glass and drinks it straight. He pours another one and brings it back to the table with a loud clink. I visibly tighten my grip on my cutlery but try to play it off.

Don't let it bother you, I think to myself. It is not worth it, eat and stay an hour and then you can leave.

Rowan starts a conversation about her new drawings she has been doing for clients – she's a tattoo artist apprentice for the place a few roads down from here and they all adore her already, she's only been there three months. Mum is listening and Dad is nodding while he sips. I try to choke down the mash, but I can't bring myself to swallow. Rowan gets her phone out to show Mum a photo of the last tattoo she did on her friend Demi. Bad move. Big mistake.

"No phones during family meals." Dad's clipped tone showers the room in a bad mood. A special quality he has.

"Sorry, I was just showing Mum, she said she-" Rowan can't get a word in edgeways before Dad butts in again.

"I know what she said. She should know better." He points her with a glare.

Mum looks like she wants to say something, but she bites her tongue. She doesn't cower at his tone, just sits up straight making herself more known. "Ro said it was her first sleeve design, so I wanted to see."

My Dad isn't a built man. He's lean and tall and potentially, more on the skinnier side. But he has one hell of a hit and in that moment, he's too quick for any of us to react before his fist makes for Mum's face.