“If you think anyone respects you for going after a blood traitor, you’re wrong.” It’d gained him no favour, that much she was certain of. To watch a downfall of someone who’d already managed to fall from grace with such disaster wasn’t something to boast about. To attack a girl for years, to torment and cause such a morality complex within her mind, was nothing to boast about. It’d been the easiest way to garner fear from those who’d never known better. Who’d looked at Damon and sought him to be a devil in disguise only because he’d picked those at the bottom, only because he’d found the easiest targets to make a name for himself. “No one’s going to believe you to be much of anything, better yet a threat to them, if you continue to be such a bottom feeder, Damon.” His name feels like vemon against her tongue, something vicious. Yet, she’s found herself immune. Where his torture had only ended months earlier, the scars healed and her mind wiped of every sound but her own to anyone who’d asked, Damon still remained present in every step Mary had managed to take. He, the failed executioner. She, the unsuspected revenant.
He’d stood over her by almost an entire foot, yet her back remained rigid and her voice did littel to quiver. He’d never been worthy of such a satisfaction. To Mary, he was pathetic. To him, she was certain he thought her to be something of the same. However, if one were to force them to look within a mirror side by side, a part of Mary was certain she’d see every terrible bone in her body, every feeling of rage and ruin, mirrored in the likes of him. “You want to finish a job? Why don’t you start with me, or are you too scared?” Not of her, she’d known better than to assume such a thing. Mary MacDonald was a gifted dueller, but to the likes of Damon she’d stood little chance. He’d been willing to fight dirty in broad daylight, and Mary had remained something of respectable if only because of the hands that’d pulled her from every darkened ledge time and time again. “You thought you finished the job well when they shipped me off to St. Mungo’s, didn’t ye?” Gaze narrows, her throat dry as she speaks in hoarse tone. “And to yer surprise, here I am. Now ye don’t really know what t’do about it. I bet you fall asleep thinkin’ to yerself, how can I make my life stop revolvin’ ‘round that –– “ Digits wrap ‘round her wand, firm as she takes a step towards her demon in the dark. “pitiful, mudblood Mary MacDonald.” Feeling tip pressing against his bodice, she bites down on her words, surely knowing that it’d do nothing but draw sickened amusement from his core. “You think ye own me, Damon. Ye think yer a nightmare, and maybe ye were once. Now? Well, now I just think yer an obsessive, borderline possessive piece o’ rubbish whose daddy probably didn’t love ‘im enough so now he’s gotta make everyone think he’s the big, bad, wolf.”
‘If you think anyone respects you for going after a blood traitor, you’re wrong. No one’s going to believe you to be much of anything, better yet a threat to them, if you continue to be such a bottom feeder, Damon.’ Her sharp, insulting words might have caused him to get a little testy. But this was Mary Macdonald and getting angry at her would not be in his best interests. She was meant to be much, much more fun than that. Not to mention, it was now also a lot less simple to take her as seriously as he might Bellatrix or Alecto --- this was a sweet little girl with her sweet little girl friends and who he watched nearly die at his hands. He’d watched her shiver, shake, bleed, cry and shatter into pieces before hastily trying to put herself back together. Now she stood there a picture of false grace and tranquility. She had potential, but she resisted the urge to use it. “--- And how do you know all that, little lamb? Suddenly a legimens, are you?” The smirk hadn’t yet left him.
She took out her wand and Damon did not budge. He watched as Mary approached with tongue as malignant as the threat that now pressed against his chest. And he smiled. Poor thing was deluded, thinking that he’d had any intention of killing her. Damon drew amusement from her efforts to stand stall and her false accusations. But then she had to go and mention his father. And, unfortunately for the two of them, Marcellus Mulciber was the sorest spot there was when it came to Damon. Anger bloomed, slowly causing his smile to falter as the amusement now settled into a sick and violent urge. But with those kind of urges came a bit of excitement. It was possibly one of the only reasons he was able to call upon some self restraint --- that only accompanied by her familiar face. But self restraint had a different definition in Damon’s book than it did in other people’s.
And self-restraint it did not include resisting the temptation to take her throat with his free hand. Self-restraint was simply failing to squeeze the life out of her or break the delicate bone that was under his mercy somewhere underneath his hand and just a bit of skin. “Oh, Mary...” He said with a sigh, as though he were a sad and disappointed parent who’s hand was forced by a misbehaving child. “All this time... Did you really believe that I wanted to kill you that day? No, no...” Damon whined, now looking as though her incompetence had annoyed him. His other hand still had his wand and it pointed to her chest in case Mary had the urge to pull anything funny with the one that she held herself. “Do you know how many times I’ve watched a knife run through a person’s throat? How many times I’ve seen them bleed to death at my feet?” He spoke softly, close to her face. The admission he was offering meant nothing to him at the moment. “If I’d wanted you dead, I would have made sure of it. But you... never you. All you got was a... little cut and a pretty little scar that you’ll have forever to remind you of our precious time together.” A sneer and he let go of her.
“I can’t believe you’d think me so boring. Not ALL pitiful, little mudbloods ought to die...”
