Call That Playing Possum (drarry)

one

Harry was old.

He is old enough to have outlived not one, but two Queen Elizabeths (may their sorry asses rot in Hell). Old enough to have been around when alcohol was much simpler, and also much more disgusting. He is old enough to have lost count of how old exactly he was -- or more so lost the will to care to count, and that was some two hundred years ago.

So it is an understatement to say, again, Harry is old.

And Harry's been told by old people (though old people still a fraction of Harry's age) that with age comes wisdom, and cherished memories, and love. Yeah, sure. Harry's heard it all before, and quite frankly, he thinks it's nonsense.

Wisdom. Love. Joy. What really comes with old age... depression.

He was nineteen years old when he was cursed, and he will remain nineteen years old forever.

He won't know what it's like to age, to get arthritis or heart failure (or long lasting, substational heart failure, rather), or whatever it is that people older than nineteen get. He would not die. Sure, he'd be dead for a couple of minutes, but his body would piece itself back together, one painstaking movement at a time.

A possum more than excellent at playing dead.

And, yes, it'd been fun at the beginning. To be invincible. Immortal, beyond all mortal perils.

But then his loved ones grew old. Died. And Harry, he... stayed the same. Not a hair grew longer on his chin. And eventually he learned that not everything stays the same when time passes: his friendship seemingly did not hold up. He can count on his hands the times he was abandoned, tossed aside and labeled a monster.

He could not explain why he didn't age, why he looked the same after some twenty years, and accusations of witchcraft and magic deals weren't always too far off. The Salem Witch Trial era had done a doozy on him.

But he survived. Everything that was done to him -- everything he has done to himself -- he has survived. He clings to the corpses of the past, only to find them heartbreakingly unresponsive. He prays to the God that cursed him... and finds that he, Harry, is now the only God in his way.

He is alone. Alone and alive and breathing, and downing whiskey like there was no tomorrow.

Harry, perhaps gaining the habit from when he was a child, back when large get togethers meant that someone died, was selling livestock, or getting married, did not take to social settings well. He looks around with narrowed, dazed vision, noting the unbearable lights, not-his-century music, and numerous dancing, sweaty bodies, and he grimaces.

He's too fucking old for this.

He down another shot and doesn't even mind the awful way it stings his throat. As long as it's doing its job, it can taste like whatever it damn well pleases. And besides, nothing disgusting can compete with good old grape juice and bread yeast. He shudders at the memory.

"Harry!" a voice slurs. Despite himself, Harry smiles. He knows that relationships, like all things except him, are temporary. Sooner or later, the people he loves will leave him and he will be left all alone until he meets new people to abandon him.

He has done this before. There is nothing else to do.

Ron Weasely has arrived, already drunk, to Harry's depression fueled binge drinking event -- and he seems to be in a much better mood than Harry is. Good for him, Harry thinks glumly.

Another voice: "Jesus, Harry, how much have you drank?"

Neville Longbottom, Mr. Sober, looks out at the array of empty shot glasses in front of Harry with a deeply worried frown. Harry's time as a drunk -- though he adamantly denies that he's one of those, given that he believes he could stop at any time and just... doesn't see the point in doing so -- has given him more a high alcohol tolerance. Despite him being immortal, alcohol still worked its magic, and he could still get drunk. Like he intended to.