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It was one in the morning. The Scottish air was a strange mixture of icy and humid. An enervating combination. Harry thought it fit mood, really.
He leaned on the railing, his feet dangerously close to the edge. Some would call it the careless antics of a thrill seeking teenager, others would consider it "devil- may-care" and try to slobber all over him. They could all go fuck themselves sideways for all he cared. He took a deep drag of his cigarette. Mayfair. Slightly more bitter than Harry would have normally preferred, but nothing he was going to throw a fit over. Though it would have been nice to have a pack or seven of Silk Cut.
"Didn't make you out to be the smoking sort."
Harry jumped slightly, jerked out of his train of thought.
Romilda Vane stood in a satin dressing gown, an off shade of lilac.
Harry was distantly aware that he had been caught and would definitely be in deep shit if she told, but at the moment he really couldn't bring himself to care.
Romilda sighed, her usual boisterous demeanour, subdued. She wore a listless expression and had dark circles that mirrored his own. Her entire being screamed exhaustion. A temporary comrade then.
He held out his bronze plated cigarette case in invitation. Romilda stared at it vaguely for a moment, before taking one and lighting it wordlessly with her wand.
She took a smooth, deep drag, showing no indication that this was her first time. Harry raised an eyebrow, quizzical.
Romilda rolled her eyes.
"Dont look at me like that, I used to nick them off my older brother since I was twelve." Gazing distantly at the ground, she added "I'll have to get my own shit now, shame."
A beat.
She let out a puff and continued, "He took on the dark mark this summer. Thought he could at least be a reliable source of pot, if anything, but he went ahead and fucked that up too, didn't he?"
"Shit...Sorry"
She dismissed his sympathy with a flippant hand wave.
"Well it doesn't bother me, He was a grade-A facist arsehole anyways. Wasn't doing much good to have him at home, always finding some bloody thing to complain about." She sighed.
"Dad died in Azkaban this morning" she continued conversationally. "The old bastard took long enough."
A moment passed.
"What was he in for?" Harry asked, fully aware that he was being insensitive, but he was hardly the courteous type.
She smiled a wry one, "Murder."
Harry shook his head, "Merlin- so you live with your mum?"
"My father was arrested for murder" she asserted once again.
Her face was impassive.
Call it intuition or whatever the fuck you want too, but Harry could sense the undercurrent of anger in her words.
Anger of being robbed of her childhood, anger at being forced to grow up too soon, anger with the knowledge that the worst of it is far from over, anger at the unfairness of it all. He related to that.
He understood that.
Anger and apathy was all that he felt these days.
Turns out he wasn't the only one.
It was quiet. Not the awkward kind but neither was it the comfortable one. It was somewhere in between.
An indifferent quiet.
The indifferent quiet of two angst-ridden teenagers.
A hoot was heard in the distance, followed by a screech. Then nothing.
Romilda turned her head to him, "Why dont you have a girlfriend? Like, I don't fucking understand how can you be famous, handsome, sixteen and still a bloody virgin." She let out another puff.
He snorted, "Yeah, well, with a dark lord raging up my ass I think not having a girlfriend is the least of my concerns."
They smoked in silence for a while.
Harry stomped out his cigarette and lit a new one.
"Not trying to drug me into wedlock tonight?" Harry asked, voice laced with dry amusement.
She huffed out a humourless laugh, "I can hold it in till sunrise."
"What are you doing here anyways? Bit odd for the saviour of the wizarding world to be moping around outside bed at bloody midnight." She said tossing her cigarette butt off the edge of the astronomy tower.
Harry shrugged, "Fresh Air? A dead dog? My imminent Death? All of the above? I have no fucking clue." He continued to pick on the chipping stone in a lacklustre manner. "Why? What's your excuse?"
Romilda sighed "On this damned day, fifteen years ago, a tragedy struck in my life, and frankly its been quite shit ever since."
Her eyes glazed over.
She took a deep breath, shut her eyes, spread her arms out, and yelled into the night "HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY TO ME!"
Harry raised his cigarette in toast "Happy fucking birthday to you."