August 17th, 1890 — The Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade

Excitement for the World Cup was palpable in the week leading up to the game. Nearly every wizarding pub from Hogsmeade to London was full to the brim of spectators and players alike, lavishing in the levity of it all. Tonight, Fallon was no different from the grand masses. She wouldn't be able to attend the game itself (or many of the parties leading up to it) due to her work schedule, but she decided to partake wherever and whenever she could.

Merry was at home, stuck obsessing over the bloody diary once again. Not that Fallon was particularly sad about that fact. The two friends went through phases of closeness like sisters might, and this phase just so happened to see them separating once more. Soon enough, the tides would shift and they would be as thick as thieves once more.

A heavy shoulder knocked into her own as she sat chatting with fellow partygoers, causing her nearly full glass of beer to slosh on the countertop. "Watch where you're —" she began but stopped as she recognized who had knocked into her. Lachlan Macfusty. Oaf. Pain in her ass who created a mountain of paperwork for her with his very existence. Of course he would knock into her this evening. The one evening she had off to celebrate the World Cup. Shaking the excess beer off her hands, Fallon rolled her eyes and continued, "is this a habit of yours? Stalking women?"

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   Lachlan MacFusty

There were few things he enjoyed more than a good party. Quidditch was probably the only thing at this point, and this party was celebrating the Quidditch World Cup—and by extension, him and his team-mates. It was the perfect recipe for a good time, and he'd found that he wasn't the only quidditch player in attendance that night. (He had to admit, his opinion of their quidditch team aside, Hogsmeade had the best wizarding pubs.) He'd opted to abstain from further beverages after his fourth beer so he might be able to remember himself in the morning, but the alcohol had already taken its effect.

He hadn't expected any aurors in attendance, and his face immediately dropped upon seeing her. Was something amiss? Was she here to arrest him? And then, the realization set in. Oh. She was in her normal clothes and had—until he'd bumped into her—been carrying a glass herself. He couldn't help but smile.

"Speak for yourself. This is my turf," he said with a deep chuckle. He eyed her nearly-empty glass now and nodded towards the bar. "Let me buy you a new one? I have a feeling it's my fault."

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Fallon rolled her eyes at his chuckle whilst simultaneously making room for him to join her. She wasn't made of gold, after all, and he had wasted over half her beer. Were she not hakf drunk herself, she might've questioned whether or not it was appropriate to accept a drink from a witness (a witness that caused her a never ending headache at that). However, she was drunk and happy, and one beer never hurt anyone.

"It was definitely your fault, you oaf," she chided, not thinking before using the nickname she had given him on the train. Fucking hell.

  

Lachlan snickered at the slip. Oaf—it conjured the image of a bumbling idiot with a nut for a brain. He was a giant, sure, but not an oaf. He took a seat beside her and beckoned for the barkeep.

"That's not fair, tiny auror. And you should be careful. I've got fans here to be offended on my behalf. You might make yourself unpopular," he replied cheekily, turning to the barkeep so he could order her a new beer. After the man disappeared back behind the counter, Lach turned so he could face her.

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She had long since come to terms with her stature. Being physically smaller than most of the criminals she sought provided distinct challenges, but Fallon had adapted through her training to make her small frame work for her. Even so, being called tiny by an oaf made her skin crawl.

"I didn't see you dueling a kidnapper," she retorted with a bite. His disarming charm had provided her the opportunity needed to stun the criminal, but even while drunk she wouldn't confess to relying on a civilian's help. "You realize I'm a ministry official, right? I'm already unpopular." Men were generally intimidated by her and women didn't trust her. Maintaining popularity had never been a concern.

  

Just buzzed enough to miss the tone of her retort, he laughed. "No, I could never duel a kidnapper. I only disarm them," he fired back. The barkeep returned with her drink, and Lachlan wished he had one in his hand for second.

Lach harbored no ill feelings for Ministry officials—okay, maybe the ones who made outlandish quidditch calls somethings, but they weren't Auror Abernathy or her department. He wasn't sure the opinion was shared among the pub's patrons, though.

"Isn't that why you have plain clothes? You don't have to be an auror all the time." The emphasis on all meant to signify now. He wondered what had brought her to the party. Was she looking for a good time, or was she a fan all along? "Unless you're here scouting out another scoundrel?" he suggested.

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Fallon huffed and rolled her eyes. She would have disarmed the criminal eventually had he not done it first. Besides, it wasn't as though the criminal was watching for the oaf's movements after Fallon had knocked him down. Surprise was one of an auror's best tools. "Lucky shot," she muttered as she took a sip of the fresh drink.

"Before you so indelicately blew my cover, I was scouting for an oaf," she joked, not meaning it in the slightest. Despite the game taking place in Irvingly Fallon hadn't anticipated seeing any of the players tonight. In fact, she was largely convinced they should all be home resting. "A scoundrel will have to surfice for now, I suppose."

  

Lachlan laughed. "Forgive me, tiny auror. If you need anyone in particular, I'm sure I've met them tonight." He was about to say, but you don't look like the kind of woman who goes looking for scoundrels, but even his buzzed brain figured that might be interpreted the wrong way.

He leaned back and looked at her—really looked at her. When her hair wasn't all over the place and blood wasn't smeared across her face, he supposed she was pretty. A little plain, but her eyes were a pretty brown and the freckles dusted her nose were charming. (On the other hand, her choice of outfit, well, he wouldn't comment.)

"If you need me to disappear, feel free to send me on my way. I won't be offended, having knocked over your drink and all," he offered, but would truthfully be saddened if she chose to. He wasn't sure what they had. Was was an acquaintanceship based on light banter and insults called?

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Somehow, his repeated use of tiny auror didn't irritate her as much as the first mention had. Perhaps it was because of her continued use of oaf (which he undoubtedly was). Or, the more likely case, she was simply becoming too tipsy to care. Fallon was a competent auror regardless of her height, and she needed reassurance from no one.

The heat of his gaze (was it heat? Or was she just so inexperienced with men that a simple look over was interpreted as heat?) had her reaching for her glass. His own attractiveness had distracted her from doing her job properly once already, Fallon refused to waste any more time thinking about his handsome smile. Even if she was presently free to think of whatever whimsical thought she wished.

"No need," she replied as casually as she could manage. "Might as well sit here and watch me enjoy the beer you purchased." It was her turn to laugh as she raised her glass and took another drink.

  

And he would. He would sit there and drink the very last drop, because it meant more opportunity for banter and poking fun at each other. He smiled and offered a shrug, because he really did have nothing better to do.

"Now don't avoid the question," he started, unable to keep himself from snickering. "Are you here for the quidditch? Are you a fan?" With the last word he added a mock gasp.

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"Are they not one and the same?" She asked, being purposely obtuse. Admitting to knowing statistics of his professional career and where the Cannons stood in the league was only mildly embarrassing. The sport was her favorite subject to research and explore during her down time, though. Her dedication to affording a better life was the only hindrance to her playing at school or professionally.

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   Lachlan MacFusty

He had her. He flashed a wide, almost devious smile. "Auror Abernathy, quidditch fan," he said, as if testing the sound of it. It fit. She didn't seem overly feminine like the debutantes—which was fine—but she'd also come across as serious. Serious women didn't tend to like quidditch from his experience. This was a development, though, and he was ready to exploit it.

"So tell me: who's your favorite team? And don't you dare say the Falcons," he warned, but in good humor. He was inclined to believe she'd favor Kenmare with that accent of hers, or maybe Ballycastle.

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Oh sweet Merlin, that grin.

Fallon did her best to remain casual as he called her interest into question, silently thanking her lucky stars for having endured interrogation training. Sharing quidditch details was hardly the same as classified information, but a skill was a skill. She might as well use whatever tools available to her.

"Aurors are allowed to have interests too," she chuckled. However, if she were being honest Fallon would be forced to admit her personal life was rather bland. She was often so exhausted from chasing down cases that all she did was sleep and sleep some more when home. "I'll allow you three guesses to my favorite team. If you fail ..." she shrugged as if to say you'll never know.

  

Aurors were allowed to have interests, but he doubted they had the time. Quidditch players were allowed to have interests, too, and usually they didn't wander far from the pitch itself. That's what happens when one dedicates their life to their career, and he didn't doubt that the pants-wearing Auror Abernathy was a workaholic.

"Mmm." He pondered the options; there weren't that many teams in the league, but there were enough to easily get the wrong answer in three tries. "Hogsmeade?"

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The Howlers were decent — or more than decent, having won the cup this past season — but they lacked the spirit of say the Harpies or the Cannons. Hell, even the Arrows had more spunk in their game than the Howlers. Then again, that's what happened when the team was led by an aging, married father.

"Nope," she said, popping the p with a smirk. "Two more guesses." Fallon highly doubted he would answer correctly, so much so that she had no prize in mind if he did guess right. Liking the Cannons was an off chance thing, happening only because they won at her first ever quidditch game.

  

His next guess was less a random pick. "The Harpies?" Girls tended to like the Harpies with their message of female empowerment. He would be down with it, too, if they did not tend to lose every season. (He would not say as much to Robins, lest he summon whatever demon lied behind her sunny disposition.)

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