Slash: don't like, don't read. Greyback/Scabior. I don't own Harry Potter of course.


Love & Loss

Scabior stared at the stormy sea through the gap of missing bricks. His forehead rested against the cold wall, his eyes having a dead glaze. Dementors flew past him but he couldn't care less. The wind blew his greasy hair backwards and against his face, letting his stick to his equally greasy cheek. He placed the string loosely back behind his ear and tugged the piece of cloth that functioned as shirt closer to his body, hugging himself.

His sanity slipped away a bit more with every minute that passed and his strength to fight against the Dementors seemed to go away even faster. His last happy thought seemed to disappear a bit more every second. Even his lover's face got blurry.

Crying was something he didn't do. Something he couldn't do. He had no tears left in his body; every tear had left when he entered Azkaban. He hadn't gotten the chance to warn the other, no chance to tell him the news. And now his love wandered around out there, biting people at random because Scabior wasn't there to prevent him from it. The world was in an even worse shape knowing that he was imprisoned. But he had seen in the eyes of Dumbledore that the bearded realized he was telling the truth when he had cried out about the werewolf as he was carried away by the Dementors.

But there he sat, in his own little cell, the screams of the others sounding so far away. Sometimes he wondered how Black got out a while ago, on other moments he thought of the werewolf and his habits and sometimes he just tried to do something else like eat or sleep; both being difficult for him. Mostly he just thought of his love's face and that the elder would come and save him one day. Deep inside – a thought that was actually rising from that depth due to the Dementors – he knew that he would never been rescued by his werewolf, especially not soon as the other probably didn't know where he was and as the full moon was going to appear in a few days.

He stared at the moon, his eyes filled with sadness. One single tear escaped, sliding down before dripping into his hand, right onto a scar the other had made there in the heat of a moment. The wound was still a bit open and the salty water pricked it. He clenched his fist, his long nails leaving red marks in the dirty, pale skin. His bones were visible, that bad he already looked.

His hand moved up, the horns of the stag-head on his ring scratching through the quite long stubble on his cheek. He was getting so tired, his memories so depressing. The older's face blurred away to a very bad picture taken from a mile away. He clung onto a memory of them together, so long ago. The first memory of them alone, together, away from everyone else. The first time he actually saw a more gentle side of the normally so brute man. A side that had disappeared within days. A side that was almost always shown after a moment of brutishness. But Scabior still loved him, that was something that would never change. And he knew the werewolf returned that love, although in a more brutal way. A way only he could accept and a way the other could only give to him. But he was so tired. The pain had to leave him.

His hand fell down, eyes shut. His head fell on the bottom of the gap, blood immediately streaming out of the wound it made. He started to feel dizzy but reached out one hand to the moon. As if he hoped that the other would take it, but it was more likely a Dementor would take it. If he could only imagine that it was the other's hand.

"Fenrir." Greyback.