where: london underground pub who: @themaxgoldstein
If someone asked her in the morning how she ended up there—crammed between a busted pipe and a rowdy crowd under a cursed pub somewhere near the Thames—Charity wouldn’t have a proper answer. Someone had slipped her a map enchanted in disappearing ink and said the words “illegal duel, free drinks, no Ministry eyes.” That was all she needed. A few hours and a few glasses of something suspiciously spiced later, she was leaning against the stone wall, wand tucked up one sleeve, a cigarette half-forgotten in the other hand. Her laughter had gotten louder with each drink, but her mood was right where she wanted it: pleasantly numb, with just the right edge of dangerous. That was, until her eyes snagged on something familiar across the crowd. A slouch she knew too well. That mouth. That stance.
She watched him for a beat, the chaos of the pit lighting his face in flickers. Then she moved. No hesitation, no greeting, no warning—just slid right up beside him like they’d arrived together. Close enough for her arm to brush his. She smelled like smoke and sandalwood and something faintly illegal. “Different country, same scene,” she said casually, but her eyes stayed on the pit, the side of her mouth twitching with a smirk. “Funny, innit?” Only then did she glance up at him, chin tilted. Her eyes were glassy, voice low, and she looked like a woman halfway to making a bad decision and fully aware of it.
