Dec 2| for @jet-playin

“Fuck!” Greg snarled, as the kettle boiled over onto his fingers. It always was a prissy thing.

He stuck them in his mouth, sucking gingerly to ease the pain, but it didn’t do much. His eyes watered a bit, but maybe it wasn’t just the pain of burnt fingers making that happen. Greg always got a little sad around this time of year, especially on this day—10 December was…was Vince’s birthday.

Vince was a right pillock, especially at the end there, but Greg still missed him sometimes, ‘specially in the winter. It wasn’t often best friends came around, after all. And Vince had been Greg’s best friend since they were still in nappies. 

That first 3 May, when Greg had woken up to the first day of his life without Vince, Greg had not been sure if he was still alive either, because his body didn’t feel like his own anymore. He remembered staring up at the waterlogged canopy of his old bed in the Slytherin dungeons and thinking, ‘This ain’t real, is it?’

But it was, and now more than ten years had gone by, and 10 December was still a shit day.

Greg did his best with it, every year. He liked to make himself a cup of hot chocolate after he closed the shop down for the evening, and then watch Gordon Ramsay on the Muggle telly. Sometimes, Draco would come over and they’d snicker at Gordon together, but lately, Draco was doing that sort of thing with Potter instead. 

Next year, Greg thought. 

Next year, he’d have someone to spend 10 December with. Someone who’d just let him sit there and feel a bit wistful for awhile while they drank hot chocolate together.

Greg poured the hot water into his cup of cocoa mix, Summoned a few marshmallows to go on top. He gave the mug a stern look—he wasn’t going to have any more of this ‘spilling on his fingers and burning him’ nonsense. The mug was resolutely still. 

Greg padded into the living room and turned on the telly. Gordon was already waiting for him—benefits of finally being friends with Granger and getting access to her ingenious Muggy-Magi combination spells. Greg settled onto the sofa, propping his stockinged feet on the coffee table, and sipped at his hot chocolate.

Greg smiled. It was just as good as the first time, when he and Vince had sneaked down to the kitchens the night after their humiliating potions accident in first year. The house-elves had made them both hot chocolate. It wasn’t until eighth year that Greg thought to go back down and get the recipe from them.

“You're a fucking idiot!” Gordon said from the telly. “My gran could do better, and she’s dead.”

Greg cracked a smile. “See, Vince?” he murmured. “Even Gordon still thinks you were real stupid. Happy birthday, you dead wanker.”

He took another sip of his hot chocolate. His mug was behaving better than the kettle, keeping his drink just the right temperature. Gordon stepped out back to cool off while Greg reached into his mug to fish around for a plump marshmallow. Vince always ate the marshmallows first. 

“You fucking donkey,” Gordon was saying, already back at it.

Greg snorted. Vince had been one of those, too. A jackass, more like, actually. ‘Specially when he’d done that...that real stupid thing he did. What a fucking donkey.

It was a bit weird you could miss donkeys, Greg thought. He and Vince had never...done anything like Draco and Potter do, but there had been times Greg had wondered...times Greg had thought maybe...

But it had never happened. 

Vince, you donkey, Greg thought. Why’d you go and start that fire? You weren’t even a Death Eater. You didn’t have nothin’ to prove.

Greg started to feel his heartbeat change, and maybe something weird was happening to him because he couldn’t decide if he was sad or angry anymore. He just knew that he wished Vince was here right now so Greg could get right in his face and tell him—

“Fuck off! Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!” Gordon yelled.

Yeah, that. So Greg could tell him that. Fuck off for being so Gryffindor-irrational and fuck off for leaving him without a best friend and fuck off for dying before they could—

“I wish you’d jump in the oven. That would make my life a lot easier,” Gordon snarled from the telly.

Greg’s face heated, his whole body tensing with anger.

“Fuck you, Gordon!” Greg yelled at the telly. “He wasn’t that bad! He was just young and stupid! You were once, too!”

Gordon didn’t hear him, though. He kept on ranting at the poor sod on the telly, but Greg didn’t hear a word of it. His mug’s charm failed and his hot cocoa was frigid, and he barely cared.

Next year, Greg thought, wiping furiously at his eyes. 

Next year, he’d have someone to help him get through this day.