Regulus huddled at a two-seater table in the far corner of the common room, a bottle of fire whiskey in front of him. He'd already downed two shots and was pouring another with an unsteady hand. He wasn't drunk; that wasn't the cause of the tremor in his fingers. No, he wasn't drunk, not enough, not yet. But he wanted to be.
The seasonal cheer of the pub's decor would have been a depressing reminder of his solitary state if he wasn't preoccupied; as it was, he didn't care about his surroundings, only that there were other people around. That he wasn't alone. He couldn't bear to be alone after what had happened; his every instinct was screaming at him to run, but if the events of the day had proven nothing else, it was that he couldn't possibly run fast or far enough.