EDITED: 02/21/2015

Chapter Two

Scabior was not an idiot. He was not dumb, or stupid, or ignorant. He knew he wasn't brilliant by any stretch of the imagination, but he also knew he was brighter than most. Although he hadn't cared much for school, he'd done reasonably well in most of his classes. He'd graduated top thirty of his class, which he reasoned wasn't bad for someone who didn't really try. Now he was 27 years old and had spent the last six years of his life rotting and hardening in Azkaban. There he learned to understand motive. He learned to understand survival.

The point Scabior was trying to make to himself was simple - nothing much got past him these days.

He was one of the Ministry's best Snatchers, earning him higher pay rates than the others. He was thankful for the twisted scar he held on his back, which gave him the talent to do so well on his job. That was wall all part of the deal. Scabior would have killed every muggle in the world if it meant he was free from that prison and the soul suckers. A scratch from Greyback, who he was sure enjoyed the opportunity to harm him, and a lifetime of servitude to the Dark Lord was nothing. Many of the prisoners in Azkaban were from more aristocratic families than his - they couldn't muddy the gene pool with werewolf traits. No, he was chosen because he was a pureblood nobody, a prototype the Ministry had been working on and would soon begin to spread to other low-born pureblood prisoners for release. But, for now, he was alone. And he was fantastic at his job.

Not one of his captives had ever escaped. Not one - until her.

He remembered the laughter from the other Snatcher groups as they'd heard the news. Dreagan Scabior, arguably the best Snatcher the Ministry had, let a little mudblood girl escape. He was a joke.

Scabior hated the girl.

He would lay awake at night in his demented fantasies, his breathing growing heavy as he thought of choking and violating her. She would scream and punch, in his thoughts, cry and bleed, until the last breath left her body. Maybe then her scent would finally vanish from his mind.

But, as Scabior had told himself countless times, he was not simple. She had been skirting around, taunting him. He could smell her everywhere and he knew this wasn't some sensory hallucination. He'd spent too many years in Azkaban imagining he was smelling a hot rump roast to be deceived by such things. Olive Westin was near. She was always near.

Honeysuckle was not a common scent for a woman. Most of them smelled like lavender, or roses, or bubble gum. Never honeysuckle - he'd only ever smelled it on Olive before. Now, ever since the night Olive escaped, Booke walked around trailing the aroma wherever he went. He had debated with himself for days on end whether it was actually possible for another woman to claim such a unique and strong scent. Surely not. It had to be her - he knew it had to be her.

Scabior had been watching him closely, pretending he believed Booke was having an affair with some woman at the pub. But, he knew. He knew it was the girl.

When he got to the bottom of this, he'd kill Booke. No questions asked. If the man had played one tiny part in the escape of Olive, he would kill Booke for embarrassing him. Anyone who got in his way, he killed. And when he got his hands on Olive, oh, it would be a fun few days. Maybe not so much for her.

He was going to strip her of every last thing she had left. He would take her dignity, he would take her pride, and he would take her self-worth. Olive Westin would be nothing after he was done with her. A corpse.

Booke's bag laid there, propped against the edge of the bed, just begging to be gone through. Scabior had sent the traitor out to check the far perimeter, pretending he'd heard footsteps out beyond the trees. Last night, while he laid in bed and imagined choking the life out of the stupid little mudblood, he decided he needed to go forth with his little investigation. A few weeks after Olive's escape, he'd rearranged the sleeping arrangements after claiming Gantley snored too much, so that he and Booke were tent mates now. Though it was months ago, he wouldn't soon forget how Booke had fidgeted, a small look of terror crossing those beady blue eyes and giving him away. From then on, Scabior had watched the traitor like a hawk. And now was the time to finally act.

In the distance, he could hear the man's heavy footfall and knew, as long as he kept his hearing trained on Booke, his tent mate would never know the difference. It took him two long strides to cross the room and pluck up the bag, unclasping the top to riffle through and see if there was anything suspicious. Before it was even all the way open, the canvas backpack exploded with the aroma of honeysuckle, the scent erupting in the tent, clinging to everything within reach.

Undetectable anti-stench charm.

He vaguely remembered the man muttering something into his bag one night, wand in hand, but in the confusion of waking abruptly from a nightmare, he thought he may have imagined it. Apparently not.

Scabior clenched his teeth together with a new fury, dumping the bag's contents on to the bed with a violent shake.

At first, there was nothing unusual. A few of Booke's shirts, an extra pair of trousers, a bar of soap. Under that was his Snatcher I.D. card, written out on thick cardstock parchment in a rich purple quill. It bore a few important signatures, his identification number, and a picture of Booke which took turns glaring and smiling menacingly. Scabior tossed it to the side and swatted another shirt out of the way, narrowing his eyes at what was beneath. A muggle book. Some sort of children's book about fairytales. It was Olive's no doubt, the scent was radiating from it, laced on each page. But, why? Why would Booke have this? It just didn't make sense. With a furrowed brow, he flicked the cover open with his finger. Inside, in a sloppy hand, was written:

Little kitten, I'm sorry about the party. Daddy had to go for work and you know I can't take you out often. I hope this makes up for it. When I get home tonight, I'll read you every story in here until the sun comes up. I love you. - Daddy

As if that weren't enough validation, when he tossed aside the red armband he heard a light clang, as if two pieces of metal had met each other. There, reflecting the dim light, were the pair of silver hoop earrings she'd worn that day in her bedroom before they attacked.

But, why? Scabior hadn't been sure what he would find - he suspected some half-scrawled note with a meeting place and time, sure she was paying him off one way or another. But, why would he have these things - the book, the earrings. After further inspection, he found a picture of the girl's father tucked into the middle of the book. Why?

He'd lost his hearing on the man in his rage and shot up when he heard Booke's footsteps among the other Snatcher's carrying on outside. He had a way of walking like he was uncomfortable, like he wasn't sure footed. Scabior stuffed the bag full just in time, barely able to clasp it shut again and toss it down in the floor before the bulky man entered the tent. "Nothin'?" Scabior asked, knowing there was never anyone else out in the forest to begin with.

Booke just shook his head. Another thing that irked Scabior. Ever since his brother's death, he'd hardly spoken. Before, you couldn't get him to shut the bloody hell up. There were many nights when Scabior reasoned Xavier may have played a part in Alexander's death. To the mudbloods and halfies they chased down, they were a menacing duo, but there was little love between the twins. Was it grief that kept him quiet? Or was it guilt?

"You goin' to sneak off to some pub again, Booke?" he asked, reclining now on his bed. Nothing was amiss, it was crucial that Booke thought that. Inside, though, Scabior's mind was reeling. He would catch them unaware, whatever they were doing, snatch her up before she had a chance to scream, kill the old man, and be done with it. Maybe then her taunting would end.

Booke looked up from his feet, a questioning furrow in his brow.

"Go ahead. I'll keep the watch while you go have your fun, you ol' dog," he added with a wink. Everyone teased Booke about sneaking off already. Nothing was amiss.

Olive nodded with Xavier's face. Scabior never just offered them free time like that and she wasn't about to ignore it. It had been at least a week since she'd bathed and the grease in her hair was beginning to make her head itch. And Scabior was also prone to violent mood swings, she'd learned. If he was happy enough to take her patrol now, someone would be paying for it within the hour. Best to get out now while she had the chance.

Olive grabbed her bag, a genuine smile on her face, and exited the tent, heading for the small lake she'd stumbled upon earlier when he'd sent her out after the footsteps. It wasn't her fault that she didn't realize she was being followed - Scabior was well-trained in his craft. His steps were silent as death while he kept a good fifty yards behind her.

When she reached the edge of the lake and removed Xavier's clothes, Scabior's view was temporarily obstructed by a thicket of tall, overgrown briars. As he came around to fully view the lake, there was nothing but clothing laying near the water, but bubbles began to surface as someone neared the top. Olive had grown used to cold baths and found the easiest way was to just take a deep breath and plunge.

Scabior caught her scent before he saw her.

The honeysuckle smell hit him so hard and unexpectedly that his body let out a wild shiver. He eyed the edges of the lake, but his sight locked on the emerging golden head.

There she was.

There she was right in front of him.

His mind flashed to his hands tightly crushing her throat as he plunged in and out of her.

Scabior drew a shuddering breath as she raised her arms to work the bar of soap through her hair, her breast peeking at him from just above the water. She was just so vulnerable. This girl that had caused him so much trouble, so much embarrassment - how could she be so stupid? How could he have let such a dim-wit outsmart him? He could easily take her now if he wanted. This was too easy. That thought sobered him

Where was Booke? He turned in pure anger, looking for the man among the trees. Was this a trap? Were they in on it? Olive thought she'd heard a twig snap in the woods, looking out around her. She held still for a moment, searching for someone spying on her, but found no one. Still, she scrubbed a little faster this time, trying to work the dirt from her skin. It reminded her of the last time she'd bathed in a hurry and her father was killed for it. They should have just gotten out when they had the chance.

'Stop,' she thought. Those were things she didn't want to remember.

It had been summer when that happened and snow dusted the ground now. It seemed years had passed since it happened, but it had been a mere few months. That night was so murky to her and she often pushed it from her mind. Now Olive just let her rage and fear drive her, leaving the details of that night in the dark recesses of her mind. She would not remember. She didn't want to. Olive wanted to forget everything except her drive to murder Scabior.

Scabior stood still as stone, watching her bathe. Where the fuck was Booke? He'd come this way. He'd come this way to meet her. Why was she in the lake? In the cold, no less. Now Scabior's mind was reeling, thinking she must have been near all along. Maybe she'd been camping nearby and Booke was taking her supplies. Scabior frowned. None of the pieces were fitting. Again, his eyes darted around the lake and surrounding trees. Nothing.

A splash brought his attention back to the water. He further hid his body behind the trunk of the tree, peeking out enough to keep his eyes trained on her. And then it happened.

Her skin began to bubble and his eyes widened as he watched her face morph and expand, taking the form of Xavier.

"That fucking bitch," he spat under his breath.

That fucking cunt. No wonder he smelled her everywhere! Booke wasn't meeting her! He was her! What a fucking sneaky whore!

With one last look, he snaked toward camp, hatred coursing through him. She may have tricked him for a few months, but he would take care of this tonight.

When he reached camp with clenched fists, the men gave him a wary look and jumped at the order to pack up camp and meet him near a cave in Scotland in two hours. Within minutes they were gone, leaving only Scabior and Olive's tent. Scabior sat by the tent's entrance and waited, his stomach beginning to churn from the build of excitement. Booke stumbled from the brush a while later with a confused look upon his face.

"They're meetin' up in Scotland," Scabior lied, already having come up with the story, "Someone saw Potter."

Olive nodded, soundless as ever. Potter was big money. Big enough money to live out the rest of your days in comfort. Of course they all hopped on the chance.

Scabior gave her an expectant look and she ducked her head, hurrying inside the tent. She should have known he wanted to join in the hunt. Though, with her eyes trained on the ground, she missed the silver hoop earring that garnished his left ear.

And she never heard him stand, pointing his wand at the flap of the tent.