The bar was loud in the comfortable sort of way — clinking glasses, low music, voices blending into a dull hum that made it easy to disappear into the background. George preferred places like this. No one knew him. No one stared at his missing ear. No one whispered Weasley.

Just another tall redhead nursing a drink he wasn’t really tasting.

He rolled the glass between his fingers, watching the amber liquid slosh against the sides. Americans poured stronger than the pubs back home — one of the few things he appreciated.

Still wasn't enough.

It never was.