1pm

Taking one of the empty seats, Moira set her stack of books on the small table next to her so she might peruse them before deciding which ones she would purchase.  There were spell books, and the newest books on healing potions in her stack.  She was always looking for ways to expand her knowledge.  However, she did not choose one of those from the stack.  Instead she picked up the only fiction work amongst them, a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets.

It was her mother's favorite, and she was pleased to find a copy so close to her birthday.  It would make a wonderful gift as her mother's copy was slowly falling apart from age and use.  As a child she had listened to her mother read from the book nearly every evening.

Settling back, she scanned the contents, trying to decide which one to begin with.

((Hope you don't mind! Marc needs some face time))

Marc was playing a waiting game, a very dangerous waiting game considering the deep cut gracing his forearm. It was threatening to bleed out any moment, the blood stopping spell he placed on it growing weaker by the moment. He had never been very good at 'white' magic like healing, having thrown himself completely into the darker realm, and the wand he stole off the man who's home he was residing in was not used to Marc's control. He needed a healer, but Mungo's was out of the question.

Which was why he was following her. He didn't know her name. Didn't actually care to. He just knew that she worked for St. Mungos and was walking around Diagon alone. He stalked her into Flourish and Blotts and was currently waiting for her to shift behind some bookcases so he could approach without anyone seeing. When she finally went to the small muggle book section, his chance appeared.

Strolling up to her, Marc glanced around to make sure no one was watching, before he stepped in front of her. "Silencio" He hissed as his wand flashed out, leveling at her throat as his bulk closed off the exit, trapping her in her chair. "You are coming with me. Don't try anything funny, or I promise it will be your last..." He stared down at her, unblinking, as a cold leer touched his thin lips. She was prettier up close, he though,  maybe that evening would provide entertainment as well.

Moira looked up, eyes wide as the spell hit her, leaving her unable to answer.  There was a man before her suddenly, blocking her exit from the chair, his wand at her throat.  She groaned internally, unable to believe the past few days.  First to be followed yesterday to the Leaky Cauldron and now this.  She wondered if she had some sort of sign on her inviting in trouble.

She could only nod at his request, slowly setting aside her book and then standing.  She moved in a slow, cautious manner, not wanting him to suddenly think she was up to something.  Her hands were starting to shake slightly as the fear set in, but she pushed it aside as she waited for whatever was to come next.

Her compliance, calm and collected, irritated him a little. Sure he said he didn't want her to struggle, but secretly, he would have liked a little more apprehension on her part. He must not have been frightening enough, an idea that infuriated him. As she stood, Marc moved aside just enough for her to stand fully. Before she could attempt to run, however, he traded his wand to his bad arm and grasped her bicep in an almost vice-like grip. Pulling her close enough so he could have control, Marc brushed her hair behind her ear with his wand and leaned over.

"If you even move a muscle in the wrong direction, I will gut you like fish" He hissed against her ear. His voice was calm and smooth, but there was a hint of danger and hidden rage in the way he said it. With this, he pulled her roughly towards the entrance, smiling lightly at the rather uninterested clerk who only glanced up briefly from her book as they passed. The moment they stepped foot out of the shop, Marc apparated without warning, taking her along.

The place they apparated too was a decrepit mansion in the countryside with its windows boarded up and the lawn over grown so thickly that one needed a machete to find the front door. They, thankfully, apparated inside, though the interior wasn't much better. The old man was obviously wealthy, since there were still antiques furniture and elegant trappings filling the rooms. However, so was piles of junk and layers of dust. Marc had practically been forced to blast the place apart in order to find the old coot. Pulling her into the parlor, where he had cleaned it up enough to make a semi livable area, Marc tossed her on the love seat he had been using as a bed. Pulling out his wand, he stood in front of her.

"I'm going to release the spell now, but don't try anything funny. There are so many spells on this place that you have no hopes of escaping, so I wouldn't bother." He snarled, waving his wand with a short flick and a muttered release spell, releasing her silence. He then added " And if you do, I will kill you before you find the front door." His tone wasn't malicious or threatening, in fact, it was though he was stating a fact more then a threat. With this being said, he suddenly moved to his shirt, stripping it off.

He didn't think about the implications of him kidnapping her, tossing her on what amounted to his bed, and removing clothing. Nor did he think about it as he turned to her and advanced towards her menacingly. It wasn't until he was standing in front of her, glaring down at her petite form, did he say "You're a healer... Fix it" he pointed to the gaping wound in his arm, which was already starting to bleed at the edges where the spell had weakened and broke.

(( Godmodding was approved, though I hope it is allright ))

((Perfectly Ok))

When he grabbed a hold of her arm, Moira was thankful for the silencing charm because she would have surely cried out in pain as he pulled her to him.  She allowed him to lead her out of the shop, keeping her face masked in calmness.  She would do what he asked for now, not wanting to risk anything too rash.

The apparation took her by surprise, leaving her feeling a bit dizzy and unsteady on her feat when they appeared in the dusty, cluttered room.  It looked as though where they were had not actually be inhabited by and owner in years.  It took all her concentration not to fall as he roughly pulled her towards the love seat and tossed her down onto it.

"I'm going to release the spell now, but don't try anything funny. There are so many spells on this place that you have no hopes of escaping, so I wouldn't bother."

She nodded slightly, still trying to recover her bearings.  She was relieved when the spell was finally lifted.  At least now she could actually respond to him with something other then a nod.

"And if you do, I will kill you before you find the front door."

His held no threat and she was about to make a verbal response, but it died on her lips as she looked up at him to realize he was removing his shirt.  A true fear settled in as to what his plan for might actually be, and her body began to tremble slightly as he moved towards her.

"You're a healer... Fix it"

Her eyes traveled down to his arm, and the trembling suddenly stopped as instinct took over.  The wound was deep, and whatever spell had been used was weakening.  Another half hour and he probably would have found himself much worse off.

"Bloody hell," she breathed, reaching out and gently taking a hold of his arm to examine the wound closer.  "Has this been cleaned?  Do you have any supplies here?"

She was trembling and Marc couldn't help the cold sneer that touched his lips. That was better. The lack of fear had been bothering him and he had been close to doing something drastic to earn it. that was until she switched gears, again, and grabbed his arm. Pain shot through it and he grit his teeth, trying to keep from lashing out. She was collected again and Marc felt the distinct impression of mothering in her tone. A growl rose in the back of his throat as she prodded the wound.

"Bloody hell, Has this been cleaned?  Do you have any supplies here?"

Marc's temper flared instantly, her questions feeling a little more accusatory then he would have liked. In fact, he would have preferred no questions at all. Yanking his arm  from her, he snarled angrily "No of course not. I smeared pig shite in there for good $@%&ing measure..." He puncuated his words with various curses as he grabbed her by the front of her shirt and pulled her close, his eyes boring hard into hers. "You have a wand don't you? Just fix it or I will fix you." He didn't know how many times he had to reitterate this fact before he needed to remove a body part to prove it.

Moira cried out slightly as he pulled her towards him by her shirt, feeling her own temper threaten to boil over.  She was forced here against her will, and was expected to work with little or no supplies.  He was obviously not aware of the basics of healing, and she checked her temper so she would not make things worse.

"If I merely wave my wand over this and heal the actual wound it could be come infected," she explained, trying to keep her tone even despite the fact she was trembling again.  "Within twenty four hours you could be so ill that you would be forced to come out of hiding and go to St. Mungo's or die."

She wasn't trying to be difficult.  Even in this situation she would not do her job only half way and put his life at risk.  She didn't care who he was or what he had done.  She took her healer's oath seriously and she would not break it.

"Is there at least running water here?" she asked, her tone soft, trying not to sound patronizing in any way.  "I can make do with that and some soap."

"If I merely wave my wand over this and heal the actual wound it could be come infected, Within twenty four hours you could be so ill that you would be forced to come out of hiding and go to St. Mungo's or die."

She had a good point, which was infuriating to say the least. Marc didn't appreciate some upstart little wench preaching to him about magic. He knew what Magic was capable of. He had spent most of his life, minus the ten years he was imprisoned, studying it, practicing it, finessing it like a fine art. Granted, most of the magic he practiced was dark in nature, but surely white magic was easier. He glowered at her, moving towards her menacingly.

"Is there at least running water here? I can make do with that and some soap."

With a growl, Marc's hand shot forward and caught her by her throat, pulling her towards him so their faces were inches apart. "I spent.. 10 years... in a dirty.. filthy... cell in Azkaban..." He said slowly, his voice low and rough. Shaking her slightly, he squeezed her throat enough to make his point as he continued ".. If you got cut there, you sucked on the wound and licked it clean.... So unless you want to do that, I suggest.." His voice amped up here as he worked himself into a full out roar "...you  shut the hell up and FIX IT."

With that, he tossed her back onto the couch. He started to pace angrily, trying to keep from losing it and killing her, as he snarled angrily to himself. "I can't believe this... get a mediwitch he says... she can stitch ya right up he says... so I do.. and what do I get? a @$%&ing MORON..." Just as he roared the last curse, the bloodstopping spell broke and his arm burst into pain. With a grimace, he clutched the wound and fell onto a nearby chair, cursing.

As her skull came into contact with the back of the couch, Moira was relieved that it was completely cushioned.  If anything else had been behind the force would have surely rendered her unconscious.  She felt her temper finally boil over as she began to sit back up.

"And I didn't spend seven years training to be a healer to be told how..." she began, but the response died on her lips as she looked at him taking in the reason he had stopped speaking.

Rising, she moved to his side, kneeling next to him.  She had nothing to work with aside from her wand, which she retrieved from her robes as she moved.  She had to convince him to let her treat the wound properly.

"I can stop the bleeding temporarily again,"  she told him, not wanting to do anything that could cause him to become more cross with her.  "But, please, let me clean the wound.  It will only take a minute."

"I can stop the bleeding temporarily again, But, please, let me clean the wound.  It will only take a minute."

Pain was not new to Marc. He had been through a lot of it in his 30 years, from his mother practicing dark magic on him to fighting in the streets of Dublin. Pain irritated him and if anything it just mad him madder, giving him nearly super human strength to continue fighting. Beserking was a specialty of his, and one that earned him a name and a reputation amongst both muggle fighters and wizard duelers. Fortunately he was anti-social, because it didn't do much for his social life.

It took all he had not to kill her. She was supposed to be a healer, not a fool. But at pain shooting through his body made his head spin and his eyes swam with crimson tendrils as he felt the energy ebbing from his body. He had lost a lot of blood before he had placed the initial spell, and now it was just getting worse. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed her alive. Maybe, after she healed him, he could kill her. As a get well soon gift to himself.

"The kitchen is across the hall and a room down... You have two minutes or I will kill you" He managed, throwing in the threat almost offhandedly. As if she needed reminding. Clutching his wound, he attempted to keep it from spilling too much blood lest he black out before she returned. Damn women. He should have kidnapped a male healer.

With a quick wave of her wand, Moira stopped the bleeding again, using a spell similar to whatever he had used.  She was sure he had lost a lot of blood, and, as much as she was growing to detest this man, she didn't want him to die while she was gone.  She rose quickly, moving off in the direction he had pointed her, taking his warning as seriously as she could.

"I'll be right back," she said, practically running down the hall.

In the kitchen she managed to find a large bowl, a bar of soap, and, much to her relief, running hot water.  Missing, however, was any sort of clean cloth.  With a sigh, she reached down with her wand, cutting off some of the fabric from the bottom of her skirt into strips.

Taking the bowl, she returned to the other room as quickly as she could without spilling the water everywhere.  She knelt next to him again, setting the supplies down. Wetting the soap and on of the scraps of cloth, she rubbed them together.

"I suppose there's no need to tell you this will most likely sting," she said softly, concentrating on her work.

"I'll be right back,"

"Better be..." He murmured, falling back into a chair, weakened from the wound. Listening as she ran some water in the kitchen, Marc pondered his next action. He had been lightheaded from the wound and hadn't really considered what he would do after she fixed him up. Such a pretty little thing. It would be such a waste...

He had begun to ponder how he would kill her when she reappeared, pot of steaming water in hand.

"I suppose there's no need to tell you this will most likely sting,"

"Hn.." Marc grunted as she started to clean the wound, only a brief glimmer of a grimace dancing across his face showed his pain. He had to hand it to her, though, she was fast and efficient. The wound was stitched up neatly and quickly, meticulously cleaned. He would have to wrap it up later when he had some sterile cloth, but for now, just getting the gaping wound to stop bleeding was enough.

"You know... I planned on killing you after this...." He said offhandedly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye before resuming his inspection of her work. When she had finally stopped arguing and got down to business, she proved to be quite able bodied and useful. He could use someone like that to stitch him up, rather then doing a crude hack job himself that left hideous scars and infections. "... But I think I might give you the pleasure of living a bit longer...Which would you prefer: being my personal nurse or..."

He sat back and lazily pulled out his wand, training it on her. His face and voice were calm and cool, but there was a clearly malicious glint in his eyes as he watched her expression, searching for fear as he added "... Or I can take you apart piece by piece..."

When her work was finished, Moira felt the calmness start to slip away as she no longer had anything to focus her mind on.  She glanced around her for a brief moment as he spoke realizing she had no idea where she was, or who she was with.  Also, no one would miss her until tomorrow morning when she didn't show up for her shift.

"... Or I can take you apart piece by piece..."

She felt a chill go down her spine, knowing he was serious.  It was not the first time she had heard a similar threat within the last few months, and her right hand unconsciously reached up to touch the scar hidden by her hair that started just below her ear.  She felt her body start to tremble a bit, but refused to allow the fear to consume her completely as her hand dropped back to her lap.

"Obviously living would be preferable," she told him softly.

She knew he was serious in his threat, there was not a doubt in her mind.  She knew if she could get out of here alive she might be able to get help.  Yet, what would she tell someone?  She still had no name or location to give her story helpful details.

"Obviously living would be preferable,"

"Good girl..." Marc smirked, reaching out and patting her face roughly. His hand paused against her cheek, almost cradling it. But Marc was not the romantic gentle type that stroked a girls cheek. His hand slid down her cheek to her jaw, and where most men would lovingly lift a woman's face by a crooked finger under her chin, Marc grasped her whole jaw and forced her to look at him. "Now... I expect a name and an address to reach you at... And don't think of giving me a fake one because I will always be able to hunt you down...." His tone made it clear that she was nothing more then a frightened rabbit sitting unprotected in front of a famished wolf.

Releasing her face, he stood and picked up his fallen shirt, shrugging it onto his good shoulder before gingerly sliding his bad arm into the other sleeve. Not once, in the entire time, did he remove his eyes from her. Or his wand, which he had clutched in the hand of his bad arm, trained on her despite the pain it caused to raise the arm. He wasn't stupid. He had been tricked by women before when they were given the chance, and she seemed smart enough to figure out how to make a makeshift weapon from the numerous things laying about.

"Write it here." He ordered, tossing a scrap of paper and a quill whose feather had been long gone towards her. With that, he took a seat across from her and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with the tip of his wand before focusing it back on her.

Moira resisted the urge to make a snarky comment about his use of cigarettes as she picked up the quill and paper.  He seemed to be calmer now, and after his earlier display she'd almost consider this friendly.  Her hands shook a bit as she wrote, but she managed to scribble down her name and the address of her flat in a relatively legible manner.

She wondered if the charms she had put in place for her own security would hold against him.  Surely he would still find a way in, but she could hold they might slow him down and alert her that he was indeed coming to see her.  The healer in her wanted to offer her help unconditionally, knowing it was her job to do so.  The rational, law abiding side of her however, thought otherwise.

"Here," she said, tucking her wand back into a pocked of her robes, "it's correct."

She couldn't stop the shaking as she held the note out to him.  She was now to be 'stalked' in her own world as well, not just when entering the outside Muggle world.  She wondered if she'd ever have a safe haven.