misery loves company (flintwood+drarry post war au)
For the last three months, Draco has had a long standing Tuesday night engagement with Marcus Flint at the Leaky. For all intents and purposes, this should be an anomaly, a wild card – they’re not two people who should be getting along. But Tuesday evening finds them at the bar, Flint shoveling down a pot pie, Draco picking ho-hummedly at some chips, and both getting steadily drunker on firewhiskey.
The first time was an accident. It’d been after a truly, truly uncomfortable family dinner that Draco had apparated to the first place he could think of that would serve him alcohol. He wound up at the Leaky, after three different bars, and was so relieved at getting a shot of Firewhiskey that he’d almost cried.
He’d been cradling his bottle in a corner where nobody would bother him, when a vaguely familiar voice had appeared near his right ear.
“Malfoy, that you?”
He’d immediately stiffened – being noticed nowadays was not a cause for celebration – but after bracing himself for a look of disdain he’d only been met with the unimpressed gaze of his old quidditch captain.
***
The Flints had stayed as close to neutral as they could during the War, which meant that they had fled and done zilch for either side and had been called out dearly for it in the immediate aftermath. All that being a given, nobody poked too deeply into which side the Flints would have sided with, given the hefty sum of gold they’d contributed to various reparation causes. Draco knows, of course, that money talks.
He liked bar nights with Flint, however. Flint had never carried on in any way but blunt; he didn’t put on airs like Zabini did, and (though he loves her dearly) doesn’t harbor a giant chip on her shoulder like Pansy. Flint was one step removed from the war, and that was disconcertingly nice. The man lived and breathed quidditch still, and Draco took comfort in the fact that in Flint’s eyes, he would always first and foremost be that snotty second year who bribed his way onto the team. It felt, rather than trivializing, more like slipping back into a simpler, less complicated version of himself.
***
“There was,” Flint grunted, “An...altercation.”
He poked very savagely at an escaped piece of chicken from his pot pie.
“An altercation,” Draco responded coolly, “Please elaborate.”
“Well,” Flint said, then turned a dull pink and downed some of his beer. “There was a match, yesterday.”
“I don’t have all night, Flint,” Draco snapped, though he was itching to hear what exactly had gotten Flint so awkward.
“Doubt you have plans,” Flint shot back, before he coughed and glared intently at his plate. “The match was against Puddlemere.”
“Wood’s team,” Draco supplied.
“Stop interrupting if you want me to talk,” Flint grumbled, “Yes. Wood’s team.”