DISCLAIMER: I do not own the name of the alcoholic beverage, any Harry Potter themes, characters, or anything else Harry Potter related.
WARNING: This is rated PG-13 for drug use and possible language (later, probably)
The pairing is Harry/Draco, slash, male/male. So if you don't like slash, click the back button.
ALSO! This story is set in the Muggle world, where the main characters (Harry, Draco) do NOT have magical powers, and will not have them throughout the story. I think I made my point.
Never Enough
Chapter One: Pleased To Meet You
The chill of the harsh winter wind had slammed against a poor young fellow exiting his vehicle. Not needing to shut his car door, for the wind had already done so, he cautiously made his way to his destination.
He hadn't visited to this place in a while; he had been busy dealing with a death in his family. But what suffered more than he himself was his writing. The man had not been inspired for weeks, if not months. He had no publicist to nag him, nor was he married. He was a lonely man, with a lonely soul, and absolutely nothing to write.
Poetry should be the simplest yet most powerful thing anyone can author, he thought on this subject for days, but why can I not compose a single verse? Hours upon hours would pass—his long fingers running through his stringy, blond hair in frustration—yet his pen wouldn't allow even the smallest scribble on paper.
"If I were poor, I would be a better poet," he would complain to his large, empty flat paid for by his father. After pathetically whining like this, his demeanor would become bitter and ill, and his thoughts would be clogged with grief once more.
One day, feeling no purpose in anything anymore, he decided that enough was enough. So, on this icy night, he would put the past behind him and start anew from his gloomy coma, beginning with getting flat out pissed.
The door chime to the Rustman's Pub sounded as the oak door slowly opened. The tall male figure crossed the threshold and closed the door quickly, realizing he was letting the London winter snow invade the small, candle lit pub and allowing the drunks to involuntarily catch a glimpse of the moon brightly gleaming on the heavy white flecks. He peered around, looking at a few old lethargic faces, some sleeping in battered wooden chairs. The newcomer sat down at the bar, a few seats away from a frighteningly cheerful-looking chap.
The scruffy publican rubbed at a used glass with a dishtowel, then set it in front of the poet. "What'll it be, mate?"
"Erm, Wychwood Black." he answered.
"Wychwood, eh? I haven't 'eard anyone order tha' in months!" loudly exclaimed the cheery fellow, slurring his words.
"Right," the poet said, trying not to get friendly with the drunk.
"Oh, sorry. I suppose I should put my manners to use. My name's Harry. I meant ta say tha' I haven't heard that drink ordered in a long time." Harry explained himself in a garbled voice.
"Here's your Wychwood, sir." the publican interrupted.
Harry cleared his throat, and scooted over two stools that were between them and situated himself next to the writer. He just smiled and stared at his fellow drinker as the poet took a sip of his beer. Turning to notice Harry was beaming at him like he'd won the 'Idiot-Of-The-Year' award, Draco asked, "What can I do for you?
"Why is it, mystery man, that you drink such a rare drink? And it may just be me, but I recall manners involving the exchanging of names. Yours is...?"
"Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. I'm twenty-two years old and I drink this beer because my father does. Or did. He died a few months past. Anything else for you, Harry?" Draco muttered staccato-like, annoyed.
Obviously, Harry didn't notice the anger riddled in Draco's voice. He was still grinning. "I just need to know your credit card numbers and how many cats you have."
The poet turned his head, agitated, wondering if Harry was being serious. But seeing as Harry was stifling a laugh, the blond understood that as sarcasm. Catching the first glimpse of whom he was talking to, Draco silently analyzed Harry. Wow, he's unusually sweaty, he thought. And awfully pale, too. He studied him from head to toe, noticing even the slightest movements that Harry made. Odd, he scratches his arm like there are a hundred mosquito bites there.
Draco decided that if he scrutinized Harry anymore, the blond would become the next Sherlock Holmes. Draco was brought back from his reverie as Harry finally burst, giggling as though someone was tickling him. Then, something happened to Draco that hadn't in what seemed like an eternity: a smile grew upon his melancholic face.
"What are you thinking about?" Harry questioned, straightening his glasses over his green eyes, and noting Draco's sudden grin.
"What? Oh, nothing," Draco replied. He went to take another swig of his drink, but his bottle was empty. He looked around the pub and it was empty, except for the publican, who was stacking the chairs on the tables. "I guess we should leave," Draco supposed, pointing at the empty pub. Draco reached into his pocket and pulled £1.75, setting it on the bar.
"Oh, right. Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Draco Malfoy." Harry said, staggering to get up from his slumped position. He looked as if he needed a days worth of sleep.
"And you," Draco said, almost ashamed to be giddy, but not knowing exactly what caused it. "By the way, do you happen to have a last name, Harry?"
"Why, yes. It's Potter." Harry said.
As Draco grabbed his coat and was walking out the door, he said, "Good evening, Mr. Potter." And with that, he walked out into the chilly night, his behavior completely changed from when he first entered.
A few minutes after Draco had left, Harry stepped out the door since he collapsed onto the floor. He woke up, being shaken by the frantic bartender. "Oi, Harry! Are you alright? Should I call an ambulance?"
Harry shook his head, the blurry outline of the bartender becoming clearer. "It's all right, Jack. Just one of my dizzy spells." he said.
Harry got up, reassuring Jack that he was really alright, and half ran out into the cold, forgetting his jacket. He hastily turned onto an alley way and retched into the mush. His glasses slipped off because of his profuse sweating. After wiping his chapped lips across his sleeve, he reached for his glasses sitting in the dirty snow. The brick wall supported him as he stood up, and he walked home, shaking.
When Draco had left Rustman's Pub, he hurriedly paced to his car. He was bewildered—yet somewhat satisfied—at the thought that a random drunk could inspire him, or at least help him get back his patented smirk. But this Harry Potter seemed like an intriguing mystery, although something in the back of Draco's mind had irked him.
He'd almost forgotten which way he lived—so frazzled by his thoughts—but managed to navigate his way home. Once he opened the lock to his two-level flat, he ran up the stairs to his study, where he found his computer sitting. First, he scratched down a few seemingly poetic lines he thought of on his way home on a spare notepad.
Content with his words, he attempted to alleviate his curiosity. Draco opened his internet browser and then maneuvered his long fingers over the keyboard as he typed these symptoms: sweating, scratching, and drowsiness. The first two symptoms explained that Harry could have eczema, and the drowsiness could have been explained by the intense alcohol consumption. Draco scrolled down for more options, and one diagnosis immediately caught his eye. Heroin. No, it couldn't possibly be it. Don't those people see pink elephants or something?, Draco thought. He clicked on the link and it described every symptom that Harry seemed to have had, except for the pink elephants. It can't be drugs. It's the eczema and alcohol, it has to be.
