“And I don’t know half the people I meet,” he shrugged. What did it matter if they knew one another? It didn’t seem to matter when he’d saved that boy from that man who seemed intent on causing nothing but pain. It didn’t seem to matter when he met the dark wizard who gave him his first scar. And it certainly didn’t matter when he wandered into The Three Broomsticks a few months ago and smashed a glass over some fat guys face, “doesn’t mean I can’t be nice. And anyway, being nice isn’t something you should think about doing. You should just… erm, be. I guess. Be nice, I mean.”

He couldn’t help but feel sorry for her in that moment and decided to move to a nearby bench, shaking his head a little. What on earth had she been through that caused her to think being nice was a privilege? Sitting on the bench and putting his wand away, Charles watched her mannerisms. Her behaviour. He was trying to figure it out.

So this night surmounted with her crying because of her friend – and she’d been drinking. His temples flared and he exhaled deeply, gripping the air against the bench. Ex-best friend. Alcohol. Uncontrollable sobs because of it.

Charles knew what men were like when they’d been drinking. He knew what he was like and though he was most definitely not the best man to be around when he’d been drinking, he would never do that.

“Have you been hurt?” He asked bluntly.

---