Not Quite A Love Story (But Pretty Damn Close)

Chapter Two: Dateless Losers

Harry Potter swilled the last dregs of wine around in his glass for precisely the 23^rd time that evening. He emitted a despondent little sigh. He tapped his foot absently against the rung of the barstool upon which he was sitting, and tried to look open and sincerely happy, in a rather poor attempt to conceal his actually rather elevated degree of misery. Sadly, he failed quite thoroughly at doing this and became even more upset as a result. He decided then to content himself with simply running his fingers through his hair distractedly, sighing again, and readjusting his glass ever-so-slightly, even though they really hadn't needed it and had been quite comfortable before, thank-you-very-much.

"Harry," yelled Ron into his ear, causing him to jump slightly sideways and miss the barstool on reentry by half an ass, "how're you holding up there, mate?"

The redhead's worried expression was matched by that of the curly-haired brunette on his arm. Harry idly noted the smooth ringlets framing Hermione's face as opposed to her regular tangled mass of frizz, and wondered pointlessly how many bottles of gunk had gone into it to make it look like that. He remembered her making a joking estimate of five and three quarters once...yes, that had been right before Ron had said "Times ten" and as a result acquired a neat little scar over his left eyebrow...

"Harry!" Hermione's voice slowly penetrated the thick fog of irrelevant (but entertaining and violent) memories floating around Harry's head. Or was that just cigarette smoke? In any case--"Harry! HARRY! Can you hear us? Ron asked if you--"

"I heard," he cut her off quietly. Well, that is to say as quietly as one can when they are extremely incensed, and situated in a pub full of rowdy young adults dancing and yelling to thumping techno music. Anyway, it's the effect that counts, and Harry managed to get the point across rather effectively.

"Look man," said Ron, in a tone usually reserved for employment by hardened war veterans (which he was, sort of) on the verge of an emotional breakdown (which he wasn't) or a desperate door-to-door umbrella hat salesman (which he wasn't) suffering from a nasty case of hay fever (which he was, sort of--but refused to tell Hermione, lest she attempt to 'cure' him with one of her homemade medical potions), "I--"

At this point, Hermione interjected for the sake of the remains of Ron's tattered pride, and possibly his life, if Harry's murderous stare was any indication. "Look honey," she exclaimed in a tone of utter wonderment, "isn't that Fleur Delacour waving at you?"

"Where?!"

Hermione rolled her eyes at his frantic and excited expression behind his back.

"What?" said Ron, turning to face her. "I didn't even know that Bill was here--I wanted to see my niece! Is that so terribly wrong?"

"What?" said Hermione, her face doing a terribly neat trick where it went very pale, and widened her eyes like saucers.

"They're married," said Ron simply. "Bill and Fleur. And they have a daughter. You didn't know?" he added, seeming finally to realize the abnormal (if rather exciting) shade her skin was now experimenting with.

"No. I. Didn't. Know," she said haltingly.

"Hermione..." said Ron slowly, "why are you speaking in italics?"

"What?" she snapped.

"Nothing!" he said quickly.

"I need...a drink," said Hermione, and walked off in the direction of the bartender, presumably to get one. Ron watched her go, with a sort of forlorn look on his face.

"She really didn't know," he said sadly.

"So?" said Harry. "What's the big deal?"

Ron look puzzled for a moment. "I don't really know," he said after a moment, shrugging non-affectedly. "I guess I just always thought that I'd never live to see the day where Hermione didn't know something." These words were immediately followed by him ducking around furtively as if he thought she would jump out of the encroaching, neon-highlighted shadows and try to lynch him.

Then, after a series of repeated crouching and flinching motions, he righted himself and sighed, "No, I suppose not..."

Harry for what had to be the thirtieth time that evening what in the world had convinced him that "a night on the town to celebrate Ron's cousin's mother's uncle's sister-in-law's birthday" had been something that he should attempt to go out and enjoy in his deplorable state. Not only that, but he wasn't sure he should be associating with people who kept contact with such obscure members of their extended family--or people who, by the same token, entertained explosive and often potentially violent romantic relationships with bossy, know-it-all, bushy-haired bookworms.

Harry sighed and tapped the rung of his barstool again. He hated introspection.

Meanwhile, in the land of the (slightly) less psychologically wounded, Ron was looking rather torn; apparently he was unable to decide whether to follow his estranged girlfriend and attempt an explanation and a reconcile, or to join Harry at the bar and accompany him in the drowning of his misery with the help of another pint. Eventually, thirst won over 'guilt', then went on to further kick the crap out of 'common sense' and 'will to live', so he took the stool next to Harry's, accepted his draft gratefully from the bartender, and began to accurately mimic the morose stare of his best friend.

Harry spoke before Ron could start swilling the beer in his glass and tapping the rung of his barstool.

"So," he said thoughtfully.

"Yeah," said Ron, not to be outdone by Harry's philosophizing.

"This is a really nice party..." Harry tried.

"Right," drawled Ron. "You're enjoying this, and sometimes, I wish I were a witch."

"You do?!" said Harry in startled surprise, almost knocking over his glass.

Ron regarded him strangely for a moment.

"Oh," said Harry, rather sadly. "It was a joke." And with that he went back to swilling his wine.

Ron sighed. "Look Harry," he said slowly, "I know you're upset. I am too. The war...it was terrible. We lost a lot of good people. McGonagall...Hagrid..."

"What about Dumbledore?" interrupted Harry, in mournful indignation; quite a tricky combination.

Ron's demeanour quickly lost what little sympathy and compassion he had managed to dredge up from parts unknown. He rolled his eyes alarmingly and said, in a tone that one might use when speaking to a particularly thick child, "He died after the war, Harry. Poor bugger popped off from surprise at finding a caramel Bertie Bott's Every Flavoured bean, remember?" he elucidated.

"What a terrible way to go..." Harry said, in the tones of one who is beyond melancholy and venturing into the realms of 'ridiculously wistful and depressed'.

Ron eyes gyrated in their sockets once again. "If you ask me," he stated forcefully, "a man couldn't ask for a tastier way to go.

"And you," he ploughed on mercilessly, ignoring Harry's reproachful 'when-did-you-become-so morbid' look, "as I have stated and restated to no end, truly need to find yourself a girl. Without question!" he declared firmly, as Harry opened his mouth in aggrieved protest.

"Now," Ron continued more calmly, "you are going to refill your wineglass--" (here he proceeded to do so for Harry) "--get off your Barstool of Despair--" (here he violently pulled the offending chair out from underneath Harry's bum) "--and go--" (here he pushed Harry forward into the throng of wizards and witches crowding the pub) "--find yourself a nice girl, and chat her up in a booth!" With this said, Ron gave Harry's desperate expression a stern look of admonishment that would have warmed Hermione's heart, then turned and made his way, with a purposeful and determined air, around the bar until he disappeared into the back, presumably to extract Hermione from the women's lavatory. Harry shook his head ruefully. Some things never changed.

That having been thought, he slowly turned his back on the bar and squared his shoulders resolutely. Ron was right, he decided. It was time to stop moping over something that had happened five years ago. All the people that had died deserved to be remembered, but that didn't mean he had to carry them around with him for the rest of his life. They would have wanted him to live to the fullest, in honour of their memories, because he had survived, and he had another chance. Or, so he hoped.

In any case, he would Go, and get Very Drunk (if necessary) and Talk to a Girl, who was Not Hermione. And he would Enjoy It. Every once in a while, he told himself, as he began to scan the crowd for any approachable-looking, lonely women, it was necessary to Take One for the Team. And he would Do So, to the Best of his Ability. Ron would not be disappointed, no sir; not by him.

Ten minutes later, Harry was on the streets of London putting as much distance between himself and that wretched pub as possible.