Ok, right, I am so sorry. Basically I had most of this written and then I lost it and then school and work and theatre production all decided they'll be all like "Hey man what's up? Oh, you wanted some free time? Nah, that's ok, you don't need it. Free time is for losers who like to be able to breathe freely and not have stress induced headaches. You don't wanna be a loser do you?"
And that is the story of my life for the past month... I think it needed more dragons.
Point is... It's here and... well, I don't know how good it is.
Also, sorry Elelith, I tried to reply to you, but my computer had a shit fit everytime I hit send.
Thank you to all the lovely people who reviewed and favourited and alerted the last chapter, the response has been overwhelming :)
Righto, as my friend says, onwards and upwards to the drunkening stage!
The war had ended, six months ago. Voldemort was dead, the world was rejoicing, the shadow was gone and all was well.
Except it wasn't, of course. That's not really how real life works. Real life is harder and sometimes all you want is some help...
Harry had always been wary of finding comfort at the bottom of a bottle, very careful indeed. He knew what it could do, had seen it firsthand when he was a kid. He didn't want to go down that road. But, Christ, it was hard. Everything hurt, still hurt and will hurt and won't stop hurting. He needed an escape. So he allowed himself one. He allowed himself one, proper escape every Friday – a pub in the middle of London.
Every Friday he would head to the tube and he would end up in central London, right in the beating heart of the city. And he would go to his pub, and he would sit in his seat and he would drink his whiskey until he couldn't feel his head properly. Or his heart.
The routine helped Harry, the once a week escape made the rest of the days easier. The days where he was always in the public eye, always had to be perfect, the days when he had to be "Harry Potter: The best thing since sliced bread". Harry very much preferred when he could just be "Harry Potter: The very drunk man in the corner who's about as much use a chocolate teapot". Those were, if not the good times exactly, then the easier times.
He didn't have to deal with death on those Fridays either. On those Fridays not everything he looked at would remind him of the fallen, not the way it did in 'his' world. The lack of constant reminders made it easier to breathe in that pub... figuratively speaking, of course, the pub itself smelt of stale alcohol, sweat and old cigarette smoke. Literal breathing was actually slightly less desirable than normal. The point was, the dead didn't shove their faces in his when he was in that pub. It was nice. It was relaxing.
Til he walked in one Friday and some douche bag was sitting in his spot, drinking his whiskey. Common sense told Harry that he was being silly, that it didn't ruin his evening, having that man sit there. But common sense is not particularly common, nor is it renowned for being sensible, so Harry found that having the man sit there was seriously piss-off worthy, he was evening drinking his damn whiskey for fuckssake.
He tried to ignore it. He told himself that of course there's more whiskey and he went and sat next to his spot, hoping it would be good enough, and proceeded to get thoroughly plastered, trying to enjoy it as much as he normally did. It was hard though, with that tall, skinny, horse-faced, arse-named prick sitting in his spot. Everyone knew that it was Harry's spot, all the regulars knew...
The more whiskey Harry had, the more irritating the skinny man got. Irritating-er and irritating-er until Harry had had Enough God Dammit! He turned round and he told this man Exactly what he thought of him!
"Hey, hey, hey. Guy. You are, aaahh, in my spot. And you should just fffff- stand up and and and sod off and gi'it back and sod off. You are ruining my night sir! And that's not, I mean like, that's just not cool man. So sod off and sod off and... ummm..."
"Sod off?" the man smirked and rose an eyebrow. Harry, for his part, just nodded emphatically.
"Yup," he popped, "sod off and gimme my seat back, cos it's mine. And I wannit." Harry had dangerously swayed towards the other man, leaning in to his space. It was not surprising then, when he fell off his own chair straight onto the stranger. He was surprised though, however pleasantly, when the other man caught him and ensured he sat down properly in a booth in the corner. Harry looked questioningly at the tall one when he registered their change in surroundings. The man simply shrugged. "It's harder for you to fall out of a booth, Mr Potter."
Harry nodded sagely at that, stopping quickly when he discovered that it made the room spin more than it should. The room spinning was distracting, so it took a few seconds for Harry to register that this strange, skinny man knew his name. His head shot up as quickly as it could and he glared at the man standing beside him.
"How do you know who I am?" There was hostility in his voice. He didn't like being on the back foot, and he was so far on the back foot here he may as well have had no feet at all.
The man just shook his head despairingly. "We met once before, Mr Potter, don't you remember? Before you knew what you were. You're name was written on the inside of your collar."
Harry was trying desperately to make sense of this, but his brain wasn't really working properly. He found himself wondering when he had ever had his name written on his collar... Wait...
"What do you mean 'before I knew what I was'?" He needed to know, if this was another wizard he'd have to find a new pub. He couldn't have his only sanctuary defiled by even the slightest hint of magic.
The man opposite him just shrugged again, "I meant what I said, before you knew what you were to the secret half of Britain." He looked so calm, just standing there, blurting out these secrets.
Harry was doing an excellent impression of a gold fish. "How...?"
The man smiled at him, it was slightly terrifying. "I know a lot of things. I'm clever."
Harry went to open his mouth again but the stranger cut him off.
"No, I'm not 'one of you'. Just clever." The man's voice had grown softer now, less harsh and condescending. His eyes were flicking up and down Harry, taking in everything. Harry was met with an overwhelming feeling of assessment, it felt familiar...
"I know you..." Harry was staring back at the man now, it felt so familiar, this whole thing.
The man nodded, no longer anywhere near smiling. "It was a long time ago." Suddenly he crouched in front of Harry, right at his eye level. "You should find something else, Mr Potter. You should find another way. This will lead to self-destruction, any kind of addiction always does." He broke off and suddenly looked away. Harry felt like this was experience talking, not just social obligation.
"I recommend exercise or painting or writing. Reading can be helpful, it transports one to a world that's not here, that can be nice." The man was quiet and he was intense and he didn't break eye contact. He meant this... "Find something else, Harry Potter. Exercise, sex, books, a person, anything." The man suddenly stood, looking down on Harry once again, his voice growing much less soft. "And now you need to go home."
Harry found the words falling out of his mouth without his brain really telling him to put them there.
"Go home with you?" He blushed at his own forwardness, then tried very hard to pretend that nothing had just happened. Why the hell had he just said that? Because this man was different. Because this man understood without being pushy. Because real life is harder and sometimes all you want is some help. Because this man was familiar and he wasn't a wizard and Harry just needed someone.
The tall man was staring at him, his eyes once again flickering. He nodded, once.
"Yes... yes alright. Home... After all we wouldn't want you vomiting all over your shoes in a taxi." He then leant down and heaved the smaller man up and slung Harry's arm around his much higher up shoulders. As they staggered slowly out of the pub the tall man turned to talk to the short one.
"We met at Sainsbury's once, that's where it was... I told you I was Sherlock Holmes..."
Reviews would be lovely :) Even though, lt's be honest, I really don't deserve them for making you wait this long.
And the Doctor Who reference? Was "It's written on the inside of your collar..."
Series Two, Idiot's Lantern. The one with The Wire :)