Important Notice: see beginning of Chapter I

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Author's Note: This chapter is still some sort of introduction. The real action with the rest of the Snatchers should come with the next chapter!

This is my first fanfic ever! So let me know what you think :-)! I'd love to improve myself!


~ Chapter II ~

The sun was playing through the naked branches of the forest, leaving dancing polka dots on the snowy ground. One lonely winter bird was flying under the leafless canopy, hesitant, not knowing where to safely land. After whirling in the air for some time, it tightly encircled a high twig with its tiny claws. Tilting its feathery head from one side to the other, it contemplated the forest floor from its privileged position. Everything was calm, untouched. Pure. Everything... with the exception maybe of the strange form ungracefully contrasting with the surrounding whiteness. The bird bent its head on one side again, feeling suddenly insecure. The form made a hoarse noise to which the bird responded with a shrill tweet. Not long after that, the shape seemed to start moving. The bird then quickly spread its wings and flew away...

Scabior felt broken. Every inch of his body was screaming for heat. Each part of his frame was worn down by an ominous numbness. He couldn't remember where he was, what had happened to him. Everything in his head was blank. It took him all of his remaining strength to open his eyes. The sudden burst of light attacked his retinas and caused him to wince and blink several times. When finally, his pupils adapted themselves to the brightness of the sun, he was able to make out his surroundings.

He seemed to be lying on his stomach, on the snow, somewhere in a forest. As he stayed there, motionless, his left cheek kissing the icy ground, his brain began to recollect the events that had led him to his present condition.

The murmur. The hands. The cold. The... blade?

Scabior's heart started to race. He had been stabbed! In the back. Hadn't he? Gathering all of his willpower, the Snatcher tried to raise one arm... unsuccessfully. How could he possibly move when he wasn't even able to feel that he had a body? He closed his eyes again.

Ye must be in a state of 'ypothermia. Ye must be fuckin' frozen, he thought.

An unexplainable wave of anger started to build up in his chest. This couldn't be the end of him. No way. He was far much stronger than this!

Ye'd better move, stupid body, he threatened himself. Ye are a Snatcher, ye cannot die like this! Move!

This loud internal yell manifested itself by a low growl inside of his throat, echoed somewhere by what seemed to be some light whistling. He eventually managed to fold his right arm, bringing his hand close to his face. A deep shudder ran through his body when he noticed the dark plum colour of his fingers.

Shit.

He indeed was frozen.

Everything then started to rush inside of his head. He became aware of what felt like an immense amount of terrible facts. The snow in front of his eyes was not as perfectly white as he thought it was a few seconds earlier. No, actually, it had a strange reddish shade. He was alone, all by himself, in a remote Scottish forest. He was probably going to die. And... the pain. The excruciating pain in his back. It was as if he were being stabbed again and again, by the same, torturing, unrelenting blade. Scabior pictured that every throb in his back coincided with less blood in his veins. The image tied a nauseous knot inside of his throat.

The Snatcher's eyes began to sting and a small whimper of despair left his lungs. However, this sign of complete helplessness only lasted for an instant. A few seconds later, he had recovered his raw personality and his brain was ardently looking for an escape.

I need to get back to the group...

This sentence was bouncing against the walls of his mind when it suddenly reached its goal. Apparating! It was the only solution. He needed to gather enough strength in order to focus on his destination and manage to go there without splinching. Scabior took a deep breath and started to picture the camp, the tents, the fire... Even Greyback if it could help! It was nevertheless extremely difficult, since the tension of his mind reflected on his body and caused the pain in his back to reach an intensity that would prevent him from thinking.

Each attempt seemed to be bound to failure. Worse, each try took away parts of his strength.

One last time...

Scabior closed his eyes, focusing his entire self on the Snatchers' camp, every muscle in his body tensing in the process. The pain in his back shot in his head but it was too late. He had done it. He felt himself squeezed through a narrow tunnel.

This was his last conscious thought. A few instants later, he appeared on a hardwood ground, next to a cracking fire, lifeless.

The dark limbos had sucked him in once again.