The Stranger
Disclaimer: All characters are created and owned by the magnificent J.K Rowling.
Chapter 1
The rain was beating a steady tattoo on the awning outside the pub as people scrambled by, their coats over their heads. Days like these, he liked to sit inside, wishing that the sound of thunder would calm his tangled thoughts. Harry Potter sat in his usual stool, oblivious to all around him. The bar was empty save for a couple of regulars seated in the booths in the far corner. But then again, he supposed it was a weekday night. Tuesday perhaps? He doesn't remember anymore. He reaches his glass out; the universal sign for a refill.
Some nights, he leaves early. Some nights he stays. Some nights, he doesn't trust himself alone in his room.
...
He recalls the first time the other man shared his space. The dark haired man was slowly drifting as he faintly registered the sound of someone hurriedly splashing through the door. The next minute, the tall figure had seated himself next to Harry. Something about the other man's presence is vaguely familiar, and Harry feels like he should be associating his scent with a stronger emotion. He is slipping, however, and is barely able to hear the stranger's order.
"You need to find yourself a girl, mate," Ron says for the umpteenth time.
"Nah. Too busy helping you keep yours," Harry replies, the corners of his lips twitching.
"Isn't that the truth," Ron mutters, but the smile that lights up his face is genuine.
...
A few days go by like this. The stranger never reveals his face. Even though a part of him identifies all too well with craving anonymity, Harry finds himself wanting to discern the stranger's guise. But the curiosity doesn't last long, as the effects of liquor kick in and the night hastily fades to dawn.
There's an empty glass bottle on the table, and from the way Ron sways on his feet, its not hard to guess where it has all gone.
"I don't know how you drink that stuff, Ron."
"S'fun! I feel… nice. Free. C'mon Harry, we're Aurors, it's a dangerous job!" He enthusiasts, waving his hands for emphasis, knocking over the bottle in the process.
Harry snorts. "Never got used to the taste, myself."
...
During the day, Harry goes from place to place, laughing, talking, being. He took a desk job after the incident. His coworkers don't know where he lives, and he prefers it that way. They have long since stopped trying to get him over for dinner, or on weekend travelling trips. To them, he is still the awkward boy who never got the chance to grow up. To others, he is the savior of the wizarding world—the brave young celebrity, or the tragic hero. The irony is, few know better.
The quiet bar is his only refuge, day after day. After all, he knows the cracks on the wall better than the lines that run through his palm. The starkness of the stains on the counter is his only measure of how far down the rabbit hole he is tonight.
He also knows the stranger's routine by now. Usually, the dark haired man has finished his first round before he walks in. Today, Harry has barely had time to feel those first creeping tendrils of intoxication. So, he watches him from the corner of his eye.
"Bourbon, please." The stranger says softly. Why can't he place that voice?
The bartender is already putting the amber liquid in front of him, negating the need for his previous sentence. An immaculate hand darts out to reach for the drink in front of him. Pale, slender fingers encircle the glass, and Harry vaguely wonders what someone so beautiful is doing in a place like this.
He doesn't go home that night.
...
It takes him a while to realize that he misses the presence of his silent companion. His heeled boots walk in later than usual, his black hooded cloak still covering his face. He smells like potions.
As he orders his usual, Harry could have sworn he saw a hint of an apology upon the man's pointy features.
...
"—tomorrow!"
Laughter bubbled from his lips. It was the kind of laughter that was infectious, and pretty soon both Ron and him were doubled over in their booth, clutching the table for support.
Harry has long since forgotten the joke, but he never forgets the elation. Nothing else mattered at the time. How stupid were they to drop their guard so completely in a post-war period like this? They should have known better. He, Harry, should have known that danger was omnipresent, closing in—
A crisp voice brakes through his reverie. It is softer than he expects. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Quickly suppressing the fleeting hesitation that ghosts through his body, Harry nods.
"Two bourbons" the stranger signals to the bartender. To his credit, the bartender only pauses for a second to acknowledge this shift in monotony.
As he swirls the amber liquid around, Harry speaks. "I never cared much for whiskey." His voice is raspy from disuse.
"No, Potter. I suppose I never pegged you for an alcoholic either."
Harry's head snaps up as the stranger finally removes his hood.
"Draco Malfoy," he breathes.
"Harry Potter."