Disclaimer: I own neither the world created by J.K.R., nor the lyrics by Coldplay.

Bother

Chapter One: Drink Up Me Hearties

A warning sign
I missed the good part, then I realized
I started looking and the bubble burst
I started looking for excuses

Harry Potter pulled out his wand and prepared to apparate into his flat. He sighed heavily…starting up a business wasn't as easy as he had thought it would be. When he was in Hogwarts, Fred and George made it look like the simplest thing since self-stirring potions.

Harry smiled briefly to himself. Hogwarts…had it really been two whole years? Hogwarts was his first home and it was where he had so many other firsts. First friends, first love, and the first time he met his godfather, Sirius, just to name a few. Thinking back on it, it seemed like just yesterday it had been Dumbledore's funeral. It seemed like just yesterday he had dedicated himself to finding and defeating Voldemort.

Voldemort…it had been a year since his demise. Sadly, Voldemort killed a great deal of Muggles and wizards alike in the two years he was loose on the world. Not even the Aurors could delay him or his followers.

Auror…it used to be Harry's dream profession. In fact, ten months ago he began training to become an Auror. It was grand…at first. Then, just one month after he began training, Harry lost all ambition for the profession. Becoming an Auror certainly lost its appeal in a hurry.

As his ambition for what he used to yearn to do disappeared, so did his ambition to live. Day after day, night after night, he drank.

Harry greedily clutched the bottle of firewhiskey. Holding it up to his lips, and poured the entirety of the fiery liquid down his throat. It was only his first bottle of the night. That one bottle had the power to make him sufficiently smashed, yet he continued drinking.

Midway through his second bottle, he mumbled to the wall of his flat, "You know, I've never met a witchy likes a you befo'e…how's abou' you come back to my place and," he swigged another drink, "we'll—" With that remark Harry fell over.

After Harry quit Auror training, he had to decide what in the bloody hell he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Suddenly, the Weasley twins popped into his head. They owned a shop, why couldn't Harry?

But, what exactly would Harry sell in a shop? Naught that he could think of. Then it hit him. Don't buy a shop...buy a pub. His reasons for owning a pub were simple…firewhiskey had been a dear, dear friend in the months following his victory over Voldemort.

However, firewhiskey slowly began to lose its effectiveness. Harry had to drink more, and more, and more. Regrettably, a day came when Harry was done to his last bottle of firewhiskey and could not go to fetch more. He had to resort to some Muggle forms of alcohol, vodka and gin.

Grabbing four bottles of vodka and three of gin from his store cupboard, he returned to his living room. He waved the cork out of the vodka bottle with a flick of the wand and took a swig. Immediately after tasting its bitterness, he spat it out and gagged.

Harry looked miserably at the four bottles of vodka, and decided not to let it go to waste. He found an empty bottle, grabbed the bottle of vodka he had previously opened, and an unopened bottle of gin. Harry set all three on the counter, and began mixing and matching until the empty bottle he started with was full to the brim.

He shrugged to himself, "Here goes nothing," and took a swig. Seconds later, he spat that out, too.

"More gin," he mumbled. He started over again with a fresh bottle, this time using large amounts of gin. Once finished, he again tasted it and again got dismal results. Again, and again, and again he started anew.

Until finally, on the seventh try, he came up with a drink that was more than tolerable...it was, splendid. Upon the initial drink, the taste exploded on one's tongue like a fireball, yet by the second drink, it was quite refreshing.

Harry kept drinking and smiling to himself. Finally, with only one fourth of the bottle left, he drunkenly mumbled, "My, my, what a fiery little fireball you are. My little firebally ball." He hiccupped. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell over.

When Harry awoke the next day, he surprisingly recalled how he got the drink, and promptly wrote it down. A name for it was etched upon his mind, though he could not rightly recall why.

He named it Fireball.

One bottle of this super drink could make the average wizard drunker than the bums wandering the London streets clutching their precious ale.

Harry had the idea for a drink that would hook many a witch and wizard. All he needed was the premises and the name.

Harry poured himself a strong cup of tea. He was in dire need of consciousness and of a location for his pub. Thus, the newspaper he once hated, The Daily Prophet, was spread in front of him.

The Daily Prophet

The Classifieds

FOR SALE: Old-fashioned two-story building of grand wizarding heritage in Hogsmeade. Formerly the home of a reputable man, abandoned for unknown reasons. For more information, Owl Belinda Avery.

Too questionable of a history. Wouldn't want to go down into the cellar to bring up more bottles and find a detached head or something of the sort.

FOR SALE: Clean-cut Muggle-friendly building in Ottery St. Catchpole, located next to a branch of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. For more information, Owl Arthur Weasley.

Nope, no, definitely not. It wouldn't do to move so close to the Weasleys after…at any rate, must plow on.

FOR SALE: Two-story building located in between Flourish and Blotts and Eeylops Owl Emporium. For more information, Owl Hugh Looms.

After that ad, Harry knew he had found the perfect location. He sat down immediately with a piece of parchment and a quill. Thinking for a minute, he set the quill point to the paper and began:

Dear Mr. Looms,

I am interested in purchasing the building you are selling in Diagon Alley. I would like to request an appointment to view the building and discuss the price.

Sincerely yours,

Harry J. Potter

There, that should do it. With that thought, he sealed the letter and sent it off with his ever-faithful owl, Hedwig.

Harry expected an owl back within a day or two. To his surprise, this Hugh Looms character didn't reply for well over a week. When the reply finally came, it impolitely stated:

Potter--

Received your post, come Wednesday the 7th at precisely 2:23. Do not be late.

--Looms

Harry looked quizzically at the brief note. Wednesday the 7th? That was today. He looked at his wristwatch and saw to his utter displeasure that the time was quickly approaching 2:11. Harry uttered a string of curse words and apparated to The Leaky Cauldron.

Harry caught his first glance at the potential location for his pub at precisely 2:17 p.m. and stood shocked for a moment. His gaze went from the crows' nest perched on top of the stoop to the rusty railing…from the rusty railing to dusty windows…from the dusty windows to the bricks that had fallen off of the building.

He was so caught up in his gawking that he didn't notice the appearance a smartly dressed middle-aged man. The man noticed Harry and walked over to the much younger man to tap him on the shoulder.

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin and turned to the man who had tapped him. As soon as Harry gathered his bearings, he quietly offered, "Er, hi? I'm Harry Potter. Would you happen to be Mr. Looms?"

The middle-aged man cackled, "Aha ha ha, I certainly would be he, Potter. Now step this way and I'll give you a brief tour of this exquisite building."

Hugh Looms walked through the old door into the decrepit building, leaving Harry to stare after Looms as if the man had lost his sanity. Looms must have realized Harry wasn't following him, and retreated. "Come on boy, I don't have all bloody day."

Harry nodded mutely and followed the eccentric man into the building.

"Now as you can see," Looms boasted when Harry entered the building, "this is a classy building. I'm not selling it to you if you plan to devalue it with filth."

"I certainly will not," quickly butted in Harry.

"Right, right, now this here is the main room. Its former use was a ballroom dancing studio."

Harry nodded slowly and Looms continued.

"Behind that counter yonder is the trap door into the cellar, but we don't have time to take a look at that now."

Harry looked quizzically at the man, but Mr. Looms missed it.

"Right," Looms continued. "That's about it. I'm a very busy wizard, so what do you say?"

"What do I say about what?"

"The building! Surely you have an offer in mind."

"Er, what were you asking for it?"

"I won't take a knut under 1,100 galleons."

Harry did the math. His Gringotts account at the moment held 2,000 galleons and an assortment of sickles and knuts. That would leave him little more than 900 galleons not only to fix up the place, which he figured would alone take around 500 galleons, but he still had a very expensive rent to pay on his flat, 100 galleons a month, and he thought it would take at least six months to fix up this place.

Harry smoothly said, "I was thinking more along the lines of, say, 700."

"You drive a hard bargain, Potter. How about 1,000."

"750."

"900."

"800," insisted Harry.

"875."

"800."

"850."

"800."

"825, and I won't go a knut less," Looms harshly countered.

"You've got yourself a deal, sir," Harry smiled.

Looms pulled some papers out of his briefcase. Spreading them across an old table and withdrew a quill, "Sign here, here, and here."

Harry quickly signed, shook the man's hand and looked around the ancient building he had just purchased.

Harry had a name stuck in his mind from the moment he decided to start up a pub. He wished to call it The Drizzling Draft. The name seemed to reflect his mood, and yet it was oddly comforting as well.

Yet, the name alone could not comfort Harry those long lonely nights, on which the past haunted his dreams.

Author's Note: You took the time to read this. I must admit, I'm pleased. However, I'd be ecstatic if you reviewed.