"Now eh, you can't be a French maid without the accent," Charlie said, his Irish brogue coming out in full force because of his latest drink. He'd lost count as he'd been taking shots with every successful target Axe had hit.
His
mask gave him a much needed night of anonymity. If he wasn't in the gym working out, he was at the bar, drinking in. Charlie's life had become quidditch and the pub, and while it was dizzying most days, at least tonight he was allowed to be a fool without anyone complaining too much about it.
"Go on, let me hear it," he took a swig of his own drink, pointing his glass at her, "I hang around a real life Frenchmen, I've got a good ear for this."
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