CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
hangover cures

𖦹 ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ˚⋆˚ 𖦹

  SOMEONE FLICKS ON A LAMP. THE sudden onslaught of light sears her eyes, crowbarring through her veil of deep sleep to scald her corneas as if she's deserving of the burn. A pounding headache bites at her brain the more she's hit by awareness, bile surfacing in her throat. She can feel mascara from the night before smudged across her under eyes, a few strands of her matted hair sticking to the remaining lipgloss glued to her lips. There's a cat snoring loudly on one of the neighbouring beds and she smothers her head in her pillow to escape the racket, clinging onto the dregs of sleep for as long as possible. The moment of peace is shattered when that someone from before lands on her bed with one hand hidden behind their back, proceeding to shake her shoulder violently with the free one.

"Five more minutes," she murmurs blearily, trying to dissuade whoever it is with a limp flick of her wrist, her bangles jingling sadly.

"Wake up, love," a soft voice croons. It harshens. "No, seriously, wake up! It's nearly quarter to six. Dinner soon."

  "Nearly what?" She sits up and instantly regrets it, rubbing furiously her temples. "How could you let me sleep in for that long?"

  Cove frantically peels her eyes open to see Fallon perched on the edge of her bed, reading the face of her watch as it ticks away with intense focus. She would've promptly hopped out of bed and started getting ready if her body permitted it, but she gets up too quickly and black spots start dancing in her vision. Her head sinks back against her pillow, nausea starting to overcome her.

"You were already hibernating by the time I'd woken up," Fallon says defensively. "This is the first breakthrough of the evening. You've been conked out all day. We weren't even sure if you were still alive for an hour or two."

  "Eugh," she complains, finding the strength to prop herself back up against her headboard. "What's that smell?

  Fallon procures a beaker full of a smoking potion that looks like warm sludge with burned herbs scattered all through it, and that's putting it nicely. There's a split second where she swears that sparks go flying off of it, the liquid bubbling and squirming in the accelerando tempo of a pulse point. Is it alive? If it is, it seems to be begging for the sweet release of death. It vaguely smells of orange juice, but mostly it just reeks of a rubbish heap that's been set on fire, or a beached whale with citrusy undertones. Cove puts her hands up to shield her nose, her acute sense of smell being more of a burden than a virtue in times like these. She starts trying to kick Fallon away with the single slipper on her foot.

  "I'm actually gonna boak, get that away from me—"

  "It'll help."

  "What's even in that? It's fucking vile. Nothing should smell or look that bogging."

  "If I told you, you wouldn't drink it."

  "That's not very comforting."

  "It's only a hangover cure. It won't kill you."

  "I beg to differ. Are you sure you brewed it correctly?"

  "Not really. Drink it! If you don't, I'm definitely not the one that'll be cleaning up after you when you're sick everywhere."

  Cove ends up drinking it.

Despite the fact her headache fades to nothingness and the urge to be sick disappears altogether, she thinks she would've survived fine well without it. It takes her through a peregrination of sensations, none of them particularly pleasant. Firstly, there's the scorching flavour of overcooked mugwort that's been mixed with cayenne pepper, a surprisingly common pairing Slughorn had schooled them on in their third year. Then comes the splash of gillywater to dilute the intensity of the spices, although Cove suspects that Fallon either added too little or just overcompensated with all the other ingredients from how overpowering it tastes. To finish it off, there's that final layer of fresh orange juice to... well, she's not actually sure what it's supposed to do. She never really listened in Potions.

Fallon hands her a brush, ignoring the way she's still gagging from the potion. "We need to hurry if we want to get to dinner in time."

Cove mimics her words in a higher voice and poorly imitated Essex accent, rolling out of bed in search of water to drink and something presentable to wear. Her hangovers always make her extremely grouchy.

  "Last night's a complete blur," she remarks, disappearing into the bathroom to put her party clothes in the wash basket. "I only had a few drinks, too. Fucking Gryffindors."

  Fallon frowns. "What, you don't remember anything from last night?"

  She walks back into the dorm wielding her toothbrush, swishing water about in her mouth to try and get that awful aftertaste banished for good. It doesn't help.

  "Well, I remember bits and pieces," she admits. "I think it's coming back to me now—" Cove stops short, jaw dropping slightly. "Oh. Wait. Oh, fuck!"

  "Merlin, what's gotten into you? Suffering psychosis again?"

  "Don't be awful," she admonishes. "No, I just remembered something bad. Well, I think it's bad. Maybe it's a good thing? No! Definitely bad. Bittersweet at best."

  Fallon grapples onto her shoulders, holding her firmly in place. "Get it together, Vee. What's the matter?"

  She slaps her hands over her face, mortified. After a long silence, she whispers something so quietly that it's unintelligible.

"What was that?"

She repeats it about one decibel louder.

  "Couldn't hear you. One more time?"

  Cove takes a deep, deep breath, peeking out from behind her hands. "I kissed Remus," she squeaks.

  Fallon's expression changes about fifteen times before she brings herself to say something. Her eyebrows raise inquisitively. "Scale from one to ten?"

  "Eight and a half, but that's not the point! I've just gone and ruined our friendship for good. Triton, this is so embarrassing. I'm never gonna be able to look him in the eye again."

  "How is this a bad thing?" Fallon asks, tossing Cove a fresh pair of jeans and a top. "You're perfect for each other. And I'm never wrong about my relationship predictions, don't you know. I'm something of a love guru."

"Neither of us were sober," Cove elaborates, stepping into the trousers. "There's a big chance that he doesn't even fancy me and only kissed me back because he was absolutely steaming. Besides, I'm nowhere near ready for a relationship right now."

After witnessing the state of her parents, she doesn't know if she'll ever be ready for a relationship. That, however, is a problem for another time.

"But, like," Fallon starts, "was it a proper snog or just a peck? There's a crucial difference."

"Somewhere in between, I suppose."

"Well, that really does complicate things."

"Aye, I know! That's why I'm losing my marbles over it, Fallon." She pulls the t-shirt over her head. "What am I supposed to do when I see him? I can't just avoid him forever."

"I mean, you could."

She pauses. "That's a good shout, actually. New plan: completely avoid him for the foreseeable future. Problem solved. There we go! Cheers, love guru."

"No, no," Fallon interjects. "That's a horrible way to go about it."

"Hypocrite," Cove hisses. "What else do you suggest then, o' wise one?"

She stares at the ceiling for a good few minutes, brain thrumming with potential ideas.

"No, I've got nothing," she admits. "Your plan is probably our best option. Or you could just talk to him about it. Communication is key."

"What planet have you been living on? I can't do that. I'm incapable."

"Look, I reckon we should go and eat our dinner," Fallon proposes. "Maybe you'll come to a better conclusion when you've had a think about it and eaten something."

"But he'll be down there—"

"Not an excuse. I'm hungry, so stop stalling or I'll have to cook you instead."

Cove stares at her, baffled. "That was a bit strong, Ally."

"Yeah, sorry. Not my finest moment."

°•.•°•.•°•.•°

  THE IDEA OF EATING ANYTHING YET repulses Cove, especially after drinking that godawful potion Fallon had concocted. The burnt flavour lingers in her mouth, ruining her appetite entirely for the next few hours at least. She used a flimsy lie to excuse herself from the overcrowded Great Hall, worming her way into the still hallways for even a few seconds of serenity. Maybe she could catch some fish in the Black Lake later on, though freshwater fish taste funny in comparison to the ones she's used to from the sea. It looks as if she's fighting a losing battle.

  She wastes a good hour wandering about alone with her thoughts, the sky outside darkening until the waning moon reveals itself in a shroud of constellations. There's still that pink left by the sinking sun that creeps over the faraway mountaintops, glazed by powdery snow and overcast by the effervescent nightfall, cast in cosmic indigo and violet. Cove finds herself coming to a stop in front of a window, admiration for nature glossy in her eyes.

Her dwelling doesn't last long. Someone clears their throat obnoxiously behind her and she spins on her heel slowly in case she's been caught wandering by a teacher, fingers crossed that it's at least someone unthreatening. Her fear completely deflates when she realises it's only a prefect in the year below her, though her nerves are only replaced by annoyance. Great. Just what she needs to help soothe her mind.

Regulus Black stands smugly before her, arms folded and regal features pulled into a severe look that demonstrates how serious he is. (It doesn't work well, in Cove's opinion.) His uniform is carefully pressed to have not a crease or crinkle, even his curls neatly constructed to fall in a certain way. Cove mainly thinks he looks silly — a boy masquerading as a man of authority with his shiny prefect badge and renowned name. She's never felt intimated by anyone in the Sacred Twenty Eight and plans on keeping it that way, staring him down blankly.

  "Is something the matter?" she asks impatiently, beginning to tap her foot.

"Well, I—" He cuts himself off, furrowing his brows. "What on earth are you wearing?"

She does a double take of her outfit. Fallon had given her the top that's been borrowed by all the girls in their dorm so many times nobody's entirely sure who it originally belonged to. It's only a graphic t-shirt with the main characters from Scooby Doo splashed across the front of it, surrounded by cartoon ghouls and a purple haunted house. Her flares aren't offensive in any way either, plain and denim. She doesn't understand what's wrong with what she's wearing until it dawns on her that Regulus is accustomed to wizard robes and fancy dress, muggle clothes seemingly an alien invention to him.

"Er, they're clothes?" she says, befuddled. She points at him accusatorially. "Don't you even think about it. You can't give me a demerit for wearing jeans and a t-shirt. It's a Saturday!"

He looks her up and down in blatant disdain. "Perhaps not. That doesn't make you look any less strange."

She can't think of anything witty to say back. "Well, um, you're strange."

The ghost of a smile twitches at his lips. "I should give you a demerit for how awful that was."

"Go away, Black. Shouldn't you be off terrorising eleven year olds or whatever prefects usually do?"

"This is what prefects usually do. You're breaking the rules."

She huffs. "That's nice and all, but can I please just go? For your information, I have permission to be out and about."

"From who, exactly?"

"Madam Pomfrey. It's medical stuff."

He raises his eyebrows.

"You're not allowed to ask any more questions about it," she says before he can snark anything back. "That's confidential."

Regulus scoffs. "I can't just let you leave—"

"I'm leaving as we speak."

"What? Come back—"

"I'm off. You can't stop me. I have permission to be out here!"

"It's almost curfew," he reminds her. "I can give you detention for breaking it."

"You can't give me detention for almost breaking curfew."

"Says who?"

She thinks hard. "I dunno, the prefect rule book? Stop following me, nonce."

"How am I the nonce? I'm younger than you."

"You're still a freaky little creep."

"I am not—"

She stops short, turning around to face him with a glare at the ready. He looks extremely unimpressed.

"What will it take for you to leave me be?" Cove asks exasperatedly.

Regulus gives her an incredulous look. "Maybe if you listened to me and just went to bed?"

"No chance," she replies. "Alright, here's your ultimatum. You let me go, or I leave anyways with an additional detention. I've got places to be and things to do, Black."

"Such as?"

She fumbles for an answer. "Nothing that concerns you," Cove says primly.

  "It sort of does, though."

  "Bugger off, please. I'm busy."

  He keeps following her. "Doing what?" he presses. She's starting to suspect that his tactic is to annoy an answer out of her.

  Cove really feels like hitting him. Preferably in the face. Unfortunately, her moral compass is too strong for her to do that without it making her feel all guilty about breaking his nose further down the line. Rats.

  Instead, she feigns interest for something in the distance. "Oh my goodness, is that the Minister for Magic?"

  Gullibly, he turns to look. Cove uses the distraction to her advantage and takes off down the corridor, running as fast as ever to try and lose him. Her boots thunder against the stone floors until she's finally met with the grassy slopes outside, the cold air having no effect on her thick skin. She looks over her shoulder, relieved to see that he hadn't put in the effort to chase after her.

  She exhales sharply, shaking off any lingering doubts clinging to her. Cove begins downhill towards the loch and preparing herself for a particularly difficult conversation with Cordelia.

author's note!

two updates in a day who am i 😧😧 this is only a filler tbf but i wanted to introduce regulus because i adore him all my being like how could i not include him in this fic