All rights belong to JK Rowling and respective publishers/film studios/media bodies. This story is additionally posted under a different author name, though written in whole by myself.
***
It is rumoured that my favourite poet, Dylan Thomas, died seven years before I was born after a non-stop, alcohol-fueled bacchanalia that lasted six entire days completely obliterated any semblance of functioning liver cells or brain mass.
If he were alive now, he'd probably be hugely impressed at the effort we'd put in down at the 'Dead Donkey' over the past two hours. I bet Dylan Thomas would've been a great Marauder.
My motivations for introducing Harry to the wonderful world of cirrhosis were complex, partly spurned into action by Molly's claims that somebody should get him out of his room and stop him being so morose. She didn't, however, like the idea of commiserating over a bottle of Mexico's finest (Mundungus' one great idea), but her opinions were overruled by the nagging little voice that sounded a lot like James. 'What, you're the last Marauder who's not dead or evil and you can't even get my kid plastered from time to time? What kind of shitty friend do you think you are?' No doubt Sirius would've agreed. 'Yeah. Poor little bastard, sixteen and STILL hasn't done lines off a dead tart's body? He'll grow up warped!'
I think it was because, in part, I needed someone to get me out of the house myself. As a certain pink haired young lady explained, sitting around in my underwear listening to 'Surfer Rosa' is hardly going to ease my woes. And also because he's underage, and if there's one thing I'm in the mood for at present, it's breaking obsolete and thoroughly ineffective laws.
And with that, Mundungus and I swept him out of the house with a grand flourish, Miss Granger pursing her lips and Master Weasley looking after us remorsefully, wishing, no doubt, that he could be a part of our festivities.
From the expertise I gained from having a boozed-up lush for a father, wizarding pubs are simply not up to scratch compared to Muggle ones. And the 'Dead Donkey' is one of the very few London pubs not to employ itinerant Australian backpackers as bartenders, which is pleasant, because I was getting thoroughly sick of being looked at like I had three heads every time I ordered something that wasn't beer. Seemingly, the only problem for getting in would be Harry's age, but once again, Mundungus shone through and procured a reasonable looking fake ID - reasonable, that is, if you could believe that Harry was in his mid-thirties.
"An' this, 'Arry, is what we call a good fookin' lager. You know what lager is, don' chew? Fookin' exceptional." Dung mopped up a bit of beer that had spilled onto his plate with a pie crust, the greasy mince leaving streaks on his plate. Harry nodded in response, obviously humouring Mundungus, who'd already spectacularly thrown up over the wastebin in the women's bathroom.
"Agh, just as bloody well, I say. You know what? You're only on your fifth pot! Disgraceful fookin' effort."
Another nod, this time a rather sympathetic one.
"Loony... erm, Moony, what's this business 'bout 'Arry not having another drink ahead of him?"
I looked over. "You're a complaining creature, Dung. And it's your round next," I slurred.
"Bleedin' 'ell. What am I, some magical fountain of love and piss am I?"
"Harry bought the last round, and I got the one before that. It's clearly your turn."
He grumbled something in his delightful Scottish brogue, and shuffled up to the counter. I turned to Harry beside me, and ruffled his hair, a little more roughly than I would've had I not downed almost a litre and a half of a horrible local brew. "How are you feeling, Harry."
"Dunno. All right, I guess. Bit sick."
"Well, that's to be expected. It is your first experience, of course. You'll get used to it with time."
He picked up the jug, and shakily topped up his glass, head spilling over the rim slightly. "Oy, professor..."
I took the jug from his grip, and replaced it back on the table. "Harry, there is one thing you cannot call me in such an establishment, and that's professor."
"Right. Lupin... I can't bloody remember what I was going to say."
"You're getting legless. I'm so proud of you. Your dad and Sirius would be most pleased."
He looked up at me. He had a four day growth of sleep in the corners of his eyes, and I doubted he'd washed his hair since he arrived at Number 12 two weeks ago. And was that the slightest bit of fluff on his upper lip? "Really?"
"Of course. Astonishing drinkers, they were. We all used to head on into Knockturn Alley during school breaks, tell our parents we were just looking at the Quidditch Supplies."
"Wormtail too?"
"No... he was a bit wet, really. His mum was psychotic, wouldn't really let him do anything. No wonder he turned out the way he did."
"Yeah." He took a long swill of his beer, spilling some on his shirt.
"Fuck. Oops, sorry, Lupin."
"I don't care, say whatever you want."
He wiped it rather uselessly, and Dung stumbled back into our booth, cradling a pitcher of amber fluid.
"And our poison this time, Dung?"
"Scotch and soda."
"Excellent choice." I reached for my glass, and helped myself. Dung had pulled his pipe out, and was stuffing it with something that smelled far less innocuous than mere tobacco.
"Oy Moony... who'd Sirius say'd get 'is girlie mags?"
"I don't really want them, you can have them if you want, unless Harry has his eyes on them."
Harry shook his head queasily. They were particularly tasteless, amateurish publications that we'd had confiscated in fifth year after James had handed in a profile of ShiShi Le Cocktease instead of a potions essay. A noteworthy cause celebre in the Griffyndor common room for weeks.
"Aight, you're a good man, 'Arry."
"I think I need to throw up."
I stood quickly, and he rushed past me, clenching his hand over his mouth. He made it as far as the bathroom door when he launched an arsenal of orange fluid over the floor. I made my way over to him, and pulled a pitifully thin handkerchief out of my trouser pocket. He accepted it, but as soon as he'd wiped away the remnants he simply threw up again. In our stall, Dung was laughing hysterically.
"Come on. I'll get you a drink of water, wash the taste out of your mouth."
He nodded, lurching violently towards the floor. I grabbed the back of his flannel shirt, and pulled him in the direction of our booth. I slipped a tenner to the waitress, and called for a pitcher of water. Back at the booth, Mr Potter looked sheepish, and more than a little green.
"Sorry."
Dung leant over, and grabbed his hand. "S'all right, young chap. It's part of life. At least you weren't on a train with no loos or openin' windows. Tell you, you never forget your first chunder, do you, Moony?"
I nodded. "Fifth year, Sirius' bedroom, right out the window onto some stupid family reunion his mum was having and we were avoiding. His mum never really liked me before, but she certainly didn't after. And besides, once you've been sick, you do feel a fair bit better. At least you don't get a hangover if you throw up."
He nodded, and almost wrenched the water out of the waitress' hand, pulling the jug to his lips and spilling a fair amount over him in the meantime. "Thanks, guys."
"Not a problem at all, Harry. Everyone gets sick in public at some point in time. You just need to have a bit of dignity about it." Well, as much dignity as you can have with a red face, watering eyes, runny nose and vomit splattered on your clothes.
"Did..."
I looked at him. "Did... what?"
"Did... you know, Sirius..."
I smiled. The poor kid looked like he was about to burst into drunken tears. I didn't know whether I should disrespect his memory and go on about how decent and noble he was, or at least attempt to lighten him up with the truth. I chose the latter.
"Let me tell you something about Sirius Black, Harry. He carried vodka around school in a water bottle, constantly needed James and I to keep him upright when walking, and once passed out naked on a park bench in January because he was too lazy to walk home. But he would never sit back and let a friend throw up drunkenly alone. He was the kind of friend who'd be besides you, throwing up in unison."
He smiled, his eyes going watery behind his glasses. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and took another slower sip of water. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he swatted it away angrily, rubbing his eyes.
"Bloody hell."
My heart broke for the kid. I reached around drunkenly, and pulled him into a rough, one-armed hug.
"You know what, Harry? You're a tough blighter. I've seen grownup wizards, who've put up with far less than you, crying over the silliest little things. Don't feel bad for having a bit of a cry, you know."
I heard a dry sob beside me, and I noticed that even Dung had adopted a more respectful demeanour (or as respectful as you can get with a blood alcohol level of 0.65).
"I'll go 'n see to it that we've got somefing for lunch then, shall I gents?"
I nodded, and he made his way over to the counter. Harry had leant his arm against the table, and was propping himself up, doing a pretty lousy job of hiding his tears.
"Harry... are you all right?"
"Are you upset at all?" The volume was pushing silent, but the tone was dangerous.
"Sorry?"
"Are you upset?"
"Well, of course I am..."
He looked at me with bloodshot eyes, his volume rising exponentially.
"Then why are you so bloody cheerful all the bloody time? What's the matter with you?"
I can't say I was slightly taken back. I had to admit that I have a very strange way of coping with loss.
"Harry... believe me when I say that people have different coping mechanisms. You're coping with rage. Molly Weasley is coping with overcompensation. I handle things my way."
"Yeah, you handle them like a bloody bastard."
I pushed my drink away from me. "Go on, Harry."
"What?"
I looked at him, and I felt (not for the first time) the years gaining momentum. "Whatever you want to talk about, talk. Anything. I don't care. Yell at me, beat me to a pulp, whatever. I don't care."
He stared at me as though I'd just slapped him. "I..."
"Harry, somebody else said it better. It's a line of poetry. 'After the first death, there is no other.' It's not that I don't feel it, or that I don't miss him. But I've lost so many close to me, Harry. And God knows that I won't lose more. With every person I lose, I just get eroded away like a dirty, empty shell, and I just can't help but shove it all aside. I don't want to lose any more of myself, Harry. See? Purely selfish of me. I hate it. I hate it so desperately, but I just can't let it take further of a hold of me."
He looked at me, pushing his glasses back up on the ridge of his nose. "So you're just going to pretend it never happened and forget it?"
"Someday, Harry, when this is all over, for better or worse, I will let whatever feelings happen just take over me, and I will most likely just collapse in on myself like a black hole. But for now, I already have a ravenous beast taking charge of me enough."
He nodded, and copied me in pushing his drink away from him. "I don't think I want to drink much more."
"You don't have to."
We were a rather glum trio on the train back to Kings - Harry shaking like a fish, Mundungus asleep against a window, and me nursing what must be the worst headache of all time.
The prerecorded voice on the speaker let us know, usefully, that we were approaching our stop. I stood up, and my stomach lurched violently. Harry was gripping onto the handrails for dear life, Dung still asleep on the train. I hit him on the arm, and pulled him onto the platform as the train rested at a halt, my stomach, unfortunately, not.
We shuffled down the underpass, our shoes kicking up a duststorm of debris, cigarette butts and the discarded byproducts of a less salubrious existence. The light at the end, though weak, was enough to send up a flurry of brightly coloured visual disturbances, and I squinted my eyes shut, gripping onto Dung so I wouldn't walk into the graffitied walls.
Harry was walking slowly behind us, and I turned back, peeling my eyes open. I motioned to Mundungus to just walk on ahead without us to Number 12, and caught up with him.
"How are you, Harry?"
He bravely mustered a weak smile, and nodded at me. "My eyes are bloody gritty, they feel like sandpaper."
"Yes, they feel like that when you cry for a bit."
"You ever felt it?"
"Once. While ago. It's the only thing that I think I've ever really had a proper bawl about."
"What happened?"
I looked at him. I wasn't sure that I was happy to share the entirety of the experience with him, but felt that settling for a vague truth would be enough. "I did something incredibly stupid."
"Why?"
"I lied to someone, very stupidly of me, and told them I felt nothing for them. Then it came back and bit me in the arse when she got with someone else."
"Oh. Some stupid bird who didn't deserve your love?"
I smiled, a lump rising in my throat for the fiftieth time in the past few days. "Actually... I get the feeling you would've liked her quite a lot."
He looked up at me, and I could've sworn for a second that a glimmer of acknowledgment flooded his eyes. He turned back to looking at the ground intently, and I felt stupid for continuing on.
"It doesn't matter though, Harry. Everything turned out for the best. I can't... I can't say I don't regret it, but I can say that it probably never would've happened any other way."
"Right."
The lump in my throat was still rising. Tears? No. Far more messy. I turned to the wall, coating it in sickness, and I helplessly threw up in waves.
A hand was on my back, and somebody was helping me to my feet. I pushed him away, and continued my wretched sickness.
"You ok?"
I halted, spitting the foul remnants from my mouth. "Yes, I think so."
"You want to stop for a bit?"
"Let's just get out of this horrible underpass first."
And with that, the light exploded around us as we blinked like moles and emerged from the tunnel. A footpath bench up ahead. I sank into it, my body shaking furiously.
"Lupin..."
"Harry, just don't let anyone know you've seen me like this."
A broad grin. "You've seen me. Why should they care?"
"Because I'm supposed to be a tired, stuffy, responsible old bastard who couldn't muster a curse word or handle a mouthful of liquor. And, of course, because you were my student."
"I'm not any more though."
I looked at him thoughtfully. He was a bright kid, that Harry Potter. He mock-punched me in the arm. I'm sure my breath was horrible, and I felt worse than I ever had on a freshly waning moon.
"You're all right, you know that Harry? I'd be really chuffed to have you as a son, you know?"
He didn't say anything. He just stared ahead, and I'm pretty sure that was a smug little smile playing at his mouth, very similar to the smug little smile playing on mine.