Three chapters, three days, whoo!

This one's for ZydrateAddiction12, of course!

Chapter 11

The Last House on Main Street

"I just don't understand why his Patronus has to be a spider of all things," Ron complained as the trio and Antoine apparated near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. "What does that say about him? A spider, really."

Hermione groaned in exasperation. Ever since the ghostly blue arachnid had arrived at their campsite the day before and delivered its message, all she had heard from her friend was complaint after complaint. Scabior's Patronus is creepy. Scabior needs to wash his hair. Scabior has bad table manners. "It doesn't mean anything, Ron. My Patronus is an otter. Do I float on my back all day eating crustaceans off of my stomach? I do not."

"I don't have antlers," Harry offered. He gestured above his head to emphasize the total lack of antlers.

"…Yes. So, let's not read too much into this."

"Fine. Don't believe me, then. Do you at least know where we're meeting your Death-Eater boyfriend?" Ron didn't know why he had imbued his tone with so much vitriol. He watched his friend to see if she was going to react. He was disappointed when she didn't.

"It's at the end of the main stretch. Should be easy enough to find."

Antoine hung back with Ron as Hermione and Harry stepped out of the tree line and began making their way to Hogsmeade. "I'm very quick."

"What?"

"I'm right quick. My Patronus is a hare. Hares are quick."

Ron studied the other man. He couldn't tell if Antoine was very smart or very stupid. He couldn't tell much at all about him, really. Most of all, he didn't know why Antoine kept popping up, acting like he belonged or something. Ron already felt like there wasn't enough room for him anymore. Antoine made it worse. "That's great, mate. I'm really happy for you."

Harry and Hermione could see Hogsmeade in the distance. They both remembered it being brighter, though neither mentioned the discrepancy. Only a handful of its buildings were topped with plumes of chimney smoke. The abandonment rendered it skeletal, and as they approached, Hermione could not shake the feeling that she was entering not a town, but a graveyard.

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The last house on Main Street was the only house they had seen with a green door. Hermione briefly wondered if that's why Scabior had chosen it as their meeting place. There was no sound on the deserted road save their footsteps and the occasional grunt of Harry and Ron stepping on each other's toes underneath the invisibility cloak.

Antoine raised his fist and rapped lightly on the door.

"Who is it?" barked a voice from inside the house.

"Post," Antoine responded with a grin. He turned to Hermione and shrugged. "Inside joke."

Hermione didn't want to know the joke's origins. "It's us."

The door swung open. Hermione suddenly felt as though she might giggle, and she stifled the urge. Seeing Scabior in the threshold of this quaint cottage was dissonant, to say the least. He had looked at home in the forest, somehow. Here, he contrasted sharply with the neatly trimmed shrubs flanking the doorframe, as well as the floral welcome mat underneath their feet. Behind him, a wooden sign was hung on the wall: Bless This Mess.

"Hello, love. What are you waiting for, eh?" Scabior asked, surveying the empty street behind them. "Get in before someone wonders why we're having a party."

They had barely entered the home when a voice rang out from the other room: "Harry, Hermione! Oh, thank goodness! Come get me out of this chair!"

"What the hell? What did you do?" Hermione cried, rushing into the next room before Scabior could speak. She stiffened when she what had been done to Neville. "Diffindo."

Neville, legs numb from disuse, fell forward onto the floor as the ropes around him snapped like worn-out shoelaces. His forearms bore angry red bands where he had been bound. "I'm—I'm fine, guys, really."

"Have you been tied up this whole time?" Hermione turned to face Scabior. She saw that all four men had their wands pointed at each other. Her own wand trembled in her hand, and she forced herself to pocket it. "Why did you do this?"

"I got what we needed, didn't I? And would you mind calling your little friends off?" Scabior asked incredulously. "It's quite rude. I only did what I told you I was going to do."

"I don't remember telling you to torture our friend," Harry said hotly.

"I told you," Ron muttered under his breath. "Sodding Spider Patronus."

Scabior scoffed in disbelief. "Well, what did you expect me to do?"

"I don't know—"

Neville slowly sat up. "This was all just a misunderstanding. He didn't hurt me, he just… Didn't let me go."

"Put your wands down. All of you," Hermione snapped. "We'll work this out, but not by hexing each other into bits."

Antoine was the first to withdraw. Harry and Scabior followed. For a moment, it seemed as if Ron hadn't heard Hermione. When he realized that he was the last armed, though, he slowly lowered his wand. The four men watched as Hermione took a dusty glass from a cupboard, rinsed it out, and filled it with fresh water.

Neville drank the entire glass in six messy gulps. Thick rivulets of water streamed down his chin and onto the tile. "More. More, please."

As the young man drank, Hermione knelt by his side. She wrapped her hands around his arms and gently squeezed. "You've got to get the blood flowing again," she explained gently. "Your circulation was cut off for a long time. You probably feel tingly right now, yes? Well, it's going to hurt a lot in a minute or two. We just have to get your blood flowing."

Scabior was only vaguely aware of the fact that he was trying not to grimace. "That's enough. He's a big boy."

Hermione looked up. Scabior had never seen her this furious. "Yes, that's enough. You've done enough. You tied him up for how many hours? And he…" She stood up, leaned in close. "He's covered in his own urine. You couldn't let him up to use the loo?" she whispered fiercely.

"I can hear you," Neville said. "And it's—oh, that hurts. That… Ah. That really hurts."

"Please tell me, Hermione, what you thought I was going to do. Did you think I was going to put my nose to the ground and sniff out a trail? I really want to know," he said, openly seething now. "This is what I do. You wanted a way into the castle, so I found out how to get you into the bloody castle. What more do you want from me?"

"To not torture my friends. Or anyone, if you can help it," Hermione replied.

"He's not tortured. I didn't torture him. Mate, did I torture you?"

Neville looked between Hermione and Scabior. "No. I'm fine, really, Hermione. I think he was just being cautious."

"See there? He's fine." Scabior reached out for Hermione's hand, but she backed away. His eyes narrowed.

"Come on, Neville, let's get you up. Harry, Ron, can you move him to the sofa in the next room? Help him prop his legs up. Antoine, can you see if there are spare clothes in any of the bedrooms?"

"On it."

"And you," Hermione directed at Scabior. "We need to talk."

}{}{

"Muffliato."

The bathroom was claustrophobically small, but it was the only room on the first floor with a door. Hermione could do little more than turn around as Scabior entered, filling the room with a menacing presence.

"I can't believe you did that," she hissed. "What's wrong with you?"

"Actually, I'd like to know what's wrong with you."

Hermione paused. "Why are we talking about me? I didn't do anything wrong."

"No? You weren't just running your hands all over that boy?"

"Neville? I don't understand—"

"I saw you. I saw the way you looked at him." Scabior leaned forward, forcing Hermione to lean back. The cold sink basin pressed into the girl's lower back. "And I saw the way he looked at you."

She realized that her heart was beating faster than usual. She felt as though she had miscalculated something. Snapping at Harry and Ron, that was one thing. It was usually enough to make them apologize for whatever knobheaded thing was that they had done. But Scabior's ferocity was both unexpected and alarming. "I don't know what you think you saw, but I've never thought of Neville that way—"

"Who do you think of that way?"

She stared up at him. Her adrenal glands began to release adrenaline. Her body was screaming: danger. "You," she answered slowly. Was that the right response?

"Show me," Scabior commanded.

"What do you mean?"

"Show me how you think about me. How you feel about me."

She knew then that any control she had before this moment had been an illusion. Filled with apprehension, Hermione rose up on her tiptoes to press her lips against Scabior's. The Death Eater did not return the kiss.

"I'm not convinced."

"What do you want from me? I told you I wasn't—"

"I want you to know that you're mine!" Scabior growled. Though he wasn't a tall man, he seemed to tower over her now. "You have no idea what I'm giving up for you. And the first time you see me in days, you're too busy fawning over some boy to even ask how I'm feeling."

"I'm—I'm sorry—"

"Then show me."

Hermione attempted the kiss again: this time, though, she thrust herself against him, making sure Scabior felt her breasts on his chest, her stomach against his cock. When he didn't immediately respond, she persevered, sliding one hand up her lover's shirt. It worked: Scabior seemed to thaw against her touch. With his strong hands, he gripped her at the waist and placed her onto the sink basin. Her legs parted, and he moved forward, enjoying the proximity.

It was only when Hermione felt deft fingers undo the button on her jeans that she pulled back. "Not now," she pleaded. "Not when they're right outside."

"Now is the best time." He kissed her neck.

"Later, but… I don't think it's a good idea right now. We've got to get into the castle, and make sure Neville's alright—"

If Hermione hadn't known the right thing to say earlier, she at least knew now what the wrong thing was. Scabior immediately grew still. Fearing what she would find, she forced herself to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry—" she said again, but her mouth was engulfed by his before she could finish her sentence.

She shook her head in protest, but her jeans were bunched around her knees in seconds. Underwear pushed to the side, she would have felt exposed if she hadn't been completely encompassed by Scabior. Whether he meant to or not, he cloaked her, covered her, sucked the air out of the room with every move he made. The young witch could not reach her wand, which dangled uselessly in the pocket of her jeans, just out of reach. To her left, a wall: she could not extend her arm. Her right arm free, she attempted to push the Death Eater away from her. She may as well have been fighting a wall for all her efforts, and she cried out as she felt Scabior's fingers roughly enter her. This was no gentle exploration. She was being claimed. Punished.

Her inner thighs, spread more than they were used to, burned. Still, her body quickly responded, and Scabior laughed as he felt her slickness. "That's my witch," he said into her ear as his thumb found her clitoris. He sounded relieved. "You're still mine."

Too many thoughts. She just had too many thoughts. This is an evolutionary response that I can't control, she told herself. My body is protecting itself from injury. There's nothing wrong with me. Or maybe there is. Come quick so he stops. No, don't come at all. And then, with an agonizing clarity:

This is the cost.

Scabior's mouth found her breasts. Heavenly. The young woman's body writhed under his hand as though it was his touch that animated it. He longed to feel himself inside of her. But this was a gift, this sacrifice. He wanted to show her that this pleasure was hers, as long as she would have him.

Hermione felt like the miniscule bathroom wasn't tiny enough—she wanted it to swallow her up. She wanted to wake up tomorrow, turn time forward to a point when this was all over. No, that was wrong. She wanted to turn time back.

She cried out in anger and frustration as she came. Her fingers dug into Scabior's skin, leaving small crescents. She slumped forward, nowhere to go but into the Death Eater's arms.

"I missed you so much," Scabior whispered.

I wrote this last scene with one of my ex-boyfriends in mind. He was a very jealous man, and we had conversations like this a few times before I realized how unhealthy it was. The funny thing is, he wasn't jealous of my friendships with other men... He was jealous of my relationship with my cat! When he told me that it was him or the cat, I thanked him for making it the easiest choice I'd ever made. My cat passed away two weeks ago at age 15 of lung cancer. Every second I had with her was worth more than my entire relationship with my ex a million times over.

Please take a minute and review. When I have writer's block or I'm feeling down, getting a review in my inbox can give me the burst of inspiration I need to work on the next chapter.

Thanks so much for reading!