"A son can bear with equanimity the loss of his father, but the loss of his inheritance may drive him to despair." Niccolò Machiavelli
It was an exceptionally cold evening outside of Salisbury. Scabior sat watch, occasionally stoking the fire with a stick.
Scabior let out a shaky breath, visible on the air, and he stuffed his hands under his arms. It was certainly December. They had orders to be in Bristol by week's end, though if Raoghnailt thought she'd have them working on Christmas, she was bloody mad.
A surprising amount of the boys had asked for a few days off so that they might spend time with their girlfriends or parents or what have you. And while Raoghnailt might have been less than obliging, Scabior gave them all the go ahead.
Like she'd have anyone to spend Christmas with anyway. Not that you do either, he mused.
Not entirely true, though. Somewhere out there in the world he had a mother. She just hadn't wanted him. He wondered what she would think of him now. Her pureblooded bastard boy, sprung from Azkaban to round up mudbloods and blood traitors for the Ministry and the Death Eaters. Regardless, it was certainly a step up from what he'd been doing after Hogwarts.
He sneered at the thought of that fucking school.
While many graduates boasted the years they spent at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were the most magical of their lives, Scabior found those seven years to be dreadful and drawn out.
Of course, his older half-sister Theodora didn't do much to ease those years. Always calling him a bastard, disgracing his name and that of his mother, Octavia. Saying he'd never amount to anything. Hell, Scabior didn't need to try to alienate anyone; Theodora had managed to do it for him.
"I don't even know why Father keeps you 'round," she'd say, "we've got 'ouse Elves for a reason."
At first he ignored her. But then she got more creative.
"Oi, Bastard, put y'self to good use an' let me try this new curse, will you?"
"The Giant Squid 'asn't drown you yet? Pity that."
"Where've you been? Fuckin' some stupid third year? We certainly don't need anymore bastards runnin' 'round this place."
More than a few times, she ended up in the Hospital Wing with a broken nose or damaged by a particularly nasty curse.
He snickered. He probably spent more time sitting in detention than he did in actual classes. It's not to say he wasn't intelligent. On the contrary, he maintained some of the highest marks in his year, though he'd never admit it.
He did attend Defense Against the Dark Arts regularly, though. It was the only class of any interest to him at all. Seven years and he only ever missed one, and that was because Professor McGonagall had demanded seeing him after class.
The one day he missed class sixth year was the day partners had been assigned for projects. It was that fateful day he was paired with Raoghnailt Scrimgeour. When he approached her after class, having been informed of the unfortunate hand of being paired with the quiet Ravenclaw, she simply stared up at him with a raised eyebrow and informed him in the haughty voice to meet her in the library at seven o'clock.
Being Pureblood, he was well aware of the Scrimgeour family. They were old money from Ludlow with a summer home in the Lake District. Her younger brother died the summer before third year, and her mother drank herself into a grave a year after that. Her father was an Auror who preferred his work to remarrying, though Scabior's father seemed to like the man well enough. And Raoghnailt spent most of her time with her nose buried in some book or casually practicing spells with the few friends she had. She was always first to volunteer in class demonstrations and was more than happy to correct anyone if they were wrong.
"You're late," she had remarked when he approached the table later that evening.
"By two minutes," he grumbled, taking a seat.
"Look, I'd much rather do this work on my own, and I'm sure you'd rather be working with someone else."
"'Ow'd ya guess?"
"Right, I'll do most of it, and we can meet Thursday to look over it. Agreed?"
He'd shrugged and carried on with the rest of the week. Obviously, he'd done some work, taking notes and whatnot, but nothing too involved. Besides, you could always depend on a Ravenclaw to get work done, and do it well. So he met her at the same table that Thursday to finish the essay and work on the finer points of their presentation. She conducted the whole thing more like a business transaction that a group project, but the sooner they finished, the sooner Scabior would be off to go shag Lauren Rutledge in a broom closet.
Scabior was tugging the quill from a skeptical Raoghnailt's hand to make a correction to their essay when Theodora had rounded the corner. She stopped in her tracks and smirked at the pair.
"Well, well, well, look's like the bastard's got 'imself a girlfriend. A Scrimgeour, at that. Fancy movin' up in the world, eh?"
Scabior glared at her, prepared to retort when Raoghnailt spoke up next to him.
"Oh, piss off."
Scabior's eyebrows rose and Theodora's jaw had fallen open as they turned to look at the usually reserved girl.
"Excuse me?" Theodora asked.
"You heard me," Raoghnailt said, plucking the quill from Scabior's hand and finishing off the sentence. "Piss off."
"An' 'oo do you fink you are tellin' me that?"
Raoghnailt calmly placed the quill on the table, "Clearly someone who doesn't need to take shit from a bitch like you, so, as I said, piss off."
Theodora looked between the two for a minute before stomping off, completely flabbergasted.
Raoghnailt gave a self-satisfied nod before picking up the quill and looking at her notes, penning the next paragraph. Scabior sat back in his chair, looking at her. He remembered wondering who the hell this girl was and why hadn't he found her before.
She cleared her throat as she continued writing, "Am I that interesting to you?"
Scabior leaned forward, looking over his notes, "Why'd ya do that?"
She shrugged, "She irks me."
Perhaps a minute or two later, she sadly added, "And no one deserves to be treated the way she treats you. She's your sister, for Merlin's sake."
"That 'asn't stopped 'er from sayin' fings before."
Their eyes met.
"I might not like you, but I don't think you're the person she says you are. You can't be all bad," she said sincerely.
Well, he had certainly proved her wrong there. He was all bad. He stole antiques and dark artefacts to turn a profit in the underground market. He gambled his money away. He drank. He slept with more women than he cared to count and didn't remember a single one of their names. He barely spent time at home while his father drank and gambled his own fortune away with his more prosperous Pureblood companions.
Scabior had been by no means a respectable young man. His father was concerned about him. Caesonia, his step-mother, and Theodora would gang up on him when he did pop by the house, saying he would end up living on the streets, was running with the wrong crowd, and so on. What did they know? He'd inquire into Theodora's marital prospects- why had she gone through six proposals since graduating and not one ended in marriage? Surely that was far more embarrassing to a Pureblood family when the legitimate daughter couldn't ensnare a respectable husband.
His father died a few short weeks after Scabior's twenty-fourth birthday. He was convinced, even to that very day, that Caesonia and Theodora had poisoned him. Surprisingly, much of what was left of his father's estate was left to him. That upset the two women the most. How could Caesonia's husband leave his estate in the care of his bastard? It was unheard of.
When Scabior came to claim his share, the two refused to leave the house and burned his father's will before Scabior's very eyes. That was the last straw.
At long last, the years of degradation and rage bubbled to the surface of Scabior's psyche, and he snapped. He bound them up, beat them bloody, and, finally, hours later when they begged, he killed them.
Two words were never easier to say.
And then he was on the run. Four months, he hid and ran, and hid and ran. It was on a cold December evening, much like the one he presently experienced, that Rufus and Raoghnailt Scrimgeour burst into the small country cottage he had been living in for a week. He had drawn his wand, but Rufus hissed a quick "Expelliarmus!" It flew from his hand and he was thrown backwards. Raoghnailt threw a binding spell at him. Ropes wrapped around his wrists and ankles, and a motionless Scabior looked up at his former classmate. She'd changed. She looked so much different than he remembered. Hell, she looked right fit. This woman who, not seven years ago, had claimed he couldn't have been all that bad.
And as she stood above him, her head cocked to the side, he wondered if those very words ran through her mind.
Her image haunted him those fourteen years, though he loathed to admit that he thought of this obscure and strangely beautiful woman. He remembered thinking that once he was out, if that ever happened, he would see her again. He didn't even know her, but, more than anything in the world, he wanted to tell her she had been wrong.
And now, fourteen long years later, he got to remind her of her mistaken assessment on a daily basis. And he was damn proud of that.
So ends the (hopefully not too) boring background interludes. I unfortunately have finals this week, so I won't be updating until the weekend. Until then, Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and I beg of you to review...The lack of reviews on the last two chapters saddened and worried me greatly! Yours.