Smoke and Amber
AN: Additional warnings/tags for this one: Dubcon romance with themes of smoking, drinking and (partially casual) sex.
The story starts in 2006, so Harry is 25 at the start of this story, about to turn 26 in a few months.
As additional info, smoking in bars/pubs etc was only banned in england on July 1, 2007.
Chapter 1: Sparks
Warm light illuminates smoke that drifts upwards from a dozen cigarettes. The sound of buzzing talks is only cut through by an occasional clinking of glasses. Harry breathes in deeply, finally at ease. Hermione would disagree, he thinks with a wry smile as he signals for the barman to serve the regular. He can already hear her go on about health inspections in the seedy bar that Harry likes to hole up in nowadays. There's been rumours about a new smoking ban recently, which he doesn't know how to feel about. Although not a smoker himself, he finds it adds something, a haziness that Harry is quite fond of. It isn't as if he'll get any damage that a quick trip to St. Mungo's can't fix.
He pushes a tenner over the counter, which the bartender takes without comment, knowing Harry well enough by now to not offer any change.
Taking a sip from the burning liquid he is offered, Harry wonders how Hermione is doing. Is she still together with Ron? Have they built a family? A wave of homesickness washes over him as he cradles the glass like it was a lifeline, knuckles turning white from the sheer force. It had been his own choice to leave, it would be unfair to barge in on them almost a decade later, just to find some peace of mind for the sake of curiosity. Odd, he hasn't thought about his best friends for a long time. What strange nostalgia dug its claws in him today? Harry downs another sip in hopes of being able to push it to the back of his mind.
Clothing rustles – or rather creaks – as someone slides into the seat next to his. Out of habit, Harry side-eyes the newcomer. It isn't one of the regulars for sure. The man seems to be in his mid-thirties, looking a bit too old for the tight pants and black brushed leather jacket he is wearing. Turning his head a bit more, Harry catches a glimpse of a silk shirt underneath. Probably synthetic, he mentally notes. No-one who looks like that and can afford better would drink here. For a brief moment, he thinks that perhaps the man is a wizard after all, but the look is too coherent for that to be likely.
''Invergordon,'' the other speaks, rapping his knuckles on the bar before pointing at a bottle on the shelf. Harry raises an eyebrow. Maybe silk after all. The dusty bottle of over 40-year-old whisky is there more for show than drinking. No-one who comes here often enough to make a lasting impression ever orders a glass that costs more than fifteen quid. It's too much of a shame to pour such an expensive beverage in a tumbler that gets washed by briefly dunking it in water. Better than the method of Aberforth's dirty rag, but still.
The thought makes him growl lowly. Why can he not put the past behind him tonight?
''Bad day?'' the newcomer asks. Harry takes it as an invitation to look with more than his peripheral vision, turning to face the other. For someone with a couple of silver strands in otherwise jet-black hair, the man has a younger face than Harry had thought before. He is pale and thin, clean-shaven and has cheekbones that would make anyone envious. As soon as he meets the stranger's eyes though, Harry forgets entirely about the rest of the man's features. A sharp stare of stunning reddish-brown that pulls him into the depths...
Harry clears his throat when realising he's been staring, hastily turning back to sip from his whisky, which is much cheaper than what Gordon is pouring right now. ''You could say that,'' he answers at last. In that moment, he wants to slap himself. No wonder he's been down all day. ''Anniversary of some negative events. Yourself?''
''Hmm, same,'' comes the answer. Harry can feel those scorching eyes trailing over his entire form.
''Sure you are at the right bar?'' Harry dares ask, giving a quick, pointed look at the stranger's ensemble. ''If you're looking for something flashy or quick, there's one I can recommend downtown…''
The other chuckles and pulls out a pack of smokes. Harry's eyes are glued to nimble fingers as they flick over the wheel of a shiny steel lighter, igniting a spark on the first stroke.
''I spent a long time looking and am finally convinced to have found the exact spot I need to be at,'' is the reply. Teeth flash in a way that make the previous sparks pale in comparison. ''A bit of quiet to get away from the responsibilities of everyday life.''
The words hit home, especially considering Harry's previous brooding thoughts. Responsibilities… he hates that word. There've been so many, piled on top of each other from the day he was dropped off at the Dursleys. Going to Hogwarts should have lifted that burden, yet life had only added more, mostly due to incompetent or malicious adults. Grimacing, he finishes the drink with a swig, aware of his reaction being eyed with interest. He arrived barely twenty minutes ago, yet Harry can't decide whether he wants to stay or leave already. This is the first time in years that anyone actively tries to chat up to him in here. All the regulars know to let him be. When Harry feels up for company or sharing a night in another bed than his own, he's always the one to approach first.
The stranger's timing is the absolute worst. He's far too handsome to turn down, but Harry is in a crap mood and would like to wallow in peace and silence.
''And what do you think you'll find here then?'' Harry asks, curious about the non-answer. When leaning back out of habit, the stool he sits on tips dangerously. He likes the feeling of precarious balance, one of the few things on this side of the world that reminds of flying. Not that he never takes to the skies anymore, but the last time has been months ago. His Firebolt isn't exactly stellar after all those years gathering dust. Nothing could make him replace the broom Sirius gifted him though, no matter how many faster models can be gawked at in the display windows in Diagon. They'll never be better. Strange, back when starting with flying at Hogwarts, he never could understand those who didn't want the newest broom on the market, like Madame Hooch who insisted on keeping her Silver Arrow. Harry had to learn the hard way about the emotional value that clung to objects.
A plume of smoke drifts upwards. Harry frowns at it, for a moment convinced that it whirls in odd shapes. It puts him more on edge than he is comfortable with, hating this guessing game of trying to figure out whether he is talking to a wizard or a Muggle. It isn't as if one can politely ask without receiving scrutinising glances. He's tried the line 'Have you ever been to Hogwarts' before as a subtle way to figure it out, but as mages are so bad at giving places even marginally normal names, it still raises questions with Muggles afterwards. 'Hogsmeade' and 'Diagon Alley' both resulted in being laughed at as well.
''Revenge,'' the stranger answers, gaze turning steely. ''I have been… slighted before by a certain person. Word has it that I could find him here.''
Well, that explains things. Harry relaxes again, not so put off anymore by the tense atmosphere he picks up from the one beside him. It wasn't exactly rare for people in their circles who were cheated on to hop from one gay bar to the next in hopes of finding information and possibly catch them red-handed. It isn't as if there are a ton of these bars, and it is pretty easy to find a useful string of info. ''I can't recommend revenge,'' he advises. With a loud bang that earns a displeased frown from the barman, Harry lets the stool fall back in place.
''Have experience, do you?'' The voice is sharp, almost sneering.
Harry doesn't bother getting offended by the implication that it is unlikely. Quite a few people here look down on him because he is only in his twenties.
''More than I care for,'' he dully answers, staring into his now-empty glass. Maybe he should still stay a bit longer. Home is empty too, and here he can at least talk to someone, whether they understand or not. He signals for another drink, which is half-empty within seconds after receiving it. ''I was driven by revenge for a good part of my life. Some fucker killed my family and was out to get others I cared for as well. Got a few more along the way too. Some of my closest friends, classmates… and even some that I considered my second family. I got my revenge in the end,'' he bitterly says. ''There was no exhilaration after, nothing to celebrate. Just another person to mourn, though it was someone that no-one would mourn. I was left with emptiness, a lack of purpose. Been trying for years to move on now and find something that makes me feel alive again. Nothing seems to work, I was so focused on that one event in my life, that moment where I'd finally make him pay, that I forgot how to live beyond that.''
He stops his rant abruptly. ''Sorry,'' he mumbles, shaking his head. ''Not really comparable, I didn't want to push my sob story on you.'' He silently blames his loose tongue on the drinks.
The stranger doesn't answer for so long that Harry is pretty sure he's blown any chances. And considering that the guy is looking for his cheating lover, they were already low to begin with. Harry finishes the second glass, feeling the pleasant buzz settling in his stomach. '''suppose I better call a taxi,'' he awkwardly speaks, sliding from the seat. Feeling a bit embarrassed about letting himself go so much without provocation, he slinks out of the club, raising a hand in greeting to a couple guys who are lounging on the sofas in the back of the bar.
Outside, Harry inhales cold air to clear his lungs and pulls out a mobile phone, his fifth that year. As he carries it on his person, the constant contact with magic keeps breaking them. He always goes to different electronic shops to buy a new phone now as he doesn't want to come across as some criminal who needs a new number every two months due to an 'accidental' frying of the SIM card. Living mostly in the Muggle world sadly makes it a necessity. He wishes now that he would have spoken more to Arthur Weasley, who for sure would have found a way to mod it and make it run even around magic. In retrospect, Ron's dad had never received enough credit for his work. The Burrow was as magical as it got, yet there was a whole shed full of mostly working Muggle junk. Not to even start about the Ford Anglia. Not many could have pulled that off.
Brooding, Harry stares out of the car window into the rainy night. ''Happy Death Day, Tom,'' he whispers grimly. ''Cheers to us.''