Author Notes : For your information, if you are uncomfortable with openly sexual behavior, sometimes non-consensual... the upcoming chapter may not be for you. I will provide a warning at the beginning of the chapter so that you are not caught off guard.
He felt the hardness of the ground beneath him. Cold stone scraped against his skin as he tried to move his arm. His back was aching. They must have thrown him down like a sack, unconscious. He opened his eyes to thick darkness. The smell of mold and dust lingered in his mouth and throat. The air in the damp space was foul. He listened carefully, hearing the scratching of rats' claws scurrying nearby. He gave up trying to see and refused to touch the walls, disgusted by what his fingers might find. In that black pit, he waited. He thought he was mad not to feel fear.
He didn't have to wait long. He was dragged from his fetid prison a few hours after he awoke. The rats hadn't even had the chance to nibble his fingers.
He'd expected this.
His presence was such a miracle that his jailers, perhaps future torturers, must have been trembling with anticipation to meet him. He didn't share their enthusiasm.
He heard them descending towards him. The first time they had come, he had tried to figure out where they were coming from, more to pass the time than out of real interest. He wondered if he had been locked up in a basement or an attic. Their heavy footsteps and the clinking of buckled boots had come from above before they stopped at his door. They had dragged a man out of his cell. He'd guessed it was a man, though the screams he heard sounded more like an animal's, maybe the plaintive sounds of horses or sheep arriving at the slaughterhouse and realizing their fate.
But this time, the footsteps stopped in front of his door, and instinctively, he covered his face when he heard them unlocking his cell. Even dimmed by his arm over his eyes, the light hurt his pupils. Still, it was feeble. He quickly stood up, ignoring his aching back. He wanted to stand tall; that was his posture of confidence, always standing.
Two men stood in the doorway. One of them wouldn't have been able to enter without stooping. He was imposing and menacing, like an ogre. He smiled, and yellow, abnormally sharp teeth filled his entire mouth.
"Get out of there, Treasure. You're expected."
He lifted his chin and, without taking his eyes off the ogre, stepped out of his prison, sizing up the monster. He disliked the nickname the Snatchers had given him. Greyback had noticed the slight twitch of his lips, a sign of the boy's irritation, and now seemed determined to call him nothing else. He approached the wolf-man without fear, a bit of arrogance in his expression, which amused the giant. He barely reached the man's chest. Again, that smell of blood and sweat. His once-white shirt was covered in brown stains, layer upon layer of dried blood. Another scent came to him, gentler because it was more familiar—his own skin. And fear gripped him.
When they had captured them, he hadn't been alone.
"Strange," Fenrir purred, his soft voice even more terrifying. "Now that you're close to me, your pupils are dilating." He leaned in and sniffed him. The familiar scent again, and the boy took a step back. "And your heartbeat is speeding up, your breathing too."
Curse these wolves!he thought. They noticed too much, as usual.
"Dilated pupils mean desire, excitement, don't they?" Greyback sneered, devouring him with his gaze.
And tenderness, thought the boy, though the beast probably didn't know the word. And he certainly couldn't know that.
A Snatcher appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying a heavy, indistinct shape. He tossed it down, and it tumbled down the steps. It was doubtful at first, but it was indeed a body. A mass of stitched, torn, and restitched skin, the flesh seeming no longer suited to the body it covered.
The thing collapsed at his feet, and he finally made out the face of a teenager, probably a bit older than him. The skin had once been pink but was now purpled, ravaged by blows.
For a moment, he felt fear. Not for himself, but for who he might become. He wondered what he'd be able to witness, to endure…to forgive.
"Why are you dragging corpses down into the cellar?" Greyback growled, addressing the one carrying the body.
"He's not dead. But one more session with Yaxley, and he's done for, even if we call a healer."
"He is dead!" Fenrir insisted. "Your guy's gone cold, no pulse."
"Damn, he must've died while I was bringing him down. I'll bring him back up later; I've got others to take down."
"You're going to help him," Greyback said to his companion, then turned to the boy. "I'll take His Highness to freshen up." He shoved him toward the steps with a blow between the shoulder blades that nearly made him stumble.
They stepped over the body to climb the stairs.
When they reached the upper floor, a pang of nostalgia struck him, and an insidious, treacherous feeling of comfort washed over him at the sight of the corridors and tapestries. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch the woodwork. He didn't want to admit he was home.
The werewolf led him to the north wing, a part of the manor he never used, the servants' quarters and stewards' area.
As they passed through the simpler doors of the castle, they arrived in a rustic washroom, filled with steam, all tiled with a cast-iron bathtub in the center. A wooden chair, cracked with age, completed the stark setting.
Greyback shoved him inside and followed. He gestured toward the tub with his hairy head.
"Bathe. You can't meet the Dark Lord all filthy."
He kept silent, waiting for Fenrir to leave the room so he could undress.
But the ogre stood there, planted in front of him, making no move to leave. He remained still until Fenrir raised his eyebrows, pointing impatiently at his clothes. He understood. Of course, he wanted him to undress in front of him. Humiliation, like fear, was a delicacy for this brute.
He met his gaze and took off his shoes. Greyback's smile widened, but it faded when his next move was to step into the bathtub, fully dressed.
"Vermin!" Fenrir spat, baring his teeth.
Ah, finally, a nickname that fit—much better than "Treasure."
The boy kept his jaw clenched. The wolf wasn't worth it. He removed his muddy, filthy clothes and let them float in the water, covering his form. He tried to scrub the dirt and grime from his skin with the small piece of soap left for him. It wouldn't be enough for his long hair, but he didn't care. Washing felt good, and he didn't care about Fenrir's watchful gaze.
A house-elf appeared with a towel and clothing, which it placed on the chair. Without a word, the elf held his head back and began to untangle his long hair, pulling so hard he had to resist grimacing. The elf left as silently as it had come.
The boy made a move to reach for the towel, but Greyback calmly slid the chair away, the grating sound echoing on the tiles, putting it out of the boy's reach. Proud of himself, he waited. The boy stayed still, his anger simmering.
"Trust me, Treasure, you don't want to keep the Dark Lord waiting."
Bile rose in his throat. The harder he tried to keep his expression impassive, the more his rage grew. He had to stay calm. For once in his life, remain composed.
Finally, he decided to stand up, with all the dignity he could muster, ignoring the shame prickling his skin, more intensely than the cold. He stepped out of the tub, naked, and moved toward the wolf-man, who watched him openly, seeming to memorize every curve.
He thought that if Greyback licked his lips, he'd shove the remaining soap down his throat. The walk to the chair felt endless. He was painfully aware of the air on his bare skin, each step on the cold tiles, and the eyes that never left him. He reached for the towel in Greyback's hands, but he refused to let go, smiling, dragging out the degrading moment.
He's enjoying this, the bastard,he thought. Fine.
The first words of a confrontation should be chosen carefully. And perhaps he chose poorly.
"Enjoy the view, beast. Soon, you'll be kneeling before me."
Fenrir sneered. The boy's smooth voice, heard for the first time, seemed to amuse him.
"No one kneels to the Malfoys anymore, Treasure."
"Oh, yes, Mudbloods…and subhumans."
It was a mistake, a huge mistake…But it felt so good.
He found himself thrown to the floor; his backside and shoulders hit the tiles hard, and in an instant, Greyback's bulk was on top of him, sharp nails threatening to sink into the flesh of his chest. His weight crushed his lungs. He tried to push him off, but his thin arms were met with solid stone. The wolf opened his mouth over his throat, and he thought it was the end.
"Greyback, my dear Greyback!"
The monster's mouth was on his neck, but the teeth didn't pierce his skin. He braced for the bite, but it never came. The lips left his skin, and he could breathe again.
Behind them stood a tall, dark-haired man, clearly amused by the scene. He leaned against the doorframe and gently wagged his finger as one might chide a lazy child:
"You're not going to damage him, Fenrir? That wouldn't be wise." He approached, crouched down, and placed a hand on the wolf's shoulder. "I'll take over, my friend. Apparently, this young man has a knack for getting under your skin."
Greyback growled but let the boy go.
"I'm not done with you, Treasure," he snarled before leaving the room and slamming the door heavily behind him.
"What an enemy you've made!" the man laughed. "If I were you, I'd watch my back. Fenrir holds long… and fierce grudges."
He extended a hand and helped him up. He looked like an elegant pirate, refined in style, but his clothes, though sturdy, had faded, giving him a rogue's appearance. His long hair was tied back with a black band, and his light eyes were accentuated by a line of kohl, deepening his gaze. The arrogant smile on his lips and the glint of malice in his eyes did nothing to detract from his beauty. Calculating, seductive… and therefore dangerous.
"My name is Scabior." The name meant nothing to him. "And you? What's your name?"
He clenched his teeth, and the man smiled thoughtfully.
"Hmm, of course…" He handed him the clothes he had brought. He took them and dressed himself. "You may stay silent, but your appearance doesn't fool anyone. It's likely the only reason you're still alive, and you know that well."
Ignoring him, the boy put on the pants and shirt under Scabior's amused gaze, the man watching him closely, a sly smile on his handsome face, marred only by a feverish malice.
"I led the group of Snatchers that captured you and your friend." He scrutinized the boy, who kept buttoning his shirt, and continued, "We couldn't get the others, unfortunately. But you know that, because you're the one who blocked the passage they used to escape. And now, no one knows where they are."
This time, the boy paused his dressing and looked up at the man. Pleased to have his attention, Scabior picked up the tie from the chair and approached him. He wrapped the fabric around his neck, tying the knot with meticulous care, his face close to his.
"Of course, I have questions for you. For now, I haven't told the Dark Lord that we didn't capture the others because of you. I'm not sure why. But…" He tightened the knot far too tightly for the boy's liking, staring him down. "…I know that if I need something, I can come to you for it, can't I?"
An unpleasant encounter. He hadn't thought his maneuver had been visible to their pursuers. If he was caught, it didn't matter—but the others…they wouldn't have survived.
Scabior shouldn't have noticed that. It was a defeat, but he knew how to lose with grace. He resolved to give him his best smile for the occasion.
"Of course."
Scabior seemed surprised, his amusement growing. Deep down, they were cut from the same cloth.
The door opened, and a house-elf entered, bowing so low his nose touched the floor.
"Pardon the intrusion, sirs, you are expected in the main dining hall for dinner."
Scabior offered him his arm with a gentleman's courtesy.
"Allow me to escort you, my Lord."
He returned Scabior's gesture with his most hypocritical smile and took his arm. Standing tall, with a confident stride, he let Scabior lead him toward the heart of the Manor.
Now's the time, Scorpius,he told try not to die.
End of Chapter 3
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