Harry ran up the stairs, taking two at a time, until he reached his bedroom. He stopped in his tracks. It looked as though he hadn’t even lived there in months. His clothes were thrown onto every surface imaginable. There was not one, not two, but six glasses filled with water, firewhiskey, and various other liquids on his nightstand. And was that—surely not. Harry moved towards the small hill of fabric in the middle of his room. Tentatively, he reached up to pick up the top item. A towel, and, oh fuck, it was still wet from when Harry had used it to dry off after his last shower. Which was... Thursday? Friday? He honestly couldn’t recall. He walked to the door.