Firewhiskey Fortunes
Ron stared blearily into his thirteenth glass of firewhiskey, his thoughts rolling slowly between his ears. His brow furrowed as he hiccupped, forcing the taste of bile to mix with that of firewhiskey. With a groan he shoved away the glass and got unsteadily to his feet. With a final wave at the room he stumbled out of the door and down the darkened street, his feet catching on each small groove in the street lights flickered then faded as Ron slumped against the door to his apartment, his eyelids drooping. With a rush of effort he fumbled with keys and managed to open the door. Belching loudly, he threw himself on the couch. His eyes closed and loud snoring began to issue from his crumpled form, bringing with it the foul stench of seedy liquor.
Several hours later Ron woke with a dry mouth and a pounding headache. Frowning, he stumbled toward the mantlepiece where a bottle of firewhiskey stood beside a single photograph. Inside the black frame stood a small version of Hermione, her face lit by a smile. Beside her was Fred, his head tipped back as he laughed. Their hands were linked, matching gold bands glinting on their fingers.
With a disgusted growl Ron knocked the photo to the ground and scooped up the bottle of liquor, tears streaming from his eyes as he took a swig. The small figures squeaked in protest as he trod on the photograph, shattering the fine glass. As he watched the miniature replica of Hermione scurry out of the pitcure, Ron knew it was over and lifted the bottle to console himself with another mouthful of harsh liquor.