This is part of the Twelve Fics of Christmas challenge which has been organised by TheOriginalHufflepuff.
This is based on the 'Firewhisky' prompt, number four.
Appologies if it's a little too depressing.
When Gran Drinks Firewhisky
"You are so much like Frank, you know that, Neville? So much like him. I can remember when he was your age, he was so smart, so intelligent, he could do everything. I wish you would be more like him like that. Oh Neville, you are so, very, very like Frank..." Gran drapes her arm around my shoulders and waves a bottle out infront of her, sending a cascade of dark, strong-smelling liquid splashing at our feet. "Did I tell you, Neville? When little Frankie was nine - oh what a good boy he was, Neville, he was a good boy - he took his Uncle Algie's wand waved it and next thing you know - WOOSH - and lots of pretty, little rose petals just flutter down out of nowhere," she waves her fingers about as if she's playing piano in mid-air. "Oh it was like magic, Neville. Just magic. He was only nine, can you believe it? Why weren't you ever like him Neville, why?"
Gran's been drinking the Firewhisky again.
It happens every Christmas.
We go to St Mungo's, we see Mum and Dad, we come home, all my great aunts, great uncles, aunts, uncles and cousins arrive, we have Christmas lunch, we rest, we have dessert, we rest some more, we sit around the Christmas tree together.
Then it's time to open presents.
Except we never get to that on Christmas day, because by that time, Gran has had way too much Firewhisky. And when I say way too much Firewhisky, I mean that it would be even way too much for three people. So you can imagine what it's like when Gran has enough Firewhisky to make three people tipsy. Okay so it's amusing at first, I admit to that, because it's not something that anyone would pick my Gran to do, but after a while it just gets annoying. She just sits around - or walks around - and goes on about Dad and how great he was and starts comparing me to him. Infact, it's nothing different to what she usually does, but when she's had a few to drink she doesn't make it subtle or anything. She just goes on without a care in the world that I might actually hear everything she's saying. It's awkward sitting there with my cousins and all my other relatives while Gran harps on about how disappointed she is in me.
So everyone just goes upstairs to sleep then. We leave Gran to sit there and brandish the bottle out infront of herself, still talking to no one, and fall asleep in whatever chair she's sitting in. When we come down to the lounge room on Boxing Day she's awake and striding about with dignity getting breakfast ready for everyone with no recollection of the day before.
"How are you this morning, Neville?" she asks first thing, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
"I'm good, Gran," I reply monotonously.
"That's a good boy," she says, patting me on the back. I feel a little patronised. "Now why don't we all open our presents then? It seems like we didn't have time last night."
Next year, I'm hiding the Firewhisky from her. For once in my life I want to open my presents on Christmas day.