How I Met:

your mother, death, destroyer of worlds

thebluefrenchhorn

"Scotch? You're not honestly choosing that, are you?" An accented voice—American, Hariel noted, of course the pub asshole is an American—spoke, prematurely interrupting her order. She swung her head to the right, elbows digging into the alcohol-stained counter for balance as her hair whipped to the side in a flurry of curls. Demurely, she gazed up beneath her messy fringe, her lips curling into a small pout just as Lavender had taught her.

"I'm sorry did you say something?" she asked politely. While she wasn't nearly as talented as her blonde friend when it came to playing this card, her voice was soft and tinged with just the right amount of confusion to be believable. Of course, the haughty expression decorating the stranger's face was also a boon. The pompous assholes were always the most fun to let down.

Sure, he was certainly pretty enough to back up such arrogance, pale eyes set against dark waves and fair skin in an undeniably attractive manner. But, Hariel knew how to handle pretty; could manage it with the deft hand of a professional bullshitter. Not that this was very surprising. Having had to interact with Draco Malfoy for nearly a decade, she had compiled a virtually perfect cheat sheet for dealing with entitled assholes and while, yes, those were years of her life she was never getting back, they undoubtedly payed off in situations like this.

"Are you alright, sir?" she pressed, taking in his bewildered expression. His surprise wasn't obvious per se, but if there was one thing that boarding school had taught her (and that's exactly what Hogwarts truly was: a glorified boarding school turned warzone), it was how to read the many faces of drama. A slightly quirked eyebrow here, a thinning of the lips there? It was painfully obvious that her pretty stranger had little experience with kindness, even if it was of the fake variety. It's hard to come up with witty quips, isn't it? she mused, muffling her snicker with the sleeve of her sweater. Especially, when you're stuck arguing with yourself.

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine," the American began confidently and wasn't that cute? He was trying to center himself. "Just a little surprised. I assumed you were going to stay a bit closer to home, flip through the latest fruity concoctions until you inevitably settle upon the Cosmopolitan we all knew you were going to choose."

"You know, misogyny is a lovely color on you." Hariel's smile was all teeth, her thin frame teetering precariously upon the rickety barstool as she kicked her legs forward absentmindedly. "Really compliments your charming disposition."

She picked up her drink, a half-filled glass of scotch recently deposited before her by the bartender, swirling the golden liquid with a lazy flick of her wrist. Oh, he looks like he swallowed a lemon. How wonderful.

While it was true that nothing was quite as satisfying as a good ol' Bat-Bogey Hex, this was certainly a close second.

Damon knew he was an asshole. He relished in it, embracing his characterization with a flourish that so few individuals in the supernatural community truly appreciated. Stefan hadn't. Of course, Stefan didn't appreciate most things, instead preferring to live in the unending torture that was his existence. Honestly, that boy was strange even by vampire standards. The last time Damon had checked up on him (January 1979, a wonderful month spent painting Saint Stefan's life into a living hellscape), he had been relying on a middle aged pen pal to guide him to the holy truth of veganism or whatever the vampire equivalent was. Damon didn't quite care to analyze the technicalities of the whole thing.

And, if he was being honest with himself, Damon had gone into the pub looking for a fight, his patience fraying from his thwarted abduction attempt of some ditzy brunette and her friend. Apparently, the police in England were actually competent, a holistically new experience that he did not recommend for any of his American drinking buddies. European vampires sure had it rough.

Case in point: he was hungry, he was pissed, and if making some underage British twit cry would make him feel better, he was going to do his damn best to make sure she was filling buckets with her tears. But, no, instead of being cowed by the intimidating figure he cut, little miss redhead decided to flirt. Apparently, teenage Brits were into some Lolita shit.

Damon could work with that. Especially, if it meant getting a replacement meal for the two he lost earlier. Of course, things didn't end up going that way. Unfortunately, the redhead was defective, thoroughly convinced of his charms up until the moment that she spontaneously decided she wasn't.

This wasn't how the game worked. He was the asshole and the other person was the one who had to deal with it.

"Honestly, for someone who appears to make a habit of insulting women, you're rather awful at it." she continued and, Jesus, had homicide never appeared more glorious.

"Yes, yes, wonderful comeback. Many applause," Damon responded sardonically. "Doesn't change the fact that you're a bit young to be drinking, aren't you? Now, I'm not quite sure how you convinced buster here to serve you," he jabbed his thumb in the direction of their world weary bartender. The poor excuse of a human bloodbag looked like he was only a few derogatory comments away from ending it all. "But, I'm not buying it."

"What did you do?" he pressed, leaning in with a sly smile. "A conveniently placed nip slip?"

Almost instantly, the girl scooted backwards, her features morphing to accommodate her freshly arrived upon disgust. "No, although I could say the same about you." she bit out.

Damon smirked. I've been doing this for over two centuries, sweetheart. You shouldn't have even tried. "Now, I don't believe that's true," he said, waving his finger pointedly, glass of scotch swirling around in his other hand like a maelstrom of gold. "Because I'm twenty-four and you don't look a day over seventeen. I don't need to stoop to seducing my server to receive an alcholic beverage."

"That's not what I did."

"It's alright. A girl's got to eat, doesn't she?" Damon continued, reveling in the angry breaths his companion began to release.

"You know what? I am done with your bullshit." her eyes were hard now, peering into his own like angry little specks.

"And what exactly are you going to do about it, darling. Call me a sexist pig for the second time?" Damon put his hand over his heart dramatically. "I'm hurt."

It was in that moment, that a switch seemed to be flipped, the atmosphere between the two of them changing almost instantaneously as a deveatating smirk slid across the redhead's face. She clucked her tongue, almost mockingly and though she wore a ridiculously oversized sweater, one that practically consumed her small form, her presence seemed to almost dwarf his for that brief second.

"Ah, but looks can be deceiving," she murmured, voice a soft whisper. "You'd know a lot about that wouldn't you, Mr. Vampire?"

Author's Note: God bless Tsume_Yuki for adding 'Hariel' to list of potential fem!Harry names. She has singlehandedly saved the fandom.

Disclaimer: Format loosely based off of the one used in That One Night.