for someone that despises death eaters and everything they stood for, emma spent a lot time wandering among them and cozying up to the occasional scum. but rarely did she wander with her face unveiled in public, crowded areas that might result in people talking. she was, after all a well respected quidditch player on the field and had a reputation to uphold in front of the scenes. but that never stopped her from daring to play the devil’s game time and time again. it was an inescapable addiction. she loved venturing on the dark side, bringing herself closer to reaching her goal.
having stepped into the bar minutes before the conversation came to a close, emma was perked up on a stool, drink in hand, curiously eavesdropping on hushed whispers. she’d always preferred potions to spells, but the allure of darkness was something that never ceased to draw her in. she did her utter best to ignore the unsolicited attention from greedy, walking cliches attempting to make a move at her, not in the slightest interested.
then, as a hand slid onto her shoulder, the poised beauty growled and slammed her nearly finished glass into the table, caring little about the scene she stirred.
“ if you don’t remove grimy hand from me, i will TAKE it from you.” she hissed with eyes narrowed to slits, glaring at the male with a feral look in her gaze.
“ so, I suggest before you allow me to make a fool out of you in front of the rest of your vile bunch of hooligans, you LEAVE.”
Already sliding her unexposed hand into the depths of her robe pocket, grasping onto the knife she kept on her person, she waited for them to either leave or make a scene, now entirely distracted from the scene between the two males coming to a close.
Hencher lopes away with his handsome remuneration, his gait stilted but steady; he tends to favor his right leg and swings his arm out as if it’s heavy and lifeless, a burden. The death eater finds it curious that the man can swallow his pride and self-respect long enough to remain in Mulciber’s dubious employ. It’s either a sign of pure strength or sniveling weakness, considering Meric is the reason he shuffles so severely when he walks. The crowd closes in around the conspicuous figure and Meric’s black eyes fall down to preserved parchment, his fingertips running lovingly along the charmed script. His focus is shattered — a delicate sheet of fine crystal — when a woman’s serpentine threat paralyzes the room.
Meric turns in his chair, the grimoire momentarily forgotten, to observe the drama unfolding at the other end of the room. It isn’t abnormal to see someone accosted with an air of lasciviousness within these shrouded walls — however, it’s often well-received. Darkness breathes darkness and exhales something vile; a perfect, revolving circle of depravity and iniquitousness. Her tempestuous words conjure a smirk out of him; her harsh tone alone could break the lech’s crooked fingers.
He stands, tucking the dilapidated tome into his breast pocket, and crosses with the soundless conviction of a predator. It’s unclear if those in the room part ways at the mere suggestion of his movement ( cutting like a black river ) or if some unspoken spell bends them away like trees bowing in a violent storm. He bears no loyalty to the woman ( though her face is familiar to him ) and he harbors no real ill will toward the man who assaulted her, but he’s been itching for a reason to hurt someone. Might as well be in defense of someone else.
A gnarled blackthorn instrument is drawn from his robes and the grooves in his palm welcome its familiar mold. He presses its insidious point against the small of the perpetrator’s back and the crinkle of ice unfolds in a sheet upon his skin without warning — a frostbitten membrane that draws the blush from his cheeks, the pink from his lips. It creeps along the man’s spine and arrests his joints until all that he can move are the yolks of his eyes which swim, round and round, inside his skull. Meric lifts his jaw and wraps his own fingers around the set he’s frozen — the set which gripped the nameless woman’s sculpted shoulder. He squeezes and the digits crunch and splinter like glass. Pieces of him skitter across the floor.
“There,” he remarks, tiling his head and turning his foreboding gaze on the woman opposite. “I don’t think he could look any more foolish, but you’re welcome to try.”
