Me: Now to travel back in time! ---One year ago ---

All: gasp how'd you do that?

Me: I'm magic.

Fillers

Nobody's life is perfect. We all know this. Everyone's story contains the occasional hole here or there. It doesn't really matter what it is: bad childhood, broken heart, unexpected death…fucking up big time and not being able to take it back. Once these holes are there we have to fill them up somehow, make ourselves feel complete even though we're actually we're broken and empty.

But you have to watch out; some holes can be bigger and darker than others. Try to fill up one of these monsters, and you'll find yourself buried alive.

My filler is work, work and the seedy little bar known as Hog's Head. Not that either one of them have been any good to me lately.

…

The slurred speech of the fifty-something year old man sitting next to me is difficult to make out, but I think he said: "You know what your problem is?"

"No." I reply, "…well yes, but you tell me anyway." Oman's leathery old hands reach out for his glass; I watch as he drinks the viscous orange contents of it. He lets out a long breath and slams his hook hand on the counter, signaling for a refill.

"Your problem is that you are a man." The right side of Oman's face never moves when he talks. This fact alone makes him difficult to understand, but that coupled with his blood alcohol level makes deciphering the illusive tongue of "Oman-ese" almost impossible, unless you happen to really know him. "You are a grown…tiny man."

"I am a grown tiny man." I mumble to myself as I take another sip of wine. Wine; I always have wine. Truthfully, I don't even like it. I know I should like it. I have seen important men having important conversations with other important men, and they always drink wine from fine crystal goblets while they do. They speak to each other, take a sip, and laugh ever so proudly.

The old wizard shakes his head vigorously when I repeat his words. Oman's hair is what you get when a habitual drunk has to choose between alcohol and shampoo. Oman's face is gaunt and pale except for the large, angry, red scar on the right side of his face. It looks exactly like Oman, you know, the country, and that's why we call him Oman. Well, that and because no one knows his real name.

"A man, even a tiny man," Oman points to me as he says tiny, "has got to do what he's got to do. Ya get me? You can't be t-old no nothing. You just gotta do what you-"

"gotta do." I finish up for him.

Oman's shaking his head vigorously again. It is such a pathetic scene, this wasted, old man, and that's the real reason I talk to him- aside from the excellent conversation of course. Every time I look at the train wreck that is Oman, I feel a little better about myself.

I finish up the rest of my wine, leave some money on the table (that I know Oman is going to steal as soon as I'm gone), and I head out the door. I would have loved to have stayed a little longer, but Hagrid is bound to show up anytime now, and I always leave before he comes.

As I walk away from Hog's Head, I pull my cloak a little tighter around me. I'm not cold at all, but I feel as tough I should be cold. Does that make any sense?

Apparation is not as exciting as it was the first few months after I received my license. Also, I've discovered that it has an adverse effect on my stomach, especially when said stomach is filled with nothing other than two glasses of cheap wine. Anyway, it always gets me home, and I'll walk before I take a broom somewhere.

I get to my apartment building without any trouble.

I had always envisioned living in my own flat: waking up in my own bed, having my own bathroom, eating in my own kitchen, and never, ever, ever having to share anything. This, too, isn't as exciting as I had once imagined. I would like to think it is because I regret…a few things, but I don't like to think about it; it'll just make my angry. It's amazing how quickly regret and pain can turn into anger and hatred.

I open the door and nearly have a heart attack. There is a man standing in the middle of my living room with his back turned to me. I'm either paralyzed by fear or I don't care enough to reach for my wand.

"It is a bit late to be getting home, isn't it Mr. Weasley." says the man, "I hope you don't mind me letting myself in. There is a matter of some importance I would like to discuss with you."

The Minister of Magic is in my living room…I think I felt better when I thought he was a Death Eater.

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