Night of the Hunter: Captivated
" 'Ello, beautiful," Scabior drawled.
Fingering the beaded pink scarf, he greedily drank in the girl's appetizing appearance.
He made no attempt to hide his thorough examination as his dark eyes hungrily raked over her slender, feminine form.
He saw what he liked—and he liked what he saw.
Scabior licked his lips with predatorial anticipation; this scrumptious lil' piece would make a fine catch indeed.
He saw the girl's forehead crease with worry, and she made a small choked noise—somewhere between shock and dismay.
Scabior formed a sly smile as she shakily stepped back from him, before promptly taking off with the other truants.
His hapless gang hung back—anxiously awaiting his command.
What'd they think they needed to do—the useless sods...
He sighed briefly, rolling his eyes.
"Well, don' hang 'bout...snatch 'em!"
His lackies started to sprint after their respective targets, breaking off in their usual formation.
Scabior zeroed in on the delectable girl—reasoning that, between Greyback and the others, her little boyfriends would soon fall into place, too.
He streaked towards her, scarf billowing in his wake.
She nimbly dodged their spells, haphazardly returning their volley with her own.
The girl was quick, but he was just a tad bit quicker—but some of his compatriots, not so much.
Scabior snorted as they collapsed onto the muddy forest floor in a cohesive, pitiful heap.
Now, it was just him and her—and that's how he wanted it.
"Clever little minx, ain't ya," he murmured in appreciation as he swept effortlessly across the uneven terrain.
How he relished the pursuit of the prize.
It had coursed through his veins as a lad when he'd won footraces against his peers—it even provided him a rather illustrious career as a Slytherin Chaser, when he translated his physical prowess to one of a broomstick.
Despite the short-lived fun he had had with past endeavors, none of that compared to that heady thrill of stalking living prey.
This same hunt would also, on occasion, provide some rather succulent spoils that he would treat himself to—monetarily, and otherwise.
He'd always been told that if he were good at something...never do it for free.
And this swift little bird was literally giving him a run for his Galleons, but he wasn't worried—yet.
Scabior was closing in now, and she knew it.
He gave a low growl as he quickened his pace to secure the remaining gap between them, his leather-clad boots thudding steadily against the muddy earth.
But he needn't have bothered; by the time he finally neared the girl, some of his men had fanned out and formed a semi-circle to head them off, like a noose coiling around the neck of its next victim.
He watched as one-by-one, each youth was swiftly snagged.
Scabior slowed to a swagger, then stopped to lean against a tree.
He quietly scrutinized his quarry, his fingertips unconsciously traipsing across the scarf's silky patterns.
The moment the girl was captured, the ginger barked, 'Don't touch her!' earning him a fierce blow to the abdomen from Greyback.
Scabior leered knowingly—clearly, he was the possessive, mouthy one of the bunch.
The boy grunted and fell to his knees, while the girl demandingly retorted, "Leave him!"
But she, on the other hand, was a bit more subdued.
That being said, though, she still didn't fool him for a second—anyone with half a brain could see the unanswered tension between the two.
Scabior sneered—why the tosser never made a move on the lil' prig was beyond him.
"Get off me!" the girl commanded, struggling hard to free herself from the grasp of a young Snatcher.
This one's used to givin' out the orders, she is, he thought wryly.
And by Merlin, she had some fight in her, too—this was gonna be fun.
He grinned as he sauntered towards the group.
"Your boyfriend'll get much worse than that—if he doesn' learn to be'ave 'imself," he warned matter-of-factly.
He then turned to question the other boy—the dark-haired, quiet one, who looked like he'd been stung by something.
The palpable waves of apprehension and dread that rolled off the lad spoke more to Scabior than anything the boy actually said.
There was no doubt that this lil' wanker was definitely hiding something—something vitally important, at that.
But the dead giveaway was the instant increase in struggle from both the girl and the ginger as soon as he approached the other boy—as if there was something worth protecting about the scrawny prat.
His brow furrowed.
Maybe he could get it out of the girl...he stalked towards her, intentionally softening his tone to get her off-balance—try to get her to slip, somehow.
"And you, m' lovely," he paused, inches from her face.
"What d'they call you?"
Tight-lipped, she muttered her answer, not meeting his hungry, salacious gaze.
"Penelope Clearwater—half-blood."
Being this close to her, he could nearly taste the mouthwatering aroma that subtly lingered against her skin—vanilla, with the faintest hint of lavender.
But wait.
He knew that smell...he nuzzled her collarbone, before sniffing the scarf's fabric to confirm his suspicion.
"Well, well, well," he murmured, his face alight with recognition.
Even though it had long lost its potency, he could never forget that intoxicating, effeminate scent that curled around his nostrils, stiffening him in unmentionable places.
He could hardly believe his good fortune—against all odds, he'd somehow stumbled upon the owner of the scarf.
What's more, that smell triggered another memory, of months back when he'd first inhaled that sweet, delicate fragrance—it had contrasted so starkly with the wretched stench he was used to enduring on a daily basis.
From that day forward, the then-unknown girl had become the uncontested focal point of his feverish, achingly-vivid fantasies.
Night after fitful night, the carnal visions persisted, ever heightening his desire to find the elusive, sensuous phantom that haunted his dreams.
How he'd yearned for this moment, lusted for it with an insatiable thirst—and now, at last, that long-awaited object was here before him, in living color.
And she did not disappoint.
"I think I 'ave somethin' of yours, love," he whispered, leaning in to get another whiff of her.
He could still detect the original scents, but they were now thoroughly overpowered by the tell-tale tang of fear.
She absolutely reeked of it, though she tried to appear neutral.
But unfortunately for his little vixen, he had learned a long time ago that desperation was the most robust perfume of all.
Yet, despite her clear unease, he noticed the defiant set of her jaw, and the quiet determination that smouldered in her gaze.
He gave her a small, playful wink.
So, the girl wanted to play, huh?
If she reckoned she could somehow best him—then boy, did this jumped-up lil' bit have something coming.
Sooner or later, she'd find out—they all ended up doing exactly what he wanted.
He vowed that somehow, some way, by Merlin—he'd break her.
And if there's one thing he never shied away from...it was a challenge.
He teasingly caressed the girl's cheek, smirking as she reeled back from his touch, her nose wrinkling with blatant revulsion.
Just as he was starting to really savor his affect on her, one of the other Snatchers reported there was no 'Vernon Dudley' in their book.
So, that specky git was lying—but why?
The seemingly disjointed pieces of their story suddenly jumped together in his mind—their edgy, ultra-protective behavior, paired with the oddness of the dark-haired boy's injuries…
He whistled to himself in incredulous realisation.
Holy bleedin' fuck, it couldn' be! Could it be—
Scabior's eyes narrowed, his brows knitting together in deep concentration.
If that boy was really who he thought he was, that meant the ginger was one of those blood-traitor Weasleys...which made this creamy lil' tart—deliciously expendable.
He flicked the tip of his tongue to wet his lower lip. Lovely.
Scabior's thoughts were now coming in rapid succession.
Because of their inherently thick nature, he was certain none of his men would catch on to the trios' true identities—at least for the moment.
But, if this truly was Potter—then he needed to be sure...which meant he'd have to wait 'til the lil' blighter cleared up.
And by that point, even the dullest of his lot would realise who they actually had—then, he'd have lost his one chance of a splendid little leg-over with Miss Mudblood.
Blood-status notwithstanding, it had absolutely no bearing on how maddeningly fit she was...and the way he saw it, he was an equal-opportunity kinda bloke when it came to times like these.
If he was gonna get the gold and the girl, he'd have to act quickly.
" Alrigh,' 'ere's what we'll do...we'll turn 'em in right quick, but before that—"
He brazenly hauled the girl from her captor with a roguish wink.
"I 'ave some...unfinished bus'ness with this one."
"Like hell—!" the ginger snarled as he made a lunge for him, the others jeering as they quickly pinned the young assailant.
Scabior then glanced down at the girl, bending confidingly towards her so only she could hear him.
He quietly, confidently asserted, "You're gonna be my favourite."
She recoiled from him with a withering expression—jaw firmly clenched, her eyes ablaze.
The girl looked like she wanted nothing more than to hex him into a pile of pus—but thankfully, being deprived of her wand, she'd get no such chance.
He then saw her eyes flash with newfound intent—but before he could react, the girl leaned back to spit in his face, catching him square on the cheek.
There was a moment of stunned silence as all eyes were on him.
Scabior casually flicked the saliva away, then just as casually, struck her hard across the face.
"I'll fuckin' kill you!" the red-haired boy roared as the girl staggered backwards from the blow.
Blank shock had flit across her face, but the girl recovered quickly as she stood her ground, regarding him warily.
For the first time, he discerned a visible flicker of fear reflected in her usually-stoic features.
Scabior cocked his head to the side, determining his next move.
He could rough her up some more to get her to crack…but with a sudden stroke of insight, he realised there was a much more efficient method to get his way.
And with that, he pounced on the ginger, and started pummeling him to a bloody pulp.
"No—!" the girl gave a strangled cry and lurched towards them, but one of his men reached out and held her fast.
Scabior ignored her and Potter's pleas as he delivered a series of crippling blows to the Weasley's head, chest, and stomach—not relenting until the latter finally slumped to the ground.
He then wrenched the boy's head upwards, and gestured towards the girl, who had sunk to her knees, weeping profusely.
Scabior coarsely muttered into his ear, "Is tha' your tidy lil' bint o'er there?"
"Go...t'...hell," the boy hissed thickly through bloody teeth, jerking his head in a futile attempt to free himself.
Scabior then raised his voice so the rest could hear him.
"What's wron', ginger? Not willin' t' share?"
He released his hold on the boy, while his men renewed their catcalling.
Scabior remained in a kneeling position besides the Weasley, as he absentmindedly rubbed his jaw, lost in thought.
After a moment, he solemnly remarked, "Y' know somethin', ginge?"
"I really don' think I should suffer if you didn' 'ave the bollocks to pop 'er tight lil' cherry."
Wincing, the boy mustered his strength to raise his head and glower at him.
"If—you—touch—her—" the Weasley growled, his scarlet face contorted with rage.
Scabior snorted as he got to his feet.
"I'm 'fraid you haven' got a leg t' stand on, mate. Now if you'll 'scuse me…"
"Stop!" Potter desperately interjected.
Scabior turned towards him, mildly amused.
"Please…" the lad pleaded. "Please—leave them out of this."
"Why?" Scabior countered, his eyes gleaming knowingly.
"Got somethin' t' tell me, boy?"
He watched in interest as the young chap swiveled his head between the Weasley and the girl, clearly conflicted.
Scabior swore he saw the latter ever-so-slightly jerk her head to the side.
He then looked back at Potter, who had become silent.
"Nuthin' to say, then? Fair 'nough, I'll get back t'you later."
Scabior balled his fist underneath the girl's scalp, and cruelly yanked her up by the roots of her hair.
"C'mon my girl, on your feet."
Once standing, he whipped her around to face him.
"Ready t' co'perate, or not?"
She didn't answer, but instead turned her dirty, tear-smeared face to glance between her two companions.
"I ain' got time for this," he hissed.
"Now, 'ere's the thing, pet."
Scabior gestured indifferently towards the Weasley's prostrate form.
"Your ginger squeeze o'er there ain't my type; but as for Greyback…'e makes lil' distinction 'tween anyone—'s long as they got a pulse, and sometimes, not even then."
The werewolf cackled as he felt the girl shudder.
"See, the 'onger you deliberate, the 'onger you'll be 'eaving your lil' boyfriend out in the open, wounds and all."
"So if I was you, I'd keep tha' time as shor' as poss'ble, yeah?"
Her jaw tightened as she scowled at him, chest heaving.
The girl's voice quivered in response, undisguised loathing in every syllable.
"How—how'd I know you won't have him attacked, even if I did," she swallowed as her voice started to quaver more, "did go with you?"
Scabior toothily grinned.
"Weelll," he deliberated, chuckling darkly.
"You certainly won' hurt your chances now, wil' ya, love?"
Greyback guffawed, while the others started to heckle more urgently now, egging him on.
"Git on with it—wotcha waitin' for Scab—get a mov' on!"
His mens' voices clamored together, drowning out the pitious whines of the boys as they continued to grapple with their captors.
Scabior curiously appraised the girl, who locked her eyes on his.
Where there was only confusion in her gaze, now—now he saw only resolve.
She gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
And that was all he needed.
He quickly conjured dark cords around her wrists, before unceremoniously starting to drag her away.
But she dug in her heels and turned back to face the other two, agony etched onto her flushed, teary face.
She valiantly tried to reassure them—her strained, raw voice crackling with emotion.
" 'S o.k...I'll be ok...I love—"
But before she could finish, Scabior had broken the grip she had had on the ground, and brusquely shoved her in front of him.
He then jerked his head towards Greyback, who personally took hold of the Weasley; the boy had become so hysterically frantic that he'd exasperated the others.
"DON'T—don't take her...I'll do anything—ANYTHING!"
The ginger continued to bellow in vain, sobbing and ferociously bucking as if his very life depended on it.
Despite the severe thrashing he had previously received, he was still carrying on as if a finger had never been laid on him.
'S a damn pity he's a Weasley...I coul' use more like the lil' bugger.
Regardless, though—he still had to keep up appearances.
So Scabior winked provokingly and waggled his fingers at the boys as they shuffled into the thicket of trees—their infuriated, anguished cries ricocheting across the woods.
Just as they were starting to be enveloped by the surrounding foliage, there was a muffled sniffle as he saw the girl dab her eyes with the hem of her sleeve.
A faint smile tugged on his lips—surely, it would only be a matter of time 'til she cracked.
After all, the night was still young.