WARNING! This chapter contains either sexual content or violence. Cursing will not be marked.

* * * MARKS the beginning and end of: sexual content

# # # MARKS the beginning and end of: violence

Hello, hello!

Another chapter ready for you, my apologies if I kept you waiting too long, I'm on vacation so that slows down the process a little bit. But as you noticed, I managed to get a chapter written and ready to roll.

I really hope you like this chapter, especially this one. It's a really emotional and heavy one, with losts of thought put into it. If you read closely you might be able to understand what I mean when I say there's a lot of stuff written on purpose.

Oooh and if you have questions about the story or suggestions for it, feel free to PM me!

Anyway, enjoy the chapter and let me know what you think. Not only about the chapter, but also the story, I'm really curious. Thank you and enjoy your day!

Chapter 22

He fell onto his knees and hands, feeling the damp ground - covered in leaves - beneath him. By clasping his hands he crushed the dirt against the surface of his hands. He winced, as another wave of pain flowed through his body. What was he doing?

He looked up from the ground, up in the air, but only saw a ceiling of leaves. He closed his eyes and tried not to see, but failed when an image flashed through his mind.

# # #A door opened and led him towards a room in which his parents would sleep. The room was off limits, normally, but today the little boy who opened the door didn't care. Because his mother had vanished and hadn't come back. He knew she was inside the room. He just didn't see her, nor talk to her, nor hear her except for the crying he heard at night and the sniffs the wind carried outside through the crack of the window. The boy swallowed. He walked inside and saw his mother, lying in bed with her nightgown on. Her dark hair was a mess. He figured she hadn't washed it in days, nor combed it. He took a step closer and noticed the dark circles beneath the woman's eyes and the hollow look she had. She was staring at the wall, into nothingness.

He looked around her. Dozens of napkins were scattered across the floor and the bed. A full glass of water was on her bedside and full plates of food - with sometimes a few bits taken out - stood on the small table on the other side of the room. That's when Christopher noticed the woman's slimming body and face. No healthy layer of fat covered her cheekbones anymore. Nothing was giving her body body. He frowned when he felt fear overtake his body. He closed his eyes, took deep long breaths and walked towards the bed on which he sat down. The woman lay still. She didn't move, she didn't look up. All she did was stare and breathe and let her heart beat without doing a thing for it.

Christopher resisted the impulse to cry or scream, but instead moved his hand towards her arm. He lay his warm hand against the cold surface of his mother's under arm and for a second he thought it was going all right, until the woman started to scream loudly in a high pinched tone. Christopher took back his hand, stood up from the bed and watched the horrific scene of his non blinking mother cry out in enormously hard tones. He cried, fell onto the ground and kept crying. His father came up, threw the boy out the room and shut the door behind him. A minute later the screaming had stopped, but the boy's tears hadn't. He crawled towards his room, onto his bed, beneath the blankets to try and fight the strange cold that had taken control over his body. He wasn't really cold, but that scream penetrated his mind in a way that made him feel like he could never feel warm again.

Scabior opened his eyes again and felt a strange feeling on his cheek. He reached towards his face with his dirty hands and saw the wetness his tears had created. A shiver went down his spine. He knew that coldness. He crawled up and clang onto a tree. A dagger was always at the back of his belt in case his wand wouldn't be available in a fight. He moved his arm towards his back and took out the dagger. His finger moved against the sharp surface until it accidentally cut slightly into his flesh, causing a drip of blood balancing from the wound.

He shrugged his sleeve up and pressed the cold knife against the tender flesh of his fore arm. A tear fell onto his flesh, onto the dark mark and- # # #

His father had gone drinking. His sister was with her friends. He was twelve when he walked into his silent home and shut the door. His mother should be home, maybe she had a good day and they could play a board game. Or maybe she could show him a spell that allowed her to make drawings in thin air. He was positive, that night could be a good night for her and him. Maybe he could finally have his mother back.

Christopher hung his coat on the coatrack and took off his shoes, but when he approached the door leading towards the living room his confident smile turned grim. His white socks were covered in red blood. He soon opened the door and ran into the living room. He found his mother, lying on the floor in a puddle of blood and a shard of glass next to her hand. The boy gasped, started crying and started muttering to himself: "What do I do? What do I do? Fucking God is no use."

He walked towards the paralysed body of his mother and lay two fingers against her neck. No pulse. She was dead. He fell down, into the pudle of his mother's blood and continued on crying. Why? Why did she do it? Why couldn't she keep on going, for him? He realised he was alone then. No one loved him any longer. The last one had left.

He lifted her up and saw the huge gaps in her wrists. He gasped. The picture was printed in his mind. "Mummy?" he cried, "Mummy, come back." He crawled agains the lifeless body of his mother. It had already gone cold, the boy noticed. "Mummy, please," he whispered, "Mummy, don't leave me."

He wanted to lay in his own puddle of blood.

"You were the reason! Not me," he screamed, "You killed her! You killed her! You killed her, with your bullying! You killed her by drinking! You murdered my mother! You took her away!"

"Shut up, ya stupid snake!" his father screamed back, "I have never disappointed your mother. I have been faithful. I have cared for 'er and I have loved her and still do. You however... oh you. I always wanted a son. A son who could hunt, could fight and was smart enough to get far. What did I get? I got you. A filthy, lying piece of shit worth nothing more than a little piggy-"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" the young man started crying and drew his wand, "How could you? How could you do this to your own blood? You beat me! You humiliate me! You kick me and insult me and belittle me and all I can do is keep quiet! Shut up! You fucking shut up you-"

# # #The older man picked up the nearest glass, partly filled with water and threw it at the boy. The glass shattered when it hit the ground. The shatters carved into his skin.

"Why?" Christopher cried out, his voice crackling, "STOP HURTING ME! STOP! I can't... I can't take it anymore." The boy grabbed onto his hair and let his tears fall onto the wooden floor as panic kept rushing over him. His hands were shaking. His head was numb. All he wanted to do was leave. Just leave and start over.

"I told you, you were weak," the man said with a nasty grin before he took a bottle of wine standing by the wall, "the weakest in the nest. Be happy you ain't a bird, boy. You'd be killed on your first day."

"AVADA KEDAVRA" a green beam of light escaped from his wand and struck the man with fear in his eyes. The man fell onto the ground, his eyes still opened, staring at the ceiling, but not seeing a thing. Scabior put his wand in his pocket, moved his tears from his cheeks to his hands and walked towards the dead man. He kicked the body.

"I told you to shut up."

Scabior couldn't stop crying while the pictures kept flashing through his head. He had been searching through the woods for days to find Hermione, without luck-

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

He was slowly turning mad. He had to meet with the deatheaters and Voldemort from time to time, telling them how his hunt went. He never had any news, to The Dark Lord's disappointment.

*crack* A bitter sensation rushed throught the surface of his cheek. He tried to get up, but another blow was already on it's way.

He hadn't been back to his tent in two days, hadn't eaten since three and hadn't seen her in... Hell he didn't even know anymore. He took a deep breath and pressed the dagger a bit deeper into his wrist. Should he do it? Should he escape like his mother did? # # #

"What did you do?" a kind voice said to him as he sat down at next to him. The man was chained, maddened, but not maddened by prison. He was maddened by grief.

"I killed someone," the young man admitted, "Someone who I warned."

The man kept quiet for quite some time and took a long breath,"Do you regret it?" the man asked.

The younger Scabior looked at his side, where the older man called Sirius Black sat and shrugged. He carved into the sand with his finger and started humming a song he didn't know the name of anymore, "I don't think I do," Scabior sighed, "the man I killed was my father. Let's just say: he didn't like me much."

Sirius Black, one of the most feared prisoners nodded and leaned back, "How old are you, kid?"

"I'm 19, almost twenty."

"Will you get out?" Black asked with a frown.

"My sentence is 30 years," Scabior answered, "I've done about four and a half. I'll be out when I'm fourty-five."

"Heavy sentence," Black stated, "Especially for a kid."

"They must've made an example outa me," he mumbled, "most kids under seventeen get a discount of twenty years."

The man nodded, "You got really fucked."

Scabior laughed and threw a little rock a little further away. The two men stayed in silence for a while until Scabior said, "I'm Christopher, by the way. Christopher Scabior, everyone just calls me by my last name."

"You probably know who I am," Black said, "everyone thinks I'll rip their throats out. These people are mental."

# # #He sliced a bit deeper again and closed his eyes. No one had loved him for many years. Since he was twelve no one had, until one girl. Hermione Granger and he had let her go. He dropped the dagger. # # # He lost the girl for his reputation. He wouldn't be weak. He wouldn't be known as the man who saw suicide as his only solution. His solution would be either victory or the girl, but no way would Christopher Scabior give up.

He wasn't weak, like his father made out. He wasn't like his mother, who decided he should quit. He would go on. If he'd fight he'd either end up dead, with the girl or live without the girl. Of course his mother wasn't weak, he knew that. She was the strongest person he had ever known, but even the strongest ones can break.

Scabior picked up the dagger and stared at it. The dagger was still covered in his blood. He reached into his pocket and took out a flask of fire whiskey and poured some over the wound before he wrapped it up with his pink scarf. He couldn't let such a wound get infected, not when the Dark Lord expected the war would come soon.

"What happened? What did you do? Is she dead? Did you kill her? Goddamnit, boy! Get away from 'er, filth! Get away!"

No time for silly things like daggers, he thought as he cleaned the dagger on his vest and put it back where it belonged. He took out his flask again and took a swig. The warmth fought the cold inside him and soon made him feel like he was all right again. He sat down against the tree and closed his eyes for a few minutes. He took out his sketchbook and pencil and started sketching the lines of Hermione's face. Those defined curves in her faces...

He sketched her eyes, but didn't get the flicker right, so he ripped the piece of paper out. He sketched her lips, but didn't make them soft enough, so he threw the sketch away. He tried to draw her beautiful, beautiful neck, but didn't make the warmth to beam, so he crossed it out.

He sighed and smooched his lips before he took another swig from his drink. If only he had a picture to look at. A drawing perhaps.

Another hour or so passed by in which Scabior tried to sew up his wound, but failed and drank some water instead of fire whiskey for a change until he heard a twig snap and voices speak. He stood up, wound the scarf around his arm again and looked around. Did he see a glimpse of brown curls?

My apologies if you found the announcements of violence frustrating, but I feel like I should, because some of these subject can ben triggering. I hope you understand. Have a nice day!