Drarry One Shots

The Mornings After

A/N I've been avoiding writing this one because it's been done so well a lot of times. Anyway, I eventually came up with my own version... sorry that it went a bit angsty, I wasn't planning that. A year-eight story. Apologies but I can't credit the artist.

When Harry woke up on the third Sunday morning of his 'year eight' at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, his primary concern was that he was actually dying. His head was trying to simultaneously implode and explode and felt like it was tearing his brain away from his skull in the process.

Surprisingly, his first thought wasn't that Voldemort had returned and had taken possession of his mind again. This was a different kind of pain. That pain made him cry out as it felt as if his head was trying to split open through his scar. No, this was different... this pain made him want to crawl into a hole... a very silent and dark hole... only it was too difficult to move. He felt very heavy. He thought, perhaps, he'd been trampled by an erumpent during the night. In fact, he thought said erumpent had crapped in his mouth and was currently sitting on his pounding head.

And he was, without a doubt, too hot. Far too hot. Probably the fault of the erumpent that was wrapped around him, spooning him possessively. Though it was unaided by the heavy blanket that was twisted around him like a cocoon and the pair of legs that were intertwined covetously with his.

He didn't dare prise open his eyelids, the sunlight pouring through the uncurtained windows was hurting his eyes as it was. He tried to screw his eyes shut tighter against the brightness but that pulled on his brain and hurt.

His thoughts were too slow and confused, addled by pain and overheating and desperate thirst and the remaining alcohol that still poisoned his body.

And also, where the fuck was he?

He couldn't remember making it to his bed. To any bed, for that matter, considering the matter of the person spooning him.

Person... There was something significant in that...

His brow furrowed painfully above his closed eyes; partly trying to squeeze away the headache, partly trying to make sense of his situation. It didn't feel like a bed, too lumpy... more of a sofa... or the edge of sofa to be precise...

Okay... the Hufflepuff common room? That was where the year eights had spent the evening, much to the disgust of the younger years. He must have passed out...

It had been a good party, he remembered that. He'd finally let go, for the first time since the war had finished. He finally allowed himself to relax in the company of others. Who knew Hufflepuffs would be masters at holding a party? He supposed it made sense, they'd taken the 'House Unity' speech by McGonagall to heart and determined from the start that they would lead the way in breaking down the walls... hence the party the previous night...

He groaned... fuck, his head hurt. And he still had his glasses on because the arm was digging into the side of his face.

The heavy arm draped across his ribs and around his stomach squeezed him a little closer.

And now he thought about it, he felt very sick too.

He silently cursed Blaise Zabini who seemed to think that encouraging everyone to drink Firewhisky like it was Butterbeer was hilarious.

At least he was clothed. Well, his t-shirt was missing and no socks or boots but he had his jeans on, which meant he hadn't partaken in anything drastic in his inebriated state... perhaps... he thought... he couldn't remember...

Was it non-consensual... whatever it was? he worried. His state of undress meant something had happened...

Nothing came to mind.