So another collab between siamesercute and myself- just as cracky as the last.
In an unremarkable British town there is a very unremarkable pub. This very unremarkable pub is run by a rather remarkable family.
Just like any other dingy, been there forever, establishment the outside has peeling paint and dirt covered windows. The inside is not much different, solid wood engraved with names of dead lovers and such, few dead bugs on the windowsills, questionable stains on seats. The toilets are only slightly more passable than the rest of the place and still the smell of them was worse than any sewage pipe- not that most of the patrons minded.
On one of the unexceptionally ordinary barstools sits possibly the most remarkable thing in the place.
Harry.
James.
Potter.
Harry James-I-freaking-killed-a-Dark-Lord-as-a-baby-and-no-you-can't-have-my-bloody-autograph- Potter.
A suspiciously platinum blonde bar tender asks if he wants a drink. The man-who-lived almost falls off the bar stool in surprise.
"Bloody hell! Is that you Malfoy?" The blonde stares at him, awkwardly looking around then pointing to himself.
"Me?"
"Yes, you- where the bloody hell have you been?" The blonde sighs in exasperation.
"Sorry, we have this happen a lot. Our uniform includes bleaching our hair blonde with some weird green mixture our boss gives us. I tell you it brings in the girls." Harry watches in confusion as the blonde winks to the nonexistent girls- because it's a bar, no girls go to bars- "I'm Jeeves, what can I get for you?" And so Harry spends most of the night getting drunk off his arse.
Another blonde wanders past, nose in the air.
"Malfoy?" The blonde doesn't even spare a glance and Harry continues to get drunk.
After three random girls- no we don't know where they came from- and Jeeves get asked if they are Malfoy another blonde walks by.
"Malfoy?" says the now almost too drunk to speak man-who-lived.
"What?" snaps the blonde, "Oh, it's Potter." He sneers, briefly propping the man back up on his barstool.
"What the hell is Potty doing in a muggle pub?" The severely drunk man pokes a finger into the other man's chest.
"Wha' tha hell isssh Draco Malfoy doin' in a moogle pob?" It takes a moment for this particular blonde to answer as he stares at the other in disbelief.
"Oh, bloody hell- you're drunker than Hagrid." They both watch the half-giant trying to bake a cake in their log fire.
"Sheemsh like a pretty good idea to mee." Says the no-longer-boy hero. Draco sighs wrestling him back onto his barstool.
"No. I will not be responsible for you burning to death- that's the Ministry's job."
And so Draco begins to reminisce about the pub which has been in his family since the early 1600s when his family realised how much money they bought in. Alas it was really all a front- the Malfoys were in fact muggle-lovers from the beginning and when the wizarding depression hit- and it would-they'd be the ones laughing.
And the muggle ladies were a lot more flirty.
In the backroom there is the most remarkable thing under the Malfoy pub roof. Sat around a table in an even dingier room is Voldemort and his muggle gambling buddies. With a girlish shriek he springs from his chair.
"I win!" And runs out the door past an almost catatonic hero who pays him no notice, too busy trying to ply Draco with alcohol.