Hello, everyone! I know it's been a while but the uni demanded a lot of me. But now I'm free for three weeks, and have managed to produce the longest chapter yet which I offer to you all as a Christmas present! ;) I'm aware many of you worry about the future for Hermione and Scabior but now some parts of their lives will turn brighter. The second wizard war is after all over. I planned to make a shorter chapter but there were things I simply had to include and the rest was too good to remove. So I hope you'll be happy. Merry Christmas!
Inspirational music: Please don't go by Barcelona
The next time Scabior woke up he was overwhelmed by the agony trashing within his body. With a muffled moan, he opened his eyes and stared up at a dark and damp arch.
Slightly disoriented, he slowly turned his head in every direction and saw moss growing between the by age darkened stones in the ceiling.
He lowered his gaze and bit down on his tongue when his neck and the back of his busted ribs began to ache upon the shifting of weight. The room was filled with buzzing sounds of wounded as well as running people. He saw how hurt men lay on stretchers that had been placed upon tables where they were being taken care of by women and occasionally some men who bore ordinary robes but had smudges of dirt and blood painted on their exhausted, concentrating faces.
Scabior also recognized the stern men dressed in the famous robes of the Aurors who strolled between the tables with their wands at the ready, and a few number of them guarded a closed door. Scabior gulped and took a shuddering breath, remembering how unforgiving the men who had found him had been.
On the far wall he spotted shelves with potion bottles and preserved unmentionable things. Torches on the walls cast a dim but golden light on them all but neither provided warmth, nor chased away the black shadows in the corners. Scabior frowned. He knew this place. He felt the wood beneath his fingertips and begun to make small circles and found dimples within the square inch he traced.
It was a dungeon without windows. A dungeon with tables in proper rows, and potion bottles. Someone had, probably by accident, damaged the surface of the table under him. Suddenly he exhaled as he at last solved the mystery despite his dazed brain. It was a Potions classroom. Those rooms could only be at Hogwarts.
Pleased with his small feat, Scabior wanted to place his hand on his stomach in order to keep it warm and protected from the clammy air no-one of the standing humans seemed to be bothered with, as none of them had cast a heating spell. But immediately his wrist caught in a band of cold metal that made goose-bumps spread on his skin. Scabior swallowed back the urge to panic and tried to move the other arm. Solid iron attached to the table kept him in this position.
A wave of despair rose inside him. This was too much. He could not feel his legs, his body was broken; nearly dying and someone had fastened bonds on his snatcher limbs. He closed his eyes to mentally, if nothing else, escape the nightmare of prolonged suffering he was going through.
"Don't do anything else beyond making sure they'll live. They don't deserve your pity," an authoritarian booming voice echoed through the classroom and Scabior tried in vain to keep the words out, not wanting to hear the reality of impending cruelty that was about to be bestowed upon him. Somehow he now understood why it had been so hard for Voldemort to fully take over Britain. The people on the good side could also be ruthless, persistent, and determined.
A gargle reached his ears as if to mock him for the poor attempt to keep the sounds of misery and pain away.
"Madam, come quickly! He's drowning in his blood!" a female cried out and hurried feet drummed against the hard floor.
"No need to panic, dear. All we have to do is…"
A sudden clattering made everything silent besides a woman's surprised yelp. Scabior held his breath but kept his eyes closed.
"Fuck you all," a rasy voice gasped before it spat.
"Easy now, fellow. Why don't we all calm down?" It was another, younger male talking.
"Rogerson, don't," a sharp warning came from the other side of the room.
"Let go of the wand, mate. It's not yours."
"I'm not your mate, bastard! Now stand back or I'll kill either you or one of the pretty ladies here!" the weaker voice snarled and Scabior heard a wand whip back and forth through the air. Rogerson answered in a collected tone, "That would be foolish of you, since more murders not exactly would work in your favour at the trial. Be a sensible man and hand over the wand to me."
Frantic breaths and a voice laced with panic and tension caused strange echoes across the classroom. "If this is as free as my poor snatcher soul can be from now on, with three limbs in shackles, I'd rather die here than spend an eternity in Azkaban. Goodbye, lads."
A loud bang startled Scabior and he coughed feebly when dust rained down on him. His eyes flew open and he leaned his head sideways. Two women hugged each other on the floor, several male Aurors stepped closer to a table where a snatcher lay flat on his back, immobile. A young snatcher harshly took the wand from the snatcher.
"For Merlin's sake, Darnton, I almost had him! Why did you cast Stupefy on him from behind?" the young man growled at his approaching elder colleague.
"This is not the place to practice how to deal with hostage-taker, Rogerson! Consider this as the real field, for bloody sake! Who knows how many lives the vermin would take with him had he managed to finish himself off? Now, get back to your post!" the senior barked before he helped the women get up again.
"That's it, we're done being kind. I want every Auror available to aim their wands at one snatcher or Death Eater from now on. And the prisoners will not need any more potions or spells for the pain," a tall Auror covered in scars commanded. One woman in ordinary robes sputtered, "It's not your decision to take. I'm the mediwitch and I can tell the wounded ones need…"
"And I'm an accomplished Auror who's responsible for the security. We're doing this my way," the wizard interrupted without a hint of uncertainty. Boots shuffled around in the classroom as the guards walked to their individual positions and pointed their wands at the men on the stretchers.
"And strip them of their magical powers. I don't want to see as much as a wandless Wingardium Leviosa from them," the leader added which brought on a storm of protests from the wounded. Scabior could make out from the mingled enraged complaints that they thought it was unfair to punish them all due to one mad snatcher's mistake.
"Quiet, or I'll silence you myself!" the scarred man uttered with discontent. "Carry on."
Scabior immediately turned his head the other way and fixed his gaze on the man who was supervising him. The man did not meet his deserate eyes. Instead he held his wand pointed at Scabior's chest. A blue bulb of light appeared on the end of the magical wood and suddenly Scabior felt how his magic slipped away from him. He began to cramp and rock from side to side as much as the bonds permitted while he felt the deepest despair replace the magic that before had always resided in his core.
"No. No. Don't," he pleaded as he felt himself become weaker by the second. But the man was relentless and his wand kept pulling the invisible strings of pure magic from his defenseless body. This was worse than being chained to a wall in Azkaban with dementors sucking the happy feelings from him.
After seconds or minutes, Scabior could ot tell, the wand's light went out and he sagged against the table, not caring that the fabric on the back of his jacket was drenched in sweat. Every sound was muffled but he did not know whether he was in shock or if it was a natural reaction after being robbed of magic.
Absently he discovered his lips were moving but no words fluttered from them. He was so cold. Death would be preferable over this torture. He felt like an empty and weak shell of yellow paper; ready to crumble at the next blow. Something warmed his temples. He blinked and stared apathetically at the dark ceiling. Tears again. Who cared?
In his numb state, he did not detect the woman coming to stand by his side until she tentatively dabbed his forehead with a lukewarm cloth. He flinched and inhaled sharply. The middleaged witch gave him a small smile as apology but kept cleaning his face with soft strokes.
"Help me," he emitted in a hollow voice and finally her eyes settled on his.
"What's wrong?" she asked and her faint voice was barely more than a whisper. Scabior tilted his head back when the material in her hand ran over an open cut on his cheek.
"My ribs. And my legs. I've broken my back." It felt even more horrible when his own mouth had to deliver the truth.
"Then you're better off than some of the others. You're spared from pain," she answered but Scabior was desperate. "Please, ma'am. Save my legs. I'm a snatcher. I ain't nothin' without 'em," he whimpered with a foreign tone. The woman moved the cloth to the back of his neck. It warmed his skin. She bent down to his ear.
"I'm sorry, but it's better this way. If I try to heal you, you'll go through so much pain you'll hardly handle it, while I can't give you any pain-relieving potions. There's a Death Eater two rows from you who's got a dislocated shoulder. Someone's going to fix it but he'll howl until he passes out afterwards."
Scabior shook his head and mumbled back, "I'll take the pain o'er bein' crippled forever. I'm a snatcher, love, and I ain't nothin' without my legs." He saw her previous determination waver and so, without regard of his pride, he jumped for the hope, sang for mercy.
"I've…I've fuckin' saved an orphan an' raped muggleborn girl only days ago. Carried her to a muggle hospital myself. Pease believe me! An' before that I 'elped another girl from the clutches o' You-Know-Who. I've never killed anyone, honestly! I'm changed, not evil. I didn't even manage ta get to the castle an' harm anyone before I fell off the bridge."
"Shh. Talk quietly. Your guard is watching us," the woman informed him and removed the cloth from his neck. Scabior stared up at her lined face with big eyes, for she had not acknowledged his begging.
"For the love o' the four founders; save me, please. I don't 'ave any powers left so I can't get out o' these fuckin' shackles. I'll stay 'ere, just please fix me," he pleaded, aware that the time was running out for his lower body to be saved. The woman sighed, her shoulders literally dropped and she said in an oddly thick voice, "I'm sorry, I can't. The Aurors will know and then deny you anything for the agony. Trust me, it's better this way. You're not feeling any pain."
And then she avoided his gaze and turned her back on him. Scabior raised his head and bit down the instant ache in his chest, every instinct in him telling him to urge her to come back, to turn around. "But I can't feel anythin' at all!" he bellowed at her retreating form but then something pointy pressed into his neck for the second time that day.
"Shut up, crazy worm! Be polite to the ladies or you'll pay." Scabior's eyes turned upwards. His guard was broad and had a grey beard that made him look menacing. His black hair had spots of grey in it but he gave no impression of being old and incapable. Scabior licked his dry lips with a dry tongue and reluctantly laid back on the stretcher. The wand was removed, although the Auror stayed within eyesight.
Scabior's heart beat rapidly after his fruitless exchange with the witch. He wondered if the others would be easier to coax into helping him. But right now the quest seemed rather hopeless, pointless, and downright failed. He was utterly defeated. Defeated and tired.
He closed his eyes, praying to Salazar sleep would take him away from the horror. A thought flashed through his mind just as he was on the verge of losing consciousness; that Hermione would not have hesitated to help the enemy if only for a bit; a small, seemingly meaningless act of mercy.
After having trotted outside with Ron and Harry and disposed of the Elder Wand, Hermione experienced an inner glow that warmed and comforted her heart. She walked in the middle with her arms holding onto the boys' waists. There had been terrible losses and not even Ron's family had managed through the war without being robbed of a life. The trio carefully stepped past into Hogwarts and in the corner of her eye, Hermione saw gems lying scattered on the floor near the four broken hourglasses that counted the House points.
She lifted her gaze upon noticing that Ron had begun to walk stiffly and she followed the direction of his eyes. The Weasley family, whole with everyone gathered, even the reformed Percy, and Charlie, and yet in pieces. They reached the red-haired clan and at once there were tears, cries of anguish, embraces, soothing whispers, and small laughs filling the Hall.
Suddenly Hermione got to wrap her arms around Mrs Weasley and did so with unashamed vigour; it turned out she needed comfort from a mother as much as the sobbing mother needed to have another child in her arms. "I'm so sorry," Hermione breathed but Molly started to slowly rock her and ran a hand over her curls.
"It's a victory, but the cost…" the elder woman let out before she added a little more soberly, "This day is for grieving. Tomorrow is for the new world." Hermione nodded against her shoulder before she disentangled herself. Then she heard steady boots that sounded too disturbing, too resolute for a morning like this.
She turned her head and saw two Aurors levitating a stretcher with a very bloodied woman on the top. With amazed eyes she followed their route and got confused when they headed for the stairway to the dungeons. She knew all the wounded currently were inside the Great Hall or had been taken to St. Mungo's which was free now and, according to rumors, fully functional as the healers had returned once Voldemort was defeated.
However, there was no reason to bring a wounded person to the draughty dungeons as there was plenty of room in the Great Hall. Then it hit Hermione the woman who had lain on the stretcher had worn unusually dirty clothes. She had looked like a…
A snatcher.
Hermione's heart sped up and blood pounded in her ears upon the revelation. Immediately she turned to Ron who was red around the eyes. "Do you want to disapparate with me?" he asked silently and Hermione lifted an eyebrow. Ron smiled faintly and made an awkward gesture with his hand.
"We're heading back to the Burrow. To be together today. Dad's bringing Fred." A tear rolled down his cheek and Hermione had to bite her tongue to not crumble. She could not hurt Ron this day. Nevertheless she needed to know what her inside wondered. She stepped up to him and grasped his hand, warmed it between her own.
"You go ahead. I need some time to myself, I'm afraid," she whispered and Ron frowned at her, his face etched with worry.
"Why would you…? Are you alright, Hermione? Do you want me to stay?" he asked with a tone that bordered on panic. Hermione caressed his palm with calm movements of her fingers. "No, Ron. Your family needs you. I just need to take in everything that has happened these past months. And I'm missing my parents. Let me collect my thoughts for an hour and then I'll come to the Burrow, too," she told him but dismissed the tremble that threatened to show in her voice.
"Promise you're fine and that you'll return to me." Ron fixed his glittering eyes on her and Hermione nodded. Then she let go of his hand and he took a step back with a sigh.
"Hermione, do you have your wand ready?" Harry asked as he hugged Ginny to him and held up his own, or rather Draco's. "I'm going to stay here for a while. But I will apparate within an hour," she told him and prayed that they would leave it at that. Ron said something to his mother who nodded and cocked her head.
"We'll see you later, dear," she said and then disapparated while clutching George's arm with a firm and yet tender grip. When the last member of the family was gone, Hermione swirled around and stalked to the entrance to the dungeons. The habit to take out her wand was still there and she shivered when the daylight slowly vanished the longer she walked from the stairway.
She went around a corner and saw two large men in the outfit of the Aurors standing on either side of a closed door. They whipped their head to her when they heard her shoes. "
You can't be here! Go up to the others, young lady," one of them spoke with a serious voice and pointed a finger to make her go in the opposite direction. Hermione did not turn but she did take smaller steps, carefully holding her wand by her side to not alarm the cautious men.
"Why are you guarding this room?" she asked politely but before either of them had time to answer, a piercing scream came from behind the door and when it did not stop immediately, the hair on the back of Hermione's neck stood up.
"Be a good girl and go back to the others before they start looking for you," the man on the left said but the other gave him an incredulous look.
"Really, Williamson? She's not a child," he started when Hermione impatiently cut in. "I want you to let me in and then you can resume your duty."
Williamson crossed his arms in front of him. "We cannot. The prisoners are inside. They've already proven to be dangerous even in defeat. And I doubt you'll handle their state, miss. It's worse than your worst nightmare."
The colour drained from Hermione's face and her eyes widened. The wretched screaming ceased.
"What are you doing with them?"
"We? They brought this on themselves entirely, I assure you. We dealt with a hostage situation only minutes ago despite bonds securing the worm's limbs and now we can't risk them trying anything else, so we're compelled to refuse them pain-relieving potions. Poor bastards," the unnamed man uttered before he received a elbow to his side by his colleague. Hermione straightened her back defiantly.
"Apparently you don't know who I am. My name is Hermione Granger, yes, the muggleborn witch who was worth thousands of galleons upon Voldemort's order." Their grins dropped when she spoke the name of the defeated enemy.
"I've spent the last months in constant danger while supporting my best friend Harry Potter on his quest to defeat the most evil wizard in the world. I certainly know how to protect myself from all kinds of dark creatures and followers. I'm fully capable of dealing with, as I understand, shackled prisoners. Especially since the qualified teachers at Hogwarts call me the brightest witch of my age and with the fact that I was permitted a Time-Turner by the age of thirteen to be able to study more. I'm very good with my wand."
She drew a deep breath and continued, "As for the horrendous scene behind that door, I'm sure I'll be able to stomach it, since I've seen a man transform into a werewolf, stared into the eyes of a basilisk, watched friends get hurt and die before me tonight as well as years ago. Now, for the love of Merlin, let me in!"
And to her great surprise, the suddenly mute Aurors stepped aside and knocked five times on the door. It swung open and a whiff of the repulsing smell of blood, potions, and pure terror reached her before she stepped inside. One Auror stood beside her in the entrance to a Potions classroom but Hermione only had eyes for the innumerous captured men and woman who lay on stretchers that had been placed on the tables while mostly women trotted through narrow aisles with cloths and bandages in their hands.
None of them had a wand in their hand, not even the one who prodded the shoulder of an unconscious man, and that made Hermione feel uneasy. Clearly no-one of the hurt people received magical care because the air was full of moans, hoarse sobs, and some of them moved restlessly on the stretchers without getting anywhere, since broad iron shackles that covered the entire lengths of their wrists and ankles. Some were half-naked and although no blood covered their faces, nothing was done for the gaping wounds and large bruises on the exposed torsos.
Hermione closed her eyes for a second at the misery, the cruelty of the victor, and the human suffering. If the blasted Aurors had wanted to make a point, she was sure all the prisoners now got it. The healing was a sham, as the only thing the standing witches and wizards did, was wiping away dirt from the faces instead of tending to the wounds that soon would fester and cause further pain.
She saw black robes on a few captives but between the ripped leather, she also saw human skin. This was not the right way to treat those who probably later would be prosecuted and brought to prison. Their destinies were already doomed without additional torture. This was insane and she now understood that it would indeed take a lot of time and work to make the recently freed world a just one. Her side should not succumb to vengeance, thus behave like their old enemies.
She quietly passed the table with the female snatcher she had seen before and studied for a brief moment the vicious-looking gash on her thigh where blood still trickled out in a steady stream. A woman with a rag nudged Hermione to the side and mumbled a spell and then the cut closed but the woman on the stretcher was eerily pale and shuddered with closed eyes.
Hermione said nothing although she grew truly scared when she tucked away a tendril of hair that prevented her from looking to her left and afterwards discovered how an Auror unlocked shackles with his wand and more or less shoved a man down from the table and onto the floor near the wall. More bodies lay there in a heap and despite Hermione's desperate wish, the man who had been pushed did not stir.
Shocked by the ruthless treatment even of the dead ones, her hands shaking, she turned away from the bodies, too scared that if she looked at them for too long, she would find clothes she remembered. She avoided the curious looks from the Aurors who stood by every table with their wands pointed either at the victim's chests or heads. The brave Gryffindor forced herself to move on and observe the faces of every snatcher. She reached the far wall and gently stepped up to another table and as the cautious guard there moved his back, she saw her lover.
How she managed to take the required steps to reach his stretcher without her knees buckling, was beyond her, but as soon as she arrived, one hand shot down to support her weight as she heavily leant against the hard wood. He was asleep, because his mouth was always relaxed then.
She scanned his body in a sweeping glare to see if he was badly hurt. But apart from smudges on his checkered pants, a tear on his precious leather coat, and cuts along with bruises on his face, he looked okay. But before she allowed herself to take a relieved breath, she noticed the green tone on his skin and knew she was not fooled by the dim light. Ignorant of everything else, she begun to tug his coat to the sides and pull up the green jacket that covered his abdomen and chest.
"No touching the filth, girl. I can't allow that," the man beside her hissed and swatted her hands away. Hermione swallowed the outcry of helpless fury and tried to convince him she had every right to touch this man, to heal him from whatever he suffered from.
"Professor Minerva McGonagall, now the current headmistress at Hogwarts sent me here to see that the prisoners were getting the care they need. Obviously that isn't the case, so I'll start with this one now."
The bearded man grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. "Save your powers, girl. They deserve this, believe me."
"Have you even considered the impending prosecutions, sir? These men and women know they can expect long punishments for whatever crimes they've committed so they won't feel better just because I heal the injuries. And aren't you familiar with the ways of purebloods and Death Eaters? Even though they may be arrogant, they still pay back debts to keep their pride. It would be bad if none of them said anything at all in the courtroom since they know what lies in their future. But if we do a favour for them, like tending to their wounds, they might be more compliant and forthcoming when it's time for interrogations. Maybe they'll even tell the truth! So please stand aside and let me begin my work."
Hermione tucked her wand in her belt and valiantly turned her back to him but exhaled when no hand or spell touched her. She heard his boots back away a bit and then she looked down at Scabior who was looking back at her.
On their own accord, her hands placed themselves on his cold cheeks and she crouched her back to bring her face close to his. "Hello," she whispered with the softest of tones and he drew a deep breath but started to wince and cough until she had enough. She sent a charm at his body that would make whatever troubled him hurt less; it would do until she had time to more thoroughly examine him. Scabior settled down and his bleary eyes found hers again.
"Who's…" he croaked and Hemrione had to bring her face even closer to make out his words.
"Who's the best teacher at Hogwarts?" Tears gathered in her eyes and spilled over, as emotions took her on a ride where she recalled every moment she had spent with Scabior, and the lonely days after her secret departure from Ireland.
"I…I don't know," she sobbed and her fingertips refused to stop moving all over his face, trace the line of his nose, feel the delicate skin of his eyelids, smooth out the lines on his forehead but avoid the bleeding cut on the cheek, cup his unshaved chin, and caress his by pain and suffering thin and dry lips.
"Dementor, my love," he mumbled back and turned his head into her palm and sniffed it with shallow breaths.
"It's best if you leave. This is hell and darkness and I won't have you tainted by it," Scabior muttered and Hermione gasped.
"Why on earth would I leave? You're here, Scabior."
He frowned and took a labored breath while Hermione patiently waited for him.
"That didn't stop you before. When you left me."
Her heart ached for her and this man's sake who's life had been such a struggle. She placed her wrist against his nose so he without effort could smell her scent and she lifted her other hand to her lips, kissed the fingertips, and brought it down to his. It was all she dared do under the eyes of wary Aurors behind her back. But he accepted her gesture and opened his lips a little.
"Silly, silly snatcher. Didn't you feel it? I never really left," she breathed and her hand skimmed from his lips, down his damp neck to rest without pressure on the place above his heart. Scabior grimaced and shut his coffee black eyes while groaning pitifully. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"Never mind me Scabior; I'm not the one who's lying in what's resembling a tomb. Do you know what's the matter?" Hermione asked with a rushed tone and gripped her wand at the same time as his body gave a shiver and and his face became contorted once more.
"It might be too late, but I believe my back is broken. I have no feeling in my legs," Scabior whimpered before his head rolled to the side and Hermione did not ask if it was because he felt defeated or embarrassed. But she was deeply frightened by his lack of fight within.
"Let me see," she said so even the Aurors could hear that she did try to heal the snatcher, and unbuttoned the green jacket but nearly reeled back when it fell apart and revealed a large, brown bruising in the area where his ribcage was. The last time she had saved Scabior, he had been drenched in blood. This time all the damage seemed to be contained under his skin but that did not make the injuries less critical.
And she did not have much time left until Ron or someone other came back to find her. Plus, she was aware that damaged spines were hard to fix even with magic. But she would at least try and if it did not work, then she would love Scabior anyway.
"Try to keep still and hold your breath," she instructed him and Scabior with his enormous trust for her did what she asked and let her lift his bare side without complaining even if the position must have been maddening for his ribs. She could stare into the small of his back and swiftly put her wand there, making sure it pressed into his spine before she began a chant of very advanced magic she had only read about but thought suited for this purpose.
The word Episkey was heard here and there and her wand coloured the space between his back and the stretcher red. A buzzing reached both of them and a jolt went through Scabior. He gasped and Hermione quickly removed her wand and lowered Scabior's side. He opened his eyes and they darted in every direction for a moment before he focused on her.
"And now?" Hermione wondered and nervously twirled her wand between her hands.
"I can't move or feel the legs," Scabior told her and Hermione felt the failure wash over her. She had been too late. "But my back is warm, warm and… ehm, tingling, or rather itching," he added with a dizzy voice and Hermione had to sit down on the table by his side when the tension left her. She felt drained but so happy.
"The body is shocked, sweetheart. Give it time to heal on its own now," she comforted him and brushed away a brown strand from his face.
"You always mend me, Hermione. You're so good. I love you." A smile bloomed out on her lover's face and reached his eyes before it died away and he said, "You're exhausted. Lie down beside me."
Hermione looked around and translated the expression on the grim Aurors who altered between watching their prisoners and peeking at her. She had raised their suspicion.
"I can't. They'll throw me out and I need to be permitted to see you again. I'm so sorry, Scabior, but I must leave now."
A thump was heard when his wrist collided with the unyielding iron. "Don't go, beautiful. I need to see you, to hear you, and taste, smell, touch you. Please don't leave me alone here. I can't take it anymore." His voice broke and suddenly Hermione realized there was something Scabior did not tell her. Why was he so defeated, even in spirit?
She anxiously hurried to fix his ribs and with more rush than care, she jammed her wand behind his other side and uttered the incantation that made the ribs heal. Scabior clenched his teeth and his face turned greener.
"What did they do to you?" she inquired sharply, silently warning him to not play the role of the hero and don't tell her what was wrong.
"Such a fierce treasure," Scabior mumbled as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. "They took our magic from us. We're weaker than muggles because they can at least survive in their world. I'm… I'm fucking terrified, Hermione. And so cold."
Hermione jumped off the table reluctantly and sent a glance of compassion to her snatcher. It hurt in her that she wouldn't be able to kiss him and give more comfort before she had to go. But then in a flash of genius she came up with something. After having discreetly cast a spell that would prevent Scabior from feeling more pain than necessary, she turned her back to everyone who was looking, brought a finger to her mouth and licked it with a quick swipe of her pink tongue. Naturally, Scabior's eyes followed her every movement.
"You basically said you wanted to feel me with all your five senses. I've already given you four of them. Taste is the last," she hissed before she gazed fondly at him one fleeting moment and turned around.
"You will all hear from the headmistress. These conditions are simply despicable and no human, no matter blood status or allegiances, will be mistreated like this inside the walls of Hogwarts," she declared with anger and while everyone stared at her during the rant, she hid one arm behind her back and brought her wet finger to Scabior's mouth and thankfully he saw her intention.
Those dry but warm lips opened for the protruding digit and it slipped inside where a soft and eager tongue was ready to suck and lick whatever taste that had stuck on the few inches of her skin. Hermione grew warmer in more than one way, mostly because her Scabior was not lost. Apparently she was the only thing that kept him going right now. She played a little by swirling around her finger but then his teeth gently bit down so his tongue could continue its feast. Her constant tension from the war gave way for joy.
"Next time I visit, which will be tomorrow," she made sure Scabior would know, too, "I'll bring the staff so we can agree on how to best deal with these Death Eaters and snatchers." At the last word she pulled her finger a little and her man actually released it. She could not do anything more.
One more look over her shoulder would alert the guards and she would not be able to leave Scabior if she saw his sad eyes she felt on her back. Her arm slid off his face and return to her side. And then she took a step away from him. They were both in a difficult situation as the morning of the first day after Voldemort's fall came and left.
For those of you who are skeptical to the possibility that Scabior will walk again, I have five words: my story, magic, Downton Abbey. Now that wasn't a horrible cliffhanger now, was it? Or maybe I've done it again... Lol! Anyway, kindly review because I love your thoughts.