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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
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapter Two
Her Helplessness, Her Hatred
On shaking legs, Hermione stood up and retrieved her clothing and her wand. It took her the better part of twenty minutes, but she managed to find the edge of the forest and the river at which she, Harry, and Ron had been bathing and drinking. She sunk into the ice-cold water, instantly chilled to the bone. She had barely started, and was already beginning to grow numb. She slowly ran her hands over her skin, rinsing off the dirt and blood. As she worked, her pace began to quicken, and she scrubbed herself roughly, the water around her billowing with clouds of dirt and mud. Mud—was that all she was to him? To any of them? How could someone think so lowly of another person that they could rape or murder them?
She already knew the answer. It was in the water around her; it was in her body, flowing through her veins, an outdated concept with a name just for things like her. Mudblood. Mudblood! The injustice of it stung more fiercely than the pain—how would she ever forget it? How would she heal? She had been bare. She had been stripped. She had been naked in so many ways.
"Vacuus Uterus," she murmured. She had been on birth control to defeat the acne that had been plaguing her since she entered puberty, but life on the run meant that she could miss a pill any day. The last thing she needed was to carry the child of an evil man.
She tried not to think about the orgasm. It doesn't mean I wanted it, she told herself. I'm in control of what I want and don't want. Her hands shook as she redressed. After a long look at the river around her, she forced herself to make her way back to the tent, still feeling dirty.
}{}{
To Harry Potter's credit, he hadn't missed the expression of sadness and confusion that had been on Hermione's face for weeks. It had lingered there like a drawn-out winter since Ron left. When his friend entered the tent, he saw that the expression hadn't changed. However, now her eyes with rimmed with red and her limbs trembled. Her lips were uncharacteristically dark against her pale skin, and her wet hair hung limply around her shoulders.
"Merlin, 'Mione! Did you go for a swim? It's freezing outside." He stepped forward and wrapped his blanket around his friend's shoulders, fluffing her hair with it as if Hermione was a child fresh out of the bath. The girl smiled weakly and hugged him a bit too tight for comfort. She knew she could never tell him. It wasn't because he would blame her or think less of her. It was because he wouldn't understand, and trying to explain it would hurt.
After a long, intense second, she released him.
"Come on, Harry, let's get some sleep. I want to be productive tomorrow."
"Hermione, you're always productive," Harry said, searching his mind for the right combination of words to put a smile back on his friend's face. "And smart! Very smart. Good with books. And, er, stuff. Brains. You've got good ones."
Hermione fixed him with a wry expression and then shook her head. "You're sweet, Harry. Good night." With that, she opened the catch to her room and then softly padded to the single bed inside. She laid down, trying desperately to think of anything but the hands of a strange man, anything but his fingertips dancing lightly over her skin and feelings she wished that she could lock away in a little box and cast into the river.
Both of them were asleep when the stranger stopped by the entrance of the tent. He lifted a hand as if to part the tent and enter, but paused and then turned away, retreating into the trees until he was engulfed in shadow.
}{}{
Fenrir would have been a beast or a half-man even if he had never been a werewolf, Scabior mused as the werewolf ripped apart some unfortunate traveler that had happened to come by their camp with his family. They had been looking for news of the strange lights they had seen in the forest, and found death. The man screamed, and Scabior looked away, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it with a blue flame conjured from the tip of his wand. Muggles were worthless. Good for cigarettes, though. And iPods, he thought idly. He did rather like iPods, having confiscated several from campers and hikers unlucky enough to cross the Snatchers' paths. Unfortunately, he didn't understand that they needed to be charged, and a veritable graveyard of Apple products had begun littering the wake of the Snatchers' migratory camp.
"Oi, is that a Muggle... What-do-they-call it, cigarine or something?" Antoine Casgrove, a fellow Snatcher, sidled up to him and nodded at the unassuming white cylinder.
"It's called a cigarette, Antoine, and unless you decide to try one out for yourself, don't bother judging me. These things are darker than half the spells your mummy taught you," Scabior drawled airily, his fingers flicking ash from the cigarette into the air.
"You'd have to ask her about that. If you had a death wish, anyway. An' I was just tryin' to make conversation," Antoine said good-naturedly. With a bone-popping stretch, he brought his arms up over his head and then settled back. A companionable silence arose between them, and Scabior once more found himself lost in thought.
He took a drag and blew the smoke out of his mouth in a white, hot burst. The girl wasn't even a muggle; she was a Mudblood, an abomination. More importantly, she was worth almost as much gold as the boy was. He knew two things: where she slept, and that she wouldn't be there much longer. She was ripe for the picking, and the boy, too. For the first time in years, Scabior wished his father were alive. The old man's face when he saw the contents of Scabior's vault would have been priceless.
And yet Scabior couldn't stop thinking about her soft brown eyes. They were luminous, really, and speckled with bits of gold, framed by long, dark lashes. Her eyes were her best feature. Her nose was nice, too, dainty. Her lips weren't particularly full; the top one was rather thin. He liked that, though. She had a small chin and a heart-shaped face. It gave the impression that she was nothing but eyes, deep and transfixing. Transfixing, he thought idly. That's a good word for it.
He jerked then, quite suddenly, and knocked his fist into the lit tip of his cigarette. "Fuck! Fuck," he said. A small black spot marked his hand, but his biggest concern was the odd tug he felt somewhere in his gut. It was something slick and disgusting to him, though the closest word that could be used to describe it would be something like tenderness.
Think of the gold, mate, he urged himself. Piles of gold, mountains of gold, handfuls of gold, spilling from his outstretched hands and into a Gringotts vault just for him... Specks of gold in her eyes. The feel of them together. Shit. He flicked the cigarette again and watched the ash tumble through the air before losing itself in the forest.
}{}{
"They are knocking now upon your door
They measure the room, they know the score.
They're mopping up the butcher's floor
of your broken little hearts, oh children..."
Hermione glanced up, her thoughts derailed, and looked into Harry's eyes before placing her hand in his palm and allowing him to bring her to her feet. With a small, shy smile, he moved his body, and she moved with him.
"Forgive us now for what we've done,
It started out as a bit of fun,
Here, take these before we run away,
the keys to the Gulag..."
He twirled and then she twirled, and they spun around the candlelit tent like dandelions in the wind, flickering and spinning and swirling with abandon. Harry's arm crept around her—
She crumpled to the ground and Scabior's body followed her, cocooning her from the cold.
She dipped back, her hair swinging behind her. She smiled, and Harry grinned, propelling her forward—
The man ran his fingers around her face and throat, leaving trails of blood.
The boy swung her back, emerald eyes appreciating the skirt twirling around the girl's legs—
His fingers released her throat.
She spun—
And he kissed the side of her neck gently.
"O children,
Lift up your voice, lift up your voice-
Children, rejoice,
rejoice."
The two danced, holding onto each other—
"Hey, little train! Wait for me!
I was held in chains, but now I'm free!
I'm hanging in there, don't you see?
In this process of elimination..."
Kissing, flashes of light, his hands on her, trembling; they were both trembling, his hair brushing her face as his lips met hers and the heat from their bodies spread warmth through the ground, warmth, so much warmth pooling inside of her, the kiss, the kiss... Her traitorous body, her terrible weakness. Her loss. Her helplessness, her hatred.
The music stopped. Harry performed a tiny bow, and with that, the moment was over. Hermione walked over and switched off the radio. She felt hollow.
It wasn't my fault, she told herself quietly. I didn't do anything wrong.
Later, as she sat on the edge of her bed, she felt an overwhelming gratitude for the tiny room with the canvas walls and ceiling. This had been her parents' tent for when they went camping. It had been here before, in the Forest of Dean, and though she had packed it only for convenience, she found herself appreciating even the tiniest connection to her childhood. She was also glad for the privacy. She needed to be alone, and Harry, as much as she loved him, assumed responsibility for everything around him, and he would not understand that there was no way that he could not be the cause of her tears.
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Scabior's Protection