Hey, guys! I wanted to thank you for the PMs and reviews I got since I started reposting. I really appreciate it. It's hard editing some of this old writing, and your reviews encourage me to do it faster and better, so please feel free to review and tell me what you like/don't like, what's working/not working, thoughts, comments, critiques, and more! Thanks!
Chapter 7
Fuck You And Your Stupid, Poofy Hair
Hermione opened her eyes and then immediately closed them. It took her a moment to adjust. The light in the deplorable building was dim, but far too bright for an only recently conscious person to take in comfortably. Wavering streams of sunlight filtered in through dirt-smeared leaded windows. A tall, still man with silvery-blond hair silently peered at her. Lucius Malfoy, once polished and dignified, stifled a cough with his left fist. Hermione could not help but notice that the hem on the left arm of his robes was in some advanced stage of fragmentation. The man looked as though he had aged ten years since she had last seen him at the Ministry of Magic. Not that I look much better, she mused. She was all too aware of every bead of sweat on her forehead, dried blood from the tree branch caking the side of her face and flaking away onto a worn, dirty sweater. Even so, when she caught him watching, Hermione boldly raked her eyes over him, taking in his worn face and disheveled appearance. I'm glad you're suffering. The thought surprised her, and she turned her head to shake off the streak of nastiness.
Bellatrix Lestrange, the only woman alive with hair less manageable than her own, was in what seemed to be a huddled conference with Draco Malfoy. Hermione couldn't hear what was being whispered, but she saw Draco jerk his head from side to side, shoulders squared. She tried to shift her leg, which had fallen asleep, but let out a small whimper as a sharp edge of the rough-hewn floor dragged across her skin.
Bellatrix turned. A grin, sharp and brimming with eerie joy, spread across her face. "Ah! So the little Mudblood is awake. Perfect timing!"
It took enormous effort to tear her eyes away from the older woman. Without meaning to, she glanced around the manor, searching for Scabior. She didn't see him, only a puffy, disoriented Harry with fingernail marks on his face, and a petrified Ron clinging to Harry as if Harry were a rather large chocolate bar. She swallowed. She and her friends had found themselves in dire situations, but no one knew where they were. There was no one to save them, if they could not save themselves.
"Now," Bellatrix purred, "The Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die, the least-wanted pup in the litter, and Potter's muggle slut…" She smiled wickedly at Hermione, who shrunk back. "Are all in my grasp. The Dark Lord will be most pleased, don't you think?"
"And you'll remember who caught her, will ya?" barked Fenrir, his hackles raising.
"Of course," Bellatrix murmured. "It was the stinking, wet werewolf who revels in his own filth." Fenrir growled, but backed away when Bellatrix raised her wand.
"Now go! Get! Shoo, dog!" she called, and the werewolf stalked out of the building, muttering. The two Snatchers that looked like brothers walked into the hall of the manor and Disapparated with a sharp crack, off to celebrate the upcoming bounty.
"Now. I think that before our master is summoned, we should fill out a... full report. Mudblood! I think it's time for a little chat, woman to woman!" Hermione shrieked as Bellatrix grabbed her by the legs and dragged her towards the center of the dilapidated room.
"Let her go!" Ron cried. "You bitch, you miserable old bitch—"
But Bellatrix only cocked her head to the side and smiled crookedly. "Good-bye, boys." With that, she turned to Hermione. "Crucio."
The last thing Hermione heard before she lost herself in the waves of excruciating pain was Ron screaming, "No! You can have me! Keep me!"
}{}{
Scabior did not move or speak as Antoine Casgrove shuffled up beside him, all long legs and oversized feet, and perched alongside him on the stoop. Together, they watched the smoke from Scabior's cigarette wind and curl its way into the sky, where it disappeared amongst the gray. The ash from the cigarette hadn't been flicked away, and a thin ring of burning paper curled closer to Scabior's fingers by the second.
"I seen the way you look at her, boss," Antoine said. "You don't look at strangers like that."
Scabior grunted noncommittally.
"An' I can't help but notice that she looks a mite like that Penelope girl you, uh, killed. Minus the blood an' dirt, of course."
"What of it?" the older man replied, his mouth twisting into a grimace.
"Well, nothin' of it, really. If you knew her, if she was that girl you said you killed, I'd have to think why you'd say she was dead if she wasn't. An' I'd think it was because you were protectin' her or somethin' like that. An' then I'd wonder why you were lettin' her get all torn up by someone I know neither of us got a likin' for, because that wouldn't make any kind of sense."
Scabior exhaled and turned to his subordinate. "I suppose it's a good thing that she isn't the girl I killed and thatI'm not protecting her and that I don't give one fiery shit what Bellatrix is doing to her in there, correct?"
Antoine slowly nodded. "Okay, but…"
"What?"
"Well," Antoine began carefully. "Sayin' she was the witch you said you killed and didn't, and sayin' you were protectin' her, and sayin' you did give a fiery shit about what's happenin' to her right now… I think it would be worthy of note that she hasn't given you up yet."
The two men looked at each other. The younger paused. "If she was gonna… Bellatrix would be out here right now instead of in there. But she isn't."
From deep inside the manor, an unholy scream pierced the air. Antoine placed his hands on his pointed knees and hauled himself to his feet. "Just speculatin', anyway. I gotta pee. Enjoy your ciggy-rope." His hands found their ways into the pockets of the man's faded trousers. Chin down and dirty strands of hair covering his face, Antoine ambled away.
"Cigarette, you idiot," Scabior corrected absently, but he was already alone. "Fuck!" The ring of fire had finally burnt the remaining portion of the cigarette to its nub, and a section of the man's thumb and forefinger with it. He dropped it to the ground, slamming the heel of his boot onto it once, twice, three times. Four. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He could hear her screaming. He could barely make out her words. The words he could parse were distinguishable only because he'd heard their refrain so many times before. Please stop. Stop hurting me.
He had caused those words so many times, seen them dribble out of so many half-slack mouths. Eyes already deadening. Nothing new, nothing special.
"She doesn't want you," he said aloud. "She wants that boy."
She howled.
"She thinks you're ugly. Thinks you're worthless. Thinks you're a scab."
"Stop! Oh God! Oh God, please—"
He thought, somewhat unexpectedly, of Calliope Shepperd. He hadn't thought of her in years, and suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, she was haunting him. His first task as a Death Eater was to punish her, and he had. The order from the Dark Lord, once completed, was what merited him his Mark. Married right after graduating, Calliope had been working in a little charms shop part-time. Scabior made short work of her husband, who had barely fought back. Calliope, however, hung on long enough for Scabior's excitement to sour in his stomach. The last moans, the moans of the soon-to-be-dead, were the worst: low and guttural, lacking in self-consciousness or self-awareness. Shortly after he first heard those horrifying sounds, he executed the woman who had once rejected his advances. Afterwards, he washed himself in her bathroom sink for nearly ten minutes, rubbing his hands together until the skin was blistered and raw.
Deep from her chest, a keening began.
He raised his head. He felt sick. His stomach twisted. Hermione Granger was dying.
"Fuck you," he cursed into the air. "Fuck you and your stupid, poofy hair."
}{}{
With that, he sprung to his feet and abruptly turned. He ran up the stairs two at a time, dirt and bits of dead leaves flaking off from his leather jacket and spiraling away.
While undergoing intense physical torture, Hermione Granger's brain went rather inexplicably to her childhood. The woman sprung from one reality to the other: in the first, she sprawled helplessly on a dirty, wooden floor while a madwoman carved her mind into pieces with every wand flick. In the other, she was five again, or six, perhaps, and her father was reading to her from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. The alternate reality was the more refreshing, and Hermione clung to it with every ounce of strength she had left. With all her might, she sunk into it, losing herself in a world in which she would not divulge answers better left unsaid, or give Bellatrix Lestrange any additional satisfaction.
The book, a faded green print that she had selected in a used book store several weeks earlier based on its illustration of a girl swimming in playing cards, was already shaping up to be less than beloved. Hermione wasn't a fan of all the nonsense in the book. The adventures seemed more nightmarish than whimsical, and Alice was a very silly protagonist.
"But why did she follow the rabbit in the first place?" she asked her father, who favored her with a small smile. She had interrupted him mid-sentence, but in the Granger household, questions were welcomed, not eschewed.
"Wouldn't you have followed him?"
"No!" the child exclaimed haughtily. "Of course not! She should know better than to go chasing weird animals."
"Perhaps Alice didn't have a choice," Kenneth Granger offered, raising his eyebrows.
"Why wouldn't she have a choice?"
"The story wouldn't exist without Alice following the rabbit. If you want a story about what happens when you fall down a rabbit hole, you need a character that follows the rabbit."
Hermione crossed her tiny arms over her chest. "I don't see why we need stories about people who fall down rabbit holes, then. I don't see why anyone would want to."
Kenneth's smile faded slightly. "Sometimes we don't have a choice about that, either."
She felt wet. Or was it cold? Or was it hot? She couldn't tell. She tried to focus on the memory of her childhood, but she was slowly being extracted from its warmth. Come on dad, turn the page. Tell me what happens next.
God, it hurt so much. She had read about it. She had seen it. But she had never experienced the Cruciatus Curse herself. It made the pain she felt her first time with Scabior dull in comparison, and nothing else she had ever felt came even close. Her head spun.
Lether go. Now. Youheardme you psycho pathicbitch.
At the sound of the far-away voice, Hermione's mind loosened its grip on the memory. The pain sharpened, and her breath hitched.
Sorrybutthisones mine.
I am, Hermione thought drowsily to herself. I am yours. Get me out of here, and I'll be anything you want.
}{}{
"Let her go. Now."
Bellatrix looked up to see a jet-black wand pointed at the space where her heart would have been, had she possessed one.
"You heard me, you psychopathic bitch."
For a moment, Bellatrix seemed shock. Her mouth opened and her eyes widened. The reaction lasted only seconds, however, before the corners of her lips twitched upwards. "Really? The Mudblood? You're throwing everything away for thisMudblood?"
Scabior's expression darkened. He was outnumbered, but there was no way around it. He had stormed into the manor in a fit of blind passion, not expecting to see Malfoy or his sniffling son still there, the two hunkered down in a corner and watching the destruction of Hermione Granger.
Lucius slowly rose, wand out and aimed at Scabior. "What are you doing, Snatcher?" he barked. The disdain in his voice was obvious.
Scabior straightened his shoulders. Underneath the material of his jacket, he was subtly stretching his arms, preparing for the inevitable duel. "Sorry, but this one's mine."
As Lucius opened his mouth to speak, Scabior suddenly launched himself forward, twisting his body as he dodged behind Bellatrix. A green jet of light shot out of his wand and struck its target. The elder Malfoy fell backwards without a sound.
Draco, his face unnaturally flushed, charged forward in a surprising surge of courage (or lapse in rational thought); he narrowly avoided another flash of emerald as a curse cast by Bellatrix arced across the room and split messily through the tissue of Scabior's right shoulder. Before Draco had a chance to contribute to the carnage, the Slytherin tripped over his own robes and smacked headfirst onto the rough-hewn floor of the parlor, blood pouring from what seemed to be a newly broken nose. Struck dumb, the boy sat up, fingering his swiftly swelling face with confusion and awe.
Bellatrix reeled as a streak of light sailed past her and found purchase in a marble bust of some long-dead Malfoy. The statue exploded, showering the room with a hail of stone. Besides the violent shivering of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy's small cries of pain, the room was suddenly silent. Blood curved over the swell of Scabior's arm and trickled downwards in fat, red bands. Bellatrix Lestrange, already somewhat disheveled, was positively fearsome in her vicious disarray: wild tendrils of hair stood out from her head at all angles, and her slight frame heaved as her shriveled lungs clamored for breath. The witch and the wizard eyed each other, one brimming with rage, the other with determination. Both of them buzzed with at least a small amount of excitement. The sounds of their breath settled over the now-still room as they faced each other down, wands in hand.
A slight crunching noise interrupted the standoff, and they each turned their heads just enough to keep eyes both on each other and the newcomer.
Antoine, wand out, glanced between the two most dangerous people he knew. "I knew you were lyin' to me," he muttered to Scabior. "I'm not stupid, you know."
Bellatrix lowered her shoulders, and her posture became more relaxed. She turned her head back to face Scabior. "As fun as this was, you little worm, it's over now. Drop your wand. I could kill you now, of course, but I think that the Dark Lord would prefer you alive."
"Antoine?" Scabior ventured, his eyes fixed on Bellatrix's manic grin. "Kill the bitch."
The woman laughed airily. "Snatcher, you slay me! He may be part of your little band of troublemakers, but Antoine would never betray me. I'm all he's got left." She pouted, then, pursing her lips in an exaggerated frown.
"That's right," Antoine said softly. "Boss, drop the wand."
Instead, Scabior began to raise his hand. Bellatrix followed suit. While nearly out of breath, she was largely uninjured, and her mouth had just begun to form the words of her curse as Scabior's hand was still at the level of his waist.
"Stupefy!" Antoine shouted. Bellatrix crumpled to the floor, thin, spindly, and spider-like.
Scabior turned, speechless.
Antoine shrugged. "I can't murder the woman who raised me."
"You're a horrible subordinate," Scabior replied. "Thanks, though."
His tone was light, but he had to admit to himself that he was surprised. He had always been friendly with Antoine—far more than with any other Snatcher in the group—but to be chosen over Bellatrix Lestrange was more than what he had expected. In his circle, loyalty was to the strongest ally. Between that and family ties, he knew he should have been the one knocked unconscious, not Bellatrix. He didn't understand the choice that Antoine Casgrove had made. In fact, he didn't quite understand his own choice to have intervened.
But then he leaned forward, getting down onto one knee as he ran his left hand over Hermione's cheek. His fingers trailed into her soft, chestnut hair. Slowly, the girl opened her eyes, and their gazes met. And just like that, it suddenly occurred to Scabior that he never really had a choice in the first place.
Now that most of the canon Scabior moments from the movie are out of the way, the plot's going to alter dramatically and become rather AU. Just letting everybody know. The adventure begins!
