"Magical Britain?" Ishmael interjected, hardly subtle in his curiosity. He would assume so, for vampires to even find their way to the outskirts of Hogsmeade here. He mightn't have grown up in the midst of the magical world (Hogsmeade had not even existed like this, for starters), but at least he had known about it, had passed the years in the company of as many witches and wizards as he had muggles. A muggle, once turned, was magical enough to be here - at least, could not claim to be at home in their own world any longer - but even in the wizarding world, they were confined to haunting the margins, so Ishmael supposed it hardly mattered.
Several years, she said: Ishmael wasn't sure whether several was on the nose or an amusing understatement. Either way, his fanged grin broadened at her mention of America - they might have a little or a lot in common in their pasts, he couldn't yet tell, but America provoked a strange little opportunity for coincidental camaraderie, and that was always a start. "Oh, here and there," Ishmael answered brightly, remaining vague, less out of a ploy for mystery than because the remark was true (and more exciting in general than just admitting Liverpool). His accent had always been a bit mixed-up, the lower class English mangled slightly by learning from his father's foreign example, and lost and distorted all the more by spending more time abroad than here.
"But I spent a bit of time in America myself," he elaborated, figuring he wouldn't get anything interesting out of her if he didn't offer up some tidbits in return. "Not when you did, though, I expect. Back during the War." (He didn't bother specifying which war.) "What sort of thing did you get up to there?" He asked, like they were exchanging holiday stories and not tales of the past which - judging by what they both were - was not necessarily guaranteed to have been pretty.
Several years, she said: Ishmael wasn't sure whether several was on the nose or an amusing understatement. Either way, his fanged grin broadened at her mention of America - they might have a little or a lot in common in their pasts, he couldn't yet tell, but America provoked a strange little opportunity for coincidental camaraderie, and that was always a start. "Oh, here and there," Ishmael answered brightly, remaining vague, less out of a ploy for mystery than because the remark was true (and more exciting in general than just admitting Liverpool). His accent had always been a bit mixed-up, the lower class English mangled slightly by learning from his father's foreign example, and lost and distorted all the more by spending more time abroad than here.
"But I spent a bit of time in America myself," he elaborated, figuring he wouldn't get anything interesting out of her if he didn't offer up some tidbits in return. "Not when you did, though, I expect. Back during the War." (He didn't bother specifying which war.) "What sort of thing did you get up to there?" He asked, like they were exchanging holiday stories and not tales of the past which - judging by what they both were - was not necessarily guaranteed to have been pretty.
