Just one drink

Harry sat, hand hovering over the almost empty glass of one of tonight's many, many drinks. He had been coming here for a few months in a row. No particular day of the week, but after a rough day, he went here to sit in peace and well, he couldn't call it quiet, but the murmur of the crowd didn't bother him, as long as it didn't murmur about him.

The war had ended, horribly, with too many dead, but Tom Riddle, as Harry had come to call him after the war, was dead, and wouldn't be coming back. Not that there wasn't still evil in the world, but they had gotten the worst, most dangerous wizard and most of his followers, and that was coming a long way. Harry wasn't going to let a name shaped with fear continue to be spoken in hushed voices or in codes. He had been born Tom Riddle, and that's how they ought to remember him. 

Harry let his gaze sweep over the almost full pub, rowdy men and silent drinkers, like himself, took up most of the tables. He couldn't recognize any of them, even though atleast a few others must be regulars as well. No one seemed to pay him any attention. He loved that. It was solitude, but not sitting-in-the-dark and brooding kind of solitude. There was the buzz and sound of people, the occasional sound of broken glass and 'OY!' was comforting. It wasn't big or grand or dangerous, it was just... people.

One would think that after the wizarding world became safe again, Harry would want no other thing than to be in it, live magic, breathe magic, learn everything and be with his friends, but he blamed himself for the deaths of his loved ones, and everyone seemed to want something of him, and he couldn't say no, not really. It would be small things, tokens, autographs and pictures, and that made him feel inflated, like Gilderoy. But if he didn't do it, it felt even worse. Why be so rude as to refuse them that one little thing? Except that it wasn't one little thing,it was one little thing from everyone. Harry went to get another drink, and as he returned to his table, he wobbled slightly. That would be his last drink, he figured. And then back to his flat.

He had lived, for a short while, with the Weasleys, but the void after Fred was too much to handle. The whole house reeked of sorrow and grief, and he felt an exclusion he enver had experienced with the Weasleys before. He hadn't spoken to Ginny in a while, a week, perhaps. They were..together? Not? It didn't seem to matter as much as it had. He loved her, but in a slow, steady stream-kind of way, not a infatuated or swimming with emotions kind of way. She was his friend, and he cared. They had slept together, once, right after the war. An error they both regretted. He had wanted it to be a moment, binding them together forever, something magical and beautiful and filled with love, but what it was, was dirty, and sweaty, and awkward, and short. A grief-filled moment of managing your frustrations in the entirely wrong way. It felt cheap and rotten, and after it happened, they hadn't spoken for three days. The glass in his hand was empty, he couldn't remember even taking a sip. He got halfway up, when a hand placed on this shoulder, belonging to someone he'd hoped to avoid for the reminder of his days, pushed him back down on his seat.Draco Malfoy towered over him.

"Just one more drink, Potter. Sit."