Written for the Months of the Year Competition (write about a depressed or melancholic character. Prompts used: "I'm just having one of those days"; Hogsmeade; snow)

Melancholy at its Finest

"That's your seventh one in the last hour." Rosmerta looked concernedly at the slumped figure before her. Bertha Jorkins had arrived at the Three Broomsticks a little over an hour earlier, and already had put a Sickle on the table seven times.

She had paid the price for it.

"Bertha," Rosmerta said, reaching across the bench to shake the woman awake. "Bertha, you need to wake up!"

The older woman only grunted in her chair, shoving the barmaid away. "I'm jus' havin' one o' those days," she slurred.

Rosmerta sighed. She had to get this woman out of the pub before she lost her other customers. If there was one thing she hated more than Hogsmeade visits from Hogwarts, it was customers who drank themselves into unconscious.

"Alright, well you can tell me all about it out the back." Rosmerta attempted to lift Bertha from her stool, but the woman was too heavy. "You're not helping me," she groaned.

"Another one," Bertha spluttered. Rosmerta had to wipe Firewhiskey-smelling spit from her face.

"Oh no, you've had plenty."

A stranger in the bar helped Rosmerta to lift the drunk woman from her seat. Together, they managed to walk her out the back of the pub, setting her on the floor.

"Thank you," Rosmerta said, relieved, to the stranger.

He nodded, leaving without a word.

Odd man, she found herself thinking, before shaking her head and returning her attention back to her drunk companion.

Rosmerta had known Bertha for some years now. A regular in the Three Broomsticks; but never a drunk. She often informed the barmaid of her adventures and the people she had met along the way.

And then she would down a Butterbeer – never a Firewhiskey – and talk about where she was going to next.

Something was up, that much was clear.

"You're scaring my customers away, woman," Rosmerta said sharply. "So, you better tell me the reason for your drunken behaviour, or I'll ban you from here."

Bertha's glazed eyes looked up at the pretty blonde, who was standing over her with hands on hips. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but only a hiccup came out.

Rosmerta closed her eyes. Just great, she thought. Luckily it was winter in Hogsmeade, and they'd just had a heavy snowfall, which was keeping most of the irregulars away.

"Bertha," she urged. "Tell me now, or I'll –"

"I was – hiccup – stood – hiccup – up."

"What?" Rosmerta spoke so bluntly, she surprised even herself.

"Stood – hiccup – up," Bertha repeated.

"You mean by a man?" Rosmerta questioned.

Bertha nodded solemnly. "By a very handsome – hiccup – man."

That certainly wasn't what Rosmerta expected to hear, nor was it what she had hoped to hear. Bertha was drinking herself into unconscious because a man had stood her up.

Just my luck to hear about the romantic adventures of a drunken, thirty-something woman.

"Well, that's nothing to be ashamed of, Bertha. Obviously, he didn't realise what he was missing out on."

Swaying where she sat, Bertha hiccupped again without saying a word.

"There, there," Rosmerta soothed. "That's nothing to drink yourself silly over. We've all been stood up at least once before. Men can be rude sometimes. They're at fault, not you.

Hiccup.

"He was very handsome, tho-hiccup-ugh," Bertha said.

"Sometimes handsome doesn't make a good partner. Now," Rosmerta patted Bertha on the shoulder, "you stand yourself up nice and tall, and you show that man that he's missed out on a good deal."

Bertha hiccupped again.

"And you sober yourself up, my dear," Rosmerta added hastily as Bertha stumbled to her feet again. She reached out to catch the older woman just in time. "I have a spare room upstairs, which is yours." She placed the key she had just summoned firmly into her friend's hands and directed her towards the stairs.

Bertha stumbled up them, tripping on one or two and hiccupping the whole way.

Rosmerta listened for the fumbling of trying to unlock the room that many of her regular customers did, the creak of the door opening, and finally, the thump that indicated Bertha had fallen onto the bed.

Shaking her head, she returned to her pub.

What a day, she found herself thinking as she poured two Butterbeers. What a day.

I hope you enjoyed it. Bertha Jorkins was selected at random, as I didn't know who to write about.

If you would like me to write a story dedicated to you in March (or any other month of the year) send me a PM with a list of pairings/characters and prompts you'd like. I love gifting fics, so I'd be happy to receive a PM from you :)