He sits down heavily at the bar. "Give me the strongest thing you have," he says.
She smiles at him, quick to notice a good-looking man.
"What, bad day?"
He cocks an eyebrow at her. "There's a war on."
She giggles. "Oh. Yes, that's true…"
"Who the hell are you? Where's Rosmerta?" He's sort of angry now, confused and tired and done with all of this war business.
"Why do you care? You single?" She stops hinting and goes in for the kill.
"Married, thanks," he says tersely. "Where's Rosmerta?"
The bar is dark, people sitting on stools and barely talking. There's an air of dank sadness around the place that was never there last year. He can't really wrap his head around all these changes.
The bargirl grins a toothy grin. "You can't really be married." She winks. "So young. So sexy."
"Where the fuck is Rosmerta?" he asks through tightly gritted teeth.
She finally sighs. "She's been taken ill, which means really she's in hiding. She's been badmouthing the Death Eaters since day one, and you know sure as hell that You-Know-Who knows that just as well as we do. I doubt she'll live through this fucking war. If anyone will."
"She put you in charge?"
The girl blinks. "I'm her niece."
"A ten-year-old?" he says. He's being horrible, but he can't help it – crankiness is something he's used to, now, and he's sure she is used to it too.
"Ooh, and you were so cute and promising!" She sighs, like he's a huge loss to her, and saunters away.
"Don't forget my drink!" he calls after her.
She comes back about a half hour later. "Double Firewhisky on the rocks with some shady shots in it," she says, giggling.
He can't help but crack a smile. God, this is exactly what he needs. This, and Fleur. Where the hell is Fleur? Home. How can she be expected to deal with him now?
He shakes his head, now, and then heaves a huge sigh. "You busy?" he asks.
"Depends," the woman says, half-smiling, half-looking suspiciously at him, used to his treatment of her.
"Not for sex!" he says quickly. "For company. My wife is…tired of talking. I can't seem to stop. Sit down with me?"
She smiles and joins him at the bar. "Fine, since you're so hot and you just complained about your wife to another woman."
He laughs. "I love her to death, I really do. But sometimes she is so much like my mother!"
She giggles. "Like your mother? That's a promising match."
He smiles at her. "So, tell me about yourself. What's your story? You were born, and then what?"
She looks down at the countertop, tracing invisible patterns with her fingertip. "I was born to a muggleborn and a half-blood, so I'm not a pureblood either. They separated when I was five, and got back together when I was seven. That repeated about six times. They'd stay away from anywhere between a couple of months to two years. Then they'd come crawling back to each other. It didn't really give me a good feeling about love.
"I turned sixteen, and they separated again. I graduated Hogwarts – they were back together. So I gave up on the two of them – right now Dad's living at home and Mum is furious with him for something. It's been almost six months – that's a record since the war's started. Recently, they've changed their minds once a month."
"You've got to be exaggerating!" he says, a boy who's only known two very in love parents.
"Well, yeah," she says, and sighs. "God. Sorry. You didn't need to hear all that…"
He laughs, very softly, and then says, "No, I like hearing this stuff. I'm a people-person. So where do you live now?"
"Here. Lived here for years. Since I graduated, but now that I'm over eighteen, I can actually run the bar." She laughs too. "I'm not eighteen, by the way – I'm twenty."
"Still a baby," he teases her. "So when do you see your parents?"
"Major holidays, weekends, days when I'm off, and sometimes they come visit me."
"Aren't you fucking worried about your aunt?"
"Hell yeah!" she says, trying to make light of it all. "I just – God, I'm such a flirter that I'll act like a total ditz…I'm really sorry." She smiles.
"Hey, I didn't know I'd get a nice conversation out of the deal." He winks at her, and then stands up, downing the last of his drink. "Thanks, kid. Hanging out with you was nice. I'll be thinking of you and your aunt till the war ends. You two – and everyone else."
She stands too, ready to get back to work. "Hey, come visit sometime. It was nice talking to you."
He leaves without another word, and he feels strangely lighter.
Perhaps that's what talking to strangers is for – healing.
A/N: I looked up the legal buying-alcohol age in Britain, and it said 18, but I'm not sure. Idk, I just went with that. If anyone has any corrections, I'd totally love them!
This was for the Random Character Challenge at the HPFCF. Yet again. =D