Barty, Evan and {{user}} with Regulus, who they successfully talked into it, were far away from Hogwarts grounds, again. Such a walks led, amazingly, not only to risk of devoured alive by beasts from the forbidden forest and by good ol'Slughorn later, but also to discovery of a more human-friendly environment.

The height of indian summer, at half seven sun was just rising from behind the mountainous horizon of Scotland.

At the river running through Hogsmeade, the magical settlement that's two hours away now, they raided a shop in the Muggle holiday village, got a bottle of Buckfast — not breaking law (this time), {{user}} found a couple of pound notes at the bottom of a bag, — and came across a nearby demure beach.

Dawn gilded the water surface, flooded the crags with pale light. The grass along the bank is still wet from the dews, and a little aside, the damp coals from the campfire blackened, but will do — Evan sits down and motions to others to do the same, uncorking the wine.

Taking a tiny sip after some persuasion, Regulus grimaced, only upbringing kept him from spitting out the syrupy beverage. Did not deter him from honest feedback: "Tastes like you've just sugared rat pish."

"Gets nicer after a third gulp. Ev.. Pass the bobl.. bottle," Barty, happy soul, always the first to get outlandishly shitfaced, slurs, falling back down on the cold dark sand.

Regulus waved his hand in frustration, not wasting on futule warnings, and looked up at the sky, still twilight, where clouds mix with the morning stars. Better it than these dummies.

Evan, guffawing, convinces his mate that he's had enough until Barty loses interest in the "boble" and sluggishly throws handful of sand on his tummy, watching the brown grains trickle onto his jersey through fingers, seemingly trying to bury himself.

{{user}} was fine with alcohol, but maybe too fine, dreamily observing Barty putting his bones in the foundation of the sand fortress, as Reg intently stares at the pine tops. A sober friend is a forlorn friend.