Author's Note: Written for DragonMoonX, who suggested I write about why Scabior only wears one glove.
Dangerous Beauty
"Oh, come on, Seraphim," the girl whined, pushing her brother out of the Slytherin common room.
"Don't call me that," Scabior hissed, flinching at his first name. He shoved the girl away. "You know I hate it."
"Then you best do as your big sister says, otherwise the whole school's going to start using it."
"You can't do that."
"I'm Head Girl, I can convince anyone to do what I want. Now, go on. Slughorn said he'd be brewing the beautifying potions tonight and I need a vial."
Scabior frowned, hesitantly looking between his sister and the door to Slughorn's lab. "Alright, I'm sorry, Angelica. I promise I'll never say you've got a big nose again. Now can we go back to bed?"
The girl rolled her eyes and gave the second-year a shove in the lab's direction before rushing back into the common room.
Scabior grumbled to himself, confident enough in his sister's blackmailing skills that she'd find a way to keep him out of the common room until he got what she needed.
The door to the lab was unlocked, just like Angelica said it would be. The room was dark, but Scabior refused to light a torch for fear of making too much noise – he hadn't been allowed to bring his wand.
There were eight cauldrons set up around the room, each full and bubbling. He squinted in the darkness, trying to read labels by the corridor light. It took him a few minutes to locate the correct potion, and even longer to find an empty vial to put it in.
Vial in hand, he let out a sigh of relief and headed for the exit. He hadn't noticed the carpet on his way through the room, he'd somehow skirted around it. Now it was impossible to miss as his foot caught on the upturned corner, causing him to fall forward.
The vial smashed against the stone floor, shards of glass digging into his hand. He could feel the potion bubbling like acid around the cuts.
The room was flooded in light in seconds and he was being pulled to his knees by his Head of House.
"What are you doing in here, Mr. Scabior?" Slughorn demanded, holding him by the collar of his pajamas.
"I was jus' tryin' to get a potion for my sister," he mumbled, cradling his bleeding hand. There were splotches of the black potion on his the palm and back of his hand.
Slughorn took one look at the injury and let go of the boy. "Periculosum Pulchritudinem?"
Scabior nodded. "That's what it said on the sign…"
The student found himself being whisked into the bathroom next door and his hand being meticulously cleaned. He couldn't help but notice the way Slughorn avoided touching the potion himself.
"Sir, what's wrong?" he asked as a salve was applied over his entire hand, not just the cuts. "It was just a beautifying potion, wasn't it?"
"Oh, yes. If taken properly." Slughorn ran a hand through his thinning hair and suspiciously eyed the black stain on the carpet. "Periculosum Pulchritudinem is meant to be taken orally. If it makes contact with the skin it can have … rather the opposite of its intended effect."
Scabior spent the rest of the night in the infirmary, hoping more than anything that the potioneer's salve would work, but by morning not even the thick white substance could hide the boils and scars covering the boy's left hand, but thankfully had not reached his fingers.
Pomfrey insisted on keeping him in bed until the boils were gone, to prevent mass hysteria. When they gave way to leathery black scales, he was free to attend classes again.
It was Slughorn that took pity on the boy, buying him a pair of soft brown gloves that would cover the afflicted skin without snagging on the scales. Scabior swore to never leave his hand uncovered again.