A/N: I go by book canon. The italics are Scabior's thoughts.
This is an AU fic. As I go by book canon, I have expanded Scabior's characterisation and added a few details that aren't canon. An explanation of Scabior's characterisation is located at the end of the fic, but the fic must be read first to understand the notes.
This fic is set in the midst of the 2nd Wizard War, when the snatchers chase and kill Ted Tonks, Gornuk and Dirk Cresswell (they do not capture Dean or Griphook until later on).
Please note this fic includes death, murder, and other horrible stuff.
Story Title: The Price of Power
School and Theme: Hogwarts, Borgin and Burkes
Main Prompt: (quote) "It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both." by Nicholos Machiavelli
Additional Prompts: (song) Run Boy Run by Woodkid
Year: 6
Wordcount: 2775
Scabior trailed his fingers through the still-warm ash. The day smelt of smoke, mixed with the heavy scent of the forest and the stink of sweat. He could feel the minuscule, tiny, tell-tale fizz of magic in the air that told him he was at the right place.
Thump.
A few birds still twittered away, hidden in the uppermost branches of the trees, but otherwise, the forest was mostly silent.
Thump.
The clouds above were a strange purplish colour, and even though the sun hadn't yet set, the light was dim. Standing under dense clusters of pine trees didn't help either.
Thump.
Scabior's fingers itched, "Lumos" already forming on his tongue.
The dim light was annoying him. With a mental shake, he stopped. No-one ever caught prey when their prey could see them.
Thump.
So peaceful… If he closed his eyes, it could be a scene from his childhood—
Thump!
He whirled around, wand tightly gripped in his fist. If the idiots didn't step up their game, they were going to get a captive killed someday. Didn't they realise how important it was to deliver the Muggle-born scum to the ministry intact?
Scabior's eyes flicked towards the misshapen, unconscious bundle covered in rope and blood, lying amongst the leaves.
"Pick 'im up." No-one moved.
"You deaf? I said, pick 'im up."
The snatchers—six of them—scrambled to do as they were ordered. Turning back to the pile of ash, Scabior nudged it with his toe. The Mudbloods had been here not so long ago. Even the grass was still slightly flat.
Was that movement in the shadows? Was that the urgent whisper of voices?
Scabior liked a chase. The thrill of it, he supposed.
It was better when Greyback was here, but the werewolf was temporarily off on a mission for the Dark Lord. Scabior was the leader now.
He scanned the ground, noticing the pattern of crushed grass, broken leaves and the acrid smell of smoke.
"This way," he hissed and felt the excitement of the snatchers behind him.
That was the team—slow, perhaps, but always eager for the chase—and their determination never wavered. Moving silently, keeping to the shadows, Scabior led the way.
It was good being a Snatcher. Being in control. Not that he wasn't walking on ice, but it was a sense of security.
If anyone found out that he was a—
No. He wouldn't think like that.
Scabior knew he was different.
He was better; he was Greyback's second in command, after all.
In the distance, he heard the murmur of voices. They were faint, but they were there. Once again, Scabior thanked Merlin that he'd gotten Greyback to teach him some tracking skills. He motioned for the team to catch up. With luck, they would be able to see him in the ever-growing, accursed purple gloom.
They ran swiftly, keeping to the densest parts of the woods, following the voices. They were getting closer to their prey. The team had been tracking them for a few days now. A breeze picked up, bringing with it the smell of smoke and sweat. Scabior felt the excitement building within him. The team had the prey cornered, now.
Suddenly, there was a swell in sound, and a blast of red light shot through the trees, nearly hitting him. The Mudbloods knew the Snatchers were onto them.
In a split second, it illuminated the woods. Scabior picked out the shapes of three taller figures and two shorter ones. They were all running away.
Yells behind him told Scabior the others had seen the shadows too.
There was no chance at a surprise attack now; it didn't matter, everyone much preferred a good chase. The Mudbloods could run, but they were never any match for the team.
Then the forest was lit up with flashing lights, of all colours, the sound of spells being shouted, the sound of thundering feet. It was chaos, and it was beautiful. One of the snatchers yelled some kind of curse, and a bolt of blue magic sped through the air; there was a scream, and one of the smaller figures collapsed. The breeze from earlier whistled through the scene; the trees dipped and swayed, their dark branches seeking to tug at Scabior's clothes. He skidded amongst the soil and the leaves; the Mudblood scum were but metres in front; He heard someone shout, "Avada Kedavra," A jet of green light struck one of the taller figures square in the back.
"Ted!" One of the Muggle-borns was screaming now.
All three shadows were constantly weaving to avoid the curses flying through the air around them. As Scabior raised his wand to stun them, the tallest Disapparated, quickly followed by the other two. In a whirlwind of darkness, the prey was gone. The remnants of the stunning spell died on Scabior's tongue.
"They're gone!" he shouted, signalling the team to discontinue the attack. "They've Disapp'rated!"
The hunt was over. Groans and mumbles of disappointment rippled through the group. Flashes of light still clung to the edges of Scabior's vision, but they were quickly swallowed by the gloom.
Whispers of "Lumos" ran through the team. Little pinpricks of light marked out each Snatcher. In front of him, one of the figures lay face down in the dirt. Scabior walked over, feeling the usual disgust and hatred rise up within him. He nudged the figure over with his boot. He felt a wave of nausea roll over him at the glassy eyes and look of shock on the man's face. Sure enough, the stranger's fingers clutched at a wand. What had the other Muggle-born called him? Ted?
"Look at it." One of the Snatchers, a ruthless killer, named Creulon, came to stand next to Scabior. "We might've gotten a good bit of gold for that." The man flicked his wand, dissolving the corpse into a pile of ash. "At least the stupid filth deserved to die."
The pair of them watched as the ash was picked up by the wind and gently carried away.
Ted.
That was his name.
Scabior blinked, mentally shaking his head again. He shouldn't care. Heck, he didn't care. What did it matter? They were different. They weren't like him.
But they are, a little, hissing voice inside Scabior whispered. You know what you are. Why don't you face the truth? Why do you kill? Why do you hunt? You're scared. You're scared that you'll never have the respect you want so much. You are scared that when the ministry finds out you're a—
'Shut up,' he said to the voice. Mentally, of course. It quietened.
Scabior and Cruelon trudged over to a group of snatchers huddled around another one of the fallen figures. Gnarled fingers, pointed ears…
"Goblin," Scabior said casually. "A runaway. Not like the ministry would care much for it, in any case. Incendio."
The corpse was quickly turned to ashes underneath the purple sky.
He wrinkled his nose.
"We going to go to the ministry?" one of the Snatchers asked.
He jerked his thumb at the Muggle-born boy they'd caught earlier. The rest of the team looked at Scabior, their eyes flashing in the wand light. Scabior rocked back on his heels. Leaves crunched under his shoes.
"May's well. What's that, 5 Galleons?"
The team murmured affirmatively. That's all it was, in the end. A life for a Galleon.
Scabior didn't mind. It was like a short-term reward. The real prize lay in the fear he saw in his enemies eyes, the approval when Greyback appointed him Second in Command. Scabior's origins didn't even matter. The level of respect he wanted to have was getting closer.
That was the real gold.
They would never guess that he was a—
"Cruelon, manage this lot for a bit, will ya? I need to take a piss."
Scabior left the team, who were now talking about the chase. The white wand light in front of him swept away the shadows.
Gradually the trees thinned slightly until large stretches of the stormy sky stared down at Scabior. The exhilaration from the chase was beginning to fade a bit.
He didn't need a piss, actually. It was stressful, leading the team. Scabior had never admired Greyback more. Opportunities like this, in which he could walk through the woods without six pairs of eyes on him, were rare.
By the time the noise from the Snatchers had faded into the distance, Scabior slowly stopped thinking everything was peaceful. The clouds above him rumbled quietly.
Something seemed off. Scabior stepped over a tree root lying curled up amongst the leaves. He trailed his fingers over the rough bark of the trees. He listened.
At first, there was nothing but the rustle of leaves from overhead. The faint calls in the distance from the snatchers. The scratching of small animals in the bushes.
Yet there was something else, too, and Scabior felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise silently. His eyes tried to pick out a shape in the purplish gloom. His fingers twirled his wand. Scabior could feel his heart thudding against his chest.
Suppose somehow, one of the snatchers knew? Had they been waiting all this time to pick him off? Scabior had been so careful—
The slight crunch of leaves behind him was just enough warning. Scabior whirled around, shooting a blast of orange light at the shadow amongst the trees. A stunning spell missed him by mere centimetres. There was a frantic rustling as the would-be-attacker fell down amongst the leaves. Scabior shot a silencing spell in the general direction, and the forest was momentarily quiet once more.
"Lumos," Scabior whispered.
The darkness lifted. Crumpled against the tree roots was a man, his clothes torn and stained, stinking of stale sweat and fear. He was a pitiful sight.
"I'll take that." Scabior picked the man's wand up from the ground and stuck it in his pocket. The stranger wasn't one of the team, that was for sure. He pointed the beam of wand-light down into the stranger's face, lifting the silencing spell. "Your name?"
The man's hands curled into fists, but he didn't make a sound.
"Are you deaf, or what? I asked you your name."
The man tilted his face up towards Scabior, squinting furiously into the light. Shock jolted through Scabior. Recognition passed over the man's face too, though quickly replaced with a vehement hatred.
"Cresswell. Dirk Cresswell." The man spat out. It didn't matter. Scabior already knew.
There was no need to consult the list this time. A grin stretched over Scabior's face. Dirk Cresswell had a large bounty on his head. Everyone knew that. So did the Mudblood, by the looks of it.
"You know," Scabior crouched down in front of Cresswell, leering at him, "when I firs' 'eard you was on the run, I'd 'oped I'd be the one to find you."
"So you've been hunting me all this time? Me, and my friends you chased through the woods? The ones you killed?" Dirk tried to stand up, but Scabior merely twirled his wand again.
The warning was clear.
"Was that you? I thought you Disapparated." Scabior shrugged. "'Course not. I've got a job, after all."
Scabior was slightly disappointed Cresswell didn't seem scared. Pity.
Cresswell had been a thorn in his side for a while. All those childhood memories, when the filth had tried being nice to Scabior like they were equals.
Scabior was different, better.
He was nothing like Dirk Cresswell, the boy who lived next door.
Even though you're not who you say you are? You were never privileged, even from the start.
"Pity you're friends are dead." Scabior grinned at his enemy. "I could've gotten a few Galleons for them. What d'you say, eh, Cresswell—"
Dirk Cresswell lunged for Scabior, who jumped aside, firing an Incarcerous at his attacker. Cresswell's hand closed on empty air. Ropes wrapped around him, pinning him back against a tree trunk.
"You're pathetic," Cresswell snarled, flailing and tugging at the ropes. "Look at you. You're pathetic."
Scabior was thoroughly enjoying this exchange. "Says the Mudblood."
Creswell jerked at the insult, before tipping his head back and staring at Scabior. "That's rich, coming from you," The man spat. "Considering you're Muggle-born yourself."
It took a minute for Scabior to realise what Cresswell had 's mouth went dry. How did he know?
Face the truth. You lived next to each other. You, with your pure-blood parents, and Dirk Cresswell next door. Except your parents weren't pureblooded, were they?
Cresswell couldn't know. No-one was supposed to know that he, Scabior, was a Muggle-born.
Dirk took a handful of leaves, scrunching them up.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "I didn't suspect anything, at first. Everyone knew you never called anyone Mudblood, and you didn't have any visible prejudice against us. No one ever suspected anything."
Scabior remembered the suspicious looks he'd been thrown by his fellow housemates. The confusion when he'd never joined in the name-calling. That was all before the war; before Scabior made his decision. He still didn't regret it. It was better. When he hunted, when Scabior was with the team, he had power. He had respect. There was no point in being a Muggle-loving fool in the hopes he would get power that way.
Cresswell was still talking. "It was in fifth year when I learnt that there had been a child in the town, 16 years earlier, whose parents cast them out as a freak. The parents said the child died less than a year later. No-one witnessed a funeral."
The Pureblooded Scabior family—poor but still full of pride—had taken him in. They'd taught him to hate Mudbloods, they'd told him that he was different.
Scabior had been keeping his true parentage a secret for as long as he could remember. Now Cresswell could ruin everything. If anyone found out Scabior's real parents were Muggles, he could lose all his respect, all his fear.
"And then I asked my parents about you. They were Muggles, they didn't even know you went to Hogwarts. Do you know what they said?"
"Shut up," Scabior snarled.
The purple sky had grown darker, casting a strange light on the setting.
"They said that not long after the supposed funeral, they'd seen the Scabior family in the woods, with a baby. I just connected the dots myself."
Scabior had been told from childhood what he was by his "parents". They'd needed an heir, someone to give away all their heirlooms to. To them, even a Muggle-born would do, as long as that baby had magic. Scabior's Muggle parentage had been a secret. And now the piece of scum in front of him—Scabior's old neighbour—knew what Scabior was.
The truth was dangerous in the wrong hands. Cresswell glared up at Scabior. There was cold anger in his eyes.
"You kill, and you kidnap Muggle-borns. For what, money?"
Scabior would've laughed if he hadn't been so scared. Money was but a side bonus. He crouched down a dangerous glint in his eye, his wand at Cresswell's throat.
"Because I want to be respected. I want to be feared."
"You killed my friends."
Scabior's wand jerked, all the anger and paranoia spilling out in a burst of involuntary magic. Red light engulfed Cresswell. The man gave a silent scream, his mouth wide open, his eyes rolling back into his head, and then it was over.
Scabior surveyed the blood-soaked corpse, Cresswell's head hanging limply from his neck. It was a sight Scabior had often seen before.
He straightened, twigs breaking beneath his boots. It would've been better to hand Cresswell in, get some gold for his trouble. In the end, though, the death was necessary. Scabior had paid the price to be Greyback's second in command, and he wasn't going to lose it.
No-one knew what he really was, and it was going to stay that way.
Scabior remembered the days when killing had thoroughly repulsed him. Those days were long gone. With every murder, Scabior grew more powerful. He demanded respect. Reputation was everything, after all.
Glancing down at his former neighbour's body, Scabior twirled his wand thoughtfully. The truth was better kept hidden. There was no need to tell the team about this kill.
Scabior rolled his shoulders and neck, loosening his muscles. The silence of the forest had returned, punctuated only by the distant noise of the team. With one last glance at Cresswell's corpse, Scabior made his way back through the shadows. It took him a week to realise he'd never incinerated the body.
A/N:
A note on characterisation:
I go by book canon. In the books, Scabior is ruthless and cruel, but it is not specified why he became a snatcher. He is a known Slytherin. Scabior evidently has a lot of respect for Greyback. He is, however, the only one of the snatchers that do not laugh when Greyback mentions how he would like to kill Hermione.
I have always found this unusual, particularly as he is quite cruel.
In this fic, I decided that Scabior became a snatcher for personal gain–in this case, the lure of power and the need for respect.
His Muggle-parentage would cause him to be especially paranoid, and so his reaction to discovering Dirk knew about his parentage would be especially volatile.
In Scabior's mind, if anyone found out that Scabior was not pureblood, Scabior would lose all the respect and fear he had accumulated (and be thrown into Azkaban as well).
Interpretation of prompts:
—main prompt: (Quote) "It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both."
Throughout this fic, Scabior's main drive is his wish to gain respect. Deciding he will not be respected if he lets it be known he is actually Muggle-born, he believes that the only path to greatness lies in being feared. This is ultimately why he became a snatcher.
In canon, Scabior is often in awe of Greyback, as Greyback is the leader of the Snatcher gang (and thus demands respect) and Scabior sees him as a role-model.
I then turned this piece of information into the hunger for respect and greatness that Scabior displays in this fic. He believes that true power can only be achieved through being feared, rather than being loved.
—additional prompt: (Song) Run Boy Run by Woodkid
I interpreted this song (and the music video) as a journey to a certain aspiration. In the music video, it shows a boy running away from a mysterious building. He often falls over but repeatedly gets back up and continues running. Finally, he faces a city, triumphant at last.
In my fic, Scabior is running towards greatness, and along the way faces obstacles (the knowledge of Dirk Cresswell and his true parentage) before ignoring them and continuing on his journey for power.