History Repeats Itself - A Prince Harry Fanfiction

Chapter Twenty - Part Two

It was early when Harry was involuntarily snatched from his blissful sleep the following morning. The movement of the bed roused him, and his eyes squinted against the dull early-morning light coming through the window. Emmy had jumped out of bed, and now she was darting from the room.

"Emmy?" he mumbled groggily, pushing himself up in time to see her slip through the bedroom door, not even pausing to close it. Harry, after his phone told him that it was only a quarter to five, groaned gently and clambered off the bed.

Presuming that no one would be up at such an ungodly hour, he stumbled from the room in his boxers, so experienced with the effects of alcohol that he knew exactly where Emmy had gone. Sure enough, the bathroom door down the hall was open. Harry headed to it.

Emmy was crouched over the toilet, throwing up everything she'd had to drink merely a few hours earlier.

"Emmy," Harry said lamely. He was surprised that he didn't feel too bad – the water he'd drank from the tap had evidently helped with his headache in some way, for it was bad, but not overwhelming.

She didn't reply, but threw up again.

Harry sighed, crouching down beside her and gathering her hair in a ponytail, holding it with his hand. She was still wearing her dress from last night – she'd slept in it – and her make-up was smudged and ruined. He'd never expected to see Emmy in this state.

She groaned slightly, pulling the toilet lid down and leaning her head on it, trembling slightly. "So cold," she mumbled.

"Hold on." He reached for a towel in the cupboard and wrapped it round her shoulders, rubbing her arms to try and warm her with the friction. "How are you feeling?"

Emmy wasn't ill enough to stop her from turning to him and scowling. "How do you think?"

"Wow, not too ill for sass, evidently," he teased gently, turning his head away as she hastily pushed up the lid and was sick once more. "Do you want some water?"

She shook her head.

"Emmy, you probably have nothing to throw up now. If you're sick again it'll just be bile."

"I...feel a little better," she said. "I mean, I don't think I'm going to be sick again."

"You sure?"

She hesitated, as though evaluating what her insides were doing, then nodded. "Yeah, I think so. I don't feel like I want to be sick anymore."

"Good," he said. "Have some water. Are there any glasses up here?"

"There's a-" She paused, closing her eyes for a moment to try and calm the pounding headache. "There's a glass in the cupboard there. For cleaning our teeth."

"Stand up here," he said. "Rinse your mouth out first." He got to his feet and gently helped her rise. "You okay?"

She was shaky, clutching onto his forearms to keep herself balanced, and he held her waist to help her walk over to the sink. The memories of his very first hangover were enough to keep him with her, to not leave her to deal with it on her own. He ducked down and retrieved the glass before filling it with water and handing it to her. "Here you go."

"Thank you," she murmured, taking a sip and wincing at how disgusting it tasted with the taste of her mouth.

"Rinse your mouth," he said again, more demanding.

She took a mouthful and swilled it round before spitting it out. "Ugh," she said, shuddering.

"Rinse it out again."