The young, black-haired man raised his head from where it had rested on his arms, and sent a slightly dazed look in the bartender's direction. "Another one, Tom," he muttered, and let his head fall forward again.
The Leaky Cauldron was a place well-known in the wizarding world, not only because of its unique gateway between Diagon Alley and the somewhat less colourful Muggle London, but also for its rather diverse clientele. Another asset of the establishment was appreciated by more than a few of its patrons over the years. It was well known that Tom, the wizened old bartender, had a seemingly unlimited supply of listening ear, but was rather short on smart comments – a very endearing combination to those in need of a good moan about life who didn't feel like adding the stress of actually receiving constructive advice.
Usually, Tom's replies were along the lines of an encouraging hum or a full glass being pushed gently in the right direction, but in some cases he saw fit to intervene. "Don't you think you've had enough, lad?" he ventured now, his gruff voice causing a few other patrons to glance up for a moment.
"There's not enough ale in the world," came the emphatic reply, and Tom shrugged and did what he did best: He quietly placed a new pint in front of the distressed man, who grabbed it with both hands as if it was his anchor in a world that had not been kind to him.
The man sitting next to the rather desperate patron heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Harry," he said, with an air of patience trained over the course of many similar nights, "spill it already. You called me here in the middle of the week and now you do nothing but stare at the walls and waste fine ale. What's got you so worked up?"
Harry groaned and raised his head again, which apparently required a lot of effort. "You don't understand, Ron," he said. "No one does. It's just... awful. The worst. Worse than that."
His companion frowned. "It's not Ginny, is it?" Ron Weasley might be the best friend a man could wish for, but everyone knew that family came first. "What have you done to her now?"
This question seemed to warrant a lot of thinking. Harry didn't answer for a while, then: "Nothing recently, I think. You do realize we're not even seeing each other these days?"
Ron shrugged helplessly. "What then?"
Harry Potter, called by many the Boy Who Lived, or the Man Who Conquered Voldemort, or the Chosen One, or a number of equally hated titles, whimpered and wiped a hand over his face, almsot dislodging his glasses. "It's complicated," he said.
"It always is," Tom added helpfully, but was met by two blank stares. He merely shrugged and turned away again.
"Ron," said Harry darkly, "I'm going to tell you a story. Maybe then you'll have a bit of an idea what's wrong. Though there is no one who could possibly understand."
Judging by the flush beginning to colour the other man's cheeks, Ron was nearing the end of his considerable patience. "Go ahead," was all he said.
One gulp of ale later, Harry made a sweeping gesture in the vague direction of Diagon Alley, almost slapping Ron in the face. "It all started with a goblin, and it goes downhill from there…"