I Beg Your Pardon, Potter?

Chapter 19

Harry leaned against the wall at the back of the room and brooded into his beer. Part of him thought he should be standing moodily on a balcony, huddled against the wind, perhaps smoking a cigarette, while everyone else was happy inside. He felt that might fit his aesthetic more. He thought he had seen something like that in a movie. Or maybe a television show of Dudley's. And as soon as the idea entered his mind, a door materialized next to him on the wall.

Curious, he opened it. A blast of icy October air hit him as he looked out onto a never before seen balcony that now jutted out from the side of the castle. Perfect. Now he could be properly miserable. Although, he wasn't too keen on being that cold.

A coat stand appeared beside the door, laden with a variety of coats. Harry picked one at random and put it on. Then he walked outside. The wind whipped around him, its icy fingers ruffling his hair. He scrunched his shoulders against the cold and fumbled with the buttons on his coat. He looked back at the castle and saw that there was now a large, rounded window looking into the room. All the better for glancing wistfully back inside, and feeling sorry for himself that he wasn't in there enjoying the evening like everyone else. Perfect.

He walked over to the edge of the balcony and stared out over the castle's roof. He wondered if anyone had ever thought of having the Room of Requirement have a balcony before. He knew he certainly hadn't, but he should remember this for the future. The view was incredible. He rested his beer on the balcony's edge.

The wind whipped around him again and he shivered and stuffed his hands into the pocket of his coat. Or, he tried to, but found his left hand impeded by what turned out to be a packet of cigarettes. In the right hand pocket, was a book of matches. The Room had really taken his thought seriously.

Shrugging, he pulled out a cigarette, then crouched down behind the balcony wall to hide from the wind. It took him several attempts to light a match and keep it lit, but after a fumbling minute, he managed it and lit the cigarette.

He took an experimental drag on it. And immediately doubled over coughing. The back of his throat felt like it was burning, so he took deep lungfuls of cold fresh air. He stared down at the cigarette, scandalized, and then dropped it and crushed it under his foot.

He straightened up again and reached for his beer. His mouth tasted strange and he wondered what the appeal was. Perhaps he was doing something wrong, but he wasn't overly eager to figure out how to do it right. It all seemed a bit pointless. He took a long pull from his beer and swished it around his mouth. There, now he could almost convince himself the whole embarrassing incident hadn't happened. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the edge of the balcony and stared out into the night, content to brood and be cold.

"Harry," came a voice from behind him. Harry turned. It was Ron. "What are you doing out here?" Ron was shouldering his way into one of the coats as he made his way over to Harry. Harry didn't respond.

"What's wrong, mate?" Harry shook his head. He didn't want to talk to Ron about his fight with Malfoy. He didn't want to talk to anyone about that. Ron had sweat glistening on his forehead and it was clear that he had come from the dance floor. As if to confirm Harry's thoughts, Ron glanced back inside and waved at someone to continue on without him. Harry was surprised to see that someone was Pansy Parkinson. Harry's shoulder's drooped. Not for the first time did he feel incredibly grateful to have a friend like Ron, who would leave whatever good time he was having to come and check on him.

"Malfoy and I had a fight," he said. Ron turned back to face him, concern etched in his face.

"Oh no," he said. "About what?"

"Voldemort." Ron frowned.

"What about him?"

"Draco said he'd had Death Eater training."