Scabior didn't know much about literature, but he knew a witch who fancied herself to be the next great romantic writer of the wizarding world, and she had taught him a few things about books. It was all his fault. He liked to listen to her speak, and loved how her whole face lit up with excitement when she talked about her work, and it led her to believe that he was interested in process of writing, so she shared several tricks of the trade with him.
It's been a few years since they last saw each other, but he could still remember some of them; like how uninspired she thought starting a story by describing the weather was.
Scabior never agreed with that. Ever since he was a boy, he found the weather and its changes to be quite fascinating, and he felt more than a little disappointed when he didn't get the required amount of O.W.L.s to be able to study magic that was more advanced than the occasional Sunny Spell.
Standing by the window of his cell, he wondered if the constant wind and rain around the Isle of Azkaban was the side-effect of the Dementors, or the work of Ministry meteomagi. There was something quite unnatural about them, he was sure about that. They never ceased, but never worsened either. And when combined with the nights that never turned completely dark, they robbed Scabior of his sense of time within days after his arrival. Or weeks. He really couldn't tell.
"Two weeks?" he said to himself, as he touched his face and felt what no longer could be called just a bit of a stubble. "Two weeks." He nodded, scratching his cheek, because after a while he started making marks on the wall, and according to them he received thirty-six meals and slept about twenty-three times. Considering how often he found himself curled up on his cot, feeling too tired to move even when noises from the other side of the door disturbed his already disturbed dreams, it sounded like the right amount of food and sleep for two weeks.
Just as he was about to feel proud of himself for having more logic and mathematical skills than most wizards he knew, a pair of Dementors appeared at his door, ready to suck up that quarter of an ounce of happiness.
"Take it easy, boys," he groaned. "It wasn't much, and it's already gone," he added, clearing his throat and massaging the back of his neck as he started to feel it getting cramped up.
They stayed where they were, watching him from under their hoods.
"It's gone!" he repeated, and turned more towards the window. He hated showing them his back, but he needed the fresh air, even though it wasn't fresh at all, but cold, damp and smelling like rotting seaweed. "You can fuck off," he whispered under his breath, but he knew they would stay.
They liked to do that. Sometimes they stood in front of a cell for a few minutes, watching and sniffing, and waiting for the one inside to scream. Sometimes they even put a bony hand where it could be seen, on the bars of the window in the door, and whenever they did that, Scabior felt like they were already gripping him by the neck.
And sometimes they even stepped inside.
They unbolted the door slowly, and Scabior could tell they enjoyed how the scraping sound made a shiver run down his spine, and as the handle hit the cleat keeping the bar in place, it gave a dull, metallic thud. Like when he was six and fell down the stairs in his aunt's house, banging his head against the rails. He almost expected the world to turn into darkness too, like it did then, but it never came.
As the door finally creaked open, Scabior refused to turn and look at the Dementors, and only watched them out of the corner of his eye. They lingered on the threshold for a moment or two, and Scabior almost shouted at them to make up their bloody minds and either come in or sod off, but he felt reluctant to open his mouth in their presence.
One of the Dementors stepped inside and sniffed at the air, then took a long breath, as if it enjoyed the smell.
Wanting its share of the fun, the other followed closely, and it was getting too much for Scabior.
Only a moment ago he would have been more than happy to faint, but now that the Dementors were in his cell, he fought hard not to pass out. He went down on one knee and pulled the other up in front of his chest and side as much as he could, and hid his head behind his raised arm.
As the Dementors glided closer to him, he pressed his free hand in front of his mouth and bit down on his lip to protect his soul from being sucked out, and to stop the whimper that was about to come up. When he was fourteen, the Muggle boy from next door stole one of his spellbooks, and he got so scared about breaching the International Statue of Wizarding Secrecy and getting kicked out of Hogwarts, that he went after him, beat him up and made him swear never to say a word of it to anyone. He remembered that the kid cowered and cried like a child. Like he was about to now.
"That's enough," said a man's voice, and even though it made the Dementors back off, Scabior was shocked to hear it, because Aurors would only come as far as the prison's gate unless they had a very good reason to do otherwise, and their good reasons were seldom good news for the inmates.
"Can you stand?" he asked.
Scabior wasn't entirely sure, but he lowered his hand from his face and nodded.
"Then stand," ordered the Auror.
The task was harder than Scabior would have thought. His legs felt weak from the cold of the cell and the Dementors, and his head started to swim as soon as he lifted it. But once he raised himself high enough from the ground to grab the windowsill, he could pull himself up properly to face the Auror.
He was heavily built, had cold grey eyes and the sneer men in power usually have around his lips. And as he reached for his wand, Scabior couldn't help moving away from him until his back was against the stone wall.
It was a simple diagnostic spell, but as Scabior took a deep breath of relief, he almost instantly doubled over with a fit of coughs.
"Wait!" he cried out as the Auror lowered his wand with a dismissive grunt and was about to leave. "I'm fine," he croaked, standing up again. He almost added that all he needed was a glass of water, or maybe something a little stronger, but the man didn't look like he would appreciate the joke (let alone care about his thirst), so he just cleared his throat. "I'm fine."
As the Auror raised his wand again, Scabior held in his breath, and tried not to mess it up. Whatever the man wanted from him, he seemed pretty disappointed when he looked sick, and it made Scabior curious about what happened if he was found healthy as a Hippogriff. Because he knew something was to happen, or else the man wouldn't have come this far.
The Auror took his time, especially when the spell reached Scabior's chest, but he seemed to be satisfied with the results, because when he was finished he lowered his wand without a word.
"Your name?" he asked, and now that the first wave of shock was wearing off, Scabior started to realise how much he reminded him of a bull.
"Nicholas Scabior," he replied. His voice sounded strange after not using it for so long, but it was the least of his problems.
"Your mother's name?"
"Isabelle."
"Your Hogwarts House?"
It was getting a little strange, but Scabior swallowed hard and answered: "Gryffindor."
"The Three D's of Apparition?"
"Is this a test of some sort?" Scabior asked, because it definitely felt like one. Maybe he wanted to know if he went crazy in here?
"Yes," said the Auror with a nod. "And you'd better pass it," he added with a deeply unpleasant smile and the tiniest move of his wand.
"All right," coughed Scabior, and made himself look at the floor between them instead of the Dementors standing just outside his cell. "Um... Destination, Determination and... Deliberation!"
There was a pause in the questioning, and as the Auror stepped closer, he signalled the Dementors to back away further from the door. Scabior almost felt relieved when they obeyed him, but the man was a little too intimidating to let him enjoy the sensation.
"How long have you been in here?"
Nothing changed about the Auror's face, or the way he spoke to Scabior, but something still told him he just passed the first part of his test.
"Since the 12th of July," he said, because it was the only thing he was sure about.
"And you had a sentence of...?"
"Ten weeks."
"For what?" The Auror looked down at Scabior's neck, but it was probably too dark in the cell for him to read the runes tattooed there and learn the answer. Or he just wanted to hear it from him.
"For enterin' a man's 'ome and takin' what 'e owed to me employer," Scabior answered, and forgot to mention that he taught the fool a lesson too. He didn't want to sound too proud of himself.
It could have been only the trick of the light, but for the first time since he entered Scabior's cell, the Auror looked vaguely interested. "So for debt collecting?" he asked, with a smile that was even more unpleasant than the previous one.
"Sort of." Scabior shrugged. Away from this damned place, and especially after a few drinks, he would have punched the man in his smug face for saying that and in that tone. But fortunately for him, things went differently in here. The Auror must have sensed some of that, because he eyed Scabior in a way that suggested that he'd love to see him try.
"I presume you know how to find people who don't want to be found," he said at last, when the attack failed to come.
"I do," Scabior replied tentatively.
The Auror nodded, then looked around the cell, clasping his hands behind his back. "There's been a change of power at the Ministry of Magic, and I'm here because we need people with your talent."
"A change? What change?" gasped Scabior, but he knew the answer before he could have finished the question. "You mean... You-Know-Who?" he whispered hoarsely. There had been rumours about the second rise of the Dark Lord for some time, but he would have never thought it would be this close at hand.
"Rufus Scrimgeour and his followers are gone," said the Auror, and Scabior could tell he was choosing his words carefully. "There is a new Minister and a new Ministry, and a general pardon is to be granted to those prisoners of Azkaban who are willing to ally themselves with them."
He wasn't choosing his words, he had this little speech prepared. And the more he spoke, the less Scabior believed he was an Auror in the first place.
"Are you willing?" asked the man in a voice that suggested that this time he wanted to hear nothing but a simple yes or no, and that the latter would bring a quick end to their conversation. Maybe even to Scabior's life.
Scabior had a thousand questions and a handful of doubts swarming around his head, but he wanted to live, so he said yes, and made sure the man could tell he meant it.
"Good." The man nodded curtly. "Take him to the boats," he ordered the Dementors.
oOo
Scabior didn't remember much of the crossing towards Azkaban, and he would have preferred to be sedated on his way out too. But after getting cleaned up and receiving his clothes and papers of release, he was crammed into a boat with three other prisoners and five Aurors. Or at least people who talked like Aurors, acted like Aurors and probably called themselves Aurors too, even though they had turned their cloaks.
Not that he could have blamed them for doing so. If Scrimgeour and his lot were really gone, and there was a new Ministry that not only let Scabior and the likes of him go, but offered them a job too, hard days were coming for anyone who couldn't accommodate to upcoming changes.
Because that's what it was: accommodation.
But preferably without getting too deep into the thick of it, so when they finally reached the shore and were given Portkeys, Scabior asked for one that would take him to St James's, because there was no way in hell he would put his head on a pillow that the Minisry offered to him ever again unless he absolutely had to. He knew the room he rented would be long gone, and that he should consider himself lucky if his landlady kept his stuff as collateral, and he didn't want to go to his sister's house before he knew how much trouble he would bring on her. But he had enough money that would buy him dinner, drinks and a cheap bed to collapse into for a few nights.
He chose the inn at the end of the left hand fork of Knockturn Alley, hoping that he wouldn't bump into anyone he knew there, and the moment he stepped through the door he knew he chose right. All the tables were taken by witches and wizards in twos and threes, but it was nowhere near the bustling life of The Leaky Cauldron or The Black Cat, at the end of the right hand fork, where serious people brought their business. Like Scabior used to.
"What can I get for you?" asked the barmaid, walking up to Scabior as he took a seat by the counter.
"Whatever's the strongest," he said with a sigh, because even though he had spent about two hours in the park, stretching his legs and getting some fresh air in his lungs before he walked up to Diagon Alley, he still felt slightly sick from the boat ride.
The barmaid hesitated for a moment, but when Scabior put a handful of coins on the counter, she gave him a smile that was right at the border between friendly and flirty, and reached for a glass. He smiled back at her instinctively, then watched her uncorking the bottle and pouring him the first shot. She wore her dark hair short, just down to her chin, but Scabior was more interested in her lips that were painted deep red, and the shirt she was wearing that showed just enough skin to make any man feel parched for more. She even wore a long necklace, with the pendant disappearing under her clothes, somewhere between her breasts.
"Shall I leave the bottle?" she offered, pushing his drink towards Scabior, and as she leaned a little closer, she smelled good too. It was getting faint, but he knew that scent, because he felt it on other witches before, and he loved it on her.
"You read me, love," he replied with a grin, then took the glass and emptied it in one go. He had a splitting headache and his left hand was still shaking terribly. But he got out of Azkaban fifty-four days earlier than he should have, and here he was, with a beautiful woman who wanted to get him drunk. Life was getting good again!
First of all: thank you, DragonMoonX! :)
This piece is set right before the second chapter of "She'll Be All Right", because it was high time I wrote a little more about how Snatchers came to be. There's very little said about them in the books, and even in the movies they don't tell us anything, but according to the (embarassing amount of) behind the scenes interviews that I have watched, they were set free to be the henchmen/cannon fodders of the Ministry under the rule of the Death Eaters, and I love that theory.
And I love reviews too! :)