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It was a silly thing to think. Very silly, but Harry had always imagined that the aftermath of the war would make him forget everything. He wanted to control the pain and trauma, but most importantly, the bursts of anger he got when he thought of certain people.
Despite Voldemort's death, his hate for him never seemed to cease. There were moments when his mood soured at the thought of him, and it wasn't just him. He could make a list; the whole Malfoy family, Pettigrew, Umbridge, and all the Death Eater bunch. Of course, the list is likely longer but these lot never failed to rile him up.
So after multiple whines from Hermione, he reluctantly decided to try a Mind Healer, which to his surprise hadn’t been entirely hopeless. He was able to manage his emotions better, Breathe. What are you feeling? What is the trigger that made you feel this emotion, his healer—Clearwater, would say. It had become somewhat of a mantra to him over the two years, and frankly helped him when he got agitated.
* * *
“Oi Lucky! Get us another round mate,” Draco’s closest friend, Mathew slurred at him, and Draco could make out his scrunched face under the dimly lit muggle pub, that their unit had decided to celebrate the night at.
It had been seven years since the war, and Draco had successfully built himself a ‘career’ if it could be called one.
Joining the muggle military had been rough to say the least, and he had no other options but to resort to it—his mother had died and father locked away in Azkaban; hence, essentially dead in his book.
He’d quickly made friends with Mathew, a fellow 25 year old who joined the military around the same time as him. He was a funny lad, with a small dimple and spoke without thinking. But most importantly, he was civil to Draco and he reciprocated it.
They’d provided a bed, a salary and food, and his first thought had been, Screw it, I'll do something to get my life together.
Draco smirked at him, lifting his glass, “Last one to finish gets everyone another round,” and took large glunks out of his Cosmopolitan, while Mathew gaped and failed to keep up.
The pub was small and quite cozy. It was their second time coming here as a unit which comprised six others, apart from Draco and Mathew. They’d been together for about 5 years now, and knew each other inside out.
Draco put his empty glass down and turned to Mathew again, “Victory is sweet isn’t it, Sleepy?”
Mathew was still chugging at his Martini or whatever it was he’d ordered—Draco wasn’t entirely in the muggle game yet—and started coughing halfway through.
“Good heavens look at you,” Another member called, while the others chuckled at Mathew, clutching their drinks as their lifeline.
“Fine. I'll get the drinks.” He announced before standing with a loud creak.
Draco regarded him with satisfaction as he moved to get the drinks, and didn’t miss Mathew’s annoyed look.
* * *
Harry was scrutinizing his outfit in front of the mirror, while Ron was somewhere mumbling something, although it suspiciously sounded like snoring.
It took them about thirty more minutes to get ready to go to their spot. It was a sweet little pub around muggle London, that Harry had adamantly dragged Ron to.
They’d gone there enough times to be qualified a ‘regular’ and Ron was slowly warming up to the place.
He suppressed his laughs at Ron’s perception of muggle clothing—he wore a pair of worn jeans, and a ridiculous looking green vest, that sharply contrasted with his hair.
He quickly turned his face away at Ron’s confused face, “No Ron, it’s fine. You look great,” he managed through poorly disguised coughs.
They entered the pub a couple of minutes later, and Harry noted with slight disappointment that it was a little more crowded than usual.
Someone roughly pushed into Ron, and walked away without a hint of regret. “Blimey the nerve of that guy,” Ron said half shocked, “Good thing Seamus and the others aren’t here, they would’ve started a bloody fight.”
He gave him a noncommittal nod, thinking about that one time Seamus had started a brawl at The Leaky, because someone had apparently referred to him as a moron, for not watching where he was going.
“Mate, it’s too crowded in here. Why don’t you find a spot and I’ll get our usual,” Harry said above the voice of the others. After Ron’s double thumbs up as affirmation, he made his way to the bartender, his eyes surveying the members in the pub to look for any new faces.
It was a very low key pub and only something the ‘regulars’ would know of. Harry had known the owner for a long time, having been acquainted with him from his connections to Dudley.
Dudley was surprisingly steadfast on not being like his parents. The dinner conversations were still a little strained, although it was certainly getting better. He was glad that Dudley’d at least made the attempt at an apology, and treated him better than before.
“The usual please, it’s just me and Ron today.” He gestured merrily at the bartender—David, one of Dudley’s close friends. He returned a broad smile and waved a hand at him before disappearing again.
His eyes absently scanned the pub again, and landed on the particularly loud bunch at the other end. It looked like about a dozen people in it, all clad in military uniform. He frowned, the pub wasn’t usually filled with people working in the army.
He sighed and put it out of his mind, and someone unsurprisingly bumped into his shoulder.
Harry turned and saw him, “Sorry mate,” the dimpled man said, also wearing the same uniform as the rest of his teammates.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” he mumbled, and watched as he headed to his bunch.
Just then, David came back with two full jugs, “A Martini and a Manhattan, on the house.”
Harry thanked him and grabbed the drinks, adding as an afterthought, “Who are they by the way,” he nodded to the military men, “Never seen them around before.”
David chuckled, “Yeah they’re a new bunch. Apparently travelled here for some mission, and the guy you just talked to,” Harry snapped his head to where the guy was going, “he said something about successfully completing a mission. They’re celebrating I’d reckon.”
He didn’t doubt that. They all seemed rather happy, their cheeks tinted with a slight hue of pink. He watched Mr Dimple, who somehow managed to carry all those drinks without spilling them. When he reached the table, he set the drinks and sat down, and Harry suddenly noticed a flash of blond.
Without thinking, he set his drinks down and walked over to their table, standing a few feet away from them. The blond man turned just an inch, and Harry recognised him with a pit in his stomach.
It was Malfoy.
He was sitting there laughing at something Mr Dimple said, and Harry noticed with horror how different he looked.
His hair was cut short, resembling a crew-cut, a little faded on the sides, making almost no difference as it blended into his equally pale skin.
He somehow looked younger, with his unguarded smile and how confident he held himself.
His heart took a run, and he felt all of his carefully locked away anger—seven years worth of it—slip at the simple sight of him, and he flexed his fingers.
No Harry, Breath. What are you feeling? Anger, his brain supplied.
What was the trigger to this emotion? He didn't need to answer that when the answer was sitting in front of him.
What happened next happened in a matter of a few seconds, he walked up to the table right behind Malfoy, and pushed him off his stool with a rough shove.
Malfoy staggered but didn’t fall, turning around with a scowl on his face, and Harry slapped him. Hard. He then pushed him to the ground, and started beating him to a pulp.
Years of anger, meticulously sealed and shoved into boxes at the back of his mind, jumped forward voluntarily, pouring their contents. He punched and punched and punched, like he was possessed by an anger monster.
Malfoy was quick to block him, and he was caught off guard, blocking hits from Malfoy, before what he was doing caught up to him.
He stopped immediately as he lay there, half sprawled on top of him, catching his breath. Malfoy was breathing hard too.
“Oi you!” Harry looked up to see Mr Dimple, and was suddenly aware of how stupid he was being.
What the hell was he doing, walking up to Malfoy and beat him at a Muggle pub. Merlin, he should've thought this through.
Before Harry could respond however, Malfoy punched him square on the nose, and his head snapped back on impact. He coupled it with a rough shove and Harry fell with his back on the ground.
“Lucky, d’you know this guy?” Dimple asked him, agitated.
Lucky? What the hell? Harry felt a warm trickle of blood run down his nose, and he struggled to get up.
Malfoy grinned at him, and Harry flexed his fingers again. It was school all over again, and he was itching to wipe that smirk off his face.
“Don’t sweat it Potter, I’ve hit a sweet spot. You might not move for a few minutes, give or take.” He drawled, and turned to Dimple.
Harry watched in fury as Draco took his seat, leaned back on his chair as if Harry’s hits had done nothing to him, and took a long gulp of his drink.
Then, he turned to Dimple, “Yes, unfortunately.”
“Wait Lucky, is this the guy from—” Dimple started, before being cut off.
“Yes Mathew, it is. Now let’s bloody move on.”
Everyone stilled around him, and the tension became palpabale for even Harry, although he wasn’t exactly part of ‘their bunch’.
He contemplated shouting for Ron, although he felt quite dizzy and slowly felt the throbbing pain catch up to him. A few minutes passed, and he sat there in utter fury and shame, watching them treat him like he wasn’ t even there.
His eyes watered, and he blinked rapidly, suddenly realizing someone was talking to him. It was Dimple—Mathew, he corrected.
“Why’d you hit Lucky?—er, Potter was it?” Mathew was crouching in front of him, and Harry noted from the corner of his eye that Malfoy was watching them.
“You wouldn't understand,” He said without missing a beat, while glaring daggers at Malfoy. “And what the hell do you mean by Lucky?”
“Oh that’s just his name, we call him Lucky.” Upon watching Harry’s contorted face, he added, “It’s because he’s always calm and strong, and y’know just having him ‘round is lucky.”
Harry rolled his eyes, wishing Ron would somehow figure out what happened and come lend him a hand.
“So you’re the guy from school right? The archnemesis.” Mathew smirked.
He couldn’t hide his disgust as he heard the word, “Sure, that probably what the git told you. He didn't tell you he's a Death—”
“Oi Potter! think you should be able to stand by now. If you know what the function of legs are.” Draco said smugly but Harry noticed a hint of panic in his voice.
He lunged for him again, as memories flooded back. After landing a pretty good punch on his nose, Harry blocked an upper cut.
He felt alive and angry, but alive. He was hungry for this.
They had a go, and he was rather surprised at the fact that none of the other military men were attacking him—not that he complained though.
A few minutes in, and they both sat on the floor, every breath coming hard before Ron came looking for him.
“Harry! I’ve been looking for—Are you bleeding?” He quickly crouched in front of him, and looked around for possible signs of suspects. His eyes landed on Malfoy.
“Bloody hell, Malfoy?!” He shouted, and Harry watched the pained expression on Malfoy’s face, with a satisfied smirk.
He quickly rose, and pulled Ron and Harry aside, gesturing to his crew before doing so. They reached a corner, and he said through gritted teeth, “Look, just keep your noses out of our business and I’ll do the same.
“Us?” Ron snorted, “You mean you and your clown gang?”
“Ron, it’s military clothes. He’s in the army.” Harry added, after a long measured breath.
“Yes, thank you for your useless input.” he turned to Ron, “Just leave us alone. I have built a life and will not have you ruin it, just because of a bloody school feud.”
Ron opened his mouth to retort, but Harry stopped him, “School feud? That’s what you think this is?”
Draco shrugged, wordlessly turning back towards his table.
“Oi! we’re talking to you, Death Eater!” Ron shouted aloud, and the whole pub turned to look at them.
Draco panicked, and dragged them both outside into the freezing cold. He shoved them outside, and pulled a cigarette and his lighter out.
“And he smokes! How cozily muggle!” Ron said exasperated, although he was terribly shaking at the wind.
“How dare you talk about my past. You bloody imbecile! This is a muggle pub for Salazar’s sake. I swear on Merlin I will not hesitate to punch you.”
Just then Mathew came out, looking around for Draco. “Lucky!”
He marched towards them, eyeing Harry and Ron suspiciously. “You alright mate? Let’s go inside, come on.” He looped a possessive arm around Draco’s elbow, and they watched in shock as Mathew snatched his cigarette and took a drag.
“Fine, let’s go then.” Malfoy said, warning them with his eyes as he left.
Ron and Harry watched their retreating backs slowly disappear behind the pub, and decided immediately to investigate this matter properly. Ron had a knack that Harry wouldn't let go of this for a few weeks at minimum.