He appeared in muggle London, no particular destination in mind. His brain told him he should be in tatters, like discarded rag, but he just felt lost. So, he stumbled through the streets, ignoring the people going about their evening. At least he had the sense to transfigure his clothes.
“I can’t do this anymore, Ginny. I just…can’t.”
As he made his way deeper into the city, further away from the wound still festering in his chest, he eyed a pub tucked away in the corner, its neon “Open” sign and interior glow the only indication it was still in business. He didn’t normally drink during the week, but it would be hours before Ron or Hermione attempted to contact him, he was sure. With a sigh, he crossed the street.
“You and I, we’re not going to work. All we do is fight, make up, and then fight again. It’s over, Ginny.”
He stepped through the door, surprised at the number of people within, the exterior giving no indication this was a popular establishment. The regular crowd paid him no mind, preferring the solitude of their drinks to the looks of a stranger. That suited him just fine. He had only gotten a few paces in when he stopped.
There, at the end of the bar, was Fleur.
And she did not look well.
Tentatively, he walked over to her, sitting down slowly in the stool next to her. She didn’t react, content to stare at her half empty glass of wine. Correction, mostly empty glass of wine, and judging by the makeup stains on her cheek, not her first.
“Hey-” he started, but she gave an exasperated groan.
“For the third time, I’m no…Harry?” she said, stopping her tirade as she took in his features, recognition forming on her face. It’d been a while since he’d seen her, a few years at least, not out of any malice or spite, just simple happenstance. She looked good, more mature, but just as radiant as he remembered her being during the war.
Which made him all the more concerned by her current state of being.
Her hair was a mess, wildly out of control, and her eyes were red from crying, the faint stains on her cheek having clued him into that already. Suddenly, she narrowed her eyes.
“Did Bill send you?” she asked with venom in his voice. He shook his head just as the bartender came over.
“Whatever she’s having,” he said as the man behind the bar got to work. Looking back to her, she was downing the rest of her glass, placing it roughly on the bar, a curt nod to the bartender, a sign she wanted a refill. Neither said anything as a glass was placed in front of Harry, red wine filling its contents before the same was done to Fleur’s.
“Do you mind if I ask why you’re drinking?” he questioned. She raised an eyebrow.
“Do you mind if I ask why you’re in a muggle pub on a Tuesday night?” she replied. Harry shrugged.
“Ginny and I called it quits,” he said, a small gasp escaping her lips. She moved to put a hand on his forearm, but he shrugged her off. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. “It’s fine. I think we’ve both known for a while that this was coming.” He couldn’t decide if that was true or he was merely convincing himself of it.
“Was it that bad?” she asked. He shrugged again.
“Not at first, no. It’s just, we’re too different, Ginny and I, and we weren’t good for each other. Like fire and gasoline. In the end, we’d have just made each other miserable. So, we ended it tonight.” He looked over at Fleur. “What about you?” he asked, gesturing to the glass.
“Bill and I are headed the same way, I suspect,” she said, sadness in her voice. “We were young and in love, but most of all, young and stupid. Not so young, not so stupid anymore. Not so in love, either, I think.” Harry nodded, keeping his mouth shut, he suspected she didn’t want his pity, just as he didn’t want hers. With nothing else to do, he raised his glass.
“To being young and stupid,” he said, causing her to give a humorless laugh, clinking her glass against his as they both drank.