Blending in was obligatory.
She had been on the run for one month. One month since the nature of her birth was outlawed. One month since she was no longer free to traipse through the stores of Diagon Alley or enjoy a drink in the Leaky Cauldron. She was a reject of the wizarding world. Hundreds of others had been found; hundreds of others would be next. Life was no longer a pleasure; life became only her, her wand, and the painful thought that she would be caught. There was no escape; capture was inevitable.
Muggle London was her safe haven. She stalked the streets bundled in flannel and wool to keep warm, her knuckles always stretched tight as she gripped the wand in her coat pocket. Her eyes had no time to focus; they darted to and fro just as quickly as the cabbie traffic on the streets of the city. She could have done many things to attempt an escape from the chase, but she chose the most accessible and least harmful: bury herself thick in the Muggle traffic of the most populous town in England and hope to be just another face in the crowd.
She had destroyed all forms of identification in her possession, every single paper that read "Muggle-born" and every trace of "Evelyn Thornwood". She was a blank slate as far as she was concerned. The girl with no identity or purpose to her name ambled from the hostel she called her home into the biting cold. She ducked into the pub she recently frequented, a place valued for its warmth and its flagrant offer of numbness.
Evelyn weaved through tables and chairs to reach the bar at the far end of the vicinity, her arms crossed tightly around herself. She pulled a stool out from under the bar and sat herself onto it, her bleary eyes downcast as she rested her arms on the wooden counter. Two fingers tapped one after the other as she waited, her eyes scanning the perimeters systematically. The bar was splattered with warm browns and dark greys in its coloring. Only a few men occupied the room, sitting at lone tables and drinking their glasses dry.
The bartender approached Evelyn with a polite, robotic smile, wiping down a bottle with a worn rag. "What can I get for you?" she asked as she clanked the bottle onto the bar and tossed aside the rag.
"A beer, please," Evelyn muttered, raising the corner of her lip for a fraction of a second in an attempt to fabricate a courteous smile. She looked down at her hands as she picked at the skin lining each fingernail.
Her heart pulsed as a gruff cockney voice spoke from behind her. " 'Ave it on me, love." The man offered a sly grin as he heaved himself onto the stool to her right. The man could only be described as handsomely dilapidated. His matted hair was pulled into a careless ponytail and his facial hair was unkempt yet cut short. He wore a battered leather jacket that hung over his distinctive faded plaid pants.
She sunk into the conversation with a level head. "Thanks," she replied, her mouth stretching into a humble grin. The bartender returned with the beverage and, as promised, the man paid for the merchandise. Evelyn grasped the pint between both hands and hunched over the sacred nectar, taking a well-earned sip. "What did I do to deserve this?" she asked the man slyly, glancing at him from the corner of her eye as she treated herself to a larger gulp.
"I live for buying beau'iful girls what they want," the man grinned, his smile as rugged as the rest of his demeanor. "Within reason, o'course," he added as he raised a finger from the bar to get the bartender's attention. "One more o'those, if you will." The conversation ceased save for the man gracelessly clearing his throat. The man and the bartender exchanged goods and the man threw back half of the beer in his glass within seconds. He wiped his mouth and turned his head to stare at her with his brash eyes.
"Now," he began coyly, "Do you want to tell me what an American witch is doing in Muggle London?"
Evelyn's breath hitched and her eyebrows furrowed. "I don't-"
"Oh don't even try that," Scabior mumbled with the wave of his hand as he took another gulp of his beer dismissively.
She released a barely audible sigh of defeat. "How could you tell?"
"Your accent gives it away, love."
Evelyn exhaled almost mimicking laughter, shaking her head. "No, about the magic."
"The tip of your wand is showing from your coat pocket, out in the open," he drawled in amusement, pointing to the evidence before his and her eyes. "Y'know, muggle shops don't do your wardrobe justice. You ought to invest in proper clothing with proper wand pockets, eh? I had to refrain from nicking it meself like a proper pickpocket when I saw you walk in like that. It's careless."
"It's too much hassle. And too many galleons," Evelyn stated plainly, keeping her breathing steady.
"What brings you 'ere, then? You been 'ere long?" he asked with the raise of an eyebrow, stroking the side of his glass with his finger pensively.
"Almost a year. I came with the intention of getting an internship at the Ministry but...well, it seems that I've come at a bad time." She took a cautious sip of beer, taking a deep breath as she swallowed.
He chuckled darkly, raising up his glass as he brought it to his mouth. "That depends on your perspective."
The silence that followed that was as thick as blood. The two drank their fill of beer, her eyes deep within the contents of her glass as his bore into the side of her head.
The man sat up straighter. "Are you registered?"
Evelyn looked up from her drink blinking fluttering blinks. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I said," he started slowly with a glimmer of malintent in his eye, "Are you registered with the Ministry?"
"Yes, of course I am," she insisted with an afterthought of forced nonchalance.
He raised an eyebrow of suspicion as he finished off the beer in his glass, never tearing his gaze from her. "What's your name, girl?"
Hair had fallen into Evelyn's face but her hands did not move to sweep it aside; she wore it as a mask to hide behind. "Samantha Blackthorn" she replied, just as she had rehearsed a thousand times, accompanied with a mischievous grin to ease the tension. "But you can call me Sam."
"Well then, Sam," replied the man with a tone far sweeter than she believed him capable, "it is very nice to meet you."
As he rose his right hand for her to shake, Evelyn's breath froze and her blood stood still in her veins. Her focus narrowed onto the strip of red fabric tied taut around the bulk of the man's arm: the mark of the Snatcher. She swallowed as she took his hand in hers and gave it a firm shake, swallowing also her frantic thoughts and the panicked escape plans she had formed within the seconds that had passed. She needed to keep a level head if she were to get out with her freedom.
"The name's Scabior," he drawled, looking her up and down once with a predatory glimmer in his eye.
Evelyn's thoughts shot through her head at a mile a second. The smug silence he offered only made her panic more, but she arrived at a decision: when you're on the run, don't run-walk. So she rested her elbow down on the bar and opened her body language up to him, her eyes meeting his with an identical glimmer. She basked in his silence and matched his smug grin; she would make herself an equally matched player in his little game.
"You come around here often, Scabior?" she asked as she donned her most enticing smirk. His eyes grew skeptical but he sunk into a smirk himself.
"Not quite. Don't find meself in muggle joints too often. Don't generally 'ave the currency for it," Scabior explained without much interest.
"But you do today?" Evelyn inquired with a raised eyebrow.
"Always 'ave enough to buy a pretty girl a drink. Pleasure don't discriminate," he mused with an uncouth grin. "You interested in a bit of pleasure, beau'iful?"
Evelyn gave him a knowing look, every ounce of fear buried under the surface as her plan took its course. She knew what he was trying and she knew how to combat it. "Depends on your meaning," she lingered smugly.
Scabior's narrowed eyes traveled the length of her body and before remaining piercing into her eyes for some time. "Let's just say I know 'ow to give a girl like you a good time."
Evelyn didn't waver. "Your place?" she asked with an aura of suppressed eagerness.
Scabior smirked and stood up from his stool, satisfied with her response. "I was 'oping you'd say that."
Evelyn slid off of her stool, the sly grin plastered onto her face for fear that it would slip into a true reflection of her current emotions. "Let's go now. I'm sick of shitty muggle pubs," she insisted as she took his hand in hers and led him away from the bar. She kept her eyes glued on the door, fearful to look back at the man who could put an end to the life she fought for in an instant.
As they arrived at the door Evelyn swung around to face Scabior. "I need a bathroom break before we head out...I'll just be a second," she assured him as she released his hand and gave him the look of longing she hoped would be the last he ever received from her. Scabior gave her a nod and a wink, watching her walk down the hallway of the tavern that led to the restrooms.
Evelyn's breath picked up speed as she burst into the door of the women's restroom, unable to hold her composure the moment she knew she was in privacy. Her hands were shaking and she was hyperventilating but she willed herself to focus on a safe location for apparation. She paced back and forth, toward the stalls and toward the door and back again, as she listed off numerous possibilities in her head. Evelyn paused as a location seemed clear to her, ready to apparate at a moment's notice with her eyes fixed on the stalls ahead and her wand firm in her hand.
She heard the crack of an apparation, but it wasn't her own.
"Petrificus totalus,"muttered his voice from behind her. She grunted as she was struck in the back by the curse, loosing control of her tightened limbs and causing her to wobble forwards and then fall backwards, stiff as a board. Before she could hit the ground she was caught in his cruel grip, adjusting her so that he cradled her close to him; he peered down at her frozen, horrified face, forcing her to gaze up at his triumphant, crude laugh.
"Did you really think that you could outwit me, love? Do you take me for a fool?" Scabior jeered as he dropped his agonizing hold and left her plummeting straight towards the tile of the bathroom floor. She hit the floor hard but no trace of her pain shown on her face; only her eyes were free to move, desperate to grapple for any means of escape.
Scabior pressed the end of his grime coated boot onto her outstretched neck as he sneered down at her helpless state. "Evelyn Thornwood...I've been tracking you for days. You, m'dear, are as daft as they come. Who the 'ell 'as the observational skills to tell a witch by the tip of her wand? You poor, dimwitted, delectable little Mudblood," he mocked as he dug his foot into her neck with more pressure.
"Your first mistake was your consistency, in case you were wondering," Scabior explained, beaming with self-righteousness. "Same pub each day. You're the only one casting spells within miles of this location, do you understand? Not 'ard to catch a fugitive if they're careless enou-"
"Confundus," Evelyn forced out through gritted teeth as the effects of the carelessly executed curse began to wear off. Her curse hit Scabior square in the face sending him staggering backward, befuddled. She slowly began to move her limbs again, heaving herself to sit up before he could clear his head. She waved her wand with difficulty and strained, "Stupefy!"
Scabior regained his wits in time to deflect the curse with a glowering glare and a snarled nose. He steamed as he blasted a non-verbal curse in her direction only to be deflected as she struggled to rise to her feet. He pounded her with one curse after another, each one barely deflected until he finally roared, "Incarcerous!"
Ropes shot out of the end of his wand and wrapped themselves taut around Evelyn's wrists. Her wand dropped to the floor with a clink. Scabior sent one rope hurtling around her mouth like a gag and another around her ankles. She lost her footing and fell onto her knees with a muffled cry. She stretched out her arms in one last attempt to regain possession of her wand but Scabior sent it flying into his own hand.
Scabior's chest rose up and down as he regained his composure. With his new prize in hand and another within grasp, he stalked over to Evelyn as his smug grin returned. He towered over her, forcing her to her feet by her hair and smirking as she squirmed. He stared her square in the eyes, basking in the fear that her stinging tears conveyed.
"Looks like you're coming with me, beau'iful."