Title: Remember Me.
Chapter I: The Hunter & the Hunted, Part I
Rated: M for future chapters including; sex, some cussing, and some violence.
Disclaimer; I unfortunately own nothing from the HP universe. I don't own Scabior, which is even more unfortunate.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Scabior moved swiftly through the woods with natural ease, having already become accustomed to his current surroundings in the forest. The group of snatchers had set up camp only a couple of days ago, but the woods had felt easily navigated, since he had walked through them many times in these past two days. He moved about in an almost bored manner, ducking in and out of bushes and trees, his pack of men following behind. They were considerably slower than Scabior, as they travelled with bundles of objects and bags.
Scabior preferred not to do the lifting, he would much rather let his men do that while he lead them, serving as a guide and a leader. He was far more advanced as a leader than any of the men, so it was his job to play the guide. It also made him look dominate, a nice plus.
Today was a considerably good day. It had been spent searching through the forest, sniffing out Mudbloods and traitors alike. Today they had found luck and caught two blood-traitors. Two young boys, both around Hogwarts age. They hadn't put up much of a fight, a few hexes and laughable jinxes were all they could come up with when squared into battle with the gang of feral looking men.
It was a good lot and it'd be worth a lot to hand in. There was a prideful smirk on Scabior's face as he led them back to the camp, completely content with the days work.
Honestly, it'd been a while since he'd had any good catches. It was becoming increasingly difficult to afford the essentials. The men around camp were starting to get restless with the lesser amounts of food each day, complaining they needed more, that the amounts weren't satisfying enough. They never seemed to want to work for it, which annoyed Scabior greatly. They were; in his opinion, a bunch of lazy credit taking men. Scabior who loved his job, thought it hard to have to deal with people like them. He loved the thrill and the rewards that came with his line of work. So when his men showed no interest, it made him incredibly irritated, especially when they tried to chip their names in when pay came.
As of late his normally exciting job was lacking much of the excitement. It seemed as if there was no one to snatch, no one would dared venture too far into a deserted places like this, mostly terrified of the stories that had spread. Stories of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's servants and helpers hiding out and attacking all those who tried to run. Most people didn't see the point in hiding, or running. The rule of the Dark Lord had drained all hope completely, leaving nothing but empty shells of people in empty and hollow places.
Still, it was better than Azkaban, Scabior knew for a fact. The numbered tattoo on his neck almost itched just thinking of the horrors he had faced upon imprisonment in there. The screams of cell members, the hollowness of his own cell and most of all, the constant watch of the Dementors. Bloody disgusting things, Scabior thought sourly.
He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, where they belonged. Things were different now, everything was changing and if he had any say in it, it was for the better. Now he was a free man. He could come and go as he pleased, he didn't need to hide in fear of being thrown back into Azkaban. Any sane man in his position would have liked it better this way.
The Ministry had been paying plenty for unwilling mudbloods and traitors. Lately, however, there were none to offer up. Most people weren't hiding in woods or deserted areas any more, knowing of their fates if they were to be snatched up. A lot of people have even handed themselves in, thinking it would be the safer option, wiser even. Then, there was also the fact that most of them gave up straight away, all hope falling as they spot a band of snatchers coming their way.
No fun whatsoever.
As he trudged on through the familiar woods, a minor noise caught him off guard. It was faint, but audible. The crunch of a small twig, most probably from someone crushing it beneath their shoes as they walked.
It wasn't a noise made by his men, but something closer to the West. He turned and steadily stepped over a murky patch of muddied water.
That's when he smelt something, something very out of place. He made a sudden halt and the men behind him came to a stop, looking slightly unnerved. Scabior sniffed at the air, his head tilted to the side as he tried to trace the smell.
"What is it?"
He wondered briefly whether he was imaging the scent of something so sweet and enticing.
"What's that?" Scabior asked, more to himself than anyone.
It was barely detectable, but still it was there. An almost undetectable smell of vanilla, rich and sweetly.
Running his hands through his mess of tangled hair, he raised his hand into the air; almost as if to reach out and touch something. But feeling through the air, he only felt nothingness.
"What's that smell?"
His right hand was extended, raising slowly into the air. He could sense something lingering right there, in front of him... something...
THUD.
Alarmed, he turned around to see a small girl laying on the ground, unconscious. The man who was holding her only moments before, was now looking down at her, as if she would rise up and jump back into his arms herself.
"What're you doing?" Scabior growled.
The man gave him a frightened look, mumbled an excuse about the girl being heavy and looked down hastily.
Scabior breathed in and put a hand in his pocket. Sometimes he wondered just how the Ministry thought some men would be valuable assets as snatchers.
It was through his preoccupation with his thoughts that the smell had vanished without his notice. It took him a few more seconds of breathing in the once sweetened air to realize that it had disappeared completely.
He felt disappointed and irritated. He sniffed hopefully at the air once more, but was met with nothing. He sighed and signalled his men to keep moving.
While moving back to camp, he couldn't help but ponder on the thought of what that smell had been, or more importantly where it had come from.
It was obviously vanilla; some type of perfume. It had the scent of a something you'd smell indoors, artificial. There was no way it had been a natural smell in the woods. It was far too out of place among the pine and thickets. There had to be someone wearing it, it must have been perfume. He couldn't place it as anything else.
The smell was so vivid in his mind and it felt... bothersome.
Who was that smell coming from? He hadn't seen the slightest trace of anyone there, even in the slight darkness. The texture of the smell was so sweet that if he was right (he had to be, when were his instincts ever wrong?) than it was a woman's.
It was a woman's scent, a woman's perfume. The thought almost made him grin.
He couldn't wait to find her.