4.
Hermione
It was so strange, to apparate without knowledge of doing so. One minute, Hermione's eyes were focused on the tall, arched ceiling of the Malfoy manor, unable to comprehend the arms that wrapped around her and held her close as she was too distracted from the aching pain in her forearm. And then the next minute, the ceiling had disappeared. Now, she stared up a palette of fog, curling around itself to make recognizing her new setting nearly impossible. She blinked twice, and inhaled, tasting a briny sort of tang in her mouth that meant she was close to water. Or, as she found out a moment later from the slopping sensation on her pant legs, standing in it.
She lifted one foot, and shook it curiously, feeling a puddle of water passing back and forth inside of. She was so preoccupied with figuring out why she was standing in water that she didn't immediately realize that there were arms still wrapped around her, or feel the heavy rise and fall of a warm chest, pressed against her back. When a short gust of hot breath hit the back of her neck, Hermione froze, her foot still poised in the air, and forced her eyes to lower slowly.
Two arms, both concealed by a grungy, beaten looking leather jacket were spread across her chest, hands gripping her upper arms rather tightly. She could see the right one of the person bore an odd ring; it was the head of a stag with a greenish-silver tint. The other hand had only a fingerless glove on. Hermione struggled to recognize the hands, but she knew they didn't belong to either Ron or Harry, and they were the only two people she was hoping that they would.
Swallowing tightly, Hermione began to turn her head, her eyebrows furrowed anxiously as her mind raced, picturing just who might be holding her against them. She first thought of Draco, but that was no ring of his, and it wasn't his father's either. She knew it wasn't Bellatrix or Narcissa either, because these hands were most definitely masculine, judging from the wide fingernails and rough looking skin.
As soon as her eyes were looking directly to the left of her body, nearly turned far enough to see who held her, she felt the man move, his arms loosening so that she could freely move her shoulders if the need arose. She could hear him sighing, sounding annoyed at something, and a moment later, he let go of her entirely, his body leaving hers bare in the fog. Seeing this as her chance, Hermione spun around with her hand flying to her jacket pocket, only to find that there was no wand there, as she had believed there was.
But that wasn't the only shock.
Standing ankle-deep in murky looking water was the leader of the snatchers, his eyes focused on hers as his mouth parted, inhaling and exhaling deeply. She could see the raw red line around his neck that was a reminder of Bellatrix Lestrange, and some bruising in that general area as well. What she didn't see, though, was this man making any movements to grab her, to drag her back to the manor at which she'd somehow escaped. He remained where he was and just stared on her, almost as if he was measuring her current state before trying to say anything.
Hermione's eyes narrowed at him. "Where did you take me?"
The man didn't answer her, rotating in a slow circle with his gaze set on the ground. A moment later, he gave a frustrated sigh and dropped to his knees in the murky water, sinking his hands deep inside of it and searching around. When he straightened up again, he was holding half of a black wand, covered in mud and dark green algae. "Wonderful." He muttered darkly, struggling to his feet and glowering at the broken wand. "It's completely ruined."
There was a moment, only a brief moment, where Hermione watched his face crumple almost in a saddened manor and she wondered if that broken piece of wand that lay in his hand had been his first. Had he gone to Olivander's when he was eleven as well, excited and intoxicated with the idea of Hogwarts, and purchased the wand? Something inside of her pinched, but she chose to ignore it, instead continuing to glare at this man who'd taken her from her friends and placed her in the middle of nowhere.
"I 'ope you're 'appy." He finally raised his eyes to hers. "It must've splinched when I disapparated you out of that place."
If it weren't for the fact he was purposefully trying to make her feel guilty, Hermione probably would have. But she could see the man standing in front of her, cradling his broken wand, was no man to sympathize. He'd been the one to put her in that state in the first place; it was because of him she now bore the scars on her arm. Remembering Bellatrix's carving, Hermione lifted her arm to examine it, cringing slightly at the pain that ignited from her actions. There it was, plain as day: Mudblood. Her mouth contorted, fighting back an angered sob. She knew Harry's carvings on his hand from the day in Umbridge's office had remained a painful scar on his skin, and there wasn't a doubt in her mind that her own would scar as well.
"Does it 'urt?"
Her head snapped up at the sound of the man's voice. "What?"
He was looking at her arm, his eyes wandering the foul word it bore with that of concern. "Your arm. Does it 'urt?"
Absently, she touched a hand to her arm, feeling the sharp edges of the lettering and the dried blood that remained there. She found herself unable to answer, surprised by the man's gentle tone. None of this made any sense to her. It had been him who'd passed her over to Bellatrix, but then it had also been him who'd rescued her from the cruel witch. His mood swings were so drastic that she felt dizzy just trying to keep up with them. What was this man's obsession with her?
Scabior
In all honesty, he was hoping for a better reaction from the girl. He had saved her from Bellatrix. Was that not enough to emit some sort of gratitude from her? Evidently not, since she remained standing in the swamp with a look of absolute loathing. He wondered if she was aware of just what he'd given up in order to get her away from the Malfoy manor. He probably had a price on his head as well, after he'd defied Bellatrix, stunned her, and stolen one of the most undesirable people next to Harry Potter. This Granger girl must not have realized the severity of his actions.
Holding his broken wand in his hand, Scabior fixed his gaze on the young girl, holding her marked arm at the right angle for him to see the word on it. He wondered briefly if this was on purpose, as if she wanted him to be able to see it, just to know that it was his fault it happened in the first place. Well, was she wrong to do so? He knew it was his fault. He knew the image of her on the ground, screaming bloody murder while the word was carved into her arm would stay with him forever. He deserved to be punished.
"Where are we?" She asked again, her voice cold and demanding an answer.
Scabior straightened and stuck what was left of his wand deep down inside of his pants pocket. When he'd disapparated, he'd tried to think of the best place to go, somewhere they could be safe. Although, considering his past and those who were in it, this proved to be difficult. Orrick's home was the best he could come up with.
He turned away from the young girl, peering through the thick fog to try and figure out which direction they should move. "A friend of mine's place." He answered thoughtfully, still turning on spot in a slow circle. Everywhere he looked, the fog remained strong and impossibly opaque. A frustrated growl ripped through his chest, and without checking to see if she would follow, he began trucking through the water, guessing he was going the right way.
"Friend?" he heard her repeat in disbelief, and then there was the sound of splashing from behind him as she hurried to catch up. "You don't exactly have the best of friends, from what I've seen."
He rolled his eyes and continued walking, knowing very well she was thinking of Fenrir and the others. Did she know he resented being around them every second he was forced? Did she know he spent most of his time thinking about getting away from them, those bloody idiots? Of course she didn't. Because to her, he was Scabior: the snatcher. And those were his snatcher "friends".
The moist air of the fog was causing his already damp clothes to stick to his skin, and the further they trudged, the more annoyed he got. Had he not thought of Orrick's place clearly enough? He couldn't even remember a swamp being near his place and yet that was where they had ended up. He didn't lead on that he had no idea which way to go. The last thing he needed was that Granger girl to be on his back about that, too. For all she knew, he knew exactly where he was and which part of the fog he should try and push through to get to the house.
"Where is my wand?" she demanded coldly.
"One of m'boys still has it, I reckon."
There was the sound of an aggravated sigh from beside him. "I suppose that was all part of your plan."
Now he stopped walking, and turned to give her an incredulous look. "Plan? What're you talking about, girlie?"
She stopped as well and stood before him in a defiant, sturdy pose, her eyes narrowed harshly and zeroed in on his. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. I don't know what it is, but you have a reason for taking me from the Malfoy Manor and leaving me defenseless. So what is it? What do you want with me?"
Scabior looked down at her. "You think breaking m'wand was part of that plan too?"
She said nothing, but he noticed the way her chin remained jutted out like it had when she was trying to convince him she was Penelope Clearwater. No matter what was thrown at this girl, she still somehow managed to remain strong and that was something that didn't go easily unnoticed, especially not by Scabior. He saw that look in her eyes. It may not be as visible to others as it was to him, but he knew what it was every time he saw it; it aged her, matured her, made her look like she'd been to hell and back and knew this wasn't the worst thing that could happen to her. Being lost with a snatcher in the middle of a thickly fogged swamp without a wand might not have pleased her, but she wasn't phased by it, either.
"I 'ave my reasons just like e'rebody else in the world." Scabior turned away from her and continued walking. "You should stop asking, 'less you want to be back in tha' house with Bellatrix again."
"You don't have a wand to send me there."
She had a point, but he refused to admit it.
Hermione fell back into pace beside him easily, and when he looked down at her again, he saw that her gaze had shifted to her arm, and the word that was a harsh reminder of that incident. She suddenly looked up and caught him watching her. The sleeve of her shirt was tugged down immediately, covering Bellatrix's work. "I hope you know I don't trust you."
"I didn' think you would." Scabior stared straight ahead. What reason had he given her to trust him, anyway? He'd chased her, snatched her, gave her over to Bellatrix who had, in turn, branded a mark on her arm that would only fade over time; not disappear. And then, without warning, he'd picked her up and taken her away from it all. He was confused about it himself and didn't expect that she would understand his actions either. So why trust him?
The fog finally thinned enough for some light to spill through, and the air had grown colder rather than the hot, moist mess of gas it had been back further into the swamp. Scabior squinted hard, and was just able to make out the shape of a small, wooden cabin that rested on the bank of the swamp. Tall, dripping trees with black trunks loomed over the cabin with unusual arches in their stature. If Scabior had been living there rather than Orrick, he'd have already cleared the area of the trees, the swamp, the annoyingly unhelpful fog, and especially the god-awful smell of rot and algae that hung thick in the air.
Once they were close enough to the cabin, Scabior shifted and headed towards the slimy, mud covered bank that would take them up the grass to the house where he so wanted to be. His boots were soaked, his clothes in the same state and chaffing uncomfortably against his skin. His nostrils filled with the decaying stench and the only thing he could taste was the stagnant air. This wasn't the worse he'd ever experienced, but there were other places he would have rather been.
Scabior braced his hands on the slimy bank, and felt his fingers pushing through the rot and mud, sinking down unpleasantly. His mouth twisted into a grimace, but he spread his legs anyway, and struggled to pull himself up. The mud held no traction for his boots as he kicked, trying to climb as best as he could, and his hands weren't gripping anything rather strong. A moment passed where his attempts made no progress, and then he lost whatever hold he had, and fell back into the swamp. If his clothes were soaked before, now they were absolutely drenched.
Hermione took one look at him, sitting on the slime-covered bottom of the water, and began to smirk. "You didn't honestly think that would work, did you?"
"Watch it,, girlie." His anger flushed his cheeks, and he struggled to regain his footing without slipping and falling again. As soon as he was standing properly, he looked down at his clothes, clinging against his skin and leaving nothing left to the imagination. He turned away from the girl and pulled at the fabric of his pants, hearing the suction sound of it refusing to let go. He pulled harder and eventually it released to hang loose against his legs.
When he turned back around again, the girl was nowhere in sight. Where she'd stood before only held the memory of her in greenish-brown ripples, spreading across the top of the water and disappearing. Soon, there was nothing. Scabior whipped around in a circle, unable to hide the anxious expression that latched onto his face. Where was she?
On his third rotation, Scabior finally spotted her, standing up on top of the bank with her arms crossed over her chest, watching him with an amused expression. His jaw fell slack. "'Ow…?" she couldn't possibly have climbed up the bank… could she?
"The rocks." She nodded smugly to the right of him, where a pile of algae covered stones had piled up against the bank of the swamp. He could see the imprints of her boots in the slime. So she had climbed. She just hadn't tried to climb mud. Smart girl.
It took him a minute or two longer than it had taken her to get up, but only because his clothes were far more slippery than hers were, and refused to co-operate with him every time he tried to brace his knee on the top of the bank to pull himself up. In the end, he had to leap from the top rock, and just barely managed to keep his hold on the grass, his fingers clenched into the thick blades to keep himself from sliding back down into the murky swamp.
As he stood, he gave an aggravated huff, the stray strands of his damp hair that hung in his face pushed to the side from the sudden gust of breath. He looked at the girl, and was surprised to find her already looking at him as well. They held each other's gaze for a moment, neither saying anything. While Scabior stared at her out of a sort of fascination, her eyes were cold and hard, guarded, still obviously running scenarios and motives through her head; anything to make his sudden change of heart make even just a little bit of sense.
Scabior looked away, and turned his attention to Orrick's cabin, standing a few feet away from them. The half-moon windows had grimy glass in the panes, which obscured whatever was inside. How long had it been since he'd been there, since he'd even talked to Orrick? How come this was the first place he thought of? The chances of them even being granted entry inside were slim, if anything at all. And it's not like he had a wand to apparate them anywhere else. He was above praying, but everything inside of him was hopingOrrick would have a sudden change of heart, as well.
"Aren't you going to knock?" Hermione asked drily form behind him, and Scabior realized that he'd been standing motionless in front of the door for too long.
Clearing his throat, he stepped closer and reached out, rapping his knuckles against the dark wood. There was the sound of plates from the other side being stacked onto one another, and then a chair scooting across the floor. A moment passed, and then the door was being thrown open. Scabior stumbled backwards a few steps from the surprise of it.
Orrick stood in the doorway, blinking for a moment to try and accustom himself to his new visitor. It took him a minute, but the look of recognition passed over his face, and his eyes narrowed slightly. Scabior knew he was wondering just what he was doing at his door, considering the years of silence and absence between them.
"Scabior." His tone was dry, emotionless, and his face remained the same way. His eyes moved from him, to Hermione, standing hesitantly a few feet behind him. Orrick stared at her for a moment, and then he sighed. "What sort of trouble 'ave you gotten yourself into now?"
Scabior almost smiled, but it fell short on his lips. "Orrick, meet 'Ermione Granger. 'Ermione, meet Orrick." He paused briefly, wondering if the next part on his tongue was entirely necessary. Well, it wasn't entirely unnecessary. He said it anyway. "My brother."
A/N: so sorry for how this update took. I had some major writers block issues over Christmas break, but here's hoping I've managed to slip out of it. Anyway, enjoy chapter four. No idea when chapter 5 will be up but I'm working on it right now! =) thanks for reading everyone!