Hermione didn't respond for a moment, unwilling to cross him further. She debated how to best diffuse the situation before continuing.

"I am not going to apologise to you for fairly obvious reasons. But…I-I did not mean to imply that you would have nothing of value to leave anyone."

Scabior heard and considered her words, letting his anger dissipate in the process. He moved towards the living area of the flat, selected a book from his modest bookshelf, and laid down on the faded green velvet couch, stuffing a matching pillow behind his head as he cracked the book open. She was now blocked from his view by the book.

Hermione's eyes darted to the bookshelf. She had noticed it earlier, but the reality of its existence seemed to only be dawning on her now.

He lowered the book slightly so he could watch her eyes travel over to the bookshelf. When her eyes moved back to his, he lifted the book up again, over his eyes, blocking her again. He cleared his throat and spoke.

"You're of course, welcome to read any of those you want."

Hermione felt the first tiny pang of hope since she had arrived in his flat. Something she enjoyed. Something that was familiar. Her mouth softened at the corners. She crossed to the bookshelf, looking at the many titles, drawing her hand lovingly over their spines.

"After all…you're my guest…not my prisoner…"

Her hand stilled. The fury that built up within her was palpable. She was torn. Torn between screaming at him until her lungs gave out and concealing her fury so as to not provoke his. She knew he said it on purpose. He said it because she very well was his prisoner, in more ways than one.

Her hand clenched around the spine of a thick "History of Magic" tome. Her fingers shook; she was so angry.

"Your…guest…"

She turned around slowly and he lowered his book.

"Your guest! How dare you!"

Hermione launched the book directly at him and it hit his left hand with a resounding smack which was loud enough to indicate the heavy book must have been painful. He jerked, the shock and pain of the impact apparent, immediately dropped his book and strode to her side in an instant, grabbing her wrist and holding her tightly.

She tried to jerk her hand away but he held her, unyielding.

"Stop!," she screamed, attempting to wrench her wrist free.

"In my home, you will learn to show me some respect!"

"I'll never respect you…you are a monster!"

Then as suddenly as it had began, it ended.

He dropped her wrist. Her left hand came up and rubbed at her right wrist. Just then she became aware of how incredibly close he was standing to her. She could see his chest moving underneath his waistcoat. She could feel the breath from his nose at her temple. Looking up at him, she gingerly took a step back. Tears began to dot at the corner of her eyes.

"You cannot do this to me."

His eyebrows knitted together as if he didn't know what she was talking about. He did.

"You cannot keep me here and force me to do this!"

Her voice broke on a sob.

"I'm not your slave. You can't force me to have a child with you! It's absurd. It's…horrible!"

She moved towards the sofa and sank slowly down, sitting on the edge. The tears fell freely now, leaving tracks down her frighteningly pale face.

"I hate you! I hate this! I want to go home!"

She doubled over at the waist and cried directly into the worn, green fabric.

Scabior was, for once, at a total loss of how to proceed. He knew that she wanted to be free of all this, and hell, he wasn't even sure if he truly wanted to bring any offspring into the world, but he had felt for a brief moment a child might be a way out. A way to atone for some of his sins, even in a small way, and a way to start anew. He hadn't considered the actual effects on the girl. He supposed, now, as she would always be involved, he had to.

He walked slowly to the corner of the living area, to an equally defeated looking armchair, near the fireplace. He sat, crossing one booted leg over the other at the ankle. And he watched her.

The sobs wracked her entire frame; he was shocked at the depths of her sorrow. His account of…their encounter had been different in his memory. He didn't realize that all of this was taking such a toll on her. And it made him consider exactly what they both were doing on a deep level. Could he afford and take care of a child? Did he even want one, really?

He pulled a cigarette and lighter from the small table next to the chair. Crossing his hand over the lighter, he lit the cigarette, taking a deep breath in and exhaling slowly. He tossed the lighter nonchalantly on the table.

The girl was curled into a ball. She was sobbing quietly to herself, sniffling; it appeared the worst was over. He took another drag and exhaled.

And then, when he thought she was done, it began anew. Deep, horrid, anguished sobs that tore through her.

It occurred to him, somewhere deep inside, that this was not the path of redemption. That this was not the way to atone for anything, especially if it was at the expense of someone else. If there was one thing Azkaban had taught him it was that good behaviour was rewarded.

His thoughts confused and jumbled, now. If he were ever to be returned to prison, surely taking mercy on an innocent would be rewarded? His sentence shortened or commuted altogether. But was that the only reason really? Coming so close to death during the War had made him question exactly how he wanted to leave this life. Though it was still far away (he hoped), there was a small place deep inside he rarely accessed which made him want to try and be better. He, of course, would deny this place existed, yet it was there nonetheless. The futility of the deaths from the War had taught him that. Those rare nights when he'd have too much to drink had started this troubling train of thought. Once apprehended and thrown in Azkaban, besides his freedom, it was a subject that haunted him occasionally. He tried to not think about it.

He took a last drag from the cigarette, lowered it to the tray on the table, ashed the tip, then snuffed it out. He held the smoke for a brief moment before one last exhale.

"Alright."

Hermione still cried into the couch, her hands clawing at the threadbare green material.

Scabior stood and crossed to her.

"Alright. You win. I need a few days to find someone to do it."

Hermione's tears stopped as she lifted her head a few inches.

"W-what?"

She looked up at him. He looked so cruel and unrelenting, yet she swore she saw a glint of something different in his eyes.

"I'll find you someone and agree to it and you can have it…sorted."

She sat up, wiping her eyes with the edge of her sweater.

"I-I don't understand why-"

"Do you want me to change my mind?," he asked, coldly looking at her.

Hermione froze, a chill running down her spine. Something about that steely gaze completely unnerved her.

"N-no."

"Good."

He turned towards the main door of the flat and began walking away.

Hermione got up off the couch.

"Wait…w-where are you going?"

He stopped and turned towards her.

"Out."

He was surprised but he thought he saw her face fall a little.

"If you hadn't noticed, the flat's warded. You won't be able to run away. Don't try anything, or I might reconsider."

With one last glance he opened the door walked out, shutting it behind him. She heard the sound of a lock click into place.

She followed the sound of his boots walking out the hallway and down the stairs.

She should have felt relieved.

She should have felt better.

She didn't.

Hermione picked the book she had thrown at him off the floor and began thumbing through the pages. She sat back on the couch, reclining against the pillow as he had. She wanted to cry again, but it seemed as though she had depleted a lifetime's reserve of tears, and she was unable.

Pressing further into the pillow, she noticed the smell. Of him. His scent unexpectedly lulled her into a false sense of calm, and a deep and dreamless sleep.