Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Scabior's Protection	By : DirtyThings Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female Views: 2706 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter series or universe, and I don't make any money at all off of Scabior's Protection.

Chapter List
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This was originally written in 2012, and was intended as a one-shot. I really enjoyed writing it, though, and continued adding onto the story. It was removed during the 2012 Fanfiction purity crusade, and I took a looooong break from writing it. I'm back now, and working on it. I'm rewriting the whole thing, so it may take a while. Please enjoy, and leave reviews to let me know what you think about everything. :)
Chapter One
Going Somewhere?
It was a quiet and unhurried Tuesday morning when a branch broke free with a snap and fell to the ground. The noise echoed through the air of the forest, and a pair of birds flew out from a nearby bush. Hermione whirled around, wand at the ready, but saw nothing besides trees rising from frozen ground to bitter sky. Maple bark, oak bark, peeling, white birch bark. Stones, leaves. She saw the landscape and the trees and the stillness of the early morning, and that was all.
Ron was gone. Harry... Well, Harry was gone, too, in his own way. Sitting, staring, looking out like there was something there that only he could see. It was as if the world was his widow's walk, and nothing Hermione could say or do could bring him back down. He was in love with his own suffering. She was suffocating from the silence.
A breath of fresh air would clear her mind, she thought; it could bring her some peace, anyway. She had come to the Forest of Dean as a child. It had seemed like a good decision, safe and familiar. Until now. It was odd, really—nothing in particular had changed, but something about the forest seemed different.
A twig cracked sharply into two pieces.
Hermione turned abruptly. Her eyes, though tired, widened in shock. A man, dark and wild and crackling with fierce energy, was staring intently at her. No, wait, that wasn't right. Not at her. He was staring through her. He brought a gloved hand to her wards, not seeing the velveteen shiver of her magic. Would he feel it? He sniffed in an agonizingly deliberate manner, and Hermione felt fear begin to curl around her legs like a cat. It was her perfume. He could smell her perfume.
Something glinted in the man's eyes, but he turned away.
"Come on, you lot. I thought I heard something, but... Let's move along."
Hermione suddenly became aware that the man was not alone—there were four or five others with him. In her fright, she had only seen him. The men walked off, their boots crunching over the dry leaves of the forest.
Barely breathing, Hermione stood completely still until she was alone once again. She had recognized one of them; it was Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf. There was no doubt that they were dangerous.
A moment passed, and then another, and the cold grip of terror loosened on her slender frame. She exhaled. Her shoulders relaxed. And then—
"Going somewhere?"
She saw it with her peripheral vision, but making any sort of movement seemed impossible. A hand, calloused and dirty, curled around her mane of hair. Hermione trembled as the hand slowly drifted towards her skin and wrapped around her neck, its rough thumb rubbing unseen caresses at the base of her neck.
"Don't move. Don't scream." The man slowly turned her to face him, gripping her chin with tight fingers. He looked down and took in her obvious vulnerability, and a small smile laced his face. "Such a pretty, pretty thing... Now dear, why don't you tell me your name?"
Hermione said nothing. After a moment, the hand around her chin constricted.
"Penelope... Penelope Clearwater," she whispered. Be like a stone, she told herself. Let him squeeze all he wants. Give him nothing.
The man smirked. "For some reason, I don't think that's true. Why don't you—" His eyes caught her deftly fingering the wand poking out of her sleeve. "Oh, that won't do." As his hand reached for her wand, Hermione brought her knee up, striking him soundly between his legs; her assailant made a sound of pain and she twisted away, running, flitting through trees, the man's rapid breathing only moments behind her.
One foot in front of the other, she thought frantically. Get to the tent, get to Harry, get to safety, get to—
"Ahh!"
The man cut her off, grabbing her arm and pinning her against a tall birch tree. He pushed his hard body against hers. One arm held her thin wrists above her head and the other pressed into the small of her back as the stranger buried his face into her neck and inhaled, his senses filling with Hermione's soft fragrance. The only thing more obvious than her fear was his arousal.
"Who are you? What do you want? I'm a half-blood! A half—" Hermione was silenced as her mouth was invaded; she felt the prickle of his stubble and her chin was wet. No, this wasn't right, this wasn't right at all; she was supposed to kiss Ron, supposed to feel his smooth skin, supposed to feel warm and right and oh, God, what was that? A hard length pressed against her stomach. A stalwart atheist for the past six years of her life, she began to pray.
With one strong arm, the stranger ripped her blouse and exposed her bare skin. A second tug, and the blouse was gone completely. Hermione's skin prickled at the sudden onset of the cold air, and against her will, each nipple hardened. Her breath escaped her mouth in white puffs of steam. She knew what was going to happen to her; she would be used, hurt, perhaps even murdered, and there was nothing she could do about it without her wand. Hermione as she had existed up until this point would be gone—and Harry? Ron? What would they do without her? What could be done? Wait! There might be an option, a lesser of evils—
"Wait! Wait, please," she cried, and the man withdrew, his hard gaze transfixed upon her. "It doesn't have to be like this. Please, don't make it like this. Let me show you," she pleaded.
The man paused. This was new. The girl was not; he'd seen many like her—but yes, this was new. Those wide, doe-like eyes beseeched him, and he could taste his power over the girl on the tip of his tongue. He had found that sex, whether obtained with gold or violence, was sweet. This new dynamic, though—this was positively saccharine.
Hermione shivered as her captor released her hands. She swallowed. Suddenly, she felt regret that he had granted her proposal—now she was partly responsible for what she would do and whatever would happen. And yet she had no other option, not if she wanted a chance of surviving.
Trembling, she raised her hand and placed it at his stomach, curling her fingers softly around the thin, dark fabric of his shirt and sliding the cloth upward, revealing his taut abdomen. As Hermione slid the jacket off of the man's shoulders, she could hear his breath quicken.
His blue eyes flickered to her simple cotton brassiere in a silent command and she ducked her head, cheeks tingling with heat as she unhooked the strap and let it fall. She stood almost defensively, her shoulders squared and chin held high as if daring him to find fault with her.
The man slowly brought his hand to one firm breast, feeling the weight of it in his palm and dragging his thumb over her peaked nipple. A small grin graced his face as Hermione's breath caught, and he pinched her, hard, rolling her nipple in his calloused fingers. Hermione lifted her face into the air, eyes closed as the strange man manipulated her breasts.
He took the opportunity to pull his shirt over his head and then draw her form against his, pressing his body against hers. Hermione gasped, and the man cupped her face as he descended upon her, his lips claiming hers in a powerful, almost painful kiss. Hermione was ashamed to realize that she was pushing against him without the guidance of his nimble hands. She had always been guiltily excited by "ravishing" scenes in the tawdry romance novels she charmed to look like the histories of various magical landmarks (thereby ensuring Harry and Ron would never use them as anything more than doorstops and paperweights), but she had never assumed that it would—or could—ever happen to her. As often as she had fantasized of being those heaving-chested women being dominated by dashing pirates, mysterious lords, and exotic sheikhs, she had never really comprehended what it would actually like to be overwhelmed like this. It was different when her life, not the life of some busty, fictional heroine, was at risk.
It was his forceful grip on her waist that signaled that it was time, and together, they sank to the ground. Despite the shock of the half-thawed ground, their combined heat spread to the leaves around them, thin layers of frost melting and coating their bodies in a soft, wet shell. One hand found her smooth thigh and pushed up her skirt. The man hooked his fingers in the band of her panties and pulled them down. He propped himself on his knees, taking in the sight of the girl, spread and bare, before him. This was new not just to her but to him as well—a willing woman (or as close to one as he had gotten recently): untouched, pure, and all for him. It touched his sense of pride that she had so much to offer him (and yes, he knew that he was despicable). He could and would take everything from her.
The girl was flushed, the pink tinge to her cheeks providing lovely contrast to her milky, white skin, and her breasts rose and fell sharply. Her fingers dug into the earth around her. The man leaned forward and lowered his mouth to her neck, placing on her shivering skin one kiss after another. He continued his way down with long, open kisses to her breasts, flicking his tongue over her stiff nipples. As he sucked on her breast, Hermione gasped, and a moan escaped her mouth. He trailed his lips down her stomach, growling softly as he reached her small patch of auburn curls. He parted her lips and pressed his mouth against her core. He pulled her closer, his tongue tracing patterns on her most vulnerable places as the girl fought every urge to buck and bring herself nearer to her captor.
Feeling triumphant, he assaulted her with his mouth. His ragged breath mingled with her cries. He leaned forward and cupped her mound with his hand, pressing into her and sliding his fingers over her slick skin. As she shuddered into his hand, he drew himself up and placed his lips against hers. He took her small, delicate hand in his and guided it to the catch of his pants; Hermione unbuttoned it slowly, her eyes never leaving his. Her blood thrummed angrily, desperately in her veins.
The stranger paused and caressed the side of her body with his fingertips. As he watched the girl shiver underneath him, he moved forward, placing the tip of his cock at her entrance. He slowly pushed into her, and she felt a sharp, agonizing pain. Together, they looked down and watched as he sunk into her, filling her up. He pulled out, and Hermione nearly cried out at the sudden loss, only to be entered once more. He thrust rather deliberately and she groaned; it still hurt as much as the first invasion, but it was accompanied by a sensation of fulfillment that she had never before experienced. The pace was nearly excruciating, and her fingernails bit deep into the skin of his back. His body lowered inch by inch until he was pressed against her, his lips murmuring unintelligible desires against her neck as he moved, a man undone, in and out of her.
Though she tried her best to maintain her stoic silence, the sensation became too much to take. It built up in her in the most strange way, starting with a slow, sweet burn that began where the man's body met hers; her toes began to wiggle as jolts of what seemed like electricity shot down her legs. Every muscle in her lower body seemed to tense as the sensation rolled higher. Her breasts, her legs, her thighs, her lips—everything on her body she had previously taken for granted was aflame, and for the first time, she realized how good it felt to burn.
It wasn't until she felt two strong hands encircling her throat that her fevered eyes opened. She began to struggle, but the man leaned over, grip stilled as he whispered into her ear. "Trust me."
Trust him? This dangerous, dark man who had done this to her? And yet as their bodies joined, she felt something between them, some frisson or spark comprised of so many things, she could spend a year describing them and still not capture everything. Trust him? Yes, she decided. She would trust him. Her survival depended on living long enough to find a way to fight. Her eyes closed once more, expression calm, her fingers stroking the very arms of the hands that surrounded her tender throat.
The man looked down. The girl did trust him. It was sad—pathetic. And yet he found himself pressing down with utmost gentleness. The girl's eyes fluttered as her orgasm built and she struggled for breath. He counted—one, two, three. He saw the wave overtake her, the momentary blindness in her gaze, the all-over shudder that encompassed every inch of her body. As her climax died, his built and ended just as quickly. Together, their muscles relaxed and the chill of the morning air settled in around them. His hands were still at her throat—he didn't have to let go. He wouldn't normally let go at this point. She was obviously lying about her name. She had something to hide. But for reasons he could not explain—or did not want to explain—this time, he did.
Their breath drifted and mingled in the air. The euphoria was over, and the harsh reality of what had just happened set in. Hermione tried desperately not to think about the blood between her legs or the arms of the strange man wrapped around her waist. The pain she felt—the pain he had forced her to feel—now unaccompanied by pleasure, radiated uncomfortably in places she didn't know could hurt.
The man's hand slid over her stomach and gently massaged her abdomen in an intimate caress. Hermione's eyes opened as the man spoke. "What's your name? Your real name."
She paused. She could lie, but he still had her wand. What would the punishment be for lying? "Hermione," she whispered, and the man's hand stilled upon her skin. Fuck.
"Granger?" he inquired, and he felt rather than saw her small nod. He grimaced, and then leaned on his elbow to look over her shoulder as he debated his next words. The girl was worth more than her weight in gold, and yet... She's far more beautiful than they said she was, he said to himself, and then banished the thought. He knew she was traveling with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. If he could catch them all, he'd be more than well-off; he'd be wealthy. Or, of course, he could take the quick payout now, torture the information out of her—
He glanced down as the girl twisted her head to better see him. Dirt and scraps of decayed leaves dappled her shoulders; her uncontrollable curls were in disarray, and smudged streaks of coral-colored blood were smeared on her thighs. Gorgeous. And with that, his decision was made. "Hermione, there's something you might find helpful in your travels. The Dark Lord—"
In the near distance, there was a sound, and suddenly, the man was on his feet and dressing. Hermione tried to sit up, only to be pushed back toward the ground. "What are you doing?" she demanded, but the man held his hand over her mouth as the voices of the rest of the Snatchers drifted towards them. He suddenly grabbed dirt from the ground and began to rub it onto Hermione's nude body as the girl struggled to speak.
"Hermione Granger, we will meet again. Lay down and be still or you will not like the consequences."
She gave him a searching look and then sprawled onto the ground as if dead. "Good girl," her quietly crooned as his men ambled into sight. He stood up and shrugged his coat on nonchalantly.
"Who's that, boss?" one of the men called out.
"Penelope Clearwater," he said, nudging her with his boot. "She was a Half-Blood, but now she's an All-Dead. Get it? All dead?" He paused for a moment to allow his comrades to laugh. It wasn't funny, but he was the leader, and he'd make them laugh if he wanted to.
"Anyway, guess I got a little carried away. Go on and look for her companions; she can't be alone. Maybe we can find some more lovely girls to keep us company tonight, eh?" He offered his team a roguish wink, and most of them laughed appreciatively, moving away from their leader and the seemingly dead girl.
When the rest of his Snatchers were far enough away, he looked down. "Don't say the Dark Lord's name. It calls to us." His gaze followed the path of his men. "It calls to me."
Hermione blinked, and tears of relief, of fear, of shame, and of sorrow filled her wide eyes. She had so many questions. Was he letting her go? Was this a trap to find the others? What would she do now that this had happened to her? So little time, and yet one question came to her lips. "What is your name?" she asked.
The man paused before looking back. "Scabior," he murmured. "My name is Scabior. I'm the leader of the Snatchers, and the next time I catch you, I might not let you go." And with that, he walked away, himself full of questions.
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