The Hogs Head hadn't been that busy since the battle. Though it was not entirely clear why, Harry and Ron liked it that way. For they could sit in relative silence in the furthest corner of the room, drinks in hand, no words spoken. It was a ritual that had begun mere weeks after the war, when both Harry and Ron were in need of a drink and a silent companion.
And so it was that every Friday evening at precisely 7pm, Harry and Ron met at the bar, sat at the exact same table and drank slowly. Only when they had left their glasses empty did they stand silently and leave without a word.
It was routine, something that reaffirmed their friendship. They were both able to offer each other something that they could not quite put their fingers on. Maybe it was the comfort of each other's presence, unadorned by words. Or maybe it was the way they could just think. Think without being disturbed or interrupted, because they each already knew what the other was thinking.
Whatever it was it was something they shared, something they appreciated, something they loved. Just another reason to see each other. To remind one another that all was not lost. To remind Harry and Ron that they still had each other. Their friend. Their brother.
The Hogs Head hadn't been that busy since the battle. Though it was not entirely clear why, Harry and Ron liked it that way. For it was theirs.