It was a very important anniversary. So important, indeed, that Jez had ventured to a place she hadn't visited for a long time; a pub that she had once gotten drunk in very regularly (and, consequently, been thrown out of very regularly). Nowadays, she went once every year with only her scowl as companion. This being the tenth anniversary and the ninth visit, she was in the mood to get particularly ratted.
The Muggle pub no longer remembered her antics from a decade before, or the people who had partaken in them. Hell, nobody remembered those people. They were ghosts. Not true ghosts - and however much she missed them, Jez was usually glad of that (though she had her moments) - but the sort who had slipped from the world like they'd never been there in the first place. Yet they remained in her mind, unquiet spirits that she couldn't put to rest. That she didn't want to put to rest. As the only one left to remember, that duty fell to her. She owed it to them. So, alone she visited the graves, observed the anniversaries and birthdays, and did her damnedest to think of their lives and not their deaths. With some people, with some anniversaries, that became... difficult.
Sitting at her corner table, Jez downed a lukewarm scotch and ran her fingertips over the inscriptions in the sticky wood. Her initials were in the centre; they were exceptionally angular, having been crudely carved with a penknife. Lying beside the initials was her mobile; it chose this moment to ring, its AC/DC song inaudible beneath the sound of Pulp on the pub jukebox. Having a good idea who it was, Jez ignored it. Sometimes one needed to get really ridiculously trashed whilst morose, and Jez was going to do just that. She picked up her next drink and sipped at it, her brown eyes dry and hard as she stared into the distance and settled in for a thorough brood. Once, she would have picked a fight, found some likely-looking lad and punched him - a very effective way of finding trouble - but she had grown beyond that, matured. Well... for today, at least.
Pulp finished, and a soft rock ballad came on, as though the jukebox had picked up on the atmosphere and wanted to make itself useful. And, with REO Speedwagon encouraging her to really commit to feeling miserable, Jez shut her eyes and pulled a tiny vial from her pocket. It contained a drop or two of a potion she would never admit to having made. She had no intention of using it for its actual purpose; it had a special trait that she wanted to make use of today, for purposes both masochistic and embarrassing (though the latter only compounded the former, really).
She flicked the cork out and held the titchy bottle to her nose, where she breathed deeply. Scents were evocative, moreso than photographs. They smacked their victims in the face with nostalgia; they set off memories like hand grenades; they brought an absent person almost... almost to life. This potion smelled of spiced rum, firstly, sharp and rich and familiar. Her free hand clenched into a fist, and when a waft of petrol and hot rubber hit her, she was in her memories as easily as if she'd jumped into a Pensieve.
Aurors moving in on Hogwarts, where the Headmistress is leading the defense. Jez loping along, grim but eager, wand ready. She speaks to the black-haired man keeping pace easily. "Bet you the pink fluffy handcuffs I get more than you do."
She is happy. She is hunting.
Jez lowered the vial and downed another scotch. She had led a loud and offensive existence with few regrets. Those few, though... well, they were pretty fucking big. She lifted the vial again and almost smiled at the distinct odour of cabbages. Yes, she remembered that, too. She remembered all of it...
This younger, fiercer Jez has been fighting for almost an hour. Her exhaustion doesn't show as she fights her way through dark wizards, beheading a surprised vampire on the way. She is looking for the black-haired man. She makes for the Entrance Hall, where a faction of her fellow Aurors are fighting the opposition's generals. She thinks, "That's where he'll be; in the centre of attention. Moron." She is grinning.
Jez lifted her last drink, oblivious of the odd looks she was getting; it hadn't occurred to her that what she was doing might be misinterpreted. Madness was blaring from the speakers; the jukebox had stopped complying with her mood. And then she smelled something familiar: a leather jacket tainted with a faint whiff of damp canine, and she saw it.
Things are going wrong here. There are too many spells at once, ricocheting and mixing and reacting unpredictably. The black-haired man is under attack, bleeding and moving sluggishly. He has thrown off his jacket and it lies at his feet, smoking.
Jez is no longer smiling. She cuts down everything in her path, a boiling wrath descending on her enemies like an avenging demon, and the bodies fall like raindrops but she is too slow, she knows it, and she is running in treacle, and the black-haired man pauses, actually pauses and speaks to the wizard he is duelling, some useless taunt and the dark wizard flings his wand arm out and she screams a warning but the streak of green hits, and his grey eyes are emptying, and he falls.
She does not register the explosion for what it is because she is staring into it unblinkingly. It swallows up everyone without a shield, and when the smoke clears, the black-haired, grey-eyed man's body is gone without ever hitting the floor.
Covered in blood, bruises and dust, she stares and stares, but it is true.
Eyes clouded, she turns to the fight.
She will kill them all.
Of course, she hadn't - not all of them. The battle was lost and one of the surviving Aurors ordered a retreat. Jez wouldn't leave, not until she'd been hit with a Stunner while digging in the debris. The Auror responsible for it saved her life. She had yet to forgive him. An odd reaction, was the general consensus; Jez thought the black-haired man would have understood.
She opened her eyes when a shadow fell across them, back in the present. one of the doormen was posturing above her table. "No drugs," the bouncer barked, sternly. "Come on, you're out of here."
She wanted to laugh, but in a way he wasn't far off the truth. The black-haired man had been her drug - sometimes as healthy for her as one, too. But that was a long time ago. Death was to be saluted and then released, and maybe her salute ought to end now. She squirrelled the vial away and stood, pulling on a buttery soft, battered, too-big leather jacket that had lost its true owner's scent long ago. The bouncer grabbed for her arm and anger flashed in her eyes. "I'm leaving," she said, clearly. "Do not touch me."
As they walked to the door, however, the big bald man grabbed her elbow, and Jez felt she had been as civil as was possible, so she yanked it from his grip and then slammed it into his nose. As he staggered back, she slipped through the door and past the other doormen, having a few seconds' grace before all hell broke loose. By the time it did, she was in an alleyway, ready to Disapparate. A stealthy, soft sound behind her caused her to spin around, left hand going for the wand in the back pocket of her jeans. Then she froze.
"Fuck," Jez breathed, her face covered in disbelief. "What are you doing here...?"
The Muggle pub no longer remembered her antics from a decade before, or the people who had partaken in them. Hell, nobody remembered those people. They were ghosts. Not true ghosts - and however much she missed them, Jez was usually glad of that (though she had her moments) - but the sort who had slipped from the world like they'd never been there in the first place. Yet they remained in her mind, unquiet spirits that she couldn't put to rest. That she didn't want to put to rest. As the only one left to remember, that duty fell to her. She owed it to them. So, alone she visited the graves, observed the anniversaries and birthdays, and did her damnedest to think of their lives and not their deaths. With some people, with some anniversaries, that became... difficult.
Sitting at her corner table, Jez downed a lukewarm scotch and ran her fingertips over the inscriptions in the sticky wood. Her initials were in the centre; they were exceptionally angular, having been crudely carved with a penknife. Lying beside the initials was her mobile; it chose this moment to ring, its AC/DC song inaudible beneath the sound of Pulp on the pub jukebox. Having a good idea who it was, Jez ignored it. Sometimes one needed to get really ridiculously trashed whilst morose, and Jez was going to do just that. She picked up her next drink and sipped at it, her brown eyes dry and hard as she stared into the distance and settled in for a thorough brood. Once, she would have picked a fight, found some likely-looking lad and punched him - a very effective way of finding trouble - but she had grown beyond that, matured. Well... for today, at least.
Pulp finished, and a soft rock ballad came on, as though the jukebox had picked up on the atmosphere and wanted to make itself useful. And, with REO Speedwagon encouraging her to really commit to feeling miserable, Jez shut her eyes and pulled a tiny vial from her pocket. It contained a drop or two of a potion she would never admit to having made. She had no intention of using it for its actual purpose; it had a special trait that she wanted to make use of today, for purposes both masochistic and embarrassing (though the latter only compounded the former, really).
She flicked the cork out and held the titchy bottle to her nose, where she breathed deeply. Scents were evocative, moreso than photographs. They smacked their victims in the face with nostalgia; they set off memories like hand grenades; they brought an absent person almost... almost to life. This potion smelled of spiced rum, firstly, sharp and rich and familiar. Her free hand clenched into a fist, and when a waft of petrol and hot rubber hit her, she was in her memories as easily as if she'd jumped into a Pensieve.
Aurors moving in on Hogwarts, where the Headmistress is leading the defense. Jez loping along, grim but eager, wand ready. She speaks to the black-haired man keeping pace easily. "Bet you the pink fluffy handcuffs I get more than you do."
She is happy. She is hunting.
Jez lowered the vial and downed another scotch. She had led a loud and offensive existence with few regrets. Those few, though... well, they were pretty fucking big. She lifted the vial again and almost smiled at the distinct odour of cabbages. Yes, she remembered that, too. She remembered all of it...
This younger, fiercer Jez has been fighting for almost an hour. Her exhaustion doesn't show as she fights her way through dark wizards, beheading a surprised vampire on the way. She is looking for the black-haired man. She makes for the Entrance Hall, where a faction of her fellow Aurors are fighting the opposition's generals. She thinks, "That's where he'll be; in the centre of attention. Moron." She is grinning.
Jez lifted her last drink, oblivious of the odd looks she was getting; it hadn't occurred to her that what she was doing might be misinterpreted. Madness was blaring from the speakers; the jukebox had stopped complying with her mood. And then she smelled something familiar: a leather jacket tainted with a faint whiff of damp canine, and she saw it.
Things are going wrong here. There are too many spells at once, ricocheting and mixing and reacting unpredictably. The black-haired man is under attack, bleeding and moving sluggishly. He has thrown off his jacket and it lies at his feet, smoking.
Jez is no longer smiling. She cuts down everything in her path, a boiling wrath descending on her enemies like an avenging demon, and the bodies fall like raindrops but she is too slow, she knows it, and she is running in treacle, and the black-haired man pauses, actually pauses and speaks to the wizard he is duelling, some useless taunt and the dark wizard flings his wand arm out and she screams a warning but the streak of green hits, and his grey eyes are emptying, and he falls.
She does not register the explosion for what it is because she is staring into it unblinkingly. It swallows up everyone without a shield, and when the smoke clears, the black-haired, grey-eyed man's body is gone without ever hitting the floor.
Covered in blood, bruises and dust, she stares and stares, but it is true.
Eyes clouded, she turns to the fight.
She will kill them all.
Of course, she hadn't - not all of them. The battle was lost and one of the surviving Aurors ordered a retreat. Jez wouldn't leave, not until she'd been hit with a Stunner while digging in the debris. The Auror responsible for it saved her life. She had yet to forgive him. An odd reaction, was the general consensus; Jez thought the black-haired man would have understood.
She opened her eyes when a shadow fell across them, back in the present. one of the doormen was posturing above her table. "No drugs," the bouncer barked, sternly. "Come on, you're out of here."
She wanted to laugh, but in a way he wasn't far off the truth. The black-haired man had been her drug - sometimes as healthy for her as one, too. But that was a long time ago. Death was to be saluted and then released, and maybe her salute ought to end now. She squirrelled the vial away and stood, pulling on a buttery soft, battered, too-big leather jacket that had lost its true owner's scent long ago. The bouncer grabbed for her arm and anger flashed in her eyes. "I'm leaving," she said, clearly. "Do not touch me."
As they walked to the door, however, the big bald man grabbed her elbow, and Jez felt she had been as civil as was possible, so she yanked it from his grip and then slammed it into his nose. As he staggered back, she slipped through the door and past the other doormen, having a few seconds' grace before all hell broke loose. By the time it did, she was in an alleyway, ready to Disapparate. A stealthy, soft sound behind her caused her to spin around, left hand going for the wand in the back pocket of her jeans. Then she froze.
"Fuck," Jez breathed, her face covered in disbelief. "What are you doing here...?"
