A famous writer once said 'when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life'.

This was certainly the case for Jasper Smith, a sixty-eight year old man whose home for the best part of the last decade had been curled up in various shop doorways and bus stops, coughing up his guts.

Smokers cough, his late wife, Franny, always said with a frown. A frown which quickly smoothed over the second Jasper pulled her into his arms for a kiss. Then she would laugh and complain that his beard tickled her face and that if he wasn't careful she would shave it off in his sleep.

But she had loved his beard really. Jasper knew this, for whenever he had considered a new clean cut look as he inspected himself in the mirror, Franny's arms would circle around his generous middle as she nuzzled her face lovingly into the crook of his neck. "Then you wouldn't be my big hairy bear anymore."

The pain Jasper felt from losing his wife was still of the same abundance as it had been on that morning, ten years previously, when he awoke to discover her lying dead beside him in their marital bed. A heart attack, they said.

It had been three days before their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. Jasper had never got to tell his wife about the surprise around-the-world cruise he had booked for them.

Having had no children to keep him check, Jasper had spiralled out of control, turning to alcohol to numb the agony of loneliness.

Needless to say, he soon lost his job, his house, his sanity.

And now this was life. A London hobo. Franny used to always throw a coin into the homeless man's cap whenever they used to stroll through the city, much to Jasper's chagrin. "You never know, dear," she would say in response to his grumblings, "one day it could happen to someone you know, and you'd wished you'd done more to help."

His dear, sweet, Franny.

******

London was a wonderful place to be during the Christmas period: the general excitement in the air as shops adorned their windows with festive lights and buskers switched soulful ballads for joyful jingles.

However, below all this cheer, in certain parts of the underground, was a place where the festivities didn't quite reach. A place where the rats ran wild and the homeless took shelter from the cold, icy elements.

One could be forgiven for thinking they had accidentally wandered onto the set of a Charles Dickens adaptation if one ever found themselves down there - but the absence of cameras and crew would tell them the squalor was very much real.

It was darkness and depression. Hopelessness and loneliness. Lost happiness, abandoned dreams. A place where vermin crawled to die.

And then, one day, an angel wandered amongst them. A beautiful angel with bright red hair who brought light and colour wherever she walked.

On her arm she carried a basket of seemingly never ending consumable goods: hot, nutritious meals in small cardboard packages, freshly baked pastries, and paper bags of apples, bananas and pears which she would present with a flourish, gifting to the needy.

At first she began to visit weekly, and then, when the weather turned colder, she was there daily, retrieving from her magic basket an array of thick blankets, hot water bottles and pillows, and other paraphernalia that one might need to survive minus temperatures.

Jasper, who had since been forced down into the sewers by a heavy blizzard, at first eyed this lady with skepticism. No one in this day and age gave for nothing. Not since his Franny.

But, having had manners instilled into him from the moment he could talk, Jasper always accepted her offerings with good grace, nodding his head at the girl and gruffly muttering a 'thank you' whenever she handed him some food.

She did not smile much, but when she did, it was such a joy to Jasper's dried up, shrivelled old heart. He loved her smile, for it literally transformed her face. He wanted to ask her why she did not do it more often, that the warmth her smile brought to him was a million times more radiating than hot chicken soup. But Jasper, who had been in the world long enough to understand pain, could see that behind that smile was a deeply sad person who had suffered a great deal of tragedy.

So, he said not a word, knowing that some things were just too difficult to talk about.

One thing was for certain, though, just like Jasper, the girl with the red hair was haunted by ghosts.

******

The moment I stepped back into my apartment, I noticed it straight away.

How could I not? I did not own much, just the basics to survive: a roof over my head, food in the cupboards, clothes on my back and hot water in the boiler. I did not allow myself anything more than that.

But there it was: a small black box with a smart purple ribbon on top, sitting ominously on the hallway table.

The mysterious parcel caused just as much curiosity for Magda as it did me. She did not say anything, but I could see her eyes constantly swivel towards it as she put on her coat, her brow knitting in confusion, wondering what could possibly be inside the lavish looking gift box exhibiting my name.

I never received post on account of the fact that I never divulged my personal details. If I needed something, I would buy with cash only.

"Anything else?" Magda asked lightly, pausing in the process of putting on her scarf, almost as though she were hoping I'd ask her to stay for the great unveiling.

"Um- no, that will be all, thank you," I politely answered with a strained smile, reaching into my purse for twenty Galleons. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Magda hesitated as she accepted her pay, looking at me as though I had just grown another head. "Tomorrow? But... but it's Christmas Day."

I knew that. Of course I did. It wasn't as though I wasn't faced with reminders every time I stepped outside, after all.

What I failed to remember, however, is that I seemed to be the only one in this so-called multicultural city who didn't celebrate it.

"Oh- um- yes, of course," I said hastily, ushering her towards the door. "My mistake. I'll see you the following day then... unless you'd like more time off?"

She looked as though she were about to say yes, but then quickly shook her head. "Not at all! Not at all! I'll be here with bells on - jingle bells!" She tittered loudly at her own joke.

I forced another smile.

I liked Magda, I really did. In another life I could imagine sitting with her over cups of tea and sharing a plate of fondant fancies whilst we put the world to rights.

But that was before, and this is now. However, I still saw in Magda a kind, loyal, and above all, safe woman.

She was the closest person I had to a friend, which was saying a lot because I was always strict to keep things on a professional level, and divulged as little information about myself as possible. And there was most certainly no socialising.

"Look," Magda said, her hand pausing on the door as she looked back at me with a pitying expression on her face, "why don't you come over for lunch, tomorrow? I noticed you haven't got anything special in the fridge, and we have enough turkey to feed a small army. Now that Lorna has decided to stay in university for Christmas, it will be a rather quiet Christmas with just myself and Nick-"

I flinched at the name. "No, honestly," I said hurriedly, trying to ignore the blurring at the edges of my vision, "it's very kind of you to offer, but I have other plans."

"A friend... perhaps?" She asked coyly, her kind, crow's feet eyes containing a mischievous twinkle.

"Just work stuff."

"Oh." She looked disappointed. I was being cold, and quite possibly unfriendly.

I felt a flicker of remorse, she was really trying. I almost opened my mouth to offer her a drink, but then I quickly thought better of it.

I could not afford to get close.

"Well... good night, dear," she said sadly, "and Merry Christmas."

"And you." I said stiffly, giving a curt nod.

After she left, I glanced down at the package again. I went to reach out to pick it up, but my hand was shaking so much, that I decided what I needed first was a glass of water.

In the kitchen, I let the tap run for a few seconds. Absentmindedly, I glanced up at the window above the sink, the reflection staring back at me triggering a memory which caused my heart to painfully squeeze.

'Are you telling me that green isn't your favourite colour?'

'It isn't.'

'What is it, then? Red?'

A ghost of a smirk twitched at smooth lips as silver eyes creased at the corners, causing them to twinkle under the harsh light of the bathroom stall.

'Correct.'

Eighteen months, and somehow it wasn't getting any easier. How did one cope with such trauma, you may ask? Well, the truth is, I did not.

Every morning I woke up, I felt numb. Every night I closed my eyes, the numbness hadn't changed.

There were certain circumstances that kept me going, of course. But I was like an automatic machine, just doing what I needed to do.

Breathing, eating, sleeping... surviving.

Changing my hair had been the first step to bringing out a sense of my inner self back to the surface.

It was important, my therapist said, to do more than just survive.

I had more than one therapist. And they spoke to me all the time. They did most of the talking. Mainly because they were in my head... just there. Sometimes it was Luna's voice, sometimes it was Nico's. Even, on the rare occasion, Dumbledore barged his way inside.

And I listened, because if I did not, then my madness would surely drown me.

I was Alia Patil, player 199, the last survivor of Hallows Game.

Well... at least, that's what I thought - until that gift box arrived. A gift box which contained nothing but an invitation on a small, rectangular business card.

Miss Alia Patil
December 24, 23:30
One Canada Square, Canary Wharf
50th Floor

******