A/N: Short little .. mini thing .. i wrote on Scabior one day. Rated T to be safe. Disclaimer: None of this is mine and it belongs to J.K. Rowling.
There was nothing in the world that Scabior loved more than his job. Most men had jobs behind desks; working long hours sifting through paper and letting their bodies slowly waste away. But not Scabior, no, his job was filled with peril and excitement at all hours of the day. When he wasn't searching the wood for another witch or wizard gone astray, he was receiving endless amounts of galleons for each of his catches. He was a snatcher, and he was brilliant at it.
Nothing would amuse him more than for him and his fellow snatchers to come across a lonely witch who claimed she was a half-blood and then would proceed to give him a fake name. Those catches always gave him more thrill, for Scabior loved the thrill of the chase, he loved having something to solve, a mystery to unravel. Of course, he wasn't a bookworm of any sorts. If he had a problem, he would simply use the Cruciatus curse. He had discovered that people had a distinct intolerance to pain.
Plus he loved to hear them scream, but that was just a bonus.
And as they lay on the ground, bloodied and broken, he would whisper in their ears.
Every unlucky witch or wizard that crossed his path had received a different message, but all had an underlying implication: It's hopeless. Give up.
And every so often, to a witch that crossed his path: You're mine.