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Chapter Ten: Ad Victorem Spolias
Scabior hummed with excitement, skipping down the dark dingy alleyway with reborn confidence. The alleyway lay awash in dark dinge, sick and soot covering every surface and stench permeating the air. Mist curled lazily down the dank alley, swirling around the shadowy figures of squatting beggars pulling at the hems of by passers, scrambling away from the odd boot kick.
Scabior shimmied with anticipation.
"Merlin, Scaibs," Char laughed at his side. "You're certainly pleased with yourself."
Scabior traded a dark smirk with his right hand and jumped to the entrance of a dark, shady pub. He opened the door with a flourish, bowing deeply at Char. "M'Lady," he intoned deeply.
Char walked past him and slapped his head on the way by, earning a disgruntled grunt of irritation for her efforts.
They walked into the crowded pub and were immediately endowed with greetings and cheers.
"Get a move on, then," Scabior hollered into the pub. "I've got five minutes before my tracker tells the Aurors where we are!"
The inhabitants of the pub froze in terror. Scabior grinned darkly, lifting his leg to the bar and slapping his ankle onto the edge. He lifted his plaid pants and displayed a Ministry-grade tracker bangle sparkling on the tan flesh.
No one moved for a moment and then the pub exploded in a flurry of movement. Fifteen seconds into their arrival, Char and Scabior were pushed and shoved into sitting in a large circle of chairs.
"Scabior," intoned a deeply scarred, aging werewolf.
Scabior nodded his head in respect for a brief moment, then leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room with wickedly glittering eyes.
Waratah, Feirleing, Geread, Settling, and Morgan sat around the circle, the last of the un-marked werewolf alphas. Admittedly, no one missed Fenrir.
Morgan, the elder werewolf, began the meeting. "You have threatened us all, Scabior, by bringing the Ministry into our depths."
Scabior laughed. "I doubt I am the first, nor last, tagged werewolf to grace a meeting."
The elder nodded respectfully. "We shall make this meeting short."
"You have endangered us all," cried Geread, his pack agreeing resolutely. "You have marked the Chosen One's self-proclaimed sister, of that I am sure!"
The other werewolves shifted angrily, eager to defend Scabior from the confrontational pack.
"Easy, boy," Scabior crooned, raising his hands in a mockery of innocence. "I have marked the Granger girl – his words met furious whispers – But! It was her decision and her choice for it to be made known. Who dares to proclaim that Hermione Granger, Desirable Number Three, is stupid?"
Dead silence met his declaration.
"She is mine," Scabior stated coldly into the room. "And she will always be mine."
The other werewolves shifted uncomfortably, but none dared to defy him. The alphas remained quiet.
Scabior laughed once more. "Was this the point of the meeting? How childish must you be?"
"Harry Potter has declared that girl under his protection!" Settling whispered darkly into the room. "The press will be upon us every moment from now on as they were today." Uneasy shifting and mutters of support met his declaration.
"I have received the blessing of Harry Fucking Potter," Scabior snapped, scowling at the opposing alpha. "And if the press knows what's best for them, they will not oppose the words of Hermione's declared brother, who also happens to be the Saviour of the Fucking Wizarding World, if I must remind you." The slimy werewolf slunk back, stung by his words.
"You claim to have received the blessing of her brother?" Morgan asked, his milky eyes searching the room unseeingly.
Scabior stood, approaching the blind man and kneeling. He reached out and took the elder werewolf's hands in his own.
"I have," he answered honestly. "And, I emphasise, I will never let her go."
Waratah, the only alpha Scabior respected other than Morgan, dipped his head in deference to Scabior's choice. Scabior winked back, biting his lower lip as his mouth began to twist into a fully-fledged grin.
Morgan smiled, though it was a small quirk of his cracking lips, and nodded. "The meeting is disbanded."
Every werewolf disappeared into the night.
Scabior returned to Hermione's bed at quarter to one.
"Hello, little mouse," he whispered softly, pulling her frame to his.
"You're a total bastard, you do know that, right?" Hermione's words mumbled from under the pillows.
Scabior chuckled and kissed her right breast, covered by the large night shirt she wore to bed. "Your bastard, no?" Scabior asked, pulling her shirt above her chest and kissing her exposed chest.
Hermione groaned helplessly and wound small, delicate fingers into his hair.
Scabior loved the dangerous art of seducing Hermione Granger. Or was it Hermione Potter now that the girl had accepted Potter's offer of adoption? It didn't matter, especially when he had her lithe body trapped between his hands.
He nibbled on a nipple, suckling and teasingly. Her pert, rose coloured flesh stood proudly against the ministrations, disobedient and wanton.
"Again," Scabior whispered against her tender, heated flesh.
Hermione lifted an exhausted eyelid and asked, helplessly, "Again?"
Scabior smirked.
Hermione awoke in her bed, feeling refreshed for the first time in… A year? She pondered thoughtfully. Her mind was thankfully silent, the crashing chaos that had disturbed her every waking (and occasionally sleeping) moment now a quiet hum in the back of her mind. She felt a warm body pressed beneath her, her head resting on a tightly corded shoulder and hands splayed possessively on a well-defined chest.
Hermione raised her head and peered down at the strange man inhabiting her bed. She blushed darkly as she realised he was fully bare, the sheet slung low on his hips and barely just covering his modesty. She let out a soft exhale through her nose, amused that his man could literally spend all night getting to… Know her, per say, and she would still blush at his naked form. I really am such a damn prude, she thought in exasperation.
Hermione pushed her elbow beneath her head and placed her chin in her hand, propping her head to survey the handsome man. Like most people Hermione knew, especially since the war, his body lay littered with scars. An enormous, rope-like scar ran the length of his upper chest and wound down, ending within the V of his hips. Canine marks and teeth indentations scattered his broad shoulders, raised and worn as if received when he was young.
Hermione let herself study his face clinically, amazed by how peaceful the snarky idiot looked in the depths of sleep. Scabior's strong brow shadowed his eyes slightly, making him look villainous in a muggle movie sort of way and his high, aristocratic cheekbones gave away his pureblood breeding. A strong jaw elegantly defined his face, dusted with a five o'clock shadow. He was completely and utterly breathtaking.
Hermione let her hand trail down his chest, fingers fluttering just above the sheet playfully. She had noticed a slight flare of his nostrils moments ago and she smiled, watching the man play possum.
She lowered her lips to his ear and whispered, "Hello, beautiful."
Scabior's lips twisted in a vicious grin and he quirked an eye open to study her. "Hello, yourself," he answered and Hermione's breath caught in her throat, recalling the day on the battlefield when they had spoken those words.
Hermione moved her lips to hover over Scabior's and the man groaned at her teasing, pulling her down to kiss. Hermione evaded his attempts and laughed, squirming away.
"I have… Oh! An… Idea," Hermione tried to say through laughter as the werewolf playfought and tossed her around the bed with ease.
"Mmm?" Scabior hummed, pinning her down under his frame and trapping her hands over her head.
"Do you remember that chase in the forest?" Hermione asked carefully, watching for his reaction.
Scabior's eyes darkened, electric blue staring down at her through thick rings of khol. "Do I?" He murmured suggestively, pressing a hard, wanton heat against her knickers.
"I want a rematch," Hermione breathed, squirming away as he tried to position himself between her legs.
"And wha' do I get if I catch ya again, itty bit?" Scabior asked, his rough voice reverting to his deep Scottish lilt. He lowered his nose to run the length of her neck, raising the hairs on Hermione's arms.
Hermione resisted the desire to submit to his teasing and wrapped her legs around him, twisting and bucking harshly. She flipped them over and sat on his hips with a victorious smirk, holding his wrists over his head in a mockery of dominance.
"Anything you want," Hermione answered softly, once more hovering her lips over Scabior's, nipping playfully. "The spoils to the victor and all that," she elaborated, looking into his eyes with intensity.
"Well, fuck," Scabior whispered. "You want me ta hunt you, catch you, bend you over and fuck you in a forest, my little mouse?" He asked dangerously, eyes glinting with steel and completely still.
Hermione blushed and moved to dismount at his reaction. Scabior grabbed her hips, pinning her in place, and arched into her spread legs so forcefully her knees lifted off the bed. She grabbed onto his shoulders for balance and keened as a hard length pressed against her core.
"It would be an honour, you kinky bitch," Scabior agreed breathily, laughingly, still brutally rubbing against her and blue eyes narrowing in pleasure as she gasped and incoherently tried to speak.
Hermione scowled at Scabior's language, ready to open her mouth and curse him seven ways from Sunday, when he quickly jumped up and bowled her over onto the covers. She let out an embarrassing sound of distress at the sight of his unabashed nakedness and arousal. Scabior pulled a pair of pants off the floor and jumped into them, forgoing his boxers and wincing as he shifted his hips and zipped. He then turned and tackled her, pushing her over once more onto the comforter.
"Ladies first," he whispered as he peppered her lips with short but brutal kisses. "You get five minutes."
Hermione turned to ask him what exactly he thought he was doing and was suddenly side-apparated without warning. Her vision spun as she was dumped on a forest floor, squawking indignantly. Scabior crouched and pressed a searing kiss against her lips. Something dropped into her lap and then he was gone in a swirl of leaves and twisting air.
Hermione sat on the soft leafy flooring, totally and utterly stumped. She realised she was in the middle of a somewhat familiar forest (Forest of Dean, her mind supplied, though it could really be any forest for Merlin's sake), wearing only a pair of ankle socks, her 'special occasion' lacy knickers, and a thin camisole. She shivered in the pre-dawn chill and scrambled to her feet, astonished by the sudden turn of events. Scabior had dropped her wand in her lap and she grabbed the wood handle tightly.
Not right now! Her mind wailed at an absent Scabior, wishing she had kept her enormous mouth shut. Dammit!
Hermione closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to focus. Five minutes. That wasn't enough time to do squat. Well, she could apparate, she reasoned. To the Fidelius'd island, which Harry and Hermione never returned to unward. But that seemed a bit like cheating; she'd save that one as an ace up her sleeve.
The scent of pine and moss filled her senses and Hermione felt her mind quieten. She was suddenly transported back to those days of horcrux hunting, the feeling of single-minded drive to continue, survive, hide. Her heart began to beat strongly through her veins, the taste of adrenaline sparkling in the back of her mind. She reached out her magic, using the tendrils to sense her surroundings.
A rabbit hopped a few metres away; a crow cawed in the distance; a large source of energy moved in the east – a river. She dredged up her memory of the forest using the rising sun and river as a landmark and focused on creating a map in her head. North held nothing but steep hills and chirping insects. South was more habitable, but closer to muggle hunting grounds and increasing her chances of crossing paths with another person (rare but possible). East – a river. West, nearly endless forest.
Hermione opened her eyes and breathed deeply, calmly. She gazed at the forest around her with a two dimensional, large angle perspective given to her by the Doe Eye. As she had suspected, the curse remained just below the surface of her conscious, waiting to be called forth once more. Her mind hummed with animalistic singularity, encouraging her to head east, towards the water. Safe, her instincts told her. Water would dampen her smell.
Hermione quickly transfigured her socks into moccasins with enforced soles, the best she could do to protect her feet on short notice without using precious magic to craft running shoes. She desperately wished she had extra clothing and knew transfiguring more would waste time. It was surely nearly three minutes since Scabior had deposited her in the clearing.
Hermione took off into the forest, flitting noiselessly through the underbrush towards the faraway feel of the flowing river, her magic scouting ahead and aiding with her with each dodge of branches and leaping over obstacles. She was careful to not overdo herself but ran with urgency, racing away from the little clearing. Hermione cast a featherweight charm on her shoes as she jumped over a log and continued her escape. The spell, as she had hoped, removed her footprints and aided with muffling the noise of her escape.
Five minutes rang loudly in her mind and Hermione jerked to a halt. She concentrated deeply and focused on creating an illusion, sweeping her wand and arm past her chest and drawing forth a mirror image of herself. Opening her eyes, Hermione looked into familiar eyes and a slightly translucent but semi-passable copy of herself.
"Head southeast," Hermione whispered. The illusion nodded and took off, the magic not guaranteed to last long but enough to cause a diversion. Hermione cast an odour eliminating charm on herself, one that had saved her while living with two boys, and took off northeast.
She huffed out a wild laugh of joy, racing through the trees as a wolf howled in the distance.