Hi y'all! Yeah, this is what it's gonna be like. No updates before at least a week has passed. I don't like it, you don't like it, but hey, what an we do about it? But I did what I promised: wrote in every spare time. So I demand reviews now! ;) And I did a oneshot for the brilliant laurielove's challenge .com/. My fic about Hermione and Bill got far more hits than I ever expected, so check it out on my homepage. Now, many of you wondered whta happened to Scabior in the last chapter. Don't worry, just read this chapter and all shall be explained (at least I hope so). Enjoy your reading!

Inspirational music: Zombie by The Cranberries (or try the cover by Jay Brannan)

Chap. 35 Friends

As the evening arrived, a calm of some sort settled in Shell Cottage.

Every former hostage, including Luna Lovegood, Mr Ollivander and Dean Thomas, who needed healing had been taken care of and put to bed soon after they had eaten a bowl of soup. Those who had been able accompanied Harry, Ron and Hermione when they buried the brave elf Dobby outside the house.

The small creature had helped the Order escape with the prisoners but had in the ensuing chaos in the Manor been subjected to a dagger from the vicious Bellatrix. Hermione sobbed for the great sacrifice Dobby had done for the world. Ron stood close beside her and tentatively threw and arm over her shoulders. Hermione welcomed the comfort he provided, so she leaned her head on his shoulder and cried as Harry held a honest and tearful speech for the elf.

After the funeral they all trotted towards the cottage except for Remus and Tonks who wanted to disapparate to their own safehouse and take care of the newborn Teddy Lupin. To some people there were still some things to hold onto and invest hope in.

The elder Order members went upstairs to their temporary bedrooms, apparently utterly exhausted by the long but somehow successful day. The boys did not say a thing but ventured up the stairs too and Hermione followed with a hint of inquiry in her otherwise battered mind. Several closed doors along the walls and another staircase greeted her on the first floor but Harry pressed on with heavy steps on the second stair and Ron motioned at her to follow.

When she reached the second floor she looked around and saw fewer doors leading to rooms here. Attentive as ever, even in the midst of his grief, Harry opened a door for her and allowed her to enter what obviously was his and Ron's bedroom.

Two beds, an armchair, a bid wardrobe and a photograph met her eyes as she took in the room. She walked closer to the moving picture on the wall beside on of the beds and swallowed drily when she could make out a younger version of herself standing in Hogsmeade with the boys on either side of her. They were all so happy and carefree back then compared to now.

She turned around and surveyed the boys who had been robbed of their innocence.

A stern defiance was constantly displayed on Harry's face and although he had been given a lot of food in Shell Cottage, he was rather thin and had dark shadows under his eyes. And as he had dug the grave for Dobby with his sleeves rolled up, she had spotted nasty looking scars here and there on his arms. She recognized some from dark spells and others from dangerous magical plants and beasts. She could only wish that the Harry inside was not lost.

Ron shifted and she silently gazed upon him. His shoulders were hunched, either as a sign of fatigue or by a will to protect himself. His eyes flickered restlessly and Hermione choked on her pity as she tried to extinguish it. She knew Ron did not want her pity. It would be another torture to him. She raised her eyes and saw the red and uneven patterns of spattergroit blemishing his cheeks and covering his cute freckles. But to her, the marks were not disfiguring. Noticeable, yes. But not disgusting.

Then with a rapid movement, Harry stretched out his arm, pulled her towards him. The boys embraced her like never before. She felt Ron's arm slide around her back and she raised her arms and wrapped them around both of their necks. The hug was necessary as it for a blessed moment chased away every ugly, chilling thought of loss, guilt and anxiety they had experienced since they were separated. Uncontrolled tears streamed over Hermione's cheeks and dampened the boys as they exchanged impulsive mumbles.

"I'm so happy you're both alive."

"Do you know how much it hurt not knowing what happened to you, Hermione? Eventually rumours spread about every kidnap but they never mentioned you. We just didn't know!" Harry exclaimed with a broken voice and his arms tensed around her.

Ron stroked her back soothingly and whispered, "Every bloody minute I was awake I thought about you. My nightmares aren't about the Ministry but about you being... Oh Hermione!"

Hermione gently patted Harry and Ron on the heads and they reluctantly let go of her. Gleams of happiness shone in their eyes and she doubted they had been this relieved since those easy days at Hogwarts during their sixth year.

She wiped her face on the sleeve of her white sweater and detected a faint smell of Scabior in the fabric. This caused her to sober up and she sat down on one bed as she began to twirl her wand nervously. It was time to answer the inevitable questions about her whereabouts.

She noticed that Ron decided to sit close at her side whereas Harry plopped down in the armchair nearby. He cleared his throat and righted his glasses before he asked, "What happened to you, Hermione? We need to know."

Hermione tried to quell the butterflies in her stomach and said quietly, "Do you remember that time at the Manor? The Dark Lord couldn't care less about my fate and told a snatcher he could have me."

She closed her eyes as the memories of that day returned. At that time Scabior had been a threatening man supporting the dark powers. But he did protect and heal her even though he should have hated her. The pain in her hear grew so fast she forced herself to open her eyes and hide the memories of Scabior for now.

"Thankfully he took care of me and saved my life. Without him, the injuries inflicted on me by Bellatrix would have killed me."

She stared right at Harry who wrinkled his forehead and impatiently tapped his fingers against the armrest as he hissed out, "There are no good people on His side. No merciful Death Eaters and no kind snatchers. I saw it for myself during those weeks I spent in captivity. There are two kinds of people in His ranks; those who love to obey His commands and cause pain, and those who stand by out of pure cowardice and watch as He destroys everything good in the world. In which group did that snatcher belong, Hermione?"

She flinched upon hearing such venom from Harry's mouth. She no longer was so sure she could tell them more about Scabior.

"But Harry! Surely you remember how Malfoy was after Snape killed Dumbledore. You said it yourself you thought he looked scared, sacred for his life. I think most of the Dark Lord's followers are afraid of him and fear what he'll do to their families if they refuse to do as he says. You shouldn't judge them so quickly."

Harry gaped sheepishly at her while Ron moved on the bed and carefully caressed her hand. "Well, Hermione, to be honest I'm glad you're for once not understanding what you're saying. That means you never were treated as badly as I and harry, right? But Harry has a point, you see. The Dark Lord's ranks only bring violence and pain. That's why everybody who has some decency should join our side and take Him and His followers down," he reasoned.

Appalled by the coarseness let out from her best friends, Hermione pulled her hand from Ron's and said coolly, "Do you think I got off easy just because there are no scars on the outside? Bellatrix tortured me so bad my ribs broke, a kidney was damaged and there was an internal bleeding! And that was just the first day as a prisoner."

She drew a deep breath and decided to tell them about the other horrible episode. This was certainly not a childish competition about who had suffered the most but all the same she had to make sure Harry and Ron fully understood her own terror. That they were all hurt by the war.

"Another snatcher assaulted me while I was alone and still injured. He all but raped me. So don't assume I'm less experienced in evil than you are!"

An awkward silence settled in the room and Hermione found her hands trembled. Harry ran his hand through his black hair and sighed.

"It wasn't... Ron, you didn't mean for it to sound that way, huh?"

Ron shook his head and looked down at the floor as he admitted, "Hermione, I'm sorry for your sake. I always hoped you would be alright and unharmed."

Her small anger melted away and she gave him a soft smile that reached her eyes. "I know, Ron. And I understand if you are still haunted by what He put you through. The both of you," she added and glanced at Harry.

"But then you too know how the Dark powers function. They don't deserve someone like you defending them," Harry insisted and this time Hermione let it slide. He was not ready to take another opinion in the matter into consideration. And she had changed her mind regarding Scabior. He would remain as her secret until Harry and Ron could afford to show some forgiveness.

"But what happened after that...attempt?" Ron stuttered with badly concealed fury.

"Oh, nothing bad to be honest. The snatcher who held me prisoner gave me my wand back and prompted I should take a portkey to a safe place in Ireland. I stayed there with a woman until last night when we visited a pub and I ran into Seamus."

Her compendious and half-true story seemed to work as Harry leaned back and Ron managed to produce a smile.

"Well, we on the other hand have been up to many things since we regained our freedom. But I'm knackered after this day so is it okay if we discuss our mission tomorrow?"

Hermione nodded and tried to not feel disappointed by the fact that she had told them about her fate but had not been given a chance to ask questions about their experiences.

As she raised herself, Ron caught her by the wrist and wondered, "Where are you going?"

"To my bedroom, if there's anyone available that is."

"Didn't Fleur tell you? You can sleep in our room. That way we'll be together if something happens and we'll have an opportunity to talk privately about our future," Harry explained as he stood up and Ron eagerly added, "You take my bed, Hermione. I can sleep on the floor."

Hermione would have preferred some privacy in another room and the prospect of lying in another man's bed, even if he would not occupy it also, made her nauseous. In the end she realized that Harry's thinking was strategic and aimed her wand towards the abandoned armchair.

"No, I think you've become used to that bed. And have you forgotten you're a wizard?" she retorted as she transfigured the piece of furniture into a simple but agreeable bed.

The two boys sniggered at her logical solution and Hermione rolled her eyes subtly. Harry and Ron needed her for many reasons. She needed Scabior. But in dire times one cannot always get what one wants. She would have to focus on destroying Voldemort from now on.

With adrenalin running in his blood and a fear for the woman who carried his heart, Scabior snapped his eyes open and bolted up to a seated position on the bed.

His mother sat by his side and gently put her hand on his chest before she guided him down again.

"Ah, ah, ah. Ya better stay down fer now. Ya're all worn out," she informed him and Scabior moaned upon feeling the remnants of the headache throb in his head. He was sure there were some bruises inside his skull. It felt like that.

Although relieved that the uncommonly strong scents had subsided to the usual states, he uttered in a feeble croak, "What's happening to me, mum? What was it with that... rage and strong smells?"

If Claire had picked up the terrified tremble in his voice she did not ridicule him for it.

"Ya let yer guard down, boy. I reckon the snatcher side o' ya became crazy when ya found out 'ermione was gone. Ya were ready ta do anythin' ta find 'er, so ya provoked them snatcher powers which made ya get a seizure. Ya couldn't handle 'em."

His eyes darted to the window in the bedroom and took in the sunny scenery outside.

Hermione.

Once again he tried to get up but before Claire had time to stop him, flashes of white pain exploded before his eyes and he felt dizzy. He closed his eyes as he heard a an insistent exhortation.

"No, don't go faintin' on me again. It took ya a long time ta come to last time."

Reluctantly, Scabior laid back on his bed and squirmed in his sweaty clothes. He hated to be helpless and weak. Slowly the memories from the morning caught up with him and he flexed his hand experimentally. His mother must have healed his knuckles after he had passed out.

His ashamed eyes met the blue irises and he stated, "I'm sorry fer scarin' an' 'urtin ya. I couldn't 'elp it."

Claire waved his apology aside with a hand and replied, "Nah, I was just surprised, that's all. I would 'ave used my wand if things really went out o' control. Besides, it's not as if it's the first time yer snatcher took over."

When Scabior raised an eyebrow she elaborated, "'ave ya forgotten yer first night at 'ogwarts? Ya threw a tantrum like a spoiled pureblood brat an' the teachers couldn't calm ya down until some fuckin' genius came up with the idea o' pourin' a Dreamless Sleep Potion down yer throat when ya opened yer mouth ta breathe."

Scabior frowned as he faintly remembered the event. He had always assumed he had been homesick that evening, not that he somehow had triggered a snatcher seizure.

Claire continued, "As soon as I an owl from 'ogwarts the next mornin', I understood why ya 'ad been upset. Ya were away from the person ya loved an' couldn't find, nor protect me with whatever magic ya possessed back then."

A warm smile graced her lips as she without fear of being rejected stroked Scabior over the forehead as if he was a small boy. The strong feeling between him and his mother became too much and Scabior looked down while fiddling with his fingers.

"I must find 'er. I feel it in every bone and drop of blood in me," he mumbled. And then he raised his wounded eyes to hers and forced out, "Why did she leave me, mum? I gave her my heart and she said she loved me. She promised we would go to England together."

Claire sighed glumly.

"I guess she 'ad ta do somethin' important in this bloody war. And she obviously didn't want ta put ya through any dangers because she loves ya. But ya won't care 'bout that, right? Ya never were good at sittin' still an' do nothin'. As sure as doxies are pesterin' the cellar in the pub, ya won't rest until ya find the bird."

She flickered her eyes and chewed on her lip in a highly uncharacteristic way. When tears fell to her cheeks, Scabior scrambled up and leaned his head sideways as he held his rough hands against her cheeks.

"Mum," he whispered in a compassionate as well as appalled tone.

She sniffed and brutally dried her tear, stubbornly avoiding his searching gaze.

"Oh, don't ya worry 'bout this old madwoman. Ya're a man who needs ta find 'is love. I know there's no way I can stop ya from it but that doesn't mean I'm not afraid fer ya. I'm only a mother, Scabior."

And then she took his hands and pulled them from her face but not before she had kissed the palms quickly.

Touched by her action, Scabior swallowed a lump and emitted gruffly, "Ya'll 'ave ta stay 'ere in safety while I'm gone. No matter what rumours ya 'ear, don't travel across the Irish Sea. I can't stand the thought o' ya bein' in England. I'd be worried sick. Swear to me you'll fucking stay."

A playful gleam in Claire's eyes twinkled as she exclaimed, "An' 'ere I thought all along ya couldn't wait fer a chance ta knock me off the broom, so ta speak."

He let out a small chuckle, determined to not break down in front of her. He had no more time to spare if he was going to prepare himself to find Hermione. Claire seemed to observe his changing features as she stood up and retreated from the bed.

"Just... just promise me back ya'll let me see ya off, boy. It's what a decent pureblood would do."

With that she turned around and walked out the door with slightly ruffled strands of red hair whisking in the air. Scabior drew a shuddering breath and dismissed the concern for his mother for now. He had calmed down after his awful seizure but the snatcher within stirred every once in a while, urging him on to find his love and be with her again. No room for distracting sentiments anymore; just calculated tactics as the hunter he was.

He gingerly got up from the mattress and spotted his wand on the night table. And the drawer he had punched had been fixed. His mother had restored everything that had been out of order in the room, including him.

The wrinkled note was placed beside his wand and Scabior glared at it. He would take it with him; not to read, Salazar knew his mind never wished to relive the pain, but to use when he met Hermione again. There were questions she needed to answer. He picked up the paper and stuffed it in a pocket on his leather coat before he gripped his wand and felt the magic ease the pressure.

A quiet Scorgify made him feel a bit cleaner as there was no use to get fully refreshed anyway. Soon he would probably lack every form of comforts. The whole of England was a giant battlefield where each day one survived counted as a victory.

He tied his hair loosely and began to search the room for convenient items to bring with him. He had lost every single thing he had acquired as a professional snatcher and was forced to start over.

As he rummaged through the chest of drawers, he laid eyes on an old fashioned purse. He exhaled contentedly as it would be easy to transfigure the purse into a brown satchel. That done, he opened another drawer and discovered ribbons which would serve a better purpose as bandages. They went down into the satchel, as did a warm blanket now big as a handkerchief, an empty drawer to use as fire wood for emergencies, a pair of gloves for cold nights and bottles to store water in.

Scabior began to feel he was ready to move on to the kitchen for provisions when he pulled out the last drawer at the bottom of the piece of furniture and nearly fell on his bottom when a wave of the forest scent crashed into him and encircled his crouched body. So his sense of smell had not failed him entirely before he went crazy of despair. But the idea of some snatchers invading the house and abducting Hermione was out of the game.

He bent down and sniffed to investigate the smell. He closed his eyes to let his other sense grow stronger and inhaled.

Typical English forest, with a hint of flowers. He frowned as it occurred to him that hardly any flowers bloomed yet. Bending further down until he could detect the faint scent of oak from the old drawer itself, he found the complete scent.

Forest, flowers and vanilla.

She.

And then he figured it out. Hermione's own clothes would most likely smell of her and forest but now they were gone. A drawer with scents was all that was left. Wherever she had gone to, she at least wore her warm white sweater. Pleased with his functioning sense, Scabior began to hope. If he could find her scent here, it was highly likely he would be able to track her down in no time.

He raised himself and marched to the kitchen while he thought about the next destination. He had a hunch the ugly boy in the pub had something to do with Hermione's departure. But since he was not at Hogwarts it probably meant he was not a pureblood or disapproved of the new education program. Either way, the boy was on the run and Scabior suspected he had gone into hiding after last night. Any relatively bright human would do so after having encountered a hostile man and having helped said man's woman escape.

As he threw down some apples into the bag and reached for a loaf of bread, he decided he should start with the forest where his snatcher camp and the trio's tent had been some months ago. When he at last considered himself done as two bottles of Firewhiskey resided on top of everything else in the satchel, he stepped into the corridor and listened for Claire.

Sounds guided him to the living room where his mother was busy dusting off labels on various bottles and cans.

"Come on an' dig in. My storage needed a clean-out anyway," she announced cheerily, even though the smell of salt lay heavy in the room from Scabior's point of view. He did not comment on it but stepped forward and began to check through the heap of potions.

He took many for medical purpose which promised to take care of both superficial wounds and severe consequences of curses. Some bottles went into the bag because they would ensure a high energy level in case he ran low on food.

He proceeded to pick up some small flasks made of black glass and read the labels. Illegal poisons to use as an unexpected weapon.

Deftly he hid them at the bottom of the satchel and avoided demanding to know how his mother had gotten those, as they could not be brewed in everyman's home, nor be bought in monitored shops.

Finally he straightened his back and carried the satchel on his shoulder.

"There we are. All set for a nice trip to Death Eater-land," he tried to joke but neither of them smirked.

Claire absentmindedly scratched her arm and shrugged.

"Ya can be a dickhead all ya want in my 'ome but please don't be one in England. Ya need ta survive, Scabior. The bird was right: ya're threatened from two sides in this war. Don't expose yerself."

Scabior gritted his teeth and let his eyes wander over the two paintings of two forgotten ancestors in the Blishwick family. He was better man than they but he still considered himself lousy at dealing with these kinds of feelings.

Claire took a step closer to him and had to tilt her head to see his face as she only reached him to the chest.

"My son."

He scowled and looked down at the brimming blue eyes he had not inherited and the not yet aged face.

"It was nice ta 'ave ya 'ere with me. And ya know we always make it through our rows. We still care 'bout each other."

"Mum, stop."

"D'ya know I'm a 'ell o' a sober lady now, thanks ta ya. I only take a drink once in a while now, like ya're doin'. So ya just listen ta yer mother now. I'm proud o' what kind o' man ya've become since she came into yer life. I think ya like that man too, love."

Scabior flinched upon hearing the rare nickname his mother had used on him only when he was a little toddler. This one-sided conversation began to sound more like a goodbye forever.

He cleared his throat and hissed, "Yeah, alright, I've found myself an' all that sentimental shit, I'll return in one piece with 'ermione as soon as it's possible and I love ya too. Can I go now?"

Claire snickered like a girl and told him through her tears, "So keen on runnin'. Ya're impossible but ya're always my sweet bastard. Be careful with yer stronger snatcher powers; they'll leave ya weakened if ya can't control 'em properly like this mornin'. The only thing that can tame it is ya, Scabior."

She patted him on the chest, right above the beating heart. "Ya 'ave it in ya. Just believe in yerself. An' no stupid experimentin' with the snatcher inside, alright! Ya can find 'ermione with yer usual gifts."

She stood on her toes and Scabior immediately bent down to help her reach his cheek with her lips. And then she gave a heartwrenching sob and threw her arms around his middle.

"Thanks fer ev'rythin', mum," he spoke thickly and hugged her small frame to his. He was very affected by her, judging by his prominent accent and the way his shoulders shook.

"I'll never speak ta ya again if ya end up on the frontpage o' a newspaper. I saw the pictures o' the Potter boy in the Ministry. I didn't give birth ta ya just ta see ya become a prisoner. Ya were never meant to be one, Scabior."

He mutely nodded his understanding and was on the verge of saying something more when his mum fled from his grip and gave him a violent shove.

"Go, ya fuckin' bastard! Go, now!"

She whipped around and only showed him her back but he could see she wrapped her arms around her stomach and pressed hard. He blinked and the snatcher inside was unsure.

A tentative step towards her ended in her screaming into the wall with all her might, "Go, or I won't let ya go! I can manage without my son. I can manage without my son. I can manage..."

Scabior stopped and in that moment he regretted the lost years when he had not seen his mother out of childish stubbornness over a stupid fight. In the end, love proved to be the most important thing in his life.

With a rapid pace, he turned and made it out of the living room. He all but ran to the front door. It had been necessary for Claire to push him away and insult him, or else she would not have given him up to the war once more.

He yanked the door open and before he left, he barked into the silent house, "I love ya too, mum! An' I took the last bottles o' Firewhiskey from ya!"

Perhaps it was the screeching seagulls that flew above him, but he could almost swear he heard laughter from the cottage as he ran as fast as possible to the protecting shield and passed it successfully. With a wave of his wand he began to spin and hoped that the disapparation would make the sorrow in his chest and the few drops on his cheeks disappear.

Ugh, I'm nearly crying from my own writing. How pathetic does that make me? Anyway, please review.