The bar was old. Old wasn't quite the word for it. Rustic would probably be a preferred term for it. But he wasn't ever a fan of false pretenses. It was quaint. But it was at the end of his street. And it was cheap. And it got him sufficiently plastered every night. That was what mattered. Not if it was cute. Or charming. Or rustic. Or quaint.
There was something different tonight, though. He could feel it. The hair on the back of his neck was standing upright. No matter how many years it had been since his life was continuously on the line he was still acutely aware of things that were different. Things that could be dangerous. Things that could be deadly.
And there was something here that was out of place. His eyes darted around the small pub. The bar was the same as always. Old Joe was giving him his refill on his Glenfidditch, same as always. The Everton match was playing in the background, and they were loosing, same as usual. All of the old pictures were in there same places on the wall. No, it wasn't something different about the place, it was something different about the people.
He went through and looked at each one of them. There were the other usuals, like him, at the bar. There were the two hooligans who had come in to get drunk cheaper than at the match. There was the girl. There was Old Joe.
His eyes snapped back. The girl. He had never seen her before. But that couldn't be right. She had a familiar feel to her. Like he had met her before. He put down the glass of whiskey, and took a deep breath, pushing the beginnings of intoxication out of his mind for now, getting a good look in at the girl.
Average height. Average weight. Shoulder-length brown hair. Brown eyes. Early thirties. Possibly. He was always rubbish with ages. An entirely unremarkable person. She smiled, slightly, at the bartender as she was handed a drink. A worn smile. A haggard smile. That revealed two abnormally large front teeth.
He fought hard to keep the remains of his drink down. He swallowed and then coughed, hard, at the realization of who this was. He waited, briefly, until she had almost finished her drink before flagging Joe down, telling him to put her next drink on his tab. He ignored the comment from Joe, and sat back on the stool, nursing his own glass of scotch.
He gave a nod of acknowledgement when she looked at him in surprise. He made no move to initiate conversation though. It was her perogative. He gave a small snort. Twenty years prior and he would have never even considered this. But twenty years prior and the world had been a different place. Twenty years prior, he had been a different man.
And the girl could prove useful. She could prove very useful. That was, of course, if she was willing. She was getting up from her seat after all, and she was heading to the stool next to him. That had to be a good sign. A mumbled hello later, and she sat there staring at him. "Do I know you?" She finally asked. He gave only a noncomittal shrug and stared at his drink.
"Perhaps." He could feel eyes boring into him. "Perhaps you do. Perhaps you have known me once, but do not any longer. Perhaps you have never met me." She looked at him inquisitively.
"Perhaps I have had too much to drink, but I'm afraid you're not making much sense." He smirked slightly and he could see recognition dawn across her face. "Or perhaps you didn't look full enough of yourself for me to recognize you." He gave a slight snort of laughter.
"Ah, but you do." She nodded.
"It's been a long time, professor." It was his turn to nod.
"Has your life been going well Miss Granger?"
"As well as a life locked away in an office can go. And yourself?" He took a long pull off his glass.
"My life has been going as well as it can." He looked at her. "That's not to say that it is full of inconveniences that make it that much more unbearable." The puzzled expression only lasted for a fraction of a second.
"But there's not much you can do about it." He smirked again.
"Perhaps there is." She would be valuable, if the years of being stuck in the grind of office work hadn't addled her mind. She had been intelligent, powerful, even he had to grudgingly admit that. And she would be useful.
"What do you mean?" She asked, and he fought back the snort. She had always been intelligent, true, but she was never quick to catch on to subterfuge and subtlety. A Gryffindor to the bone.
"Perhaps we should find someplace else to talk about this, you never know who may be listening." With that he got up, the black jacket seeming to swirl around him as he paid for his drinks and walked out the door. He knew she would follow.
