Disclaimer: Everything from HP books belongs to JK Rowling
Vodka and Orange Juice
You really only remember her on this night. Other times you may quickly think of her, see her face in your mind for a split second, but tonight, it's the only time of the year when you truly remember she existed, when your heart aches and tears fall down your face. It's only when you stare at the empty corner of your living room and remember when a tree used to be there, when her eyes sparkled as she stared at her creation.
You used to love the holidays. You loved going to Hogsmeade and picking out presents. You loved being able to show how you truly feel through the thoughtful gifts you always gave, loved sucking on a candy cane or being caught under a mistletoe. You smile slightly as the vodka and orange juice mix together; you loved to watch her decorate the tree.
She always made you start decorating your apartment, even your dormitory from when you were at school, just minutes after Thanksgiving. She was filled with love for the holidays, was one of those people who truly felt the magic these few days brought. She would sometimes just stand in the streets of muggle London, breathe deeply, and close her eyes. You would watch her smile slowly appear, her laughter urging to come out. When Christmas came it was like she was a child again, as if she was eleven all over again.
You spend Christmas in the muggle world with her every year. You always go to her parent's house, open a bottle of wine, and eat the amazing ham her mother always prepares. You miss Christmas in the magical world, miss the enchanting decorations, the pranks you and your brothers would play. But you grew to love these muggle traditions she cherished so and the first year after Hogwarts when you wanted to spend Christmas in the wizarding world her eyes filled with tears and she innocently stated she could never be away from her family during Christmas. And you smiled at her innocence and told her to wipe her tears away, that Christmas would be spent with her parents this year and every single one after that. You promised her, crossed your heart, hoped to die, and stuck a needle in your eye. You never broke your promise and you remember just a few hours ago when you sat with them at the table, cut the Christmas ham, and sang carols around the piano as her mother played. You hear the laughter, see the invisible tears you know they all were crying.
You take a long sip of your vodka and your whole body flinches as you place down the glass. For all the years you've been drinking you never got used to the taste of hard liquor, still don't have the stomach for it. She never drank, always sneered whenever you brought out rum or fire whiskey, and turned away as you drank it. You fill your glass and add way less orange juice than you're supposed too; she isn't here anymore though, is she?
When did this happen? When did Christmas become something you dreaded, something vile? You used to look forward to this, used to love hanging decorations and feasting on the holiday food. You used to love the magic it brought, the goodness. She made it like that, you think. She made Christmas magical with her abundant love, with her fervor. You never felt it, never felt the need to close your eyes in the wind, never felt that in the holidays everything will be just right, but for so many years you fancied you did. For so many years you loved the holidays as fervently as she did.
You run a hand through your bright red hair as an owl from home comes to beg you over to the burrow. You take the note and throw it into the fire as you take another shot of pure vodka. You can't wait until this is over, can't wait until New Years is done and you can go back to your normal life, go back to living in denial of your grief and pain. You forget her too quickly. You're ashamed every year when you realize that. Once you stop seeing those bright lights, once the frequent cards stop arriving by owl, you forget her. She becomes a ghost, a figure from a dream, and sometimes you wonder if she ever truly existed, if she was real. Sometimes the pain you feel during Christmas feels so numb any other time of the year that you wonder, is it real? Is she?
But she was and so is your pain. You can pretend what you want and do what you want but the truth is you're going to be cold and miserable your entire life. You'll never move on, not while you take shot after shot of vodka, not after you leave every person who gets close to you, and you'll never be happy if you don't accept that she loved you, that she died loving you.
You never visit her grave. You haven't been there one time since the funeral. Your best friend visits her all the time, always begging you to coming, knowing that seeing her is the one thing you need to move on. But you always look away, your face hard, emotionless, and always make some excuse about work or about sickness. You always find some excuse not to see her, not to say goodbye.
Quietly you put the vodka back in your cupboard and walk silently up the stairs. You think freely of her now, think of her running of the stairs, think of her holiday clothing, of the mistletoe that used to be abundant in this house. You breathe deeply as you open the door to your room, is this all your life will ever be?
In a few days everything will be normal again, the vodka will stay in the cupboard for another year, the tears will be left unshed, and you'll move on. You'll laugh and smile and hit on cute girls at bars. You'll go to Hogmeade with Harry and have lunch with Ginny and everything will be normal. But she'll always be in the back of your mind, there's always the thought of her pulling you into muggle London every Christmas, always the thought of her making you know that you'll never find happiness without her.
End (R/H)
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