A/N:
#1. 'She knows everything about everyone. That's why her hair is so big, it's full of secrets.' – Mean Girls. The projection of this quote onto Scabior is inspired by a DeviantArt drawing TheAtomicBoom created. It's forever going to describe our plaid-panted snatcher in my mind...
#2. I'm having a phase over Cockney Rhyming Slang and, as such, Scabior now uses it. I think it works. I'll include meanings at the end of chapters where he uses it (and I apologise for potentially using it embarrassingly incorrectly, but I'm nowhere near England, so it's somewhat of an experiment).

Warning: There will be some language in this, mostly in the beginning, because things have gone from bad to as bad as it can possibly get. After that, I'll be trying to keep it to a minimum, though Snatchers are obviously a bit uncouth and mouthy, so it won't vanish completely. Also, this warning is probably irrelevant because my sense of 'too much swearing' is quite different to that of a lot of other people.

Blanket Disclaimer: I gain faic (that is, nothing) but satisfaction and perhaps a few kind reviews from strangers. Everything recognisable is from that wonderful, genius lady, JK Rowling.

"for the prey can scent its peril"
oh the shame that sent me off from the God that I once loved
was the same that sent me into your arms
/Winter Winds - Mumford & Sons/

-:-

Hermione's heart was beating a rapid tattoo as she held her breath; directly in front of her stood a man of indeterminable age with dirty skin and tangled hair. His leather coat was well-worn, covering a curious array of clothes – notably a superbly conspicuous pair of black and white plaid pants and a pale brown leather vest among other darkly coloured garments – while fingerless gloves covered his hands, one bare finger decorated by a gleaming silver ring in the shape of a stag's head.

His blue eyes stared straight through her, seeing nothing through the wards she had so carefully constructed upon her arrival in the forest with Harry and Ron, but it wasn't enough for Hermione to breathe easier. She knew he could smell her on the air. He inhaled the air deeply, tentatively reaching out a hand, but paused when one of his companions dropped his load – some poor soul, muggleborn probably, who'd been too slow to escape the Snatchers.

"Oi, wha' are ye doin'?" he demanded of the other Snatcher, returning to the small group. "Pick 'im up."

"He's heavy!" the other complained, flexing his tired hands.

The head Snatcher looked pointedly at him and said, in a deceptively polite voice, "I don' fuckin' care, do I? Pick 'im up or me lovely daisies 'ere'll be up ye fuckin' Khyber." To the rest of his party he added impatiently, "Well, come on! Back to the camp, lads."

As they vanished out of the clearing, Hermione let out a shaky breath. He could smell her scent – the one she'd brought with her to remind her of her mother, worn to try and distract Ron – he could smell her presence. Shame and embarrassment caused hot tears that threatened to fall, but she quickly wiped them away as Harry stepped up beside her.

"At least we know they work," he said quietly, looking over to where the men had disappeared. "The wards will keep us safe, Hermione."

"He mightn't have been able to see or hear us," she conceded, "but he still has scent."

Harry looked at her, confused.

"My perfume," she explained with a soft groan. "He could smell it in the air. Ugh, how could I be so stupid! I put us all in danger!" She covered her face with her hands, but Harry grasped them at the wrist and pulled them away.

"It's fine Hermione. We're safe, they didn't find us," he told her gently. "So maybe he could smell you, but we won't make the same mistake twice." Hermione looked up at him, and there was no malice, no anger, not even disappointment, on his face and as he smiled at her, she nodded, sucking in a deep breath. "That's my girl," Harry praised, and tugged her in for a quick hug. "We'll be fine."

She wished she could believe him.

||-:-||

Ron had left them.

It was the locket's fault, she was sure of it, but a niggling thought in the back of her mind reminded her cruelly during the cold, shortening, days that the locket could only intensify that which was already there – Ron's doubts must have been lingering in his mind for weeks before he'd finally snapped.

She hated thinking of the boys' raised voices; fighting was something she might have done all through school with Ron, but Harry and Ron – closer than brothers, they were – they'd never fought, not like this. Ron's anger over Harry's selection in the Tri-Wizard Tournament was nothing compared to the anger she'd witnessed in their tent the day he'd left.

Each time she closed her eyes, Hermione re-lived their horrible words to one another, the malice in them echoing in her mind. Sleep, already hard to find, was proving even more difficult because of it, so in the end Hermione had volunteered to keep watch, waking Harry only for short shifts and poring for hours over the battered copy of 'Tales of Beedle the Bard' that Dumbledore had left to her in his will.

Days passed, but the ache didn't cease; Ron had left them, asked of her an impossible choice.

He had broken her heart.

The strangest part, though, was the lack of romantic betrayal she was feeling. It was entirely in the form of friendship that she was hurting. Ron was supposed to their best friend; part of the Golden Trio! Brash, stubborn, and loyal to a fault – that was Ron Weasley!

But he'd gone; left them.

In a moment of wishful thinking, Hermione tied her scarf to one of the four corner trees that indicated their encampment – a sign, just in case he decided to come back. Then, together, she and Harry disappeared into nothingness.

Ron's sudden reappearance almost several weeks later did little to endear him to her, even in his drenched and freezing state, and only after hearing that he had destroyed the locket did she refrain from pelting him with her fists. His abandonment had hurt her to the core, and even after the good news of another destroyed horcrux she was unable to completely forgive him his actions.

"This doesn't change anything," she growled, before storming back into the tent. Yet Ron's return had lifted their spirits significantly and, forgiveness not-withstanding, they had come together as a whole as if he'd never been gone, the atmosphere a great deal more cheery since the destruction of Slytherin's damn locket.

They were preparing to leave when the unsettling feeling of being watched erupted in the pit of Hermione's stomach. She looked up, and out of the forest landscape stepped the man from before; the one who had smelt her perfume through their wards.

"'Ello beau'iful," he said, leaning casually against the tree as he fiddled with the shiny silver ring on his left index finger. "Going somewhere, are we? I think not."

There was a second of paralysing panic where Hermione reacted as prey everywhere does in the face of the predator. Then she screamed.

"RUN!"

Neither Harry nor Ron needed telling twice. The three youths darted between trees, the words of the head Snatcher reaching their ears as he instructed his men to snatch them.

The sound of feet on undergrowth played like a terrifying soundtrack and Hermione was quite sure that she had never been this frightened in her life. If they were caught – if they were recognised! – they were as good as dead. Snatchers may not have been accepted into Death Eater ranks, but in many ways they were far worse. There were worse ways to die than Avada Kadavra, and not all Snatchers had earned their way into Azkaban because of an Unforgivable.

They were losing, she could tell. Running hell for leather, the Snatchers were still gaining, and in the distance she spotted more appearing in front of them, blocking any chance of escape. They were surrounded. In a swift movement that encompassed idea, decision and action, Hermione spun around, and with her wand aimed at Harry's face hissed the incantation of a stinging hex. Immediately, Harry's face bubbled and deformed so intensely it looked as if he was diseased. Good, she thought, grabbing his glasses and shoving them in her blue beaded bag. The less he seemed like Harry Potter, the better.

Men, dirty and evil, crowded around them, aiming kicks and restraining them roughly when the trio tried to fight back.

The leader sauntered into the clearing. "Wha' 'appened to you?" he asked at Harry, not particularly desiring an answer. Instead, he continued past the Boy-Who-Lived and stepped up to Hermione, the hint of a smirk rising on his face.

"Well, well, wha' 'ave we 'ere?" he drawled as Hermione stared defiantly over his shoulder. He lifted a hand and stroked her face, his palm gently caressing down her neck before he entwined his fingers in her curly hair. She was stricken to see her pink scarf wound about his neck, adding to his atypical dress. Bringing the brown locks to his face, the man inhaled. His heavily lined eyes closed ever so slightly as he savoured her scent before he leaned closer, resting his lips against her ear. "You smell like vanilla," he murmured, his voice dropping with the unmistakable tenor of lust. "I think you're going to be my favourite."

There was no disgust in her Hermione's mind, only fear. Utterly consuming terror was emanating from her very pores, and then, not a moment too soon, the man drew away from her to aim a punch into Ron's stomach, the ginger having become more troublesome as the Snatcher invaded Hermione's personal space.

"Oi, Scabior," one of the younger looking Snatchers interrupted suddenly, gazing at Harry's swollen face. "C'mere and have a look at this. It looks like it could be a scar or summat."

Scabior sent one last kick at Ron, who lay crumpled on the ground, and stalked over to their third prisoner. Grasping Harry's head in one, he tilted it back painfully and gently ran a finger over the disfigured mark. "Ye know, ye migh' be righ'," he said. He stared at it a moment longer, ran his eyes over the curly haired brunette and almost unconscious ginger, and then his eyes widened in understanding and sadistic glee.

"Change o' plans, lads. These three are headin' straigh' to Malfoy Manor."

||-:-||

Hermione took in the eerie Manor and thought she might finally understand why Draco Malfoy had been such a complete and utter prat at Hogwarts. The place he called home was dark, uninviting, and full of awful paintings that whispered cruel words under their breath as the group made their way into the drawing room. She stumbled over the corridor rug and was roughly redirected by her captor before being shoved unceremoniously through the door into the company of Bellatrix Lestrange, and the entire Malfoy family.

Draco looked terrible, about as bad as Harry and Ron; he had dark circles under his eyes and his usually very pristine appearance was suffering. His father looked much the same. Somehow, Narcissa was managing to maintain the image of Lady of the Manor, but her eyes were uncertain and contained more than a hint of worry.

"What are these?" Bellatrix demanded in her harsh, high voice, moving from behind a long wooden table into the centre of the room. Scabior stepped forward in his careless manner, playing once again with his ring.

"We've a bi' of a surprise for you lot," he said by way of explanation. "Some kiddies we found runnin' about the woods. Take a gander at 'em and you might see why they're so special." He lifted himself to sit on the tabletop and grinned deviously, leaning forward. "O' course, I respec'fully ask for the lass, if ye don't mind. Finders-keepers, ye understan'."

Bellatrix had wandered over to look at Harry's deformed face, and excitement was radiating off her as she realised who exactly Scabior was meaning when he said 'special kiddies'. "Draco," she called. "Come here. Look at it, is it Potter?"

Reluctantly, the blond approached. "I- I'm not sure," he dallied, clearly uncomfortable at being involved in the identification. "It could be."

"Look here," Bellatrix prompted, indicating the scar. To the Snatchers she asked, "What happened to him?"

"He was like that when we found him," one offered. "Probably caught something in the forest while on the run; there're all sorts of nasty-"

The mad Black sister's gaze silenced the lackey, and he slinked discontentedly back into the background. Eagerly, she looked at the two other prisoners. The ginger could well be a Blood Traitor Weasley, and the weak little girl could easily be the Mudblood, she deliberated, but then her gaze fell upon a glinting weapon in the hands of a dim-looking Snatcher. Calm turned to rage in a millisecond.

"Where did you get that?" she hissed, levelling her wand at the man, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"It was with the kids, I reckon I earned it," he replied. It wasn't the right answer, because Bellatrix flicked her wand and blasted him backwards, knocking the Gryffindor's sword from his grip.

The Snatchers were moved into action, all but Scabior drawing their wands, but none were a match for the insane witch, and she took them down in groups of two and three until they scarpered, fearing for their lives. Scabior looked on from his seat on the heavy wooden table, his face betraying no emotion.

Having sent the majority of the Snatchers fleeing, Bellatrix swooped on Hermione, pulling her head up painfully by the hair. "How do you have the sword?" she shrieked. "You've broken into my vault. How?"

Hermione shook her head in vain. "No, we didn't, I swear… Never… we've never been in there, I swear."

The young witch trembled before Bellatrix Lestrange, knowing the inhuman things she had done before without a hint of regret made it all the more terrifying.

"Leave her alone," Ron yelled, and Bellatrix turned, livid. She looked between the two prisoners and then smiled. It was a hundred times more threatening than her anger.

"I think I might need to have a little chat," she purred maliciously, "girl to girl. Take those two down to the dungeons."

After that, the only thing Hermione could remember was the pain of Cruciatus, the sharp sting of a knife slicing through her skin, and a misplaced image of a pair of plaid trousers before she finally fell into welcome unconsciousness.

||-:-||

There are two methods to waking up in a strange location; one involves being resigned, and the other entails complete and utter panic. Hermione, after sleeping for almost seventy-four hours straight, was of the latter school.

Her chest heaved as she tried desperately to get her bearings, swinging herself into a sitting position, but it came to nothing as she observed the plain, unfamiliar tan calico of tent walls. It wasn't the one she shared with Ron and Harry, and the thought made her heart pound as much as her head, which protested the sudden change of location to which it had just been subjected.

Hermione felt queasiness rise within her as the muscles around her ribs contracted painfully and quickly lay back down, unwilling to allow the sensation to control her. She hating throwing up, and her throat already felt as if somebody had made her eat sandpaper.

The bed in which she had slept so peacefully was large, and smelt comfortingly of man, but she was discomforted by the lack of memory regarding how she'd gotten there, the last coherent memory being Bellatrix Lestrange (who definitely would not have offered her a bed) and excruciating pain. With that thought, it was as if Hermione's body remembered the suffering it had endured and a dull ache rose up, painfully reaching through all her limbs. Her legs wouldn't be able to her weight, of that she was certain.

Warily and wearily, Hermione let herself relax into the covers as best she could, hoping to God and Merlin and anybody else that might be listening that Harry and Ron were safe, wherever they were. In minutes she had returned to her slumber, the bliss punctuated only by the faint murmurs of a deep voice and the occasional sensation of healing charms as their pleasant tingle spread in cool bursts across her body.

When she woke again, Hermione was naked beneath the sheets and a thin layer of paste – which she recognised as a simple anti-bruise balm – had been smeared across one of the nasty bruises on her leg and also on her ribs. A steaming mug sat by her bed accompanied by a short note in small, spiky handwriting.

Drink it all.

She examined the anonymous note carefully, deciding in the end that whoever it was helping her clearly had her best interests at heart (at least at the moment) because they'd healed her exhausted, damaged body almost entirely. In fact, the only lingering remnant of her experience in Malfoy Manor was the scarring on her forearm, where Bellatrix had hatefully carved the word 'mudblood'; but even that had been reduced to a much less recent-looking state Hermione realised with some surprise as she fingered the raised scar tissue.

A noise from outside startled her out of her reverie, and she looked up, her brown eyes locking with a pair of bright blue ones, and Hermione gasped in fear and surprise.

"Welcome back to the land o' the livin', swee'eart," Scabior said softly, and something in his eyes glinted.

This is basically an introduction to the situation, after which things get both more complicated and more interesting. This isn't intended to be horrendously dark, but Scabior won't be all sunshine and daisies, so we'll see how it evolves.

Please, Read and Review Responsibly.

Cockney Rhyming Slang:
- daisies (daisy roots = boots)
- Khyber (Khyber Pass = arse)