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Greg yawned as he clutched his firewhiskey in one hand. He felt better holding the powerful serum, though he shouldn't have. He was never one to rely on a drink to calm himself, but these last few days had taken their toll. There was nothing more he wanted than to just sink into a comfortable bed and dream forever. Living rough for a week had given him an unhealthy pallor, thought his white cheeks were tinged with the pink of drink. His hair was longer, and the curls fell almost to his shoulders as he sat hunched over his last 10 galleons.
The barman had been loathe to serve him. He wasn't as dirty as a man of the streets ought to be, but in the lively bar, they did not want such zombie-like customers. Greg was unhappy to cause them angst, but he couldn't change his situation. He was a lost English boy, ill and quite lonely. A week under a blanket of snow could do that to you. Even so, he took a gulp of the burning liquid and waited for the heat to fill his usually rosy cheeks again.
The barman had been loathe to serve him. He wasn't as dirty as a man of the streets ought to be, but in the lively bar, they did not want such zombie-like customers. Greg was unhappy to cause them angst, but he couldn't change his situation. He was a lost English boy, ill and quite lonely. A week under a blanket of snow could do that to you. Even so, he took a gulp of the burning liquid and waited for the heat to fill his usually rosy cheeks again.