Shell Cottage stood silhouetted in the distance, looking welcoming after so many months of a ranky old tent. Still, Ron couldn't unclench his fist from his pocket, to walk forward into a warm bed and a hot meal like he knew his brother would offer. There would be questions which he wouldn't answer, and disappointment that he'd have to face.
He kept picturing her face, the tears beginning to leak through her eyes as she begged them to stop fighting, but Ron couldn't stop, the words pouring out like venom as every foul thing he'd ever thought about his best friend came shooting out of him. Christmas was fast approaching, and the chill of it continued to rip through his jacket. She would keep them warm though, until he found his way back. He clutched the little fifty-pence in his pocket tight around his fingers, as a reminder, a promise he'd always figure out how to come back.