Need an escape (Open)

Outfit
Martha slid into a seat and ran her hands over her face. God, she didn't even know why she was here. She'd just had enough of her grandparents constantly asking her if she had all her things ready for the term. Of course she did. They were ready weeks ago; barely a week after she'd arrived in this frozen wasteland. She'd taken a rare opportunity of not being watched while she supposedly double--more like quintuple--checked her things for school, and snuck out her window. Now she was here, sitting in this inn and wondering why her life had suddenly turned to shit.
A waitress came by and Martha ordered a hot cocoa with peppermint before slumping in her seat. Nana was going to tear her a new one when she got back, but Martha didn't have the energy to care. She was going to sit here in silence and enjoy her cocoa, and not worry about all the shit that had gone wrong in her life just a few short months ago.
When her cocoa arrived, she stared at it sadly for several minutes. They'd sprinkled peppermint chips on top of the whipped cream. Her mother used to just stick an entire candy cane into it. Martha used to use the candy cane to stir in the whipped cream. It was a thing they'd done together in winter, hot cocoa on the porch. Nana rarely let her have any candy, insisting it would ruin her figure.
Martha snorted. If there was anything the female's in her family were blessed with, it was unusually high metabolisms. Her mother used to eat entire quarts of ice cream without worry, so Martha knew that was a bald-faced lie.

Strangers. Everywhere he looked, strangers walked around, wandered past him - ignored him. Hunter had been wandering the streets of Fabelveien for what felt like hours, and were he at home in Diagon Alley, he would have bumped into at least a dozen people that he knew. Hell, Hunter knew pretty much everyone. But here, not one person stopped to talk to him. Not one person acknowledged him. And in some way, it was nice to know that, at least for the moment, he could walk around completely anonymous. At home, too many people bothered him. There was a time when it wouldn't have been a bother at all, but even now, after all the progress he'd made, Hunter really couldn't call himself a people person. There were very few people that he really wanted to be stopped by. Aoife. Ariel. A few others. The rest all just seemed to think that he wanted to talk to them. They were wrong.

Apparently, the VanDerbergs had family in Norway. Of course, that had been news to Hunter. They were distant cousins or some shit, and Hunter didn't know them or care. And he'd made a point to escape the confines of their house as often as he could. Now was no exception. It was their last day in Norway, and he figured he'd might as well spend it finding a souvenir or something to take back for Aoife. But literally the only sheep-related thing he could find was a huge-ass stuffed sheep that would be a pain to carry around. But what the hell - these people didn't know him. So what did it matter?

After grabbing a few prank things for Ariel, he ducked into one of the pubs to grab a drink before heading back to his annoying Norwegian cousins for the remainder of the evening. Of course, the place was full. There weren't any seats open at the bar, so instead Hunter headed over to one of the long tables, taking one of the few empty seats in the place across from a pretty blonde girl with what looked like a mug of hot chocolate. She looked depressing. Oh well. "Hope you don't mind - er, if you even speak English, that is," he said to her - not that it would matter if she did mind - plopping the oversized plush sheep in the middle of the table between them. Calling one of the workers over, Hunter ordered himself a drink. "Just a firewhiskey, please," he said, not bothering to try and say it in Norwegian. Because Hunter didn't know Norwegian. He knew English. And Dutch.

Martha looked up as a boy with brown hair sat across from her. He was kind of cute. Oh. And British. God, she hadn't spoken proper English in ages. Adopting her most charming southern American accent, she said, "Don't mind at all, darlin'," she grinned into her mug. The last thing she'd expected on this adventure was meeting someone who actually spoke English as their native language.
She nearly lost her seat when he dropped a giant plush sheep onto the table between them, "Holy Mother of--Where'd you get that monstrosity?" Dear Lord, the thing was as big as her head, if not bigger. It kind of reminded her of a large overstuffed dog she'd had as a child. Used to drag it everywhere and cried for days when it got ripped to shreds by a dog they'd been looking after for a friend. Why the hell would a guy need a sheep that big anyway? Her high hopes dropped when she realized he probably had a girlfriend if he was buying giant, plush sheep. A boyfriend was probably the only way her grandmother would let her out of the house in something more mature. And jewelry. She just might be allowed jewelry if she got a boyfriend.

As the barkeep brought over his drink, Hunter muttered a thanks and tipped him a few sickles. He absentmindedly lifted the glass, taking a sip of the fiery drink, and glanced around the place. He hadn't been inside here yet, but it wasn't all that exciting. Most pubs were the same, and this one wasn't much different from the Leaky Cauldron or the Three Broomsticks. But when the girl across from him finally acknowledged him, Hunter looked back up at her in surprise, raising an eyebrow at her. "Someone's a long way from home," he commented, his expression disinterested but a mild bit of curiosity in his voice. American accents were beyond easy to pick out - and unfortunately, so far, everyone Hunter knew with one was a pain in the ass. Which didn't bode well for this girl.

And then, she made a huge deal out of the obnoxious sheep. Hunter didn't exactly blame her - it was pretty hideous. "Dunno - some shop," he replied with a shrug. "Unfortunately, my girlfriend has a bit of a sheep obsession," he explained. Though, a bit was a complete understatement. Hell, he'd had to bribe her with a live sheep to get her to go out wit him. That was definitely more than a bit of an obsession. Taking another swig of his firewhiskey, Hunter's eyes drifted to the girl's mug, noting again that she was drinking hot chocolate. For as miserable as she'd looked before he sat down, he'd think she'd be having a firewhiskey herself. Which meant she was probably underage. She looked underage - maybe fourteen or fifteen.

"Do you go to Salem?" he asked her. "I mean, judging by your accent and all." Maybe she was visiting family, too. Why else would some underage girl be in a pub all by herself? If she was from here, she'd probably be hanging out with friends - and probably would speak Norwegian. "Oh, I'm Hunter, by the way," he added, not bothering to set his drink down to offer his hand.

She sighed when he confirmed his girlfriend. So much for getting out more. "That's a strange obsession," she commented. She gazed longingly at his drink. What she wouldn't give for some proper booze. Bourbon would be nice, preferably with some coke, but unfortunately she wasn't old enough. Her parents had actually let her drink some, when they hosted parties, claiming they'd rather she got drunk in their company than at a wild party with drunk strangers. They never let her have all that much, a glass or two depending on how long the party went for, but it was usually enough to give her a pleasant buzz.
She sighed sadly when he mentioned her old school. "I used to," she replied. "'Til my parents died and I moved here a few months ago. Thank fuck mother taught me Norwegian, otherwise I swear I'd be even worse off." She nodded in greeting when he gave his name, "I'm Martha-Louise Ford. Feel free to shorten it to your liking," she replied. "So...British, Hogwarts, right? The one that's warmer than this hell hole? Wait...No, it'd be so much warmer if it were a hell hole. Sorry, it's a frozen wasteland is what it is. For Merlin's sake, the coldest it got back home was thirty!" She knew she was ranting, to a complete stranger, at that, but it felt good to get some of it off her chest. Even if it barely took a chip off the iceberg weighing on her.

Well, she could at least try to hide her disappointment when he brought up Aoife. But, being that he was Hunter, he just let the corner of his mouth turn up in a half grin and accepted the ego boost - as if he needed it. It was actually still kind of strange, having to turn girls down because of Aoife - it had been so long since he'd had a serious girlfriend - not since Seren. And somewhere in the back of his mind was a voice telling him that he was in a completely different country and she'd never find out, but he quickly pushed it from his mind, almost but not quite disgusted with himself for even thinking it. No, he couldn't do that. Not to her. He snorted at her comment and shook his head. "Believe me, you don't know the half of it," he muttered, half to the girl sitting across from him and half to himself. Because really, she didn't, and for a moment Hunter contemplated how strange his life really was sometimes. "It would be nice if she had an obsession that was a little less obnoxious, but unfortunately there's no chance of that." It was what he got for having a thing for obnoxious redheads.

Hunter lifted his drink to take another sip, and as the rim hit his lips, she answered his next question. The alcohol seared down his throat like usual, but for the first time in a while he was reminded of the first time he'd tasted it. It ruined his ability to enjoy it a bit. Instantly, Hunter fell quiet. Lowering the glass and setting it back on the table with a dull clank, Hunter raised his eyes to the girl's face, trying to read her expression. He wasn't sure if it was a bad reflection upon him or the current state of the world that he didn't feel surprised by the revelation. And despite the fact that she'd just lost her parents and been forced to leave her home, Hunter didn't feel an ounce of pity. She'd revealed it so casually - talked about it so easily. Maybe she'd lost them in a car accident or something. She was lucky. Hunter knew personally how much worse loss could be. But even as he thought it, he knew he shouldn't have. Ariel's tortured face flashed in his mind - hadn't he learned the hard way, from her, not to belittle another person's loss in comparison to his own? But this wasn't Ariel. This was a stranger. So, after a moment, he simply broke his gaze and offered her a nod. "I'm sorry."

Martha Louise. Such an American name. "Well, Dutch, technically," he corrected her, shrugging. "My family lives in Netherlands. But yeah, Hogwarts. For one more year, at least. Then, who knows." He couldn't help cracking a grin at the girl's distaste for the current weather. "Oh, come on, it's hardly cold," he said, laughing. "But I won't argue that it's probably a bit warmer in Britain right now," he agreed in the end. "But I'd take the cold any day." He could sense the actual frustration behind the girl's words, but didn't comment on it. Because he didn't really care. "What year are you going into?" There was a moment where he couldn't tell if she was closer to his sister's age, or Ariadne's. And that was a big difference, in Hunter's opinion.

Martha waved his apology away with a dismissive hand, "It's not like it's your fault, hon." Besides, she could tell he wasn't really sincere. Not that it mattered, she was rather used to unsympathetic responses.
Huh, Dutch. Of course, in America there were plenty of different nationalities, but hardly anyone in the south called themselves anything other than American. Europeans seemed to be more touchy about those sorts of things. She looked up from her cocoa to give him an aghast look, "Hardly cold?" she echoed. "It's summer and it's fucking freezing out there," she jabbed a thumb towards the door for emphasis. She sighed. It wasn't like there was anything she could do about it, not while she was still under her grandparents' roof. Not until she graduated, at least. "I'm going into year five, so I've got three more years in the 'loving' care of my grandparents. Lord only knows how I'm going to last that long without murdering them in their sleep." The thought had crossed her mind several times already, to be honest. It'd be so easy, too. Slip a bit of poison into their wine before bed and play the part of devastated granddaughter in the morning. She highly doubted anyone would suspect an already grieving fifteen year old of murdering her last remaining relatives. She grinned into her cocoa, not all that certain she wouldn't actually murder them in their sleep one of these days.

Hunter raised an eyebrow at the girl and raised his glass to take another sip, not sure how he felt about her calling him hon so casually. He decided that he didn't like it at all - it was something his mum would say, not some random girl who was clearly younger than him. But he let it pass without comment, assuming that it was an american thing. She dismissed him easily by saying it wasn't his fault, and he tilted his head, slightly confused by her demeanor. That just wasn't really how people who were grieving acted. Or, at least it wasn't how Hunter acted. Or his sisters. Or his family. Or how Ariel had acted. Or that Miranda girl - and it suddenly hit him just how widespread loss really was. And it was only growing, if the murder of the Wilcox brothers at the beginning of the summer had anything to say about it.

Anyone else probably would have taken this moment to share their own experience, if they could, and tell this Martha girl that they understood what she was going through. But Hunter wouldn't do that. He didn't know her, and even now, two years later, his grief was too personal to share with just anyone. In fact, Hunter stored it far too deep for nearly anyone at all to reach, other than himself, Ariel, and occasionally Aoife. But still not wanting to sit in complete silence now that they'd started talking, he decided to build off of something else that she'd said. "You're fluent in Norwegian?" he asked, though he wasn't really curious. In fact, his interest in the conversation was slowly dwindling. "I don't know the slightest bit. Just Dutch and English."

Hunter snorted at Martha's incredulous reaction to the cold. "Well, you might want to start getting used to it, it's only getting colder," he told her, though even in the dead of winter he doubted the Norwegian cold would bother him. Hunter liked the cold. It was refreshing, and a great distraction when he needed to escape for a while. Then again, so was firewhiskey. Oh, a fifth year. Too young, anyway, even if he hadn't had a girlfriend. He raised an eyebrow at the girl at her next words, a bit surprised by the tone of her voice. He could almost mistake her for being serious. Maybe she was crazy, and that was why she didn't seem to be grieving properly. He didn't return her amused look, because the idea of murdering anyone - of doing to anyone what had been done to Jack - was enough to cause anger and spite to rise in his chest. But he pushed it aside, because surely this girl was just kidding, and replied. "What's wrong with your grandparents?"

Martha gave a bored sigh when he asked if she was fluent in Norwegian. "Yeah, I am. Mama taught me since she was from here." She snorted when he put down his own two languages, "Ain't nothin' wrong with Dutch, hon. Lord knows my English sounds as out of place as a cow in a horse barn 'round these parts." She groaned in frustration. Only going to get colder. Why the hell couldn't her mother have had relatives in a warmer country? Like France or Germany? Yet another reason why she wanted to get away from her grandparents. She hated the cold, it made her skin feel loose and uncomfortable and her hands were always dry. Always. Dry.

She moaned and let her head hit the table when he asked about her grandparents. Everything. Everything was wrong with them. They never let her wear ripped or baggy clothes. She wasn't allowed to climb trees or go out alone unless it was for a pre-approved event with a chaperon they trusted. Jewelry was out of the question unless it was an extremely special occasion, excluding simple studs in her ears and her mother's locket. Martha wasn't allowed to have fun. She was to stay indoors practicing either her embroidery, the piano, or reading unless otherwise permitted. Essentially, they were controlling, suffocating, and all around bastards. Instead, she said, "What isn't wrong with them?" Because it was so much easier that trying to explain everything that was wrong with her grandparents. He probably wouldn't understand anyway. She checked the time and sighed in relief. There was still time to get back; the sleeping droughts wouldn't wear off for another couple of hours.