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A Beautiful Lie	By : djackgirl Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female Views: 2308 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Harry Potter. I make no profit out of this work of fanfiction. I merely own Genevieve and the story arc.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Author's Note: Okay, so this idea is probably my favourite of the three I'm currently working on for the Harry Potter verse in the Scabior section. It was inspired by a Tamora Pierce quartet (virtual cookies to whoever guesses the right quartet). It wasn't an intentional inspiration to be honest, I sort of was doing a writing exercise (yes, I write a lot) and well I liked where it went. I'm not British; I'm Australian so I do apologize in advance for any vernacular that I may get wrong, I have tried to write the dialogue of Scabior as best as I could.

Anyway on a last note, I am looking for a beta reader to help me out with improving this.

Feedback is greatly welcome.

Chapter One: Recruitment Part I

Genevieve gasped in air by the bucket load, trying to regain her breath as she stumbled down the empty side alley. Her face probably looked like she'd just gone five rounds with the muggle boxer Muhammad Ali and lost. She gave a weak laugh at the thought and groaned as her nose screamed in protest from where it had been broken.

Her lip stung terribly as it bled and her right shoulder felt as though it was on fire.

Footsteps and a gruff voice came from behind her and Genevieve felt her heart stop in her chest. He'd followed her. She was grabbed roughly by the collar of her jumper suddenly and in the next moment crashed into the stone wall of the small alley way.

Grunting and biting her lip to stop herself from crying out at the force behind the throw, she fell to the cold ground. Her attacker snarled at her; "Filthy half-blood!"

The words stung but before she could attack him with a few words of her own, his hand snaked out and seized her by the throat, lifting her up and pressing her back into the wall that she'd been thrown against mere seconds ago. She struggled against the large hand; her lungs fighting for air.

Barely able to see through the tears that pricked at her eyes, Genevieve kicked out, getting him somewhere on the leg but not enough to make him let her go. "I'll teach ya some manners and respect!" he roared at her.

She thought back to how this scene had occurred and how his exact words now had hung in the locked, spelled room only half an hour ago. He'd told her she hadn't cleaned his room properly and he wanted to show her where she'd done wrong – her first mistake had been to walk into the room. Before she had been able to draw her wand and defend herself, he had lunged at her and knocked her to the ground. What followed was a severe beating and attempted rape until she had managed to grab her wand from close by and get him away from her. After getting out of the room, she'd entered the main room of the Macavoy Inn and quite a number of stares due to her appearance.

She'd managed to muster all manner of composure and strength as what she could and leave the place by a side door.

He had followed her much to Genevieve's unfortunate luck. Her lungs screamed in protest to the loss of so much oxygen and she felt her feet leave the ground in which she had been standing on as he raised her up the wall.

She felt her eyes begin to roll back and her hands begin to slow in their attempts to get his hand from round her throat as his grip tightened a fraction more.

Then –

It was gone. The vice like grip around her throat disappeared and she fell to the ground in a heap; choking and coughing as she tried to take in as much air as swiftly as she possibly could.

Glancing round from where she lay huddled against the wall; Genevieve found her attacker face down on the ground with a large black boot digging into his back. She heard growling and grunting from above her. There was another voice but she was unable to distinguish the words spoken as she found her hearing too be muffled as though they were filled with water – her left one more so than her right.

"Ain't no business o' yers, snatchers," he spat out gruffly, struggling against the boot on his back.

"Ye be causing quite the scene back in ye own inn Macavoy, for a great many spectators and it might be raising some questions." The deep voice came over the growling above him and Macavoy shuddered.

He had been hoping that they would stick to their own business and not come intervene; he could've gotten rid of the runt then and no one would've been any the wiser. Macavoy growled and struggled harder. "My establishment, my rules apply and this here runt weren't obeying 'em," he said in his defence.

"And it gives yer reason to beat the lad while ya have customers?" It was almost said in a taunting manner that enraged the innkeeper but he held his tongue knowing the snatchers weren't the type to mess with in the least.

Death-Eaters were terrifying but when it came to certain snatchers one could never be quite sure if they were the dim-witted kind or the intelligent and menacing ones. He'd watched the group of them earlier when they'd first arrived and knew these were in the intelligent and menacing group.

He was treading on dangerous ground but he couldn't understand why they were so interested in business of this kind.

Genevieve heard term lad through the thick fog of liquid in her ears and realised almost immediately that whoever was aiding her had been in the inn when she'd left and had not only followed them out into the alley but believed her to a boy. Did she really look that bad that it had made her look like a boy?

Bringing her hand up Genevieve winced as she pressed her fingers against her broken nose, causing a sharp sensation of agony.

The situation would have almost been laughable – if it was not her life on the line.

A boy of nineteen would've been able to stand up to the surly old man but a girl who was barely five foot five and slight in frame didn't have a fig of a chance after the first blow to the back of her head, which had nearly rendered her unconscious. She was only lucky enough that her wand had come to her weak call.

Glancing at her now former employer, she saw the boot move off his back and his sudden lunge for her but his hands never touched her. He was dragged roughly backwards on his knees and tugged to his feet.

"Yer got no more business 'ere, innkeeper, get back to yer establishment," said the deep, rough voice of the first snatcher. His companion unceremoniously threw the old man away in the direction of his inn and growled out threateningly.

The first snatcher, Scabior watched him shuffle off, grumbling to himself. He thought the man should have been grateful that he hadn't decided to do something worse but that wasn't the most important thing on his mind in that moment.

Glancing down at the small lad who they had just aided, he tilted his head slightly to the side – regarding how the beaten boy was curled up against the wall and seemingly trying to appear as though he was not there. He almost chuckled.

Genevieve realized that she had very likely gone from the frying pan and into the oven as she tried to curl into herself and hide, hoping that her saviours – as grateful as she was to them – would just leave.

Snatchers; she'd heard the term through the fog of the drumming in her ear. It confused her as to why snatchers would help her. They were not the helping sort.

One of them stepped closer to her and Genevieve, albeit tired realized she'd need to think of a lie and think of one quick. They were deserving of her thanks but terror seized at her as she glanced up at the two through puffy and swollen eyes. She didn't know whether it was her injuries or not but one of them had the face of a beast more than a man and he was leaning down close to her.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. "Lad, give us a look at the damage, see if we can fix ya up some." The muffled voice was deep and rough. And part of her almost cried in relief. He still thought she was a boy even this close.

"Nothin' but a runt, shoulda left 'im to 'et wot he deserved, Scabior," grunted the hideous man mere inches from her face. The thick, gravelly voice made a shudder pass through her.

Wait! That name. She dared taking her eyes from the one directly before her to glance round at the first snatcher and came face to face with the New Ministries own head Snatcher.

Her heart leapt into her throat and she shuffled back into the wall. "Bit o' a wimp if ya ask me."

"And was I?" the man, Scabior, snapped back. After a moment of watching him, she noticed his brow furrow and she knew the look on her face would be nothing but sheer horror. He straightened up.

Genevieve was huddled up against a wall before the most infamous snatcher to walk out of Azkaban upon the resurrection of the Dark Lord and she was frozen stiff. Her wand was in her back pocket but something told her it would be pure suicide to try and take on Scabior and whatever his companion was. Not to mention her current list of health would hinder her capabilities immensely that she had no doubt even trying to apparate would cause her more harm and it wasn't like she had anywhere safe to apparate to.

"We lost Asgeir in the last snatch, damn git he was, and I think we just 'appened upon his replacement – once we 'et 'im cleaned up a bit 'o course."

She glanced up at the man and found him still staring down at her. His companion's scornful gaze left her petrified that he would grab her any second and rip her throat out. She coughed viciously and groaned as her bruised ribs cried in agony, trying to cover it as she struggled to push herself from off the ground.

Genevieve stumbled slightly, leaning against the wall for support, clutching her ribs as they protested her movement.

"Easy lad," Scabior remarked, moving to grab her arm only Genevieve moved away from him as quickly as her injuries would permit her to.

His companion closed the distance between them and took hold of her roughly, grabbing her sore jaw in one of his mammoth-sized hands and tugging her face to his. She shook a little and her eyes darted over his face; deep set black eyes below a caveman like brow and as she studied his face with her poor sight she thought she could see fangs in his wicked smile.

Looking to the ground, she startled as he sniffed her short, mop of hair. Genevieve thanked her lucky stars in that moment that she did not wear perfume and that the short haphazardly cut mess of black locks probably aided her in appearing mostly like a boy.

Scabior watched in interest as Fernir moved towards the lad and grabbed him roughly, dragging him in close and sniffing him. Truth be told; when the boy had appeared from the back rooms of the inn sporting a badly beaten face and possibly a broken bone here or there by the way he'd been clutching at his shoulder and ribs, Scabior had wondered who had done it to him. It wasn't normal to see such a sight unless it was his own doing or the doing of one of his men.

Now as he found the boy cowering before the hulking werewolf, Scabior queried himself on why he had decided to help the lad and not just leave him. There was something of curious interest about him just by looking at the beaten and freckled face. Even in his keen sense, he could not pick up on what it was but he knew that he wanted to find it out.

When he'd been leaning in close to him previously, he thought the kid smelt a little odd for a boy but brushed it aside, he had seen how a few of the female workers in the inn had stuck close to him and put the strange scent down to the idea that he spent more time with the women than what they'd probably like Macavoy to know of.

He would need to get him cleaned up a bit before he got a better look at him as his face was smeared with blood and swollen badly and nearly beyond recognition.

"Wot's yer name and status?" he asked, breaking the silence hanging in the air between the three of them.

Think Genevieve. Think. Her voice was caught in her throat as she tried to come up with a name. Deciding to risk it all, she gave them the only name that came to her mind. "Qu- Quinn Str- Strougler. Half-blood."

She'd given them her twin brother's name. Cursing her speech problem, she tried to keep herself from passing out, knowing it would hinder her plan to try and keep up appearance as a boy.

"He ain't on the list."

The hand holding her jaw tightened for a second before it slowly let go and the large man-beast took a step back.

"Looks like its yer lucky day lad," Scabior remarked, chuckling a little but inwardly pleased that the half-blood hadn't been on the list. He had been dead serious when he'd made the comment of using the lad to replace Asgeir.

"Don't look so lucky ta me," Fernir grumbled back.

Scabior gave him a rueful look and clucked his tongue as he stroked his chin in thought. "Go fetch the boys. Get 'em back to camp," he told the werewolf who reluctantly moved to do as he was told.

Once the werewolf had disappeared he tucked the small leather book into the inside of his jacket and glanced down at the lad, wondering how he would do at apparating with his condition. Deciding not to worry about it, he reached out and gripped the shoulder of the boy's jacket tightly and apparated.

Genevieve fell roughly to the ground as they landed and heard chuckling from above her. She groaned in response but did not say anything as he grabbed her arm and tugged her up, ignoring any injuries she may have had and pulling her along towards where a fire was burning up ahead between the trees.

"Take it yer already know who I am," he commented.

She glanced at him and lifted a shoulder, nodding. "Ha– Hard–" Genevieve stopped trying to get out what she wanted to say and saw his eyebrow quirk in clear questioning but he didn't say anything as they finally came upon the camp.

They were met with roughly ten stares and Genevieve had to remember to not huddle in close to her rescuer, knowing that it may quite easily give her away and so far she seemed to be safe in them believing her to be of all people her twin brother Quinn.

"Alright ya gawkers, back to yer business ain't like yer never seen a beaten up boy 'fore," Scabior shouted out to the camp as he lead her towards a tent resting between two others.

The wonderful brilliance of magic she thought as Scabior tugged one of the flaps back and pushed her inside to reveal a larger room than what should have been impossible within the confines of the small tent under normal circumstances.

Glancing round, despite her weakened vision she gathered it was his tent solely as there was only one bed within the vicinity.

His hand let go of the shoulder of her jacket and he moved towards the far corner of the tent where a desk had a number of things scattered across it.

Genevieve stood there awkwardly as he went through the drawers, not wanting to move for fear that in any moment he might turn and attack her. Someone came in behind her and she felt a shudder pass through her as the other snatcher from the alley stepped round her and gave her a scornful look.

In an instant, she almost felt like turning tail and running but forced herself to remain still and silent.

"Wot Fernir?" Scabior asked suddenly.

"Boys like to be knowin' if ya want 'em to get back to snatchin' or to stay in camp," the man, Fernir, inquired his eyes on the lead snatcher who was still rifling through drawers and clusters of other things.

"The lot o' us be stayin' in camp for the night," Scabior answered. "We'll head out 'gain at first light."

Finding what he was searching for, Scabior turned to look at the boy. He cocked his head to the side as he watched the kid for a moment. Quinn was short, very short actually for a boy and small, or at least he looked small – it was hard to judge by the baggy clothing the kid was dressed in. Faded jeans, worn shoes that looked muggle orientated and a size too large shirt dwarfed him which was covered by a thick jacket.

It was hardly clothes for a snatcher. When he got the kid to the ministry in the morning, to make sure Yaxley knew he had taken the boy on, he'd find him some better clothes.

He noticed that his short black hair hung at uneven angles round his face also. It looked worse than Fernir's matted mess. The kid had his head lowered and Scabior chuckled a little, he was afraid of him. Good. Fear was something that Scabior found rewarding. If his men feared him; they did their job without question. If those he snatched feared him; they were more willing to talk without the need to torture them extravagantly.

Finally coming out of his inspection of the boy, Scabior closed the distance between them and told him to hand over his wand.

The kid's head snapped up and two large hauntingly pale green eyes stared back at him warily. "Yer want to be doin' as I say kiddo, or else I won't be helpin' yer to get better," he stated simply and held his free hand out, palm up. "Yer ain't in any danger and until yer've passed Yaxley's interview t'morra yer not gettin' it back. Simple 'eally – unless yer got somethin' to hide."

As he waited for Quinn to decide on the matter, though there was little room for disagreement on the outcome, Scabior took in the damage to the kid's face; a cut above his left eye, broken nose by the look of how it was sitting, split lip, a black eye that was swollen to the point that it was barely open, on his right cheek a bruise was forming as though the bone below his eye had been broken and he also noticed the dry blood that was matting the skin from the kids' right ear and down his neck. He'd been roughed up right good. It made Scabior question what rules he'd been breaking to get this type of a beating and almost killed for.

The wand was handed over and Scabior looked down at it as the smaller hand let go of it slowly, clearly not wishing to give up his best and only weapon of defence. "Ten inch; Mahogany and the core –" he trailed off, glancing at Quinn in questioning.

"Ph – Phoe – nix Tail Fea – ther," Quinn stuttered out after a moment and he nodded, tossing the wand onto the unmade bed in the far left corner of the room.

"Yer always stutterin' over yer words lad, were yer born with it?" A small nod answered his question and Scabior pursed his lips as he grabbed hold of the younger man's jacket shoulder again and pulled him towards the only chair in the room and made him sit down. "How can yer even cast a spell stutterin' like that?"

"I – I usual – usually – ha – have more – luck – w – with –"

Scabior told him to shut up when his lip began bleeding during his attempts to form a proper sentence and crouched down as he set the two bottles of stuff on the desk beside Quinn's arm. "Yer gonna be in a lot of pain over the 'ext few days or so even 'fter I fix yer."

"Why – why are – are – yer hel – helpin' me?" Quinn inquired his eyes on his lap as he brought his left hand up to clutch at his right arm and Scabior caught the pained look from the kid's good eye.

"I need a new hand in me group an' yer in need of a new start an' that's 'bout all there is to it," Scabior replied in a firm voice, leaving no room for any more talk as he grabbed the kid's jaw in one hand and inspected his face a little more closely, deciding where to start fixing first.
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A Beautiful Lie