February 4, 2013

Hello Dear Readers,

In this story, this one day is stretching on endlessly. When will it end? It's driving me crazy. That, and the fact that all I think about is the future part of the story where they shag like bunnies and have romance. So, I made some adjustments in my plan and wrote in a little bit of flirty stuff. I'm trying to pace their relationship, but please bear with my muse's desire to have them be lovebirds.

I could have asked for a Beta read of this, but I really just want to throw this online now and worry about making proper grammar changes later. I hope you'll forgive my impatience. My last chapter was very stilted. I'm sorry to say that the words just aren't flowing through my fingers with this fic. Your readership is all the more appreciated while I'm struggling to make this story appear on screen.

Chapter 11

Marcus Flint paced outside the run-down pub. He ran a hand through the well-combed part in his hair, leaving short stray brown tufts sticking up at odd angles.

The slash in his arm had been healed by Greyback. It had been an entirely disconcerting experience for Marcus to feel the werewolf slathering his tongue over the bleeding gash, but the results had been extraordinarily effective. The pain had dissipated as his skin knit itself together.

Marcus had been admiring the healed skin, twisting his arm this way and that way in the dim light of the pub when Greyback had growled in a low, menacing voice, "Bit of troll blood in you. Don't get yourself in a panic about Blood Purity, boy—I wouldn't give a shit if your grandmother had fucked a Centaur. After all, come full moon, you're one of us." The Snatchers standing around had laughed, and Scabior had even slapped him on his back as Greyback shoved Marcus' bloodied wand into his hand.

Alone in the darkness of the alley, Marcus took deep breaths to keep his head clear. If the Dark Lord were to find his heritage suspect, he'd be a cold corpse. But becoming a werewolf would be worse by far than rumors that he might have troll blood. It had been a joke to intimidate the other Quidditch teams: "Watch your back, Snuffington! Flint here is half troll," or "Shit your pants yet Wood? Go troll on him, Flint." The jokes had ended abruptly on the day Snape had overheard and then had put the entire Slytherin team in detention for bringing shame on their House's honor.

There was one option that might get the attention off himself and onto Dolohov, the arsehole who'd just killed Warrington. Marcus raised his wand and nervously incanted, "Morsmordre." A fetid, thick vapor rose from his wand and took shape of a deformed-looking skull, the head seeming to be bashed in at the crown. The cloud illuminated the air over the Hog's Head Inn and a sickly snake dribbled out of the gaping jaw bones.

His own Dark Mark immediately became inflamed with a terrible heat, as if a glowing branding iron was burning inside his flesh. He clutched at his left wrist and scratched the tender, blistering skin of his forearm where the snake in the tattoo writhed around the black skull. It took a few moments of paralyzing pain for him to perceive that he had just received his first summons as a member of the Dark Lord's inner circle of Death Eaters.

Tying his best to ignore the sharp pang of dread that ripped through his intestines as he prepared to meet his master, he planted his feet firmly in the dusty earth of the travel-trodden alley and visualized the snarling wrought iron gates in front of Malfoy Manor. With a twist of his torso, the air snapped where his body vacated, his Disapparition complete.

The Abbot girl hugged her arms across her chest, clawing into her robe with her well-manicured fingernails. Her rush of adrenalin had left her depleted, and she shivered in the dank cellar.

Antonin approached her silently, but she raised her nose in the air and took a light sniff. As his arms embraced the trembling waif, she turned her head to rest on his unkempt, dirt-smeared robe. He held her, pressing her quivering body against his own until she melted into him. He nestled his nose into her tousled blonde hair and breathed her in. Behind the tang of singed hair, there lingered a sensual, forest-like scent of patchouli, of her shampoo. So this was the smell of the girl, the scent of his future wife. His lovely suchka.

Hannah pushed her hands against his chest and leaned away. "No, no, you killed a man. I can't … I can't…" she said in a broken voice as she turned away from his loosened arms. "Not a killer like you without a conscience." She swallowed, but there were no tears left to hold back—only exhaustion and emptiness. "Not anybody. No auntie and uncle, no cousins, no father, no … mother. Oh, why did this horrible day happen to me?" She stumbled away from him.

Antonin caught her arm and steadied her. "Go back up to the bar. No, don't look at the body. Look away. Look up stairs. That's it." He pressed lightly on her back to guide her up the steps. "Easy now," he spoke quietly when she reached the open doorway.

Snatchers were milling around the empty tables of the pub. A card game was abandoned. Half-empty bottles of whiskey and scotch were left unattended. Shot glasses were knocked over. Antonin guided the girl to a chair. She slid into it, slouching glumly, with a look of bewilderment at her surroundings.

The door to the inn burst open, and Aberforth stomped in, his ferocity making him appear years younger than the hundred something of his true age. "Then find a way to get rid of that Dark Mark," he grumbled. "And take care of the body. Ah, there's the Abbott girl. Alright, then, I've got my proof she's alive."

Greyback entered through the doorway, following Aberforth. It was barely wide enough for his hulking shoulders. "About that," Greyback growled, "I'll be watching her. If you don't warn the blokes who come around to leave her alone, I won't hesitate to rip their throats out."

Aberforth stopped walking, standing dead still. He turned to face the werewolf. "What's this? You haven't taken a fancy to her, have you? I thought you were still interested in men. Boys."

Fenrir boomed in laughter and caught the look of possessive anger shot at him by Dolohov. "My preferences haven't changed, old man. But she's kin to me. And I protect my own."

Aberforth eyed the werewolf and then glanced over the girl. "She's been turned by someone already?" he asked.

"No. And she won't be. Not unless she asks … not unless she asks me." Fenrir gave a menacing look at Aberforth. "Don't send her down to the cellar again, unless you want more dead bodies piling up in here."

At this Fenrir turned to one of the loitering Snatchers. "Floyd, take the body to the Ministry. If they bother to ask, he died in a fair Wizard's duel. Tell them I saw it, and so did Scabior."

The tall man nodded and signaled a few other men to go with him down to the cellar.

Aberforth grunted. "The girl dueled?"

"I did," Antonin claimed.

"A fair duel?" Aberforth scoffed. "He can't be but a few years out of Hogwarts. He was no match for you."

"Aye, that's what I tol' the boy," Scabior commented from where he stood near the door. "He wouldn't have none of it."

Aberforth scratched his chin through his coarse, gray beard. "The boys must've gone below after I sent Abbott to fetch Fire Whiskey."

Antonin stood up. "You sent her down to do something that a flick of your wand could have achieved?" he clarified in menacing tones.

Hannah looked up and protested, "No, you can't use magic with Fire Whiskey. It'll explode."

Antonin looked from the girl's innocent face to the look of chagrin on the old barkeep's. "You told her that?" he snarled, drawing his wand on the old man. "You told me to stay out of your business so that you could lie to her? So that she wouldn't use magic?"

Aberforth calmly drew his wand and stood his ground, unperturbed by the angry shouting.

"They would have raped her, you bloody son of a whore."

That did it. Aberforth hexed Antonin and left the man convulsing on the floor.

"Stop!" Hannah screamed, leaping from her chair. "Stop fighting! Do something! Make him stop writhing on the floor. Please!" she finally begged, falling to her knees, trying to hold down Antonin's body, but getting her face hit by his flailing arms.

As Fenrir grabbed the girl by her school robes and pulled her away from the repeated blows, Aberforth muttered the counter-curse. Antonin jumped up as soon as his body stopped convulsing. He shot a silver curse, barely missing the old barkeep. He was ready to kill the man quickly and took aim, but stopped just shy of casting.

The Abbott girl had clambered out of Fenrir's grasp, leaving her torn robe in his claws. She stood in front of the old man, squaring off with Antonin.

"Get out of the way, foolish girl!" Aberforth said, pushing her away.

She was fast enough to catch her balance and stand in front of him again. "Stop fighting!" she told Antonin sternly. "Stop fighting or kill me first."

Antonin lowered his wand. "Never. I will never hurt you, my suka."

Aberforth cleared his throat. "Such a stupid girl. You can have her. I can't keep an idiot like her alive when she refuses to use her brain."

Fenrir growled, "Watch your tongue, Ab."

The barman stowed his wand in his robe. "I cleared out the room at the left of the stairs, the one just underneath my own flat. Make sure she gets there tonight, and the wards I set up to protect her will take care of the rest."

"I just want to eat dinner and go to sleep. Maybe this whole nightmare will be over when I wake up," Hannah sighed without hope.

Aberforth grumbled, "You work for food. What work have you done?"

Fenrir pointed to Scabior. "Bring her something from the forest." The cocky Snatcher nodded to some men and they slipped out of the inn.

At the same time, Floyd and his group of Snatchers ascended from the cellar, their boots clunking gracelessly on the wooden steps. The body of Warrington, not yet in rigor mortis, was wrapped head to toe in black cloth, slung over the shoulder of the tall man. They flooed the corpse to the Ministry using the Hog's Head's fireplace.

Fenrir whistled the remaining men over to the table where Antonin had led Hannah to sit down once again. "Rippoff," Greyback called.

The wizened male elf appeared before him.

"Bring Wizard Ice for us."

Without a nod or acknowledgement, the elf was gone, and in an instant a cauldron appeared on the table. A heavy fog of smoke trickled over the edges. The Snatchers leaned in and breathed in the vapor.

"Don't get drunk on it," Greyback warned them. They sat back, chastised, clearly wanting to breathe in more.

"What is it?" Hannah asked, intrigued, momentarily forgetting her troubles.

Dolohov answered her. "It's hard alcohol charmed to rise into the air of a room. Everyone gets a little bit to drink, and no one gets too much to drink unless they deliberately inhale the gasses."

"So they like the smell of it?" she asked, pointing at the men around the table who so clearly yearned for more.

"Try it," Dolohov suggested. His hand hovered near her arm as she stood. He watched with a smirk as she took a great gulp of the white cloud oozing from the cauldron.

Hannah smiled at the taste and the instant relaxation that came over her body. "Oooh, that's nice." She leaned in for another gulp of the vapor. "It's a bit minty going down, isn't it?"

Antonin gently urged her to sit back down, but she was enchanted by the alcohol and leaned toward the gasses, straining her neck for more.

Fenrir swung his heavy black boots up on the table and watched Antonin and the girl. "How did you find out about the dogs keeping the boar at bay, Abbott?"

"Oh, that?" Hannah asked, staring at the tendrils of white smoke now spilling on the table and amassing into clouds that drifted toward her. "My father used to say it."

"Your father?" Antonin repeated in surprise. "Who is your father?"

"I dunno. I was Obliviated, remember?"

Fenrir spoke quietly to Dolohov, "He disappeared thirteen years ago. He's an Unspeakable. Some say he went missing in action, doing secret Ministry business. Others say he defected from the Ministry. You know how it is. Defect from the Ministry, defect from the boar; it's all the same."

Hannah sighed and sat back, away from the gasses. "I did know about him leaving us. I guess they didn't Obliviate everything. Just names, faces, memories."

"When did you go to Mount Lyfia for healer training?" Fenrir asked.

"I don't know when," she groaned.

Dolohov sat up. "How could your family do this to you? Abandon you?" He was angry and his nostrils flared.

"You're asking me? I don't even remember what my family is like anymore. See, there's this little problem that I have. I can't remember!"

One of the Snatchers at the table stopped shuffling the deck of cards to comment: "It's a war, and she's a half-blood. Her mum's already … been dealt with… Well, I s'pose her family wants to prove that they are true purebloods, what with the Mudblood registration and all."

"Unspeakable Abbott's a pureblood," Fenrir commented, "But if he defected, if he's secretly in alliance against Hogwarts and the Ministry, then there's a reason that her family cut off ties with a traitor's daughter."

Hannah scoffed. "Why would my dad be against Hogwarts?"

Dolohov explained, "Keeping the boar at bay: it's a code."

"A code? No, it's just something Daddy used to say."

With patience Dolohov said in a quiet voice, "Think about the name of this town and the name of your school—even the name of this dump. What do they have in common?"

"Hogsmeade? Hogwarts. The Hog's Head. No way. It's just a coincidence. That's ridiculous. The little dog keeping a boar at bay just means to not underestimate someone based on their size or lack of experience."

Fenrir grinned. "Compared to Hogwarts, everybody else in the wizarding world is small. Think about it."

Hannah shrugged. "Okay, so maybe he heard it when he worked at the Ministry. It doesn't mean anything."

Fenrir chuckled. "Don't take your father for a fool. As an Unspeakable, he had to have known about the uprisings against Hogwarts. He taught you the phrase before he disappeared. That means he wanted you to know about it. Maybe to protect you in case the uprising ever became strong enough. Mark my words. He either joined the dogs or he was killed by one of us."

Hannah looked at him, aghast. "He's a werewolf? That's why he disappeared?"

"It's not just werewolves. You had Lupin teaching you up at the school. I can see in his eyes that he'd never attack Hogwarts, even if he pretends to be one of us. Look at Dolohov here. He's not a werewolf, never will be a werewolf, but he's one of us. Your father gave you the pass code to keep you safe. He knew you'd be a student at Hogwarts. What better way to protect you than by making you appear to be a traitor from within? Your father must be a brilliant man."

"No one in my family would ever betray Hogwarts!" Hannah protested in anger. She stood up and tossed her hair back. "I'm going to my private quarters." Try as she might, she could not walk a straight line and certainly couldn't navigate the stairs. Instead, she stumbled right into Antonin's waiting arms. "You again," she said with a drunken smirk, looking up into his face. She made a horrible attempt to confide in a whisper, "I'm beginning to like you, Mr. Dovelove." She ended up nearly shouting the words.

The Snatchers grinned at each other and took wistful looks at the Death Eater with the drunken girl pressing her body into his.