Hermione and Scabior had once again settled into a fairly mundane routine. He'd ceded the bedroom to her, for which she was eternally grateful, and generally made it a point to give her wide birth in the flat, leaving her alone to read most of the time. Hermione, for her part, didn't know what to make of him. She was equally repelled and intrigued by him. But there was something else. She could see he was always working things out in his mind even if he did not share any of his thoughts with her. He seemed to crush any thoughts or hopes at conversation with his firewhiskey.
She wondered about his life, before the war. She knew he had nightmares sometimes because she heard him thrashing about and calling out. Perhaps being on the wrong side of history for so long had left invisible marks on him. She knew fundamentally he was not a kind man. But he was being kind now. It disquieted her.
He had begun to bring her things like ice cream and candy beans; things he knew she would like or crave. It was thoughtful of him, much like the books back in his tent. Yet she could not reconcile in her mind what had happened between them the night which ended her in this predicament. And that he hadn't forced her again. And wondered what exactly he was thinking.
She was lonely, too. Lonely for her friends and her school and her teenaged regimen of attending classes and socializing; coming and going as she pleased and free from the more serious "adult" worries she now faced. She would give just about anything to be in the Great Hall with her friends enjoying a meal and a chat.
His voice broke her out of her reverie.
"I'm headed out," he stated, flatly.
Hermione, reclined on the couch, lowered the spine of her book until he became visible, standing by the door. She momentarily lingered on the broad expanse of his shoulders before turning her gaze to his face. He was wearing his leather jacket and a black waistcoat underneath with subtly striped trousers. He seemed too smartly dressed for an errand. She glanced over to the clock on the mantel. Just after nine at night. She put down her book.
"Where are you going?," she asked, trying to not betray the worry in her voice. She didn't fancy the idea of being left in the flat, alone on a Friday night.
He did not reply but reached for his gloves which hung on the coat stand by the door.
"Well…for how long, then?," she managed to eke out. Her voice sounded much higher and smaller than she intended.
"As long as it takes."
Scabior turned on his heel without another glance and closed the door behind him, securing the wards in the process.
Hermione held herself still until she heard him retreat down the stairs, her fingernails digging into her palms.
'Don't…don't do it…don't give him the satisfaction…'
She bit her lip harder. When she was satisfied he was out of earshot she promptly burst into tears.
"I hate you!," she cried, to no one in particular.
"I hate you, you vile, evil man! I hope you never come back!"
She folded her head into her arms and leaned her weight onto the arm of the sofa as the sobs overtook her frame.
Kick.
Hermione gasped and moved her hand down towards her belly, tears running down her face.
Kick. Kick kick kick.
She sat back against the couch and gently cradled her stomach. It had grown almost exponentially this past week and now it was noticeably stretched. Her jeans were at their limit. She reached down towards the button and undid it, pulling down the zipper a bit, sighing in relief. Her hands moved back to her small bump.
"Oh, you. You don't want me to be sad?"
Kick.
"I know. It's not your fault your father is an arse."
Kick.
"Yes. I'm glad you agree."
Scabior pulled his coat tightly around his lean frame as he made his way down the cobbled streets. The wind whipped tendrils of his hair across his face as he braced himself against the cold. As he moved his mind wandered back to the incident near Locke's offices. She'd had him. She'd had his wand at the ready, and hadn't used it on him at all.
Why?
She professed to hate him so much and it stirred up an ugly torrent of emotions he usually kept buried and anesthetised with alcohol. She could have turned him back in to Azkaban and made off with her friends. She hadn't.
And why did he care at all? Had it been so long for him? What was it about her that made him…different?
He didn't like it. He didn't like not being able to pretend he was devoid of emotion and feeling. He didn't like being unable to compartmentalize things.
She had been his prisoner, true, and he knew deep within he took advantage of the situation. And, too, been careless. But what had she expected of him, a man, like any other, in wartime? He could have turned her over to Greyback!
What was it about her? He'd had so many, why was she any different?
She was younger, definitely. He had thought to take her forcefully when she was first captured, but he'd quite thoroughly enjoyed the defiant jut of her chin. She'd amused him and in an odd way he respected her. She acted as if she were on a pedestal and there was nothing, nothing he wanted more than to pull her off. To make her as miserable as he.
He could be sick at times.
He enjoyed it.
He had known he would enjoy breaking her.
He enjoyed watching her give up her so-called morals and high-and-mighty demeanor to him. He enjoyed taking her virtue from her, not by force, but by carefully applied coercion. He could tell precisely how much pressure to apply and how hard to push. He knew exactly what he was doing with a woman and she'd been no different. She had been curious. He'd been more than happy to silently guide her. And, quite naturally, after, she was conflicted. The pleasure he made certain to leave her with had made her doubt her own sanity, surely.
And then, his head seemed to shift upon itself again, the devil on his shoulder vanishing and making room for the angel.
She was different. He knew that now. She had stayed, even after this. Even after seeing glimpses of the dark, twisted place he kept buried deep within himself…
He didn't know how to proceed. This was new. He did not know how to plan this; doubted if it was something one planned.
All he knew, somewhere jostling about in the back of his head, is it would require a level of vulnerability he was utterly unprepared for and unwilling to demonstrate.
'Enough!'
His thoughts had raced for far too long today. Perhaps he simply needed to lose himself in a woman for the night. It had not been long before her but it had been several long months after in Azkaban.
Scabior quickly turned down another set of uneven streets, finally approaching his destination.
Hermione re-heated a stew that Scabior had made the day before over the kitchen. As she did she felt a pang of guilt.
'He made you this. He is trying.'
She interrupted her own thoughts as if they were a physically present person.
"Well, he isn't trying hard enough! I can never forgive him!"
She gripped the wooden spoon as she stirred the meat and potatoes. Satisfied it was hot enough, she poured it into a bowl and sat at the kitchen table, making sure to turn off the stove.
He had magically cleaned the flat in the last week which had made it slightly less abhorrent for her.
Looking down at the stew she stirred it so as to not burn her tongue as she let her mind wander. Satisfied it was cool enough she took a bite. It was every bit as good as yesterday. She made a mental note to ask him about his cooking. He was quite good. Not as if there was anything else for the two of them to discuss. The tension in the flat was palpable when they were together. Which was all the time. She knew he felt it too. She would do just about anything to diffuse it, even for an hour.
Glancing over at the clock once more she was confronted with a sinking realization. It made her blush and nearly made her choke on her stew. Had he gone out this late for…that?
For a woman?
Unsure of why, she immediately felt a profound, lonely sadness. Of course, she understood they would not be a storybook family. She wasn't a princess and her life wasn't a book. It made her horribly sad as her mind rushed forward to single-parent Christmases, birthdays and the like. Seeing her child grow without a father….
It twisted someplace deep inside her.
'Get it together, Hermione. He's nothing.'
Except she realized he wasn't nothing and she suddenly knew she couldn't believe herself.
