Being more of a spell inventor rather than dealing with paperwork for the committee. As for marriage I don’t know.
OOC: Mary is rarely frustrated unless she is in a cranky mood from lack of sleep and has to deal with ridiculous proposals for new spells, but she won’t complain. It’s part of the job, so she puts up with it. However, Mary does become frustrated with herself. Particularly when she is experiencing an episode or hallucination. She struggles with the fact she is losing control and falling away from reality. Mary wants to learn to control her mind, snap out of moods or delusions whenever she’s aware of them, but she resorts to extremes that result in physical injuries or regrets. It’s as if the crazy surrounding her is affecting her mental health more than it does to the others, and she doesn’t like that.
Just about everything.
Goodness, I can eat canned peaches for the rest of my days.
Truly you don’t understand my love for them or else you’d haven’t asked that question.
Date: July 14, 1978
Location: Gibson hall, London Time: 11:35 pm
Alecto almost smiled as the blonde woman came running through the hall, her hair whipping about her like some sort of broken halo. A witch, no doubt; what sort of a Muggle would still be willingly roaming the halls now? Wide-eyed. Innocent. Perfect. A lamb to the slaughter. No. No, she had to remind herself. She needed a way out. She needed to leave. Disposing of her way out would most certainly not do. She forced a little sniffle for good measure.
She pulled her knees up to her chest as she came closer, pressing herself further into the wall and peering out at her between the strands of hair falling over her face. She would have to be the lamb this time. Not a muggle, of course; she’d have to be obliviated. No. A sixth year then, Hufflepuff. Frail. Pathetic. Weak. Another sniffle. A wobble of the chin.
“Th-They came running in a-and they had their wands out and they had these m-masks. I was trying-…” she paused as she hiccuped again, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, smearing her makeup across the white material, “…trying to run, a-and one of them jumped out and-…” she trailed off again, pulling up the hem of her skirt to show her the burn.
She took a moment to appreciate the beauty of her work, her smooth, porcelain skin now mangled and bloodied, burning an angry red. Her flesh was twisted into tiny mountains and valleys, the skin around it peeling back to reveal the tissue underneath. Yes, she decided, it was beautiful, and for a moment, the pain danced on the threshold of pleasure, performing little pirouettes and leaps as it twirled and tumbled across the line. Who were they, after all, to decide which was which?
She shook herself out of her little daydreams, pulling her knees closer to her as she willed a new set of tears to flood her eyes. “It-…it’s them isn’t it? The Death Eaters? You-Know-Who?” She paused for effect, digging her nails into her legs as another sob wracked her frame. She would have to move faster; the tears that had gathered prior were fast running out. “What do they want from us? Why?”
The wailing of sirens and screams enwrapped her with chaos. Lingering bodies continued to stagger out from the Gibson Hall, but she assumed most of the muggles probably ran off in a fit of confusion and overwhelming fear. Mary quickly assessed the surroundings, noted a few laid on the ground. Whether they were dead or injured, she couldn’t tell, and there was no desire to find out. Why hadn’t they sent more to help? Were they all battling inside? No commotion came from inside, but very little could be heard over the panic. Suddenly, she didn’t understand her placed within the Order. Dumbledore called on her help, her hospitality, he didn’t expect much more. He didn’t expect her to run into the front lines, unlike the others. Her current presence wasn’t necessary. Should she head home or help from the sidelines?
Emotions simmered over their capacity as her thoughts weighed with the guilt she carried for the victims and her cowardice. All that Gryffindor bravery, where was it? Mary was a shame to her house, and whenever she became involved with the Order it only validated the suggestion. So much was at stake and her fears that the war will strip her bare of everything she loves, won over any pride she developed while being part of Hogwarts.
One thing at a time, Mary.
Mary would do good by those she could, starting with the redheaded child. She placed a tender hand on her slim shoulder, directing her mind to focus on the girl. Her eyes lowered to her injury, a burn.
"I’m so sorry you had to endure that. Understand that you are safe now. I wouldn’t let them come near you once again," she assured her in response. She watched helpless as the girl sobbed and asked question Mary wasn’t willing to answer. "It’s over now," Mary knew it was a lie. It was a horrible thing to say to her, since the war was far from being done with and she couldn’t guarantee the girl immunity to future casualties or injuries because of the conflict. Mary needed her to remain with her, remain present, and false comfort was all she could offer.
Mary examined the injury. The blood fresh, seeping out, twisting like vines with thorns stretching to cut through her pale skin. The severity of the injury was serious. Mary wasn’t sure if it was within her capabilities to heal it without the possibility of scarring. "I can perform a spell, but if your not comfortable with that idea I can get you medical attention - anesthetic, bandages. It’ll heal just as fine," she suggested. Then thought it was ridiculous to prioritize vanity over anything.
"How severe is your pain?" Mary asked. She pulled out her wand, hovering it over the burn, still hesitant in her actions. "if it worsens let me know," Mary inhaled deeply before waving her wand, "Tergeo," she clearly spoke. The spell cleaned the injury of the fresh blood, leaving the wound a raw color of pink. "Vulnera sanentur,” she said with another wave of her wand. For a moment Mary believed it didn’t work, but slowly the cracked flesh mended. “How does that feel?”
Startled from reviewing the photographs he’d taken, Fenrir’s head whipped around to catch a flash of brilliant blond in the distance. He’d been found—no. Someone, possibly a Death Eater, had caught him… he was… vulnerable. What a disgusting word, yet maddeningly appropriate descriptor nonetheless.
Sharing this part of his life was nonnegotiable, and despite his precautions, he had never actually been caught in the act. The act being his photography, or in Ireland. It gave him a sense of normalcy he liked to believe about himself when he took such measures; bringing an extra pair of clothing, cleaning his home, setting out water and biscuits for that damned stray dog that insisted on wandering to his back door when it sought food, shielding his little life in Cork from the world—a pretense of commonality that helped keep the vortex swirling inside him, threatening to engulf his life, at moderate peace. These measures aided in keeping up the facade that he wasn’t truly the monster he knew to be residing deeply within him. But now it was shattered. Blown to Frankfurt, back, and across the pond to the worthless wastes of existence that resided in the Americas. His only course of action would be to—
His instincts snapped to attention as he tipped his head back, nostrils flared and eyes closed, to take in the trenchant scent of blood. Apparently his spy was clumsy… clumsy, blond, and a woman. Was he familiar with any blond women with these characteristics? None beyond Narcissa, and it was highly unlikely that she would seek solace or retreat in a random forest in Ireland without Lucius, and all of her moves were pedantically calculated. Fenrir ran a quick catalogue of the people he knew, and came up with nothing. If she wasn’t a Death Eater, or anyone else he’s was somewhat familiar with, then she was an outsider. Expendable. After the few days he’d had, a nice shag and chat would do him wonders, and by chat he wasn’t completely sure he meant with actual words. It had been ages since he’d used a knife on a victim…
Fenrir quickly turned off his camera, cast a protective stasis charm around it, then shrunk it. No need in mudding it in this. Turning quietly on bare feet, he began to move towards the origin of his sighting. He made certain that his moves wouldn’t elicit any sounds or warnings to his approach; the foundation of hunt was always centered around stealth and agility, qualities he held in spades.
Slowly entering the little area she’d using as refuge, Fenrir was struck with an odd sense of déjà vu. Her scent was familiar, a fact that he had noticed, and ignored it as a trick of the senses, but the child-like innocence in her cherubic face was unforgettable.
"You’re not real."
Her. The foolish bint who’d dare question their power. He’d promised himself and Wolf a later date, and luckily something in the Merlin-forsaken universe, had taken his statement and given her to him. Them. Her innocence was beckoning his hand to mar its beauty. Turn her frightened rosy cheeks a startling red, and force the breezy lilt to her voice into a maddening cry for sexual release… a cry for sanctity from his attentive clutches. Fenrir inhaled thickly as the imagery and scent of her life force gave him a rush.
"We meet again." He smiled down at her, watching a myriad of emotions flash across her face as the rummaging through her bag halted. Oh. She probably didn’t recognize him. They had met in completely different circumstances, after all. "Fenrir Greyback. We met a short while ago. You petted me, and I didn’t kill you upon contact. Does that pull forth any memories?” Fenrir allowed a smirk to thin his lips as recognition dawned.
"Yes. Me. The wolf." Fenrir’s attention was diverted from her doe-like eyes to the small wound in her hand. “Give me." Fenrir held out his hand in expectation and waited for her to acquiescence or attempt an escape.
Honestly, the wizarding-kind was all very much alike. Their preferences, their lack of integrity and pride—truly astounding and anger inducing. Despite his musings, Fenrir had plans for this one. He sensed that she wasn’t completely like her spineless kind, but different. That didn’t necessarily mean he wouldn’t strike without provocation, it simply meant he was intrigued by her and wanted to see how further interaction went. Did she know of his track-record? It was certainly impossible not to with how integral a role he played in the massacre and estrangement of her people.
Calling his attention back to the situation, Fenrir tired of waiting and roughly pulled her to a standing position and took her hand in his. It looked to be a relatively severe splinter wound with bark coating around it. He began to clean the area with one large thumb and a surprisingly gentle caress, then brought her hand to his lips and looked directly into her eyes as he whispered across her palm.
"My saliva has healing properties, but my bite… a pure form of rebirth." Fenrir began to lick away the small traces of blood on her hand, all the while watching her reaction and ignoring her obvious desire to fight his actions. This was his game and he’d play it to his liking. He had nothing to lose, and she was ultimately expendable. A civilian witch. Entertainment for the night that he would have to dispose of at some point for her knowledge of things that were national treasures.
While looking through the contents of her bag she realized it carried nothing to medically aid her wound. It was filled with irrelevant items like toiletries, pajamas, and sketching materials. Mary thrust each object back into its place. Although she did not have the ability to foresee the incident, it angered Mary that she was not prepared. She hated splinters. She hated her visits home. She hated how her life was not how she expected it to be. Without realizing so her fingers pressed on the thick slice of wood and expanded the depths of the hollowed wound. The pain sung a faded melody, a distant harsh cadence played on taunt strings. Before the sensation could swell in an upsurge it was interrupted by a greeting. Mary quickly tossed her eyes upon the colossal man as she slowly released the tension in her hand.
His smile was not one to warm the heart of intruders, it was mocking the fact that she was such a small thing in comparison to him. Was he sharing a private joke with himself? The manner in which he gazed down upon her and his cryptic hello leaded her to believe it. Mary held no recollection of meeting a Fenrir Greyback. Her eyes widened, highlights of white illuminating her vision as if she recognized the name, but it was her utter shock at the word petted. Mary burned with embarrassment as she realized the implications in his statement.
Kill me upon contact. What sort of nights am I not remembering?
At his mention of wolf she inhaled a sharp breath. Mary remained still while her mind raced back to that horrifying meet near Gibson Hall. She convinced herself it could not be real, such things could not exist even in a wizard’s world, could it? No matter how long she suppressed the idea of it coming for her once again the moment was here and it was nothing like she dreaded it would be. Mary attempted piecing together parts of that night, to understand what was real and what was part of her mind materializing her insanity. Yet the creature was a fragment she could never grasp, but there was proof that she was not as imaginative as she thought.
Mary released her breath as his rough arms plucked her body from the ground, like she were light as a dandelion. Then he cupped her injured hand, calmly fondling the splinter and removing it with ease. She was impressed with his skills. Mary was not lacking of knowledge about healing, she acquired a sufficient or rather competent understanding of it, but when it came to healing her own wounds it seemed that was the most difficult and agonizing of tasks. His hot breath reeled her back. She tried prying her hand away from him, but his grip was firm as it was expected from him.
"Th-that won’t be necessary. It’ll heal fine without—-” despite her protest he did what he wished. Her brow scrunched in confusion and disgust. What healing properties could saliva have? It was just that — saliva, complete with germs and possible infections if put into an open cut. Mary watched his tongue slid over her hand, cleaning the blood. Her eyes met his. She forgot of his tongue tracing the lines of her palm. She focused entirely on his familiar grey eyes. Their slit shape and translucent coloring, the clear water filling his irises faded with the whites surrounding them. It was those same eyes she looked into days ago.
It was real.
Mary slowly closed her hand, pulled her arm away as she hesitantly stepped back. It was no use escaping, he would transform into the hunter he hid and track her down with ease. Maybe running would only anger him. Mary was stuck. She did not know how far she stood from Kenmare and what part of Cork she was lost in. Mary calmed the frantic pattering on her chest as she came to terms with her situation. her fingers sought to pressed down on the wound, but there was no melody for distraction. She opened her fist, revealing her closing wound.
"Oh, thank you," her tone was relieved and disbelieving. Mary then meet his eyes once again, remembering another thing," And thank you for not killing me that night."
Her words were hesitant, fear was evident in her shaking hands, but Mary felt it was called for. She didn’t know how separate the man and beast were or how much control he had over those instincts, but she understood she was an open and vulnerable target. Mary could have suffered through unforgiving agony if Fenrir decided on allowing the primitive intuition to overcome his senses, and for that she had to thank him.
omg you love her crazy. you just loved me down ic and ooc and in caps lock. it’s too late night for this kind of love. i’ve been staring at this like lol quit playing. oh, shit i’m tearing up. i don’t know why i’m getting emotional. i’m sorry. i want you to understand how serious i am. that’s why i’m using lower case.
that gif is me right now. JFC