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In the end, it comes down to the amount of times Harry counted Rowle sneaking glances at Hermione when she came in for her rounds.
Normally, he doesn’t like visiting St. Mungo’s, however, checking in on the Death Eater Rehabilitation Group, is more of hobby rather than an obligation. Ever since the end of the war, Harry, Hermione—the entire wizarding world, really, were horrified to learn that most of the Dark Lord’s followers, were under a mass imperious curse.
Thorffin Rowle being one of them.
Harry couldn’t find much fault in him, once they bypassed the mental damage and trauma that they had found via multiple mind probing techniques—Rowle was like. He presses his lips together. There are no words to describe Rowle. He’s kind of like a hyperactive puppy, only grizzlier, and built like a truck.
He’s a jolly bloke, if Harry had to describe.
Which was really fucking weird considering he had been under the imperious for at least ten years, he would think, with all the most fucked-up things in the world, for someone breaking out of mind control, he was taking everything in stride—he glances at his best friend from the corner of the room, well, almost.
It’s almost painful, how oblivious Hermione is to Rowle’s advances.
“Well, your potion test is almost completely clear,” Hermione flips open his chart and worries her bottom lip, “I think a few more weeks and you’re system will be clear.”
“Need another sample, princess?” Thorrfin grins and leans over the rail of his bed, almost as if the slightest shift in his weight wouldn’t topple the poor cot into pieces, “I find it’s more…effective with help.”
Harry muffles a laugh into his hand.
Another reason why Harry likes to visit DERG – a noble excuse – is to watch Rowle pathetically flirt with his sister.
He thought Ron’s flirting techniques – after that disaster with Fleur with all the yelling – and then that whole choking on his own saliva when speaking to Luna about the wackspurts was horrible, but Rowle who is probably a good decade older than his sister, is falling apart at the seams when she walks into the room and gives him a smile.
It’s like watching a train graze the edge of the cliff; excruciating.
Hermione quirks a brow at the innuendo, but takes it as a joke and smiles tightly, “I think you’re going to be fine.”
Harry sighs and pats Rowle on his back, “Can you be a little less obvious?”
“I don’t know how princess is deemed the brightest witch of her age when she can’t even tell that I’m being serious, moptop,” Thorfinn looks so genuinely confused and sad that Harry has to smother the urge to give the big man a hug.
“Maybe if you offer her a book—”
“—I am right here,” Hermione scowls with irritation and crosses her arms underneath her chest, “I would appreciate it if you stop egging my patient on, clearly he’s suffering from brain damage.”
Rowle drops his head into his hands and releases a muffled scream.
Of all the women on the planet, it had to be Hermione Granger.
Harry, to put himself and Rowle out of his misery, dragged his sister out of the room and explained to her painstaking detail that Thorfinn is serious and that her title – brightest witch – should be taken away from her.
When Ron heard, he was torn between confusion and horrified glee.
Rowle couldn’t complain, because, in the end, moptop got him the princess, and well, Hermione gets a humble worshipper, so she can't really complain.