The bar was almost empty when he walked through the doors, save for the small group of older men who, based on their state of dress, had come straight from work and had been here for several hours. Their emotions were muted, no doubt due to the bottle of whiskey that sat in front of them on the table, but Jasper could still sense the feeling of lust spike when they glanced at the woman working the bar. He had been a vampire for over a century, and yet, human men had not seemed to change.
Jasper settled himself at the end of the bar, satisfied that he could see the group of businessmen as well as the door, before turning to the barmaid and smiling slightly.
"Your finest whiskey, hold the rocks, please, Ma'am." He requested, his southern drawl a contrast to the crisp British accent spoken by others in the area.
The barmaid eyed the blonde warily but turned her back to prepare his drink. As she did, Jasper took in the pub, and his mind travelled to the last cryptic message her had retrieved from Peter. It had simply read London, and though Jasper had called multiple times, Peter had not been able to provide Jasper with anymore information. It was frustrating, Peter's gift to just know things. It had caused a wild goose-chase across the world, from America, to Scotland, and finally down to London. He had been there for 3 days now, waiting for Peter to give him some more information, but he had been unable to help, other than the unhelpful "I just know you have to be in London."
Jasper accepted his drink and went to take as sip but was taken aback when the hairs on his neck suddenly stood on end, and an uneasy feeling took over him. His instincts took over, and he knew another predator was near. The feeling intensified, and his stomach tensed as the door opened.
The air around him seemed to crackle, like static electricity, and the sudden smell of lavender and sage permeated the air. A woman stepped through the door and froze in the doorway as she spotted him sitting at the bar. She was short and thin; her cheeks were drawn and she had dark circles under her eyes. And yet, he was intimidated. Her skin had a slight glow, and he swore, for a moment, he saw her wild hair crackle. She made her way over to the bar slowly, never taking her eyes off him, and ordered a drink.
His body told him to run, but he was intrigued. Her heart raced as she stared at him from across the bar, just like a human, and yet, there was an underlying sound, barely noticeable to even him with his enhanced hearing. It was a humming sound, like a vibration. Curious. And yet, despite her racing heart, his throat did not burn as he let her scent overflow him again. It was smoky, and dangerous. It warned him away from her. He realised, then, that he could not feel her emotions, and he frowned slightly.
As she took her glass of wine and retreated to the booth in the corner, giving her the best vantage point to see all of the bar, Jasper finally let his eyes wander from her face, taking in her form. The scar on her neck was red and angry, and matched the colour of the letters on her forearm. From afar it could have been mistaken as a tattoo, but Jasper drew his eyes over the letters and knew instantly that it had been carved with a knife. Mudblood. The wound was deep and ugly, it looked fresh, and yet, it did not bleed. Another scar peaked out from between her cleavage. This one was healed, but when he stared at it, he felt his stomach clenched. It felt like darkness, and he reminded him of the Southern Wars he had ran from so many years ago.
He ran his hand unconsciously over his arm as he returned his eyes to her face, feeling the scars that had healed, but would never disappear. Though they were invisible to the human eye, he felt her eyes follow his hand, and her sharp intake of breath indicated that she too, could see them. As they stared at each other and nursed their drinks, Jasper recognised a familiarity in her. Her eyes told a story of mourning and sorrow, and yet, appeared haunted.
Without thinking, Jasper rose from his seat at the bar and approached the booth. He stood in front of her now, and he heard her heart race faster. Recognising his silence was creating further tension, he spoke.
"Would you like some company?"
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The streets were quiet, and yet, Hermione can't bring herself to walk in the dark without gripping her wand tightly in her coat pocket. Not even Muggle London was safe, in her eyes.
She had thought life would be better, that she could be free, after the war. It had been 2 years, but she could still see the battle of Hogwarts, and Bellatrix Lestrange when she closed her eyes. She would never be free of the memories, the consequences. War had a lasting impact in many ways. Death, disfigurement, and mental trauma that would never heal. She was not alone in that aspect, and yet, she felt more alone than ever.
A drink would help, she decided, and made her way to the pub nearest to her parents' house – no, her house. Her parents were gone, in Australia, and not even a team of experienced mind healers could reverse the damage she had done to her parent's brains in order to keep them safe. They remained in Sydney, as Wendell and Monica Wilson, running their new dental practice, and raising their son, Dion, who was now 2 years old. It hurt – so much – but at least they were safe. At least they were happy. At least they didn't have to see her like this.
As she gripped the door handle, she felt her skin break out in goose bumps, the hair on her neck and arms standing to attention. It was not an unknown feeling – she often felt anxious when she was out alone at night, but her psychologist had told her it was important to do her best to push through these feelings. She stood at the door to the pub, considering her options – a drink would help, she decided. It was a terrible coping mechanism, she knew. But sometimes, she just wanted to forget. Forget the past, forget the war. Forget those that were no longer with her. Forget that she was entirely alone.
Gripping her wand tighter in her pocket, she pushed open the door and stepped into the pub. She froze when she saw him and knew exactly what he was. Pale skin, unnatural eyes, and inhuman beauty. Vampire. The sight of him took her breath away. She knew his kind were designed to attract prey – like her – to draw her in, to ensnare her. But in this moment, her magic, her glorious, glorious magic, took over, before she could step closer. She felt it flow within her, buzzing to the surface of her skin, crackling in her hair, and radiating throughout the room, warning the vampire that she was not to be messed with. She may be prey, but she wouldn't go down without a hell of a fight.
The air was cold, crisp, and made her shiver. She felt her blood rushing in her ears and took a steadying breath as she looked into his unnatural, golden eyes. Golden, not red, which confused her, but she stored this in her mind for another time, something to research at a later date. Afraid, but reassured by the feeling of her wand in her hand, she made her way to the bar and ordered a glass of red wine. As she waited for her beverage, she appraised the man in front of her. Tall, blonde, and gorgeous, but his eyes were haunted, hollow, and he stared at her with an intensity that made her stomach churn.
She retreated to the corner of the pub, where she could see most of the pub, as well as the exit. As she sipped on her wine she continued to stare at the vampire. She watched as his fingers drew across his arm, and in the light, she saw faint scars sparkle. They covered his entire arm, and as she drew her eyes across the rest of his body, she saw they were everywhere. Both arms, face, neck, and she imagined they covered much of the rest of his body. She couldn't help but gasp quietly.
He was a soldier, she realised, as she took in his tight stance and intense stare. He was not eyeing her as prey, but as a potential threat. Though his gaze was harsh, she sensed a familiarity, and she sensed that he too, had experienced the trauma and loss of war.
He approached her, now, and she eyed him warily as he stood in front of her. The tension was thick in the air, and Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, her heart racing, and gripped her wand in her pocket.
"Would you like some company?"
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There was a heavy pause, a moment of consideration, before Hermione nodded her head. "That would be wonderful, thank you."
Jasper settled into the booth, sitting opposite to her. They lapsed into silence, for a moment, unsure what to say to each other.
Hermione spoke first, naturally.
"You're a soldier," She said, glancing down at the scars that covered his arms. Now that they were close, she could see them clearer. They were purple and reflected the light. It took her a moment to distinguish the shape, her eyes widening in shock when she recognised that they were bite marks.
"So are you," Jasper replied knowingly, frowning slightly as he regarded her, knowing that she couldn't have been much older than he was when he was turned. "You have seen too much for your age."
Hermione smiled weakly and sipped her wine, considering how to answer.
"I was a soldier. I'm not anymore. Not for a few years now."
"But you never stop thinking like a soldier, once you have seen war." Jasper said.
Hermione chuckled weakly, slouching in her seat. "Very true."
They lapsed into silence once again, both mulling over their drinks.
"What is your name?" Hermione asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
"Jasper Whitlock, pleasure to meet you, Ma'am," Jasper smiled, careful not to show his teeth, and extended her hand to her. "And who might you be?"
"Hermione Granger," Hermione paused for a moment, before reaching out and shaking his hand. "I know what you are, by the way." She said as she retracted her hand.
Jasper couldn't help but smirk a little and regarded her for a minute. "I'm afraid that I can't say the same about you. You're not human, that much I can tell."
She should be afraid, she thought, as she thought about how she could answer him. She felt her magic stir inside of her, soothing her nerves. Her hair no longer stood on end, and she felt her blood pressure drop as her heart rate slowed.
"I'm sure you have theories?" She settled with.
"Well, you're not a wolf," He thought out loud, his eyes traveling her body for a moment. "You glow, slightly, and your hair…seems alive, almost. It sparked. And your heart…" He listened again, for a moment. "Your heart hums, almost." He considered for a moment, before asking. "Is it some kind of magic? A druid, or a mage?"
"We prefer the term witch, actually. Or Wizard if I was a man."
"That's why you smell like sage," He commented. "Humans say witches burn sage in rituals."
Hermione laughed, taking another sip of her wine. "Humans say a lot of things about us creatures. Most of which isn't even remotely real."
"Yes," Jasper agreed, finishing his whiskey. It would give him a buzz, for now, but would burn coming back up later. Human food could be consumed but tasted like dirt and would make them sick. Alcohol, on the other hand, he could taste, but would still make him sick later on.
He too, felt comfortable sitting in the witch's presence, which surprised him. He didn't know much about witches, but he surmised that this woman could hurt him if she wanted to. Was he the predator, or the prey, in this situation?
"Would you tell me your story?" He asked.
He sensed a kindred spirit in her, she realised. And she felt it too.
"It's a long story," She said
"I've got time, as you well know." He smiled, with his teeth this time, and Hermione didn't feel afraid. She felt safe.
"Only if you promise me your story in return," She decided.
"Well of course, Ma'am."
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"I was born to muggles," She started, as she stared up at the stars. It was a clear night, cool enough to see her breath, though her warming charm left her feeling comfortable as she lay against the damp grass. It was dark, save for the light of the moon, and her famous bluebell flames tucked away in a jar beside her. There wasn't really a good place to start, so she started with the basics.
"Muggles?" He asked, leaning against a tree and watching her.
"Muggles means someone non-magical. We witches' still consider ourselves to be human, but I suppose we are a little different from them."
"Is it not normal, to be born to a muggle? To be born with magic like yours?"
"There's usually a small handful of us born in the UK every year, so its perfectly normal. But there have always been a large group of individuals who think us to be unnatural. Dirty. Magic stealers." She unconsciously rubbed her arm, her fingers grazing the slur carved there.
His eyes followed her fingers. Mudblood.
"What does it mean?" He didn't need to elaborate, the question hung thick in the air.
"It means dirty blood. Its an insult, meant to hurt those like me." She paused, thinking how to continue. "We are called muggleborns, it's self-explanatory of course. Then there's the half-bloods, with one muggle parent and one magical, or one magical parent and one muggleborn parent. The purebloods are born to two magical parents. They trace their magical ancestry back generations, with no muggle blood to be found."
"It means nothing, of course, in the long run. Magic is magic, there are people with strong magic, people with weak magic, and even people with no magic, squibs. They are born to magical parents but have no magic themselves." She took a deep breath. "These people who hate muggleborns, they started a group, with the aim of eradicating my kind. It started a war. This was years before I was born, of course. Their leader started building his group during World War 2. Once he had enough followers they started a Wizarding War in the 70's."
She fell silent, her heart starting to race. Jasper reached out with his gift, sending her a wave of calm.
She jumped as she felt a sensation brush against her mind and glanced over at him suspiciously.
"I have a gift. I can feel people's emotions and influence them, but for some reason I can't sense yours. You appear stressed, so I wanted to help. Maybe it doesn't work on your kind." He said.
"It'll be the occlumency. I use it to keep people out of my head." She sighed and glanced back at the sky.
He waited silently for her to continue.
"Their leader fell, in '81. Its complicated, but there was a prophecy that Harry, my best friend, would defeat him…"
Her throat was thick, and tears threatened to fall, and this time, when Jasper reached out with a wave of calm, she let it in, and let him calm her.
She told him Harry's story, from his parent's death, his Hogwarts letter, Voldemort's return, to Dumbledore's death. Jasper felt her hesitation and allowed her to catch her breath.
"What was your part in all of this?" He asked after a few minutes.
"Harry was my best friend. My brother in all but blood. His fight was my fight, and I stood by him through it all. We did our best to support him, Ron and I, but he had a bit of a hero complex. He tried to push us away so he could do it on his own," She smiled a bit at that, and closed her eyes.
"It took more of a turn when he turned 17. I was 18 by that point, but we couldn't go back to school. The Death Eater's had taken over, and Harry was Undesirable Number 1 – basically the most wanted person in Wizarding Britain. I was Undesirable Number 2, his accomplice, and Ron was Undesirable Number 3. If we were caught…well, you can imagine. They were already imprisoning muggleborns with accusations stating we steal magic from purebloods. We found the horcruxes one by one. We starved, we fought with each other, we were injured. It was stressful. The horcruxes, they were dark, they poisoned our souls. Made us volatile with each other."
She sat up and pulled out a handful of grass, staring down at her hands as she ripped each blade apart.
"Ron left us. He had been hurt, he was holding the horcrux, and he had always been a hot head. I was…"
"You loved him," Jasper said knowingly.
"Yes. We weren't together, then, but I was heartbroken. He came back eventually, after Harry and I had been through hell and back. I found it hard to forgive him. But we made up and then we couldn't get enough of each other." Hermione chuckled sadly, remembering the feeling of being in love. Being in love during a war was intense, thinking every day would be your last day together, knowing you would stand by each other until your last breath.
"It was short lived. We were captured. It was…" She swallowed thickly, clenching her fists. "I was tortured. For a long time. I'm not sure how I'm still sane. I still feel it when I sleep. I have seizures, sometimes. And…I can't have children, now." Her hand ran over her arm. "That's where I got this. She was insane, deranged. I was not the first and I was not the last that suffered at her hand."
Jasper clenched his jaw and his fists, trying to suppress his anger. His own torture at the hands of Maria was in the back of his mind, but he shoved it away, and thought about reaching out to touch the girl, but decided against it.
"She deserves to rot in hell," He said after a moment, his words coming out as more of a growl.
"She's dead, thankfully. But she still haunts me,"
"I understand," Jasper said, and Hermione believed him when she glanced up at him. His eyes were haunted, and Hermione saw herself in him.
"There was a final battle, we destroyed the final horcruxes. It was brutal. I lost myself. I killed people, who may have deserved it. But taking human life takes a toll on the soul. I don't feel like myself anymore. I don't feel worthy."
"We lost a lot of good people." She paused, took a deep breath. "I lost a lot of people."
Her meaning was clear, and it made his gut clench. He couldn't help himself then, and he reached out to her.
Hermione felt his cool fingers graze the back of her hand, and it jolted her out of her memories. But she didn't jump. It was a welcome distraction from her painful thoughts. She glanced up at him, expecting to find pity in his eyes. Instead, she found a soft gaze, full of sympathy. He understood the pain of losing a loved one.
She should have been afraid, but instead she felt safe. She wondered, for a second, if he was still influencing her, whether this was a trap, and yet, she still allowed him to take her hands between his own.
He didn't say he was sorry, even though he was. He knew, from experience, that sorry did not take the pain away, and pity did nothing except make you feel alone.
"You are strong," He said instead. "Grief is overwhelming, especially when you are dealing with other trauma. And yet, you are still standing."
"I do it for them," She whispered, unable to speak louder for fear of the tears that threatened to fall. "Harry barely got to live his life. He always had to be the hero, but he just wanted a normal life. Instead he chose to fight for people like me, for all of us. And he was taken before his time. Ron…" She let go of his hands to wipe her eyes.
"Ron was Bellatrix's last victim. He's hospitalised at the moment, not able to remember anyone, even his family. He's an empty shell, nothing left of him. Part of me wishes he was dead, because then he would be at peace. Instead he is stuck there, unable to live his life the way he wanted to. There is nothing they can do. He will never get better. "
Her love for her brother, and her boyfriend shone through in her words.
She had left the Wizarding World to try and live a peaceful life, free from the public eye, and free to live her dreams. Its what they would have wanted for themselves, and for her.
She felt quiet and looked at Jasper, and found his eyes reflected hers.
"You lost someone too," She stated, analysing his gaze.
"My wife," He nodded, glancing up at the sky, seeing the horizon begin to lighten. "She was killed a few years ago."
Alice. The light of his life. His saviour. He wondered whether she had seen this moment coming, and he thought that she would be proud of him at this moment, for helping this young woman to ease her pain and suffering.
"Will you tell me about her?" Hermione asked after a moment, watching him contemplate.
"Another time," He said, eventually, looking back at the brunette before him. "It's getting light out. I should be heading off. And you need your sleep."
He rose from his seat against the tree, holding a hand out to her to help her to her feet. Hermione eyed the hand for a moment before taking his hand and allowing him to pull her to stand.
"I'll come back, tomorrow night. That is, if you want to see me again." Hermione stuttered, flushing slightly at how her words sounded. "I just mean…you promised you would tell me your story."
Jasper smiled to himself and nodded his head at the young woman before him. "I'll be here, at 12' o'clock." He promised.
Hermione smiled and stepped back, pulling her wand out of her pocket. "I better be going. I'll see you tomorrow."
She disapparated with a crack, startling Jasper, who then shook his head and chuckled. Of course, she could disappear into thin air. Witches. He looked up to the sky, thinking of Alice again. She would like Hermione, he decided, as he set off back to his hotel room. He had forgotten what it was like to have meaningful conversations. To have friends.
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Hermione settled into bed, feeling more relaxed than she had in years. The war wasn't to be spoken of, with the Weasley's, or any of her surviving friends. It was too fresh, too painful. It eased the pain, to get things off your chest. To lean on friends for support. As she closed her eyes, she thought of Jasper, looking forward to hearing his story.