It's extremely short, I know (it's not even a thousand words). Don't kill me. I have issues when it comes to fight scenes, and I'll probably work out the rest of it when I get home. Reviews are lovely, like always. :)
He had woken up curled against her, looking out at the orange and pink and blue hues that danced across the sky, signifying the dawn of another evening. She was still asleep, pressed against him, hair falling in her face.
He had understood her, what she had said. Staying here, the two of them. He wanted it. It would have been the closest thing he'd get to being a Snatcher again, had he not decided to give up information. But that would have meant taking her from what she knew, the life she had made for herself and he couldn't do that to her, not without her consent.
If he was to head into Greyback's territory tonight, he had to get moving. Scabior unwillingly removed his arms from her, slipping out from the covers and grabbing clothes from the floor.
He had been in the middle of buttoning up a shirt when she spoke, her voice holding a sadness he never wanted to hear.
"You weren't going to slip away without saying goodbye, were you?"
He looked over his shoulder, Riley sitting up and holding the blanket against her chest. Modesty was endearing on her; covering up despite that his lips and hands were so familiar to her flesh, that his eyes knew every detail. Her grey eyes, once cloudy with lust and satisfaction, were wide, scared. Scared because she might never see him again. Scared because she might have to face a life without him.
She waited, watching him slip on his boots and the ever-familiar leather coat.
"You act like I'm goin' an' never comin' back." His cocky attitude didn't even earn a twitch of her lips. "Riley…we went through this." He placed his hands on her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. "Someone 'as to. One person who knows 'ow to 'andle Greyback or a whole lot more who don't. I'll come back. I promise."
His lips fell upon her forehead.
"I promise."
He had trudged through woods after Apparating relatively close to the area. He didn't want to set off any wards, not to mention he had no idea where to find the place Davidson had mentioned.
This meant consulting maps and pamphlets or simply asking around in the nearby village. But he looked out of place, it was a small little hamlet, and someone could listen in.
And it was dark out. This he was used to, traveling in the dark, trying to be as quiet as possible. Identifying a rustle made by a deer from a sound from a werewolf or a bear.
He was following one of the maps he had duplicated from a board; there was only one quarry not filled in with water. The only one with a warning against entering, due to precarious conditions and the sightings of large animals.
Scabior had found the place with little trouble, relying on his innate sense of direction (and the occasional mutter of Point-Me). It was disconcerting, having gotten to and into the tunnels this easy. No one was around. No one patrolling. His ability to track scents had come back to him in the past few months, and he couldn't smell much. Except the smell of the earth, the musty air of the underground.
He had no choice but to rely on his nose; there were other things mixed into the air. Blood. Rotting flesh. Sweat. Wet dog. Faint, but present. He felt as though he was going in circles, running into footprints he surely made. Taking turns he thought he had taken already.
He reached the crossroads, his tunnel running into five other ones at a common meeting place. According to Davidson, only one of them should carry a stronger scent of what he was already smelling. His head snapped to his direct left, finding the source. He carried on, slinking into the shadows, finally hearing voices.
A young boy, pleading for his life. Growling. The figures ahead of him cast a horrid shadow on the wall behind them, the large wolf growing ever bigger, taking the boy and biting him, causing a cry of pain. He was flung into the arms of another, and taken away, presumably to heal and begin his life as a werewolf.
Corrupting the innocent, the children. The next generation of witches and wizards and muggles, becoming monsters, the things parents tell their children about at night. Mere children, stuck to enter a world of limbo between man and beast. A world of prejudice, anger, fear. By no means was Scabior a saint, but he knew far better than this.
He hugged wall, blue eyes trained on the silhouette ahead. Greyback had turned back into his human form, willingly, something very rare for a werewolf to be able to do. He was smart enough to throw clothes back on, as if he planned on heading out to the other room where his men were no doubt staying.
Just as Greyback had gone for his wand in his coat pocket, it flew from his hand in the way only caused by a disarming spell. A hand reached out, catching it swiftly.
The werewolf merely chuckled, a deep, sick laugh that came from his chest. His yellow teeth were stained with the blood of the boy he had flung a short while ago.
"I wouldn't laughin', you filthy mongrel."