Does he know?

The question had been buzzing in her head all day long. Hermione stood from her crouched position on the ground and wiped sweat from her brow. She tossed the dandylion she was holding behind her shoulder.

Does Scabior know?

She bent over again and viciously ripped up a weed from the outdoor patio.

Does he know about the baby?

She had been weeding for the better part of the morning already. There was something intensely satisfying and cathartic about ripping up life from its roots and tossing it aside like trash. Hermione vaguely wondered if retired Death Eaters enjoyed gardening. She tore another vine up from the ground and chucked it over her shoulder. Her fingers were raw and red from scraping against stone and her fingernails were caked with dirt, but she hardly paid attention.

She had been self-consciously touching her stomach all day, wondering at the life that was inside her now. She could guess that she could be anywhere between up to three months pregnant by now, if she conceived the first night she was with Scabior. She had no idea what she was supposed to do or expect as a pregnant woman. Not knowing terrified her.

I wish mum was here. Or Ron.

Hermione exhaled long and slow, forcing out the memories from her mind. It was unproductive to dwell on the impossible.

Then she resumed uprooting plant life.

The family here might have a book or something on pregnancy, Hermione thought to herself. With three kids, one of them a toddler no less, there was surely some pregnancy guide in the house. It wasn't a long shot, and Hermione figured she may as well investigate. Later. After she finished this patio.

It was two hours and ninety-three weeds later that Hermione finally called it quits and entered the home through the back door. It was vacant save for herself; she had woken up late to an empty bed and an empty house this morning, which suited her just fine. So much the better if Scabior happened to forget about her and leave her here.

She discarded her shoes and peeled off her sweat-soaked shirt, walking through the house to the kitchen in her bra and jeans. She kept glancing down at her tummy. It was hardly noticeable, she thought. Just the slightest curve. Who would guess there was something living inside her?

She gulped a full glass of water and left the cup on the counter. Then she washed the grit from her sore hands and flexed her fingers experimentally. Aware that she was still half-naked, she grabbed a clean shirt from the laundry room before she found her way to the study and its small collection of books.

She was glad Scabior didn't care if she read-or care much about what she did at all, for that matter. She scanned the bookshelves until she found what she was looking for on the middle shelf-What to Expect When You're Expecting, and The Expectant Father. She chose the former of the two, and then hesitated. While he might not care what she read, Hermione certainly didn't want Scabior Apparating in at any moment to find her reading pregnancy books. If he didn't already know she was pregnant, she wasn't about to tell him now. Hermione grabbed a larger book on North American geology and stuck the What to Expect book inside. Then she curled up into a corner with both books, and began to read.

Two hours later Hermione had to put down the book, feeling sick inside all over again. She placed it carefully on the shelf where she'd found it before also returning the geology book.

"Good read?"

Hermione gasped and whirled around, nearly tripping over in her surprise. She clutched the edge of a desk to steady herself, heart racing in panic.

The Bard was leaning casually against the study door, a half-smile quirked on his lips.

"Steady now, didn't mean to startle ye," he said, clearly unaware of the extent of Hermione's raging emotions. Trying to keep a blank face, Hermione relinquished her grip on the desk, balling her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. The Bard approached her, and she stepped aside to keep a small distance between them. He didn't comment, but reached out and plucked her book from the shelf. Hermione saw him grimace when he read the title.

"North American geology, eh?" He made another face and returned the book to its place. "You must be bored," he teased. His eyes scanned the shelves for a moment before returning to hers. Hermione took another step back under his intense gaze. He broke eye contact first, motioning carelessly towards the door.

"I hope I'm not keeping ye from doing anything," he said, and shot her a look she couldn't interpret, "Leave if you've got someplace to be." His tone was not threatening or angry. Hermione hesitated, giving him one last glance before scurrying out of the room. As she left, she saw him turn thoughtfully back to the bookshelf. Her gut twisted, and she couldn't shake the feeling that The Bard knew more than he let on.

Needing air, Hermione let herself out of the house, walking briskly down the sidewalk. By the end of the block she was in a full-out run. The knot of trepidation and worry, of fear and uncertainty surfaced, and she pounded out the emotions into the concrete. She ran until her feet ached and her calves burned, but she didn't stop until she thought she might collapse from exhaustion. When she finally wore herself out, she leaned against a tree, heaving and sobbing into the rough bark. She slid to the ground, feeling the wood cut into her face and hands but not caring.

When she was able to breathe normally, and her tears subsided, Hermione looked up from her perch on the ground. She had no idea where she was; she had left the heart of the town far behind, and the woodsy area around her was run-down and unused. There was a trail nearby, but for the life of her Hermione couldn't remember having been on it before she arrived at her tree. The trail led into the woods in both directions, and there was no way to know where it went.

Not really feeling she had the energy to get up, Hermione forced herself to stand anyway. The sun was far in the West by now, nearing the horizon. Hermione shivered, cold now that she had stopped her marathon. She rubbed her arms with her hands and started walking along the trail. She snapped off a twig from a branch and twiddled it between her fingers as she walked. She vaguely wondered if she was headed in the right direction, but couldn't truly bring herself to care.

After maybe twenty minutes of walking Hermione came to a clearing, and deduced that she was indeed going the wrong direction. The trail evidently led to the tiny town's cemetery. The tombstones were obviously old, some at odd angles and most worn away by decades of erosion. Hermione walked in between them, reading the epitaphs. A few dated back to the late nineteenth century, attesting to the age of the now-ghost town. Hermione felt a twinge of sadness; one night of Snatchers was all it took to wipe this historic little place out.

At the far edge of the cemetery Hermione stopped next to a headstone labeled Edward Clarke, 1891-1902. Hermione sat next to the grave, exhausted. She huddled against the cold rock, leaning her head against the lettering. She wondered how he had died. So young, and at such an immature time for medicine. It could have been anything-a disease, an injury...

Maybe it was intentional, she thought, body tired but mind wild. Maybe someone murdered this person, this eleven-year old boy, Edward Clarke. Maybe his mother had been raped too, and after so long she couldn't stand to even look at her child. Maybe she had killed him. Hermione shuddered, feeling sick from her imagination. Would she do that to her unborn child? Could she do that? The thought of murdering an imaginary young boy was so horrific, how could she think for a second that she could kill her own flesh and blood? She couldn't. She wouldn't. She shook her head, willing her imagination to calm its rampage.

Hermione stayed in her curled position beside Edward's grave, holding a sort of vigil for the child until the sun went down. It was a beautiful sunset, all bright pinks and shimmery golds. When it was dusk and the air grew cold, Hermione thought maybe she could just sleep here for the night. She was too tired to go back, and didn't know the way besides. Nothing could happen to her out here that was worse than what she had already suffered. So, turning her back to the light wind, Hermione stayed with Edward, falling asleep with an arm protectively around his headstone.

It was fully dark out when Hermione was awakened by a searing pain. Moaning, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, clutching her arm. An agonizing burn scorched her skin, and as she rolled up the sleeve of her shirt, she saw the stag, horrifically scarred upon her arm, glowing bright like hot coals.

Scabior.

She ground her teeth together, forcefully trying not to scream, but her moans grew progressively louder as the pain burned her. She staggered to her feet, unsure what to do. She'd never gotten so far in her previous escape attempts for him to activate the horrid magic before, but she had a very base and driven feeling she had to get to Scabior. Now.

She looked around wildly, but the crescent moon above her offered scant light, and she didn't know where to go. There was no way to make the pain stop, and Hermione couldn't prevent the tears that were starting to flow. Gripping her wrist, she stumbled across the cemetery. She tripped over a gravestone, falling with a cry to the ground. She inhaled dirt and leaves as she tried to push herself up. The pain on her arm was driving her to a panic, and she crawled on the ground until she had the energy to stand and walk again.

Whimpering in pain and confusion, she walked back the way she thought she'd originally come from. But the town was so far away, how could she last so long? She felt a feeling of desolation creep into her stomach, making her cry harder.

A sudden, familiar Crack to her right made her spin around quickly.

"Hermione!"

That was Scabior's voice. Calling her. Looking for her. She ran to him, stumbling and tripping, until she collided against his chest in the dark. Her pain subsided instantly, the glowing scar fading white. She clung to his body in relieved exhaustion, and he gripped her tightly.

"Merlin," she heard him whisper lowly, just before they Apparated. The unexpected force knocked the wind from Hermione's chest, and when they landed in the bedroom Hermione staggered backwards. Scabior released her, and Hermione saw for the first time that he looked angry. Furious. She backed up, confused.

"You tried to run," he spat accusingly at her. His lips were in a thin, hard line as he advanced on her. Realization dawned and Hermione shook her head frantically, backing away with her hands up.

"After all those times I caught you before. Did you honestly think you could get away?" Scabior barked at her. He raised his hand high, giving Hermione just enough time to flinch before he slapped her hard in the face. Hermione could taste the blood in her mouth, and she stared at him in shock.

"Are you stupid?" Hermione cringed, shaking her head. This was going so horrifically wrong.

"Did you think I would let you go?" Another slap. Hermione cried out, backed into a corner now. She slunk against the wall, crouched to the floor.

"Did you think I'd let you leave me?" Spittle flew from his mouth and landed on her cheek. His boot connected with her rib cage, leaving Hermione gasping and seeing stars.

"I will never let you go, little witch," Scabior seethed at her, "You are mine. How many times must I tell you?"

Another kick aimed at her stomach sent Hermione into a new, foreign panic: an insuppressible, primal protectiveness for the life inside her. Her baby. Her hands blocked the blow instinctively, protecting her stomach. She screamed as she felt something crack in her fingers. She tried to get away from Scabior, only her baby on her mind, but he grabbed her and hauled her to her feet. He slammed her back against the wall as she tried to wriggle away. Her head bounced against the wood, making her dizzy.

"Scabior!"

A booming voice sounded from the bedroom doorway, angry and reproving. Both Hermione and Scabior turned towards the source of the voice. The Bard approached them, face cool but eyes flashing.

"Release the poor girl, Scabior! What kind of a wizard are you?"

Scabior huffed angrily, "Stay out of this, Bard. She was trying to make a run for it, I needed-"

"Clearly she is both terrified and hurt, so whatever point you needed to make is well and done," said The Bard, coolly cutting Scabior off. He laid a hand on Scabior's wrist, and after a moment the Snatcher reluctantly relinquished his grip on Hermione, scowling.

Hermione sank to the floor gratefully. Her head pounded asynchronously against the beat of her heart, making her dizzy and sick. She cradled her injured hand protectively to her chest and tried to make herself as small as possible as she tried to listen to the two men argue.

"-The cemetery!" The Bard was saying, "You found her in the cemetery? Don't you think if she were trying to run she'd have gotten farther? And done it more cleverly? Clearly you have forgotten who she is, Scabior."

Who I am? Thought Hermione dully. The girl who killed her best friends. The girl who let Voldemort win. The girl who wouldn't fight back hard enough. The girl who was sleeping with the enemy. The girl who carried his child.

Who am I? She turned her face towards the wall in shame, trying to will away the endless tears that formed in her eyes. She forced herself to continue listening to the conversation above her.

"-Know you're upset about the summons, but taking out you anger on the girl is childish and ridiculous!"

"Don't you dare tell me how to treat what's mine! Remember you are a guest in my circle here, Bard, nothing more-"

"I will tell you when you've crossed so many lines it even makes me sick, Scabior," the Bard snapped furiously, "For Merlin's sake, look at her!"

There was silence in the room, and Hermione could feel hairs prick up on her arms and neck as she was observed. She kept her eyes trained steadily at the junction between the wall and the floor. She was acutely aware of the leaves in her hair and the dirt on her face. Her clothes she saw were ripped and dirty by now. She must look terrible, she thought, and her face burned.

"Not even her clothes are fit for survivin' in the wilderness, Scabior," said The Bard more quietly, clearly reasoning with the Snatcher, "Don't you think she'd have picked up on a thing or two after travelin' with your lot? She looks like a little girl gone got herself lost, not a runaway."

Hermione hadn't moved a muscle throughout the entire observation, and she could hardly breathe as she heard this man defend her. She couldn't believe or understand why he bothered to care, but she was infinitely grateful that someone did.

She heard Scabior heave a great sigh, a signal to Hermione that The Bard had won the fight. She relaxed if only by a fraction.

"Leave us, Bard. It seems I have some matters to attend to." Scabior's voice was stiff. It wasn't an apology by any stretch to her, and it wasn't an admittance or repentance. But it was a dismissal, and Hermione heard The Bard's footsteps retreating from her and the click of a door shutting.

There was a long silence between captive and captor, and Hermione could feel her pulse begin to quicken as she felt again much like prey, trapped in her corner of the room.

"Get up," Scabior's voice cut coarsely through the silence, and Hermione jumped. It took a second for her brain to process his order, and she struggled clumsily to her feet. She could feel her whole body shaking with equal parts fear and exhaustion, and she wavered on her feet.

In a blur of movement Scabior was there to steady her, making her flinch violently and nearly fall over. She would have if it were not for the strong grip on her upper arm.

"Steady love," Scabior murmured. He sighed hugely, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not going to hurt you."

He began to finger her hair now, and Hermione cringed distrustfully against his touch. How could he say that? He was constantly hurting her. Scabior persisted in touching her hair, her shoulders, her neck.

"Look at me," he commanded. Hermione hesitantly obeyed, leveling her eyes with his chest. He gripped her chin lightly and tilted it up until she was forced to meet his gaze. He studied her for a minute, and Hermione could tell he was reassuring himself that The Bard was correct.

"I cannot lose you pet-I will not. You are mine. Do you understand?"

Realizing he expected an answer, and feeling her heart ache with shame and injustice, Hermione nodded slowly. She tore her gaze from his once more, eyes and cheeks hot.

"You are mine," Scabior reiterated. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, plucking out twigs and leaves as he did so. He kissed her forehead for a long moment.

"It's late," Scabior told her, "Shower and come to bed love."

He gripped her hands lightly, making Hermione gasp and cry out in pain. She jerked her hands away, tears springing back to her eyes. Scabior was quick though and gripped her forearms, pulling them into the light. He examined her hands, deftly touching and prodding her flesh until he was satisfied.

"I'll get you some Skele-Grow," he murmured, a note of regret in his voice. He ran his fingers over hers, his touch so feather-light it didn't even hurt. He released her and rummaged through his satchel until he found the vile stuff. All the Snatchers had it on hand, lest one of them take a turn for the worse on the treacherous hills they climbed. Hermione downed it without thought, forcing herself not to gag.

"It'll take a few hours to heal, but you shouldn't have more than a couple fractures," Scabior offered. And then, "Do you need help bathing?" His tone was mildly suggestive but honest.

No. Hermione shook her head, careful not to seem too vehement. Definitely not. Scabior had yet to make her have sex with him in the bath, but she didn't doubt for a second that he wouldn't given the opportunity. But as long as she could keep it that way, bath time to Hermione was her time and hers alone.

"Alright then, pet," said Scabior as Hermione watched him with a carefully blank face. "Hurry up and come to bed."

Hermione managed the shower knobs one-handed, and allowed the water to beat a steady rhythm against her head as she bathed. She could already feel the Skele-Grow working, and the dull ache in her hands was growing more painfully acute by the minute. Her mind whirled with conflicted thoughts about her baby, her primal gut reactions challenging her moral codes and mentality. She was almost thankful for the pain in her hand as it distracted her from her thinking so much. She finished showering quickly and toweled off, anxious to be asleep for the worst of it.

Scabior was still awake by the time Hermione made it to bed. She crawled under the sheets apprehensively, hoping he wouldn't want sex now that she had just showered. He circled his arm around her waist as if he wanted to. She didn't know if it was because he knew she was already in pain, or because he was sorry, but he stopped there.

Hermione gripped his forearm with her good hand, squeezing it involuntarily as the pain intensified, and he murmured softly in her ear. His hand stroked lightly against her forehead, and his grip about her waist tightened fractionally in possession. Except for the intense pain in her hand and her unconquerable worry over her baby, it was almost...nice. Scabior's rhythmic breathing was steady and slow against her shoulder. His chest rumbled and sent tiny vibrations into her skin when he spoke. His touch was relaxed and unthreatening. The bed was warm and soft, and she was clean and dry. So despite the exhausting day and her pain and despite her emotions and Scabior's mercurial moods, Hermione let herself relax long enough to fall asleep in the Snatcher's arms.


Hey guys, I'm so sorry for the delay between chapters...and I can't even promise that I will update more regularly. I can promise that this story will not be abandoned though. Hopefully I will have more plot-forward chapters before the New Year, but between two jobs and school I can't actually promise a whole lot. Bear with me! If you have ideas or thoughts, please feel free to share them~

~E-A