Written for:
200 Characters in 200 Days: Sanguini
Writing Bingo: Sanguini
Valentine-Making Station: Write about a platonic friendship between a man and a woman and write about Rose Weasley
Fairy Tale Challenge: Goldilocks and the Three Bears: Write about curiosity. Optional Prompts: Crystal shattering image, Dead Man's Bones – Lose Your Soul
Potions Club: Write about constant change
Chocolate Frog Card: Write about someone who is perceived as boring
If You Dare Challenge: Old and Dusty Library
Words: 2337

Boredom

Whenever he was invited to a party, or gathering, or anything of that sort, he always accepted. He always hoped that he'd enjoy himself, that there'd be interesting people there with interesting stories to tell, that something would happen that he'd never seen before. Mostly, they were nothing special. Not to him, not anymore. And this one was no exception.

This one was a Remembrance evening for the Battle of Hogwarts. All of the survivors were there, and tables had been intentionally left empty for those that were not so lucky. In place of plates, on the empty tables, each seat had a photograph. Those who fought for Lord Voldemort, of course, were not there. They were remembered on a plaque beside the bar. A notice reminded attendees that "many of these names were also victims", and invoked much discussion. Some thought it was a tragedy these names weren't besides photographs on the tables, with those they killed. Some thought it was a tragedy these names were here at all. Sanguini didn't care much either way. He stayed out of politics, having noticed how they work in the same cycle, over and over, a few centuries ago.

Sanguini was much more interested in the bar, though the prices weren't to his liking. The meal they'd all enjoyed had ended a couple of hours ago, and the attendees mingled. Some danced, young children besides drunken adults. Some sat and talked, laughing too loudly and smiling far too often. Others flitted from group to group, little birds, with agendas of their own, each self-serving in their own way. A select few, himself included, stayed too close to the bar, as if they were frightened it would disappear if they took their eyes off it.

And yet, Sanguini mused, as much as things always stayed the same, there was constant change in the air. Fashion, for one. Fifty years ago, if he'd have attended a night like this, he'd have been looking out on a sea of dress robes. Fitted robes for the women, and long, flowing, straight cuts for the men. Dress robes had followed their own trends, of course. In the 1960s, women preferred straighter cuts, while in the 1970s ruffles on collars and sleeves made a comeback. Now, it seemed muggle trends had more influence than ever before. Younger wizards were wearing blazers over shirts and ties, matched with trousers. The prettier witches donned dresses instead of robes, baring shoulders and legs. Whether magical or not, people as a whole were very much the same: driven by a desire to be moving forward all the time.

Sanguini remembered a time when vampires were feared by all. He lived in the shadows, then, but they were silken and rich. Fear was a powerful motivator. After the fear came the contempt. Muggles thought themselves superior, and naturally wizards thought themselves even more so. This left vampires aligned, for the first time, with werewolves, and all manner of creatures that fell besides an ideal. Cast out, chastised, hunted and degraded. A new era was rising now, one in which wizards wished to give back what they had taken: things like human rights and happy lives. Sanguini couldn't help but wonder why. Were they now so content in their superiority that they considered no man or being a threat? Were they still afraid of the other, attempting to placate? The most unlikely reason Sanguini could think of was shame. Humans were such a short lived species. They didn't like to own their history.

He turned his ears to the crowd, allowing conversations to float to meet him, wondering how many words he'd hear tonight he'd never known before. Snippets of conversation reached him.

"How's your husband? Is he here?"

"Who should we talk to next?"

"Have you got eyes on the target?"

"What are you drinking?"

"She's in the blue. Circling her agenda."

"I'm on butterbeer. I have to keep my wits about me."

"Good. Keep watching. You know your job?"

"He's fine, he's at work still. He'll be here later."

"Everything's in place. Don't worry about a thing."

"I heard he's a rising star in politics."

"Don't make mistakes. We can't afford them."

One conversation stuck out above the din. Two men in pressed tuxedos stood side by side, sharing what would have been whispers had the band not been playing so loud. They mentioned a target, which in Sanguini's experienced never boded well for the intended. He couldn't help but think this party might begin to get interesting.

He took a sip from his whiskey, reflecting bitterly how the ice had melted and the drink warmed. He swallowed what remained in the glass, not one to leave a drink unfinished, and turned to look for the bar attendant.

"Excuse me," a voice called from behind him. A feminine, friendly voice that sounded as though it were smiling. Sanguini blinked slowly before facing the girl.

She had red, frizzy hair, pulled back into a high ponytail. Barely more than a child, and very much still a child in Sanguini's books, she smiled from a face without scars, looked with eyes that had not known sorrow. Her blue dress hugged a figure that gravity had not yet tugged at.

"Hello," Sanguini said.

"My name's Rose," she held a hand out for him to shake, but he pretended not to notice. "I wondered if you'd heard anything about the From Half to Whole campaign?"

"I'm not really, er, up to date on politics."

Sanguini looked away, as if he'd be able to find something more interesting going on elsewhere that he could escape to. He didn't, of course.

"Well, we're a new organisation that's been set up to promote the rights and welfare of species that have traditionally been referred to as 'Half-Breeds'. We're trying to step away from that label and recognise that no one is half a person—vampires, werewolves, centaurs: they all deserve as many rights to life as the rest of us enjoy." She drew in a breath, no doubt about to continue her monologue, but Sanguini cut her off.

"I'm assuming, then, that the 'whole' contains a 'w'?" he asked.

"What? Oh, er, yes. We're not planning any digging," she said with a quick laugh. "If you don't mind me asking, have you ever met anyone of a different species?"

"One could say that I have. Excuse me, you mentioned that you wanted to recognise that no one is half a person. That reminded me of something. 1748. The Working Witches' Association. Reading, I believe. Mrs Niamh Flint, prominent Irish Pureblood. She said something very similar, in much the same tone you carry. In response to her words, the nation flew up in a frenzy, because if these half-breeds were full people, that meant they weren't half-witted. Sixty werewolves, thirty-two vampires, twenty-two centaurs, three mer-people, six house elves and two goblins were rounded up on a hill and burnt alive. How do you know your words won't do the same now?"

Rose, the little bird in blue, stared stunned for a few moments. She composed herself before replying.

"Seventh of September, was it not? I've not met anyone before who was aware of that event. It's only in one history book. The rest try to brush it under the carpet. But, if you remember correctly, Mrs Flint's speech centred around the intelligence and potential of the species in question, and she didn't directly address the fears people had. I think that was her first mistake," Rose argued confidently.

It was Sanguini's turn to be taken aback. He hadn't expected her to know of it.

"No. Her first mistake was trying to promote an agenda she didn't believe in. Sure, the idea of equality for all races sounds nice, and she pictured a world where we all lived in harmony, but it came from a place of pity for the poor, unfortunate souls. It was a viewpoint where she still came out on top, albeit as the saviour rather than the oppressor. She wasn't particularly interested in the individual lives she was attempting to better."

"The book didn't say that," Rose returned with a frown.

"It wouldn't, little bird. The book, too, had an agenda."

Rose thought for a moment, rose bud lips pursing, but before long she was smiling again, ready talk. "We're planning on doing things differently than Mrs Flint, anyway. We're going to lift the rug on people's fears, expose them. Talk about them openly. We want to get to the route of why people are afraid, and explain why they don't need to be."

Sanguini almost laughed. "That sounds just wonderful. A world where no man, woman or child is afraid of the creatures in the night, creatures that could kill them. Maybe everyone will hire vampires to babysit their infants, or take midnight strolls through forests on the full moon."

"Well, we're not advocating those things, necessarily. But people shouldn't feel ashamed to come head to head with a werewolf in an office meeting, or of vampires in the pub. We should let our children swim in the lakes whether there are merpeople there or not. All people should be given equal chances at life." Rose sighed. "We don't want to come at this from an angle of superiority, like you say Mrs Flint did. We're not wanting to remain afraid. There are just as many wizards and witches lurking dangerously in the shadows as there are vampires. The difference is that we, collectively, put the vampires there without choice. That's our history, as a race, and it's time we owned it and corrected it."

Sanguini considered the girl in a new light. He hadn't thought much of her when she appeared before him, but now he saw there was more to her. She wasn't like the other campaigners. She knew what she was talking about, to an extent, and she seemed to genuinely care. Sanguini didn't think she'd get very far—he knew what happened to campaigns like this—but he wished her well.

The thought of wishing her well reminded him of the conversations he'd overheard. They'd said she was in blue, circling her agenda. They'd said they had a target. Rose, the little bird in front of him, was that target. The urge to be as far away from her as possible took over him.

"That's all very well, but does this conversation have a point?" he asked her.

She took a flyer out of her bag and held it out to him. "We're having our first monthly Plan for Action meeting next week, if you're interested in finding out more about what we do."

Sanguini felt the tug of darkness, the compulsion of his spirit. He lowered his head, stared at her with a cutthroat glance.

"I have a feeling you won't be there to see it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"There are plans in place, things are aligned. You'll lose your soul tonight."

He could see her eyes move quicker, her eyebrows draw together. He saw confusion and defiance battle in her.

"I won't be losing anything."

"Oh, but you will. You'll lose control. You see, I was bored before. I was so bored I can assure you it's not possible to die of boredom. But then I heard something. The twittering of birds; the bang of a drum. It doesn't matter what. But it was something interesting. I wake up at the sound of a drum. It's the only time I wake up. The rest of the time I walk around fast asleep. If I have reason to act, I will, but tonight I don't. I have no reason to act whatsoever. And that drum—that drum whispered of how this evening was going to end. You're going to lose your soul."

"You talk in riddles."

"If I spoke plainly, I'd be dead."

Rose smiled, as if she didn't believe him, but Sanguini had the right set of skills to see what she tried so hard to hide. He could see the fear in her eyes, even if she pretended it wasn't there.

"I'll do my best to avoid any whispering drums, then," she told him, and made to turn away. Sanguini let her leave.

He turned back to the bar once more, but the bottles across the back shelves no longer interested him. He had no more taste for alcohol. He sighed, turned back to the din of the event, and decided to head for the door. His night was over, just as her life would soon be.

He was almost at the door when he heard it. It was just to his left. The shattering of crystal sounded like a thousand raindrops hitting a tin roof. He watched the pieces fall, floating to the tiled floor like a thousand tiny moons, reflecting light all around the room. As heads turned towards the shattered glass, Sanguini turned his eyes away from it. He knew distraction tactics. He looked out over the gathering and saw exactly what he was looking for. A man in a tuxedo made his way across the room with determination, right towards where the little bird in blue was standing. Sanguini made a choice, on the spur of the moment, not to leave just yet.

The tuxedo knocked into the little bird, and she looked at his face, surprised. He apologised, reached out for her arm to steady her, letting something fall from his fingers towards her glass. Plop. She didn't notice. He left her alone as quickly as he arrived, and Rose stared after him for a few moments before turning back to her companions. Sanguini crossed the room quickly, meeting her just as she was about to take a sip. He stole the glass from her and dropped it.

"Don't drink that," he said, and turned to look for the tuxedo. The assailant was making his way towards the nearest door.

Sanguini's eyes darkened as he set off in pursuit.