He downs the remainder of the fiery drink from his dusty glass, the liquid burning a trail down his already scorched throat. He sighs and throws some silver coins to the barman who nods his head as a combined sign of gratitude and bidding him adieu as the red-haired man leaves the scruffy bar, slamming the door behind him.

He treks along the snow-covered cobbled street, barely acknowledging the people who wave at him, or wish him a 'Merry Christmas'. An ugly sneer appears on his otherwise rather handsome face as he thinks about Christmas.

What meaning does it have now? It's just another day for him to get heavily inebriated and numb the internal pain. A day that he has to spend in the company of his pregnant sister and her blissfully happy husband. A day to spend with his equally happy brother and his wife. He does not wish to deny them the happiness that he craves, certainly not, he just wishes for them to not display it so brazenly in front of him when he is so clearly not in the mood for their happy antics.

He pulls his hat further down over his remaining ear; the other lost in the War, the lone physical mark of the bravery he showed in those epic battles. The epic battles that saved all of your lives, he thinks, glaring silently at the jolly evening shoppers surrounding him.

The gnawing feeling never ends, clawing away at his insides until, sometimes, he feels like he will burst with the pain. The feeling in the pit of his stomach is the worst though; sometimes he just wants to rip it out; that pain would be less than the unbearable grief. As he thinks these thoughts, an escaped tear trickles from his eye and rolls slowly down his cheek. He doesn't move to wipe it away; he's gotten used to the sensation of tears making their way down his freckle-covered face.

He utters only one word as he enters the flat that they were planning to share in Hogsmeade.

"Fred.."