GOddamit this thing is SHIT. Happiness is hard to write, and I'm not sure how well it came through in this fic...

Theodore's best friends were firewhiskey and darkness. He loved them quite a lot. Firewhiskey was always there, warming him from the inside and soothing his worries, and darkness always came when promised, and sometimes even earlier, if one turned out the light.

"Mus' be named f'r the color," he mumbled, staring at the bottle and how the sunlight filtered through it. It was gorgeous - an amber that glowed from within like flames. "S' pretty."

He considered pouring another glass to celebrate the color, but shaking hands deterred that. He smiled and just brought it to his lips. "T' prettiness," he said to no one. The cool glass pressed against his lips like a kiss and warmth sluiced down his throat. Was sluiced a word? It was a funny word. A word that funny couldn't be a real word. But he liked it. "Sluiced," he said with a chuckle, and drank again.

Setting the bottle down again, he admired it, and was struck by a sudden remembrance of the first time he drank, five boys crowded in a dorm, darkness and shallow green light filtering through the firewhiskey and settling on dark floors, dark curtains. Lots of dark. Why so much dark? It was silver and green, not black and green. They should have had silver stone walls and edged the green curtains in a brighter thread. Or maybe the stone was dark with age... Lots of things darkened with age. He decided that was good, because then his friend darkness found more footholds. He drank to that too.

Looking down at the floor, Theodore let out a small laugh. There was a spider on the table. He used to be scared of spiders. He couldn't believe that. Firewhiskey made him braver than he used to be, and darkness gave him places to hide for when he wasn't. Shakily standing, he held the edge of the empty shotglass to it, the tiny beast running in fear. "Don be 'fraid," he whispered, or maybe said, but he was sure he wasn't yelling. It wasn't a time for yelling. Yelling was mean and harsh and he was feeling good, happy.

It scrambled over the lip and huddled in the bottom. Tipping it up, he stumbled to the window half-open and set it against the frame. It could leave if it wanted. Maybe it would stay and live in the window. He would have another friend!

"I like havin' friends. I don't have lots of em. But they're all nice to me. Dr-Dra-Dray-co makes me hangover potions sometimes an' Greg drinks with me an we sing songs an' talk about old times... We was... Was... Were all in Slytherin. We got drunk in sixth year an' Blaise set the bed cur'ains on fire and we hadda put em out and then we made up jokes and we talked about what girls are hotter an' we 'cided Granger's actually kinda hot if she does somethin' 'bout that hair and... An' you don't care. Yer tired, aren't ya?"

The spider scrambled up out of the glass and dropped onto the windowsill to do nothing, standing still and waiting. He smiled. "To friends."

The spider didn't move, so he took an extra drink for it. His friend firewhiskey slid down his throat easily. Heat spread out tendrils into his body. Theo placed a hand to his heart, feeling it beat. He was alive, alive he was, his heart beat and his lungs breathed and he swallowed and he was warm. He liked warmth, he didn't used to be warm. He used to be cold, his clothes were never quite warm enough and winds would try to sneak in through seams no matter how well they were sewn, well-made but not quite enough. The extremes were easy to deal with. If you were poor you could patch things, wear layers and no one would think it odd because your clothing was obviously worn out and you were freezing. If you were rich your clothing was thick and perfect and the seams exact, and then sometimes you were almost rich but not enough, so the cold was just enough to feel but not enough to learn to ignore, and sometimes you were just above poor so your clothes looked too nice to wear lots but they weren't warm enough. And either way, you were cold. He didn't miss the cold.

He took a toast to warmth and to childhood being over.

The ceiling was white and reflecting the light and he didn't like it, but he didn't want to cover the window and leave his spider friend alone. He grinned. "Gonna color it!"

Just had to find paint, and a ladder and paint it dark. He stood, shaking, and stumbled out of the room down the hall, banging into things that jumped into his way. He fell over a chair, but he forgave it. "It 'sokay," he said, patting it.

Did he have paint somewhere? He could make it! His wand was... Was... Was on that top cabinet! Now why did he put that there? Did he think he would do something stupid? Why would he? Everything was fine, the ceiling was just too bright.

Climbing onto the counter and nearly falling off when it moved, he grabbed his wand and jumped down, laughing as things shook.

How did one conjure paint? Well, he had lots of time. He sat on the floor and waved his wand in strange shapes, mumbling words. THere was a bang, there was also several flashes, and a mouse leapt out of his wand and ran off. He waved as it went.

He frowned at his wand. What was he doing? He was doing something. For something.

Oh well. He would go back to being with friends. He liked his friends. The spider, the darkness, the firewhiskey and him.