Harry Potter and the Unexplained Phobia

Chapter three: The childish reaction

Fanart by Drew's art

It was Dean's 17th birthday and so the boys, as well as Pavarti and Lavender (Hermione had politely declined and was staying in her dormitory after helping them cast several silencing charms around their door and window. She'd been particularly irate since term started, more than usual and both boys agreed that it was easier to stay out of her way), were camping in their dormitory. All of them held bottles of muggle and wizarding alcohol in their hands, all except Harry. He had nervously laughed and pushed away every drink that was handed to him and had half a mind to leave and join Hermione for revision. It wasn't fun to be the only sober person surrounded by drunken teenagers.

He'd been trying to cut out all liquids, to various levels of success. On one hand, he hadn't wet the bed since, which had been his main concern. He rarely ever needed to go to the toilet either, which was a bonus, though he supposed that may be due to the fact he was now going whenever he could, up to twenty times a day, compared to his usual four or five.

However, it was hard to ignore how physically painful the process had been. It wasn't just the physical side effects- he always had a headache, his throat was painful, his mouth dry, his muscles cramped no matter how much exercise he took. It was maddening always having a little voice in the back of his head saying drink something, please, drink something! He had only held out this long due to the other voice, the one shouting no, you know what will happen! being louder.

The party felt more like a punishment than a celebration. Because he'd drank a few mouthfuls of water at breakfast to force down a headache cure, he was being taunted by what felt like thousands of clinking bottles, the fizz sounding like static in his ears. If he even drank a drop, he'd lose his inhibitions and Merlin knew what could have happened then.

"Come on, Mate, it's his birthday!" Seamus had insisted, pushing yet another bottle of mixed Butterbeer and cider into his hand. It was a sweet concoction that they both knew Harry loved- it was strong enough to get tipsy after a few pints, the tang of the cider melting into the sweet butterscotch flavour of the Butterbeer. But now Harry was eyeing it like it was a pipe bomb, half expecting the bottle to smash in the Irish man's outstretched hand.

"No thanks," he smiled, handing it to Ron, who shrugged and downed it in one, earning a round of cheers from the room. Seamus turned back to Harry and raised his eyebrows. "Seriously, I had a horrible hangover last time and it's Quidditch practice in the morning, Alicia will try and breathalyse me before I can step on the pitch."

"You weren't that bad last time, I don't want you to get left out! Are you sure?"

He nodded, smiling. He'd noticed that Neville wasn't drinking either, though he was as pink as the rest of them, his red eyes wandering around the room lazily. He pulled Harry aside when Seamus had finally left him alone.

"I've got some weed, if you'd prefer that," he said quietly, looking a little embarrassed. "I hate hangovers too."

Harry deliberated for a moment. On one hand, he hated the smell of it, from when Dudley used to stumble home and reek of the plant, obstinately saying that it was never him who had smoked, it was his mates, and his stupid parents had believed him. Plus he would be in a lot more trouble if he was caught with a blunt than a bottle of Butterbeer. On the other hand, he doubted they would get caught and it would stop Seamus from pestering him. Maybe it would help him relax a bit too- the group had noticed how on edge he had been that night and he didn't want to be a downer. So, he nodded, and followed Neville onto the balcony, watching him delicately roll a joint with his usually clumsy hands.

"Cheers, Nev."

"Are you alright tonight, Harry?" he asked nervously, as Harry accepted the blunt and flicked the end of his wand, causing a small flame to come out the tip. He nodded and inhaled, blowing plumes of smoke towards the sky ahead. It wasn't too bad, though he hated the taste- he had expected it to taste like a plant, but instead, it had a horribly pungent aftertaste, like gone-off fruit. He felt a slight urge to cough but suppressed it, knowing once he started, it would be difficult to stop.