#drunkenness

'Map Showing Dublin's Greatest Evil (Public Houses)', with return showing arrests for drunkenness (1892)

“Moony!” Sirius called dramatically from across the room, nearly falling over a chair. “Come dance with me!”

Remus Lupin snorted into his drink. Sirius had been dancing, shouting Christmas songs, and challenging random suits of armor to duels for the past hour. Remus had only had a couple drinks himself, but Sirius had clearly lost all common sense.

After Sirius almost walked straight into the fireplace, Remus finally stood up. “Okay. You’re done.”

Sirius pouted immediately as Remus took his drink away. “That’s rude.”

“You're drunk, and you're going to end up telling somebody something that you're not supposed to” “ugh you're no fun”

Remus grabbed his waste and started guiding him toward the dorms, but Sirius instantly became clingy, wrapping himself around Remus dramatically.

“Don’t wanna leave,” Sirius whined, pressing his face into Remus’s shoulder.

“You can barely walk.”

“I can absolutely—” Sirius stumbled into him mid-sentence.

Remus laughed despite himself. “Come on, Pads.”

By the time they finally reached Remus’s dorm, Sirius had complained the entire way. The second they got inside, Sirius flopped onto Remus’s bed with a groan.

“Never drinking again.”

“You said that last time.”

“This time I mean it.”

Remus rolled his eyes fondly and pulled Sirius’s boots off before handing him water. Sirius blinked up at him sleepily.

A few minutes later Sirius curled against Remus’s side under the blankets, half asleep already.

“Stay,” he murmured softly.

Grimsby had learned, over the course of a very long and very distinguished career, that timing was everything. Unfortunately, on this particular afternoon, his timing was catastrophic.

“I shall return momentarily, Miss Ariel,” said Grimsby, placing his pipe safely out of reach and giving her one last, measured look—the kind that said please do not discover anything new in my absence.

Ariel smiled sweetly and nodded. This, as it turned out, meant absolutely nothing. The moment the door clicked shut, Ariel turned. There, sitting on a nearby table as though it had been waiting for her all along, was a glass decanter filled with a rich amber liquid that glowed in the sunlight like captured treasure.

Ariel blinked. She approached slowly, reverently, as if it might scuttle away if startled. She picked it up, swirled it, then sniffed it. She paused impressively. Her face scrunched slightly. It smelled… strong. Not unpleasant, exactly—just… aggressive.

Naturally, she took a sip. Her reaction was immediate and dramatic. Her eyes widened. Her entire body jolted. She slapped a hand over her mouth, then pulled it away, blinking rapidly as the taste settled. There was a long pause. Ariel tilted her head.

Then, thoughtfully… she took another sip. Another pause. A slow smile spread across her face. “Oh,” her expression said very clearly, “this is interesting.” Five minutes later, the decanter was empty.

Prince Eric was halfway down the corridor when he heard it. A crash. A pause. Then the distinct sound of something rolling… followed by silent—but unmistakable—laughter. He frowned. “…Hello?” He turned the corner and stopped.

Ariel stood in the middle of the hallway, swaying gently, wearing one of the palace’s decorative helmets at a jaunty, completely incorrect angle. A suit of armor behind her was missing its gauntlet—which she was currently using as a puppet.

She looked up at Eric and beamed. Then she made the gauntlet wave at him. Eric blinked. “…Ariel?” She pointed at him with exaggerated precision. Missed slightly. Corrected. Nailed it. Then she gave him a very solemn thumbs-up. Eric looked from her… to the armor… back to her. “…Are you… all right?”

Ariel nodded vigorously. Too vigorously. The helmet slipped over her eyes. She froze, then burst into silent giggles, pawing at it until it spun sideways instead. Eric stepped forward, catching her just as she leaned a little too far to the left.

“Whoa—okay—careful—” She leaned against him, still giggling, and patted his cheek like he was doing an excellent job of existing. Eric blinked again. “…You’ve been drinking.” Ariel gasped in delighted recognition and pointed at him like he’d just solved a great mystery.

“Yes!” her expression screamed. “Yes, I have!” She mimed holding the decanter, then dramatically glugged from an invisible bottle. Eric’s eyes widened. “…How much?” Ariel held up the decanter shape again. Then tilted it. All the way. Then turned it upside down and shrugged. Eric stared. “…All of it?!” Ariel nodded proudly. He exhaled slowly. “Oh, this is bad. This is very bad.”

Grimsby returned moments later, adjusting his cuffs, every inch the picture of composure. “That should settle the matter entirely,” he murmured to himself as he reentered the room. He stopped. The table was empty. The decanter was empty. The entire decanter was empty. Grimsby froze. He closed his eyes. “…No.”

He turned sharply and marched into the corridor—just in time to see Ariel attempting to bow to a tapestry. The tapestry did not bow back. She seemed deeply offended by this. Eric stood nearby, holding his head in one hand. “Grimsby,” he said, with the strained calm of someone who had accepted his fate, “you’re going to want to explain this.”

Grimsby took in the scene: Ariel swaying, the crooked helmet, the missing gauntlet, Eric’s unraveling sanity. Then he looked down the hall. Then back at the empty decanter still clutched loosely in Ariel’s hand. Understanding dawned with terrible, perfect clarity. “…Brandy,” he said flatly.

Eric pointed at Ariel. “She drank all of it.” “Yes, I gathered that, Your Highness.” Ariel waved cheerfully at Grimsby. Then, with great seriousness, she tried to curtsy. Halfway down, she forgot what she was doing and just… sat on the floor. Grimsby pinched the bridge of his nose. “…I leave for five minutes.”

Eric let out a helpless laugh. “To be fair, she learns very quickly.” “Yes,” Grimsby muttered, watching as Ariel attempted to stand and instead hugged the floor for stability, “that is precisely what concerns me.” Ariel looked up at both of them, grinning, and gave them another enthusiastic thumbs-up. Then she hiccupped.

Prince Eric had faced storms, shipwrecks, and at least one very determined sea witch—but nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for the challenge of explaining a tavern to Ariel.

They stood just outside the doorway, where laughter spilled into the night air along with the unmistakable smell of roasted meat and something… sharp. Ariel tilted her head, bright eyes wide with curiosity, her hands already moving in quick, expressive gestures.

Eric smiled, doing his best to interpret. “Yes, it’s loud. And crowded. And—well—sticky in places.” He paused, reconsidering. “But it’s fun! People come here to relax. To sing. To… drink.”

Ariel blinked.

Eric mimed lifting a mug and taking a big gulp.

Ariel’s eyes lit up. She nodded enthusiastically. Drinking she understood. Water? Juice? Seafoam? This seemed promising.

“Right,” Eric said, suddenly less confident. “Not exactly water.”

Inside, the tavern was alive. A fiddler screeched out a tune in the corner, patrons stomped their boots in uneven rhythm, and a man who may or may not have been asleep was still somehow singing. Eric guided Ariel to a table, where a barmaid plunked down two frothy mugs without asking.

Ariel leaned in, inspecting hers like it was a rare sea creature. She sniffed it. Pulled back. Sniffed again.

Eric raised his mug. “Cheers!”

Ariel, delighted, clinked hers against his a little too hard, sloshing foam onto the table—and her hand. She giggled silently, then took a bold sip.

Her reaction was immediate.

Her entire face puckered like she’d just bitten into a lemon that had insulted her personally.

Eric laughed. “Strong, isn’t it?”

Ariel narrowed her eyes at the mug as if it had betrayed her trust… then took another, much bigger sip.

“Oh no,” Eric muttered.

Five minutes later, Ariel had decided the drink was her new favorite thing in the world.

She laughed—soundless but no less infectious—at everything. A man tripping over a chair? Hilarious. Eric attempting to explain the rules of a card game he barely understood? Comedy gold. Her own fingers? Apparently the funniest thing she’d ever seen.

Eric, meanwhile, was not faring much better.

“—and then the crab said—no, wait, that wasn’t a crab, that was… Sebastian,” he rambled, gesturing wildly and nearly knocking over both mugs. “He sings, you know. Very… very judgmental singing.”

Ariel nodded with intense seriousness, then burst into silent laughter again, doubling over the table. At some point, she decided the fiddler needed help.

Before Eric could stop her, Ariel was on her feet, swaying slightly, clapping enthusiastically off-beat. The fiddler, startled but impressed, sped up his tune. The entire tavern followed her lead, stomping and clapping as Ariel spun—graceful at first, then… less so. Eric stood to join her and immediately regretted standing. “The floor,” he announced to no one in particular, “is moving.”

Ariel pointed at him, delighted, as he attempted a dance that looked more like he was negotiating with gravity. They collided mid-step, grabbed onto each other for balance, and ended up laughing—him out loud, her silently but just as uncontrollably. By the time they stumbled back outside under the stars, the cool air hit them both at once.

Eric inhaled deeply. “Fresh air. Excellent decision.” Ariel nodded… then hiccupped. She froze, eyes wide in surprise, then hiccupped again. Eric stared at her for a beat—then burst out laughing. Ariel, not to be outdone, pointed at him and mimed his earlier “serious explanation” face with exaggerated precision.

“If any man’s work shall be burned, he shall suffer loss: but he himself shall be saved; yet so as by fire.” — 1 Corinthians 3:15 KJB “Christ cannot judge you at the Judgment Seat for sins, as they have already been forgiven, so He can only judge you for your works.” There are two things wrong with the abovementioned statement: ** The inability to discern the saved inner man from the outer man…