"What?"

That's right, he thought. Pretend you weren't staring. "What's that?"

The bartender grabbed the bottle off the shelf and offered it to Moody. "Private reserve. It's expensive."

"How much for the whole thing?"

"I can't, sir."

"Fine." Moody pulled out the mass of coins and bills from his pocket and poured them over the counter. The bartender's eyes widened. "How much will this buy me?"

"I…"

"Just set up glasses and pour."

He scooped the money off of the counter before setting up 12 glasses and pouring in a healthy measure of the pale liquid. Moody watched him, every glass topping off at exactly the same level. It was practice and science, but still a kind of magic. He set the bottle down when he finished. "There you are, sir."

"Good. Now go away." He picked up the first glass and steeled himself not to think. Ingrained habits of paranoia clawed at his stomach and head and he could feel the pull of his eye. But he was in a Muggle bar far from the reaches of witches and wizards and ghosts and regrets. He nearly flinched as his lips touched the glass and closed both eyes as the liquid burned its way down his throat.

One down and 11 to go as he set the glass on the table. There wasn't enough in the glasses to ensure that he would forget what he was here to leave behind, but he picked up the second glass just the same. There were rumors and whispers that he refused to believe, didn't allow himself to believe. He was an old fool, needing to hold on to a wisplike dream to get himself through the long hours, the battles and the moments of quiet that descended between them.

He downed the second glass and shuddered. He could feel the bartender watching him, but didn't care, downing the third and fourth in rapid succession. His vision blurred at the edges - it really was potent stuff - and the world softened to a slightly incorrect hue.

Which made him think of her hair. He almost wondered what color it would be today, but caught himself before the thought could fully form. Brown, he thought. Perhaps black. If it were truly meant to be, purple and outrageous and short and rumpled looking. Her dress would be white - he didn't begrudge her that even though he'd spent one night that they would neither acknowledge buried between her creamy thighs the color of the dress that no doubt swished as she walked.

The fifth glass hit him in the gut, roiled around with the sick feeling as he glanced at the clock. He didn't need to look to know that the hands moved inexorably closer. The sixth drink joined the fifth and sent an ache he could no longer blame on sentimental foolishness to his throat.

He thought about tonight and what would be said about him - he was used to things being said about him, but not with the sort of pity that he expected would lace Molly and Minerva's voices. Women were foolish at weddings and more so when it came to the inevitable bachelors that they didn't know what to do with. He knew what to do with himself, thankfully, as he swallowed down the seventh and the number that came after which he'd forgotten as the alcohol swirled in his system and grabbed him by the ankles, dragging him down.

She'd told him of the news the night after Dumbledore's funeral. She and Lupin were going to give things a go, never mind that he had a deep and abiding love for Sirius that he'd never shaken and never mind that she looked at Moody with eyes filled with longing. Nothing could come of either of those, so they'd settled for comfort and contentment and he'd wished her the best.

Nearly a year to the day later Harry had defeated Voldemort and the scarred and battle wounded gathered together wherever they were and celebrated with pints or shags or whatever they could manage to assuage the guilt at being alive and the relief at not being dead. They'd been on assignment in the deserted wild of Scotland, prowling through burning heather fields for survivors of a last ditch attack. The news had come in the sky like the Dark Mark, only it was Harry, slumped between his two friends and sobbing - his scar gone completely. No words had been said, but everyone knew.

Tonks had let out a soft gasp at the sight and stumbled. He'd caught her arm and steadied her, the action pulling her close. The stench of burning heather had filled the day and night as they'd fumbled in a way that only people who'd faced death together could, shucking clothes and inhibitions. Her hair had surrounded him like a veil as she stared down at him, her naked body like warm milk as she'd pushed down around his cock, body tight and firm in his hands as the hue of the long strands changed as she drew closer and closer to her climax.

He lost himself inside her. He drank the next glass in the line and closed his eyes. Time kept moving, though it seemed to have stopped that day. They'd rolled over and he'd pushed inside her, relentless and endless as they moved together, longer than they'd thought possible, longer than should have been possible. They'd fallen asleep tangled up in each other's battered and bruised limbs and when he awoke the next morning, she was curled into a ball not far from him, her body shaking with sobs he never thought to question.

He came to the last drink and stared at it. The clock was a blurry circle on the wall, but he could hear the bells of the churches chiming the end of his life. The glass was warm in his hand and the liquid thicker as it swam away from him. He caught it with an easy swirl of his magical eye - no doubt to be his saving grace from a lifetime of drunken stupors - and swallowed it down without a toast.

It was done, he knew. And so was he.