Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Thorfinn Rowle was almost certain he had never seen so many men crash and burn as quickly as he did that night.

Tall. Short. Fat. Skinny. Drunk. Sober. Married. Single.

It didn't matter.

He noticed from the get go they all thought they stood a chance. He witnessed them whole-heartedly believe that they would be the lucky one.

The chosen one.

What made the dark, chocolatey brew settle just that bit sweeter in his mouth was her uninterested expression that was unmistakably plain.

Petting-zoos, and pet stores had similar warnings hanging in the window.

Do not touch.

Do NOT approach.

Even Thorfinn could tell when a lady just wanted to be left alone.

It was a suicide mission from the start.

Didn't any of these blokes get the hint from the fallen soldiers that came before them?

The evidence of the mens' overly obvious nods at her - before they unstuck themselves from the rounded, oak countertop, before their swaying steps, and atrocious attempts at chat... Before any of that. He could tell.

He could tell that a girl like her didn't come into a place like this looking to be bothered.

A girl like her ventured into a dark, dank place like this because she wanted to disappear.

It wasn’t the first time he witnessed the barkeep place a single, fresh half-pint on a table near the fireplace, waiting, and ready for when she walked through the door.

Familiar actions for a familiar patron.

Thorfinn understood, by this action alone that there was a sort of familiarity. He’d guess this was a place she frequented for herself.

Where else to hide then in plain sight?

The fantastically forgettable Irish bar, in some lost, back alley of muggle London, was admittedly an unlikely place for a lady.

Rowle considered the harsh contradiction over the last swig of his drink. Times we’re changing. He was in favor for it, but surely, a young (and from the rather enamored confirmations of his fellow patrons in pints) - beautiful woman like her, would rather seek out a softer, more subtle environment.

Thorfinn lifted his head just slightly to take a look around his own place of refuge.

Offending neon green lights were washed out by yellow, low hanging lamps. Rich, warm colored liquids lined the walls. Their glow caused the glassware among the shelves to glisten.

Despite the loud hum of a football match being played on the television overhead and the occasional drunken conversations, he realized the pub was relatively quiet—private.

He could only remember four fights that had broken out here over his many visits. The last he'd seen him, Dolohov had gotten them both into four bar fights in one night alone.

With that logic he supposed it might be the pub for a lady afterall.

Deciding that the old geezer sitting two seats away drunkenly rambling under his breath about some match from 20 years prior was not exactly his preferred conversation, Rowle motioned to leave.

He drudged up enough muggle money for the beer and barkeep, having slipped the bills under the now empty pitcher.

Rowle always did appreciate that instead of having to order pint after pint, when he came into the pub, a frosty pitcher of beer was waiting for him. The bartender had an attention to detail and knew his clientele well. Thorfinn respected that in a man.

Slowly straightening from the small wobbly stool, he glanced toward where the men were hovering. The young woman was no where in sight.
Slightly shrugging with what he told himself was uninterested indifference, he tried to alleviate his stiffness from the uncomfortable seat as he placed his wallet back into his jacket pocket.

As Thorfinn pulled his jacket further over his broad shoulders, and considered that maybe she was a fan of the Irish goodbye. He had seen her a handful of times now, and each of them he couldn’t remember her making a big display in her departure. So she had left the bar without saying anything to anyone.

Big deal, he thought to himself. That’s essentially what he was doing now. No one else in the bar, outside of the owner collecting the extra coin Rowle left for him, cared if he stayed or if he left.

Giving a curt nod to no one in particular, he made his not completely sober, way to the exit.

Rowle had lumbered halfway through the door before he heard the only feminine voice in the pub call out, apparently to him.

"Oi! - Oi, you big bellend!"

There suddenly was very little noise over her loud beckoning. It was as if the entire pub quieted to see who the siren finally chose to call into the depths below.

Good thing, Thorfinn knew how to swim.

The worn leather of his boots, squeaked as he turned to face where he had heard the voice.

He however was not expecting to find such a tiny human, dressed in crimson red colored practice gear like some ball of burning fury, staring up at him.

If he hadn't heard her voice first, when he turned around he was afraid he might’ve missed her as his eyeline would’ve passed right over the top of her head. Thorfinn didn’t exactly spend his time at the pub staring at her like the others did so he didn’t consider that she’d be so… so… so, adorable.

Thorfinn, feeling slightly off kilter by her bold, brash energy, wasn't sure how to proceed.

He hadn’t expected her to take notice of him, let alone call him out for something that was beginning to feel like he was in trouble. Or at least her gaze had convinced him he’d surely done something wrong, even if he hadn’t.

Faking confidence and sobriety, he decided crossing his arms in front of him should create enough distance. Maybe scare her off.

He was wrong.

It seemed not saying anything and staring at her blankly did not in fact, scare her but encourage her.

"Yeah, you. You daft monkey. Here - "

She was small and feisty indeed, as she made it a point to shove his book into his chest.

Hard.

Although her strength was in fact impressive, he barely felt it as his malt-washed thoughts wondered if she was always this aggressive with first impressions.

Was this her normal behavior? Or was it all an act, to show the men waiting to pounce the moment she let her guard down, that she was not to be messed with?

"You left your book."

Her defensive, calculating brown eyes met his own as he cautiously reached for his book. Thorfinn’s large hand gripped the top half of the cover, which until then, was still pressed firmly into his chest. Not breaking their eye contact, he tried to keep the curiosity out of his voice,

"How do you know this book is mine?"

There was a quiet creek of wood as the last word of his sentence filled the air between them. From Rowle’s peripherals he could tell the gentlemen at the closest table had leaned in to eavesdrop over their conversation just a bit more.

Thorfinn’s overwhelming and sudden urge to shield them both from onlookers was a new feeling. Especially after seeing the very cute but theatrical eye roll she gave him in response. He tried not to smile and break from his tough guy facade as he witnessed her dramatics. Her smaller hand finally let go of the bottom of his book.

Relenting.

"Please, you and I both know that besides myself, you're probably the only other person here who can string together a coherent sentence let alone, read one."

Her arms now mimicked his moments earlier, crossed over her chest. He could tell by the slight fidget of her palm against her arm that she felt out of her element having approached him.

He kept still, afraid any sudden movement might discourage her.

He didn’t want that.

Thorfinn was beginning to enjoy the plume of fresh citrus that seemed to cloud around him the closer he stood to her.

"Besides,” she continued, “you have it with you each time you're here. It's not that wild a guess who it could belong to."

Before the last sentence fully registered in Rowle’s lagging brain, there was a swish of her fiery hair and as if nothing had been said or exchanged, she was gone.

Back to her fire-warmed table and back to her sought after solitude.

It was no surprise that the rest of the pub seemed to follow suit, none the wiser for having witnessed the exchange between the two of them.

Thorfinn remained rooted where he stood. Replaying what just happened with what he could only imagine was a bewildered look on his face.

She mentioned she had recognized that the book belonged to him. That meant then that the other times he had noticed her, she had also noticed him.

He thought she only came here for herself - for her quiet mini pint by the fire. Was he wrong? Did it matter? Whatever the reasons for her frequenting this pub, she had noticed him.

Or at least she made it a point to remember that the book he indeed carried with him each time he was here, belonged to, well - him.

Looking to the far end of the bar where she settled back into her chair, it was once again as if he didn't exist. Rowle watched for only a second longer when he realized she had happily gone back to ignoring everyone in the pub.

Thorfinn shook his head trying to steady his thoughts, and made a conscious intention this time to nod goodbye to the barkeep, who had paid close attention to their interaction.

The barkeep stopped his cleaning, and motioned Thorfinn forward, as if to share a secret meant for only close friends.

Rowle paused dumbly before taking a full stride, covering more than half of the space between them with one step.

With a slight jerk of his head to the far corner where the young woman sat, the salty, weathered man behind the bar whispered in a tone a tad too loud for secrets,

"May the odds be ever in your favor, with that one laddie. Ain't no man gotten as far as you and lived to tell the tale!"

Rowle gave an amused nod of acknowledgement to the older man, avoided looking back in her direction, and finally met the crisp, cold winter air that waited outside the exit.

It wasn't until later, when he got home that Thorfinn hung his jacket on the rack, unlaced his boots and tossed the old book onto the entry table.

The careless toss had somehow popped the front flap of the book open. When he went to close the cover he noticed something different.

Just there, in the corner of the title page was unfamiliar letters and numbers. Scribbled. Smudged.

Rushed handwriting.

Having to squint without his glasses to make out the near-illegible words, he swore the note read,