Harry thinks to himself as he stares closeily at the potion in his hands. He thinks, and thinks but to what end?
Not even he knows. Is it about the pixie dust that Ron pretends he isn't snorting every night? Or the Firewhiskey that Hermione pretends she doesn't drink, even while she's at work with the Ministry?
Who knew there was more than one use for gillyweed? Harry ponders as he touches his fingers to the soggy blunt in his pocket. How had the school even allowed him to use it during the tournament? Perhaps that old fool Dumbledore wasn't as fun loving has he portrayed himself to be during their highschool years.
Perhaps, he too, found himself looking for comfort in a line of powder at the end of the day.
Harry sips his drink, and it burns his throat. Essence of fire poured over ice. How the ice managed to retain its state, Harry has no idea. Maybe he should have ordered something alcoholic, but the thought of his bushy haired friend stumbling herself home every night put him off. But perhaps it would be better than drinking something that burned just to feel something.
Harry slams a twenty down onto the bar and is about to lift two fingers to signal the bartender, when a pale hand closes down on the money and pushes it back towards him.
That's when he finalley caught the cool gaze of the bartender, who Harry may or may not have been staring at the rear of all night. What a cretin of a man he had become.
"Malfoy?" Harry asks
"I think you've had quite enough Potter." Says Malfoy, further pushing the money back to Harry with a Pale finger.
Harry can feel the anger become angrier inside of his head like a dragon that was fighting to break free of him.
"Excuse me?" He asked, astounded, "I haven't even had anything to alcoholic, you can't cut me off!"
"Clients are cut off when I say they are, Potter, and you," He gestures, "Are cut off. Go home."
Malfoys sleeves are rolled up to his elbow and Harry has to admit that he looks good. He can see a tattoo on his arm, a flash of green, purple and yellow smeared across his arm that at first glance Harry mistakes for the edges of a bruise.
"This is BULLSHIT," Harry tries to stop himself from yelling, but he's just so angry.
Malfoy raises his eyebrow at him and looks conflicted between unimpressed, yet also impressed at the audacity of Harry.
"Feel welcome to find another bar to continue serving you at this time." Malfoy turns his back on Harry to tend to another customer.
Harry watches Malfoy work with cruel efficiency, the strength in his forearms no doubt built up as a result of pulling pints night after night for the regulars.
Harry packs up his things and leaves the bar. Maybe he would try to find somewhere else, maybe he would just go home and treat himself to that gilly in his pocket.
Harry takes the joint out and looks at it, before sighing and discarding it into the gutter.
He goes home.
A/N: Massive thank you to my friend M for helping me beta read this story. Please review if you like!
-Wes