Chapter Text
Harry sits by the counter, idly toying with the empty shot glass in front of him. It had had a shot of whiskey in it, a moment ago – shot that had gone down like water and he can't quite recall the taste of it. Bit bitter, hint of something sweet in the after taste. No burn, not like he's used to, no confidence, no bloody minded defiance.
Merlin, he misses Fire Whisky.
The bartender is giving him a sideways glances, looking between him and the shot glass. Probably waiting him to order another one. There's not many customers in the place – few young people hanging by the tables around the dance floor, their voices utterly drowned under the heavy, pounding beat of the muggle music that fills every corner of the pub like a thick miasma of noise. Harry is the only one sitting by the counter – it's the quietest spot in the place, he'd found. Probably because otherwise the bartenders wouldn't be able to hear the orders given to them.
Harry doesn't order another one, flipping the glass around on it's oval coaster – and then flipping it around again. Up side down, right way up, upside down, right way up… Wizard pubs don't really use shot glasses – if it can't be served from a goblet or a pint, then you can damn well drink it from a bottle, that's what Aberforth says anyway.
This place isn't really a pub though, is it – it's a night club. Whatever that means. Club of the night.
"You okay there, man?" the bartender finally asks, and Harry realises he's trying to balance the shot glass on edge of it's rim – and it's almost working too.
"Bit bored," Harry admits and lets the glass topple with a sigh. He's bored out of his little mind, really, utterly completely up the walls bored. "Reckon I could use another one," he says and shoves the glass over.
The bartender looks him over and then offers, "I could mix you something, be bit more interesting to just straight whiskey."
Harry glances up at the man and then shrugs and leans back a little – he'd been hunching over the counter and his shoulders ache a little. "Sure, make my day more interesting," he says and pushes the glass back.
The bartender considers him for a moment before collecting the shot glass and putting it away before grabbing couple of bottles – one of the very same whiskey Harry had been drinking. Leaning his elbows onto the counter, Harry watches him move – he'd seen drinks being mixed before, even done some of the mixing himself, but there's a confident grace to the way this man is moving, assurance. He knows his job well, Harry muses, as the man flips a bottle in his hand and pours a shot of whiskey into the mixer, followed by splashes of two other drinks.
Harry is left with a warm orange drink in a whiskey glass, and as he watches the bartended produces a slice of lemon and adds it in. "Nice," Harry comments. "What is it?"
"An Old Pal," the bartender says and pushes it over. "You look like you could use one."
Harry snorts at that, laughing over the drink as he pulls it in. It smells – well, like alcohol really. "Thanks mate, you're all heart," Bloody hell, is he so obvious?
"Part of the job, sympathetic ear and all that," the Bartender says and leans his hip into the counter between them. "New the New York?"
"No, no, I've been here all my life, can't you hear it in my perfect Brooklyn accent?" Harry asks with a scoff and lifts the glass. Past of him wants to just gulp the thing down in single go, but the bloke had gone through some trouble to make it so he should probably sip it. He ends up doing something in between – large sip not big enough to be a gulp.
"You definitely have the attitude down to pat," the bartender says wryly and folds his arms.
"Sorry," Harry says and lowers the glass. "It's been a day." Been a year, really he thinks and digs through his back pocket for is wallet. "This is good, by the way. Thanks – how much is it?"
The man rings his drink up, handing back his change – giving him a mild smile with Harry drops the coins in the tip jar instead. "So, what brings you to New York?"
Harry flicks his nail against the glass. "Hell if I know anymore," he says and leans his chin to his palm. "Suppose I'm here to do the tourist thing. Gawk at things I've never seen before, look for wisdom in exotic foreign… things," he sighs and waves a dismissive hand. "Fool's hope of finding meaning of life and whatnot."
"Well shit," the bartender says, giving him a look. "That's not heavy at all."
Harry snorts again and looks him over. "Your Brooklyn accents could use some work too – you're not from around here either."
"I'm from around," the bartender says. "But not around here, no."
"And what brings you here?"
"Not looking for meaning in life, that's for sure," the bartender says with a slight smile. "Just something normal. Job, pay, normal every day nine-to-five."
Harry looks him over. "I'll drink to that," he decides, for a moment terribly, crushingly jealous, and takes a drink. If bloody only he could settle for that too, just normal life. Settling down, getting job, living a quiet life, that would be brilliant… but no, he can't. Instead he has to drag his ass across every fucking corner of the world in search of fucking ghosts, slowly loosing faith and confidence and probably sanity too. All the way here, to bloody New York.
The bartender is called away by another customer – pair of young women who'd just entered and who lean over the counter, smiling flirtatiously while they order drinks. The bartender smiles to them – he has a nice smile – as he gets one of them a cider. The other he mixes something for, something red with plenty of ice and gin. The girls pay, and then turn to join the gathering around the dance floor, finding a table for themselves and leaning onto each other as they talk in the noise of music.
They look like they already have more fun than Harry has had whole night – and probably will have whole night. He's vaguely jealous of that too.
Harry doesn't expect the bartender to turn back to him – he's not being exactly thrilling company right now – but he does, rolling his sleeves up as he does. He has a tattoo on his left arm, black and intricate. "So I'm guessing you haven't found it yet."
"What's that?" Harry asks, looking up from the tattoo.
"Meaning of life and whatnot."
Harry musters a laugh at that, and shakes his head. "I'm starting to think it doesn't exist here," he admits and sips at the Old Pal. He can taste the whiskey in it, and again misses the burn of Fire Whiskey. "Maybe it never did and I'm just an idiot looking for it. Maybe I should settle with… whatever's already there."
The bartender says nothing to that for a moment, making a face like he doesn't know what to think – not that Harry can blame him, he doesn't know either. "That's… cheerful," he comments finally. "But you know what they say about chasing your dreams."
"What do they say?" Harry asks, giving him a curious look.
"To… do it? Actually I can't remember any actual sayings about following your dreams," the bartender muses. "Just… follow your dreams."
"Helpful," Harry comments.
"Yeah," the bartender agrees and runs a hand over his neck. "You know what I think? Settling is the worst thing you can do to yourself. It'll just make you miserable sooner or later, and you'll spend your whole life wondering what if I didn't? If you got a choose, if you can choose not to settle, then… why would you?"
Harry says nothing for a moment, watching the man's hand run over the tanned skin and then tracing it down as the man lays his palm on the counter. "And if you don't have a choice?" he asks. "If there's no changing the situation, and no matter how you choose not to settle, there's nothing you can actually do to the contrary?"
"I guess… that depends on the situation?" the bartender says thoughtfully and looks him. "What's your situation?"
I'm alone, Harry thinks. There's no one here, and I've been looking. I've scoured UK and ran up and down across Europe, I dug my fingers into sands of Egypt and cut my fingers on the Great Wall of China and there's no one here but me. Now I'm in America, about to dig into the ancient civilisations here for any clue as to why there is no magic here, and… and I doubt I'll find answers.
He looks down at the drink. "Utterly bloody fucked," he mutters and runs a hand over his chin, up his face, through his hair.
"Descriptive," the bartender muses. "What's that, then, money troubles, legal troubles?"
"Tch, not that at least," Harry sighs and looks up at the man. "Ever feel like you're the last man on earth? Or just maybe last sane man on earth?" he considers what he's saying, what it must sound like. "Or actually maybe the first insane man on earth. I don't know. Alone anyway, surrounded by nothing but strangers."
The bartender arches a brow at him. "You know that might be happens when you travel to a foreign country," he says slowly.
Harry sighs and hangs his head. "Yeah I guess," he mutters and grabs his drink, draining it nearly to the bottom and then stopping. "Actually that's weirdly apt way of putting it," he says. "I'm a foreigner in a foreign country. Huh."
"I kinda hope this isn't news to you," the bartender says with a mild smile, not quite looking at him like he's a lunatic, but definitely looking at him like he's something.