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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
- 4
- 5
- 6
Chapter 5
Crack!
For the first time since they had met seven years earlier, Ron did something nice for Hermione. The tea was far too sweet, but the gesture seemed sincere. Sitting in the area of the tent designated as the kitchen, Hermione smiled and took a sip. "Thanks. I needed this. I'm so sick of this awful winter. It just goes on and on, and once you think it's going to warm up, there's another frost or another four inches of snow."
Ron nodded. "It's great, isn't it? Christmas… Anyway, listen, 'Mione, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."
Hermione's eyebrows furrowed and she sighed. It was clear he hadn't been listening to her. "What is it, Ron?"
"Look, I know I wasn't the best friend I could have been the past few days..." At her look, he hastily corrected himself. "Weeks..."
A glare.
"Months... No, years, okay, year. Blimey, Hermione, don't look at me like that... Anyway, just wanted to say that you're, um. Er. Special. Yeah, that's it, special. You're a special girl and," he continued, red in the face and pink in the ears, "I've noticed. I don't know what we'd do without you. And, well, I was wondering if... Doyouwannabemygirlfriend?"
Hermione blinked. Her mouth opened and then closed as she thought of what to say. "Ronald, I'm very flattered that you asked me that, but I don't think that the middle of a war is a good time to start a relationship. There's a lot we have to do and the last thing we need is any sort of distraction."
The boy stared at her blankly.
She sighed and continued. "There are things... going on. I'm trying to work through some things right now, and I'll be fine, but I need time."
"We could just go out a little."
Good lord. "It's just not a good time for me. I'm sorry," she offered.
Ron nodded slowly, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead in an attempt at looking casual. His fingers drummed on the table. "I've been really lonely lately."
"I completely understand. But we can still be here for each other, you know."
Ron seemed very interested in this. "Really?"
"Of course!"
He leaned forward. "Do you want to be here for me while Harry's sleeping?"
Hermione froze. "Pardon?"
"You know," Ron said, shrugging a shoulder towards the room where their friend was asleep. "While he's out. Do a little snogging. Maybe a little spooning. A good amount of—"
"Ronald Weasley!"
"What?" he snorted, belligerent. "Harry has Ginny. Neville has Hannah Abbott. Remus has Tonks. Mum has… Dad," he listed, clearly running out of examples. "I don't have anybody!"
"Yes, but that doesn't mean you should just cozy up with someone you don't want in order to not feel left out!"
"Well, maybe you should be a little bit grateful, Hermione. There are prettier girls out there, definitely nicer ones, and some of them aren't so in love with books that they… That they shrivel up and blow away!" He stuck his fist into the air and pantomimed it exploding, extending his fingers and then wiggling them away in imaginary wind. They both stared at his hand.
"That's… That's not it shriveling up, but that is it blowing away. In the wind, all alone," he explained.
"You're disgusting, Ronald Weasley," Hermione hissed, her eyes filling with tears. In an instant, she was gone, running from the tent at full speed. The flaps of the tent folded quietly back into place.
"Bitch," Ron muttered, and took a sip of Hermione's tea. "Oh, this is gross."
}{}{
"Confringo!" she shouted, and a large rock shattered into precisely seventy-six pieces. "I gave up school for you!"
Another rock, smaller this time, also exploded to sate Hermione's anger. "My exams! My future!"
She kicked the ground once. It felt wonderful, and she did it again. "I've stolen food!"
She hit a tree with her hand. She was too incensed to feel the pain. "I made my parents forget who I am!"
A third blast from her wand ignited a large tree branch on the ground. Hermione sighed and hurried over to it. With a flourish, she poured water from her wand, which quenched the fire. When she spoke again, she was quiet. "What more do I need to give?"
"Who says you have to give anything?" a voice responded, and Hermione's blood froze in her veins.
"How did you find me?" she asked. She didn't turn to face him.
"I followed the trail of your magic," Scabior replied casually, as if the idea that magic was traceable was common knowledge.
"What do you mean, followed it?"
The Snatcher cocked his head to the side and smiled. This was new. "When you cast a spell, a residue is left behind. If you're very careful and study it closely, you can feel the presence of the witch or wizard who cast it. Magic has a signature, and the bigger the magic you create, the bigger the signature. I was in the area already—that was a hefty Disapparation spell, love. But I'd have to have been blind and deaf to not notice you exploding rocks over here. Not just the sights and sounds, mind you. I can taste it."
Hermione swallowed. She was terrified of this man, but this time, she was armed. He was a good four or five meters away from her, and his wand was at his side. The opportunity to learn something she had never heard of before, however, was intoxicating. "How can you taste it?"
"Well, you can't taste it until you know it's there. Once you know it's there, it's unmistakable. Different spells taste different ways. Some taste like smoke, and others, like apples."
She gave into temptation. "What did my Disapparation spell taste like?"
"Blood," Scabior responded. "Metallic in the mouth—very strong."
Hermione was taken aback. "I… I made something that smelled like blood?"
Scabior considered the young witch carefully. "Blood isn't an inherently bad thing, love."
"Don't call me that. And also, when you cut things, they bleed."
"You can't live without it."
Hermione nodded. "But it's associated with death."
"It's associated with life," he returned carefully. "In more ways than one."
"What's the other… Oh," Hermione responded. She blushed. Harry had seen a tampon of hers once at the bottom of her bag—a clean, unused, packaged tampon—and had nearly run out of the common room. She wasn't used to measured comments regarding the existence of menstruation. "Yes, I suppose you're right."
Suddenly she realized, however, that sometime in the last few minutes, Scabior had come closer to her, and was now barely two meters away.
"Stay back," she warned, and raised her wand. "Don't come any closer."
One corner of the man's mouth twitched upwards. "Have you had any interesting daydreams lately?"
Hermione's mouth tightened.
"Oh, don't be that way. We have a connection, you know. I can feel it. I know that you can't feel out magical energy, but this connection we have isn't exactly subtle." He took a step forward.
"I warned you!" Hermione shouted. Her hand began to shake violently. The tip of the wand quivered. "Leave me alone!"
"I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you. We're meant to be here," Scabior said softly. His eyes danced. He looked like a cat that had just found an unsuspecting bird with which to play, excited and full of dark merriment. "Put the wand down."
"I'll curse you. I'll curse you," Hermione repeated. Scabior took another step forward.
His arms snaked forward slowly, deliberately. Whether or not he would have possessed the speed to strike before a curse could be delivered was unknown, because as he raised his arms, Hermione lowered hers. She hated him. She wished that he were dead. She knew the spells that would make him dead, or at least make him hurt in ways that mirrored the damaged he had dealt to her. They raced through her mind like last chances: Confringo, Avada Kedavra, Sectumsempra, Crucio.
That terrible warmth was beginning to pool in her stomach. The nearer Scabior came, the more intense it became. She imagined that it was a light, and if she looked down, she would be blinded. That's how bright it felt when Scabior's hands encircled her biceps and his Roman nose grazed her cheek. She gasped, and the Snatcher looked down at her with great pleasure. He was experiencing what was almost a sense of giddiness. He had been right: for whatever reason, this beautiful woman that he knew he did not deserve was helpless to his touch.
Scabior believed in no gods, muggle or magical. He did not believe in miracles. But Scabior was a poor man, even after years of hunting, and this witch was made of gold in every way conceivable.
His fingers separated her jeans from her hips, and pushed down. The denim, along with her underwear, slid down her thighs before halting in a mess of fabric just above her shins. Locked at the knee, she fell backwards, but slowly; Scabior's hands still rested at her lower back, and she hit the ground softly. Her flesh tingled wherever his hands rubbed. He deliberately avoided the area between her legs, stopping short of pubis mons and barely skimming her inner thighs.
Hermione screamed at herself in her mind. Point your wand at him and say the worst thing you can think of! Kick him! Claw him! Fight him off!
Scabior began to explore the skin beneath her faded gray sweater. He cupped her breasts roughly, leaving small fingerprints that stood out starkly for a few seconds before fading away. The sweater was pulled over her head, and Hermione found herself bound and naked in front of the most dangerous man she had ever met.
The Snatcher leaned forward and placed his lips on hers.
Kill him. Kill him! KILL HIM! He's going to hurt you again! Make him pay for what he did! You're never going to be the same!
With a snap, she closed her teeth around Scabior's upper lip. The man instinctively pulled away, and when he faced her again nearly half of a minute later, a patch of blood was smeared over the fullest part of the left side of his lip.
"Fuck you," Hermione whispered. Her hand unclenched, and her wand rolled out and onto the ground.
Scabior grinned. "That's what I intended to do in the first place, love."
His lips met hers again, and they shared the taste of blood. It was over in a heartbeat. Hermione found herself flipped over onto her stomach in what seemed like an effortless move. With one hand, Scabior brought her hips towards him so that her face was pressed against the ground. The other hand settled authoritatively at the nape of her neck. Hermione heard the fumbling of a belt and the unzipping of a fabric. For a moment, the head of his cock rubbed against her, searching for entry, and she shivered.
He entered her smoothly, finding little resistance. While not fully aroused, Hermione was slick enough to take him, and Scabior could tell that her excitement was ramping. She let out a low moan as he tested how she felt around him. He buried himself into her as deep as he could go and bent his body over hers in an attempt to further capture her.
"Move forward," he whispered several inches below her right ear.
It took Hermione a moment to understand the request, but she drew her hips forward, essentially pulling Scabior out of herself. That bizarre emptiness returned to her, and she craned her head to look at him. The eroticism of the gesture was shocking, though certainly not unpleasant, and Scabior struggled to maintain a neutral expression. "Now back."
With a gasp, her hips slid back, and she filled herself once more.
Scabior nodded, and Hermione closed her eyes. For a few moments, she slid herself forward and back, impaling and depriving herself with alternating strokes. Her body, which had already begun to lubricate itself, reached a point of excess. The sight of her glistening body caused Scabior's cock to twitch, and he knew that he could no longer hold back.
Reapplying his grip on the back of her neck, he drew himself out of her and then reentered roughly. Hermione called out in shock and pleasure. She tried to draw a large breath, but before she could, she was being thrust into once more. His pounding was brutal and masterful—it was something that, before it had actually happened, Hermione was not sure could happen. But her body, her traitorous body, welcomed the invasion. Her breasts pushed into the earth; her legs felt weak. Still, she needed more. While she had originally attempted to be as quiet as possible, something in her broke loose, and as Scabior crudely fucked her from behind, a descant of moans tore themselves from her throat. Her legs, no longer under her control, splayed themselves more widely and decadently. Despite the strength of the thrusts, her body rose to meet him every time. She still hated him. He was still evil. She was still a victim of forces beyond her control, and yes, she still wanted him dead. But right now, more than that, she wanted him to cocoon her body with his, to fill her completely in ways she was only now beginning to understand, to look at her—to see every square centimeter of her body—and to find ways to use every last bit of it.
With a grunt, Scabior finished inside of her. Even after he was drained of semen, he delivered a few final thrusts as if making sure that he had given himself the final word in a matter neither of them had discussed. He collapsed next to her, massaging his shoulder with one hand.
It took Hermione some time before she had the strength to turn over onto her back. She was incredibly sore, more so even than her first encounter with Scabior. It was somehow oddly satisfying, though the sensation ended on the physical level. Guilt gnawed at her with dull teeth. How could you let him do this again? How could you have wanted it so badly?
She waved away a leaf that was in danger of falling on her face. The gesture required a ridiculous amount of effort. "Are you going to turn us in?"
Scabior paused. "I don't know," he said, surprised at his own honesty.
"If you think that… That we're going to sleep together, and I'll keep doing this to keep you from trying to hunt us, you're wrong. This is the last time this will happen. Harry and I… Harry, Ron, and I. We've defeated far more frightening bad guys than you."
"It doesn't depend on whether or not we fuck," Scabior responded bluntly. "Based on the history of our fucking, said fucking will happen no matter what."
You bastard, she whispered in her head. You miserable animal. But it was true. Regardless of how she wanted to feel about him, her attraction to him was relentless, fierce, and unyielding. Even now, sore and thoroughly used, a small, awful part of her wished that Scabior was not done objectifying her. It didn't seem to matter that their previous encounter was completely non-consensual. The experience had awakened some disturbing part of her that wanted—no, that needed—this exquisite, terrible coarseness. She wasn't going to kill him. She couldn't.
If that was the case, though, she considered dolefully, there were better and lesser options. She was painfully reminded of her previous words: it doesn't have to be like this.
Hermione propped herself up on one shoulder. She traced patterns on Scabior's torso with one trailing fingertip. He watched her, wary.
Her hands slipped down his abdomen and brushed against him. Still a young man, he began to stir.
"It does matter," she murmured. Her left hand wrapped around him. "Do you want to know why?"
Scabior swallowed. Lust began to cloud his vision. The magic all around them—not from the spells Hermione had cast earlier, but the strange association that joined them, left a sweet taste in his mouth. "Why, love?"
Hermione paused. "Let me show you."
And it was that moment that she wrapped the fingers of her right hand around a piece of rock, raised it above her head, and brought it down on Scabior's head with a righteous crack!
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- 6
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Scabior's Protection