Greyback grunted and rolled over in his sleep. He was in an almost-underground bunker, in a tiny room hidden from the main part of the werewolf metropolis. The room had a bare wooden floor, covered in mud, a cabinet and his bed. The door led into the tunnels outside. It was like a giant rabbits' warren; they ran in a winding maze deep in the earth. The passageway outside his door led steeply down. Greyback's room was the nearest to the surface, because he liked the sunlight, and he got to decide how things were. Half his empire was down here, hidden from wizarding society at large, and most of them had forgotten what the sunlight was like. They came out only at night, to steal food, to gather supplies, to terrorise wizards for the fun of it. The other had had set up camps in various villages and cities across Britain, and they were finding a much more productive use of their time now that they had been enlisted by the Dark Lord.
Greyback was having a pleasant dream. In it, he was seated at the head of a banquet table, gorging himself on chicken and beef and other, unidentified, meats. He smiled into his badly-stained pillow. Things were going well for him at the moment. The Dark Lord - or You-Know-Who, as he was referred to (the werewolves were not allowed to speak his name) - had returned. Greyback didn't much like You-Know-Who. He thought he was a bit full of himself, and Greyback thought he was much scarier. Greyback's army wasn't listening to him under coercion, either. But You-Know-Who had a powerful following nonetheless, and was offering a lot of money, and had promised Greyback that if he joined forces with him, he would provide him with prey. Greyback wasn't going to refuse such a bargain, especially since over the years the thrill of the chase had been lost. He was delighted at the prospect of free meals - though of course they were not entirely free. You-Know-Who wanted Greyback to dispatch werewolves whenever he wanted to scare someone, and sometimes, he wanted Greyback to do the scaring himself. Greyback resented being told what to do, but he did appreciate that when he was told to 'scare' someone, he usually got a bite or two of one of their children.
Under the new laws that You-Know-Who had managed to get the Ministry of Magic to bring into place, Muggle-borns - or Mudbloods, as the proper term was now considered - were to be ejected from the magical world and made to live in the Muggle one. Then the Muggles would be subjected to the wizards' rule - and then, Greyback would often add silently when he thought about these plans, he would kill You-Know-Who and the werewolves would take over. He was careful not to think this around You-Know-Who, though. He'd been told that he and several of his inner circle were skilled Legilimens.
Naturally, Mudbloods were no longer allowed to attend their work or school, but most of them proved rather unwilling to hand in their wands and live as Muggles. Many, then, had been imprisoned or killed, and a lot of others had gone on the run. The Ministry of Magic wanted these runaways caught and rounded up, and had (rather tentatively, he noted) approached Greyback to help do this.
Greyback was perfectly willing - after all, he couldn't resist holding people at his mercy, and the Ministry of Magic had told him he'd also have a team of Snatchers under his control. 'Snatching', they called the job. It seemed a fairly appropriate term to Greyback. No bells or whistles. Greyback couldn't stand bells or whistles. The team hadn't been finalised yet, but Greyback had been assured he would soon be notified who he was to work with. Life was going pretty well for him at the moment, so he was rather enjoying his happy dream.
The bliss was disrupted, however, by the door banging open and the short curtains being flung apart. Sunlight, too golden and much too bright, streamed in, and Greyback groaned, not yet ready to be woken. He would kill whoever it was later. He buried his face into the pillow and growled.
"Come on, then," said a familiar voice. Like the sunlight, it was too bright, and too enthusiastic, and Greyback shuddered inwardly as it dragged him from his state of hazy half-sleep. It was Scabior's voice.
Greyback turned his head slightly, peering at the man through one eye. Scabior had been released from Azkaban recently, but he seemed to have gotten his joviality back rather quickly. He was wearing ridiculous red trousers and had his hair tied up in a ribbon - a ribbon, for God's sake. That was exactly the kind of extravagance Greyback loathed, and Greyback loathed many things. He muttered something along the lines of "fuky'msleep'n" and shut his eyes, trying to ignore Scabior. He knew it had been a bad idea to ever give the boy directions to his quarters. He wasn't even a werewolf. He just sympathised, and not very well.
"C'mon," said Scabior, and tried to tug the blanket away from him. Greyback snarled murderously and pulled it around him tighter. Fucker. He would have to tear his throat out later. "It's a beautiful day!" Scabior continued, letting go of the blanket. Greyback heard his boots stomping over to the window again. "The birds're singin', the trees're swayin' - and I've got some good news."
"Really? What's that?" Greyback muttered into his pillow, hoping it was the invention of some torture device that he could use on Scabior when the opportunity presented itself.
"Won't tell you unless you get up," said Scabior, infuriatingly smug.
Greyback raised his head blearily to look at him, squinting with eyes still not used to the light of day. Scabior gave him a little smile, and Greyback, realising he wasn't going to go away and there was little point in trying to return to sleep now, heaved himself up into a sitting position. It wasn't easy, because he was drowsy, and sluggish, and enormous.
"There you go," cooed Scabior, as Greyback rubbed his eyes. "That weren't so 'ard, were it?"
"Get on with it," mumbled Greyback, "and then get out."
"I," said Scabior, and puffed his chest out importantly, jubilantly, "'ave been made an official Snatcher."
Greyback gaped at him, unable to find words. He had to be lying. He had to be. "But-You're useless," he managed eventually.
Scabior's face fell, and he frowned. "Well, someone seems to think I'd be good at it," he said resentfully.
"Someone thinks, for some reason, I'm not likely to kill you," said Greyback, slowly, and yawned.
"Exactly," said Scabior, perking up again, and Greyback rolled his eyes. "It'll be fun, won't it?" he said. Greyback swung his legs over the side of the bed and began to stretch. "You 'n' me... and a bunch of the lads, out campin', drinkin', swappin' stories. Endless rewards," he added. "So c'mon, let's get ready to go. Get your glad rags on!" He paused, staring, as Greyback stood up, and the blanket fell away from his lap."Or at least get somethin' on," he amended. "And get a shower, mate, 'cause you bloody stink."
He turned to leave. "Scabior," said Greyback, and he halted. "If you wake me up again, I will kill you."
"Yeah, alright," said Scabior. "Just don't do it naked, 'cause that ain't 'ow I wanna be remembered."
Written for the Pairing Diveristy Boot Camp with the prompt 'glad rags' and the OTP Boot Camp with the prompt 'jubilant'.