Pairing: Scabior/Hermione Granger
Word: Euphonious—pleasing; sweet in sound.
Trigger Warning: It was not supposed to be like this. I swear. But I am, apparently, the worst type of writer. Only one genre coverage, and the worst genre I had to pick.
Rate: M. For triggers, contains abuse/non-con/alcoholism. And I think a lot of other things that I miss. So, be careful, you have been warned. And I'm sorry.

Is it possible for Amortentia to smell of someone you've never met before?

He reckoned he was not that bright, hell he'd never managed to win his House a single point—except maybe that time he'd served Detention in Care Of Magical Creatures, where the Professor asked him to find a Unicorn in the Forbidden Forest. Or that one time in Astronomy, when they were supposed to locate Ursa Major.

His life had been a series of thick streaks of bad luck. From his shit poor family, to his mental deficiencies product of his cherished pure-blooded lineage. From his friendless years at Hogwarts, to rejection after rejection of every job he applied to. He was good at finding things, though. Trying to pick up on the silver linings of his miserable existence, a lesser version of a bounty-hunter he became. One that certainly didn't require much protocol, and would find anyone for some Sickles and a pint.

But this time he was determined, and fuck he needed gold to eat.

The first time he recognised that sweet, precious smell of coconuts and vanilla, ink and parchment, after years of lacking, he stopped. His mind was transported back in time to that epiphanic Potions Lessons more than a decade ago, where he took a sniff out of curiosity and ended up damned for eternity when he couldn't find a single person that smelled the same. But he did, fucking yonks later, but he found someone—out of sheer luck, even more so.

His gang of snatchers were just going for a quick sweep of the forest, offering themselves to petty work for the corrupt Ministry or the Dark Lord for a sack of Galleons. He could've sworn the fleeting fragrance was just a figment of his imagination—of a brain fried and ruined after looking for some meaning at the bottom of Firewhiskey bottles and something much stronger than the regular opium—but he backtracked nonetheless, taking a deep breath as he closed his eyes, a half-gloved hand rising on its own to caress what he felt but could not see. There was magic, he knew, but he found himself incapable of attempting anything other than fill his lungs with the same smell that had tormented his final years at Hogwarts, being called endless crude names by his female House-mates—even males, after a desperate and odd phase of confusion and testing. Never being able to find what was supposedly the best thing he'd ever come across in his wretched existence.

"Oi, Scabior! Bloo'y freezin' 'ere! Bit frigh'enin' as well."

"Yea—um. . . 's go."

So they left.

And it teared something inside of that vacant chest that he couldn't stay there, even if the sweet elixir was gone.

The second time he promised—promised to never let it escape again. Upon Apparating to what looked like the same place—this time with the horrid Fenrir Greyback as an asset, it was there. So real and true, almost tangible, that he thought his smashed brain was playing games at him. He ran, sprinted like a man trying to save his own life. Blessing for the first time that someone had triggered the taboo on the Dark Lord's name, and they'd been assigned to fetch whoever had been stupid enough to say it.

As he reached a poorly lifted tent, his steps slowed down to the point he stood there rooted to the ground littered with dead leaves, staring at his fellow snatchers ransack the camp that stood behind her—and it was a her that he'd been looking for ever since he was sixteen. A girl, he assumed of age given the wand being held in one of her delicate palms, knuckles pale as her face, frightened out of its mind. So scared, so beautiful. With hair that appeared as untameable as her will, eyes so brown that reminded him of chocolate and forced his tongue to dart out of his mouth to lick at his chapped lips.

He'd been slow, clumsy enough to trip over a lifted branch, that the werewolf got to her first. Sniffing her neck like the animal that he was, leering at the witch that deserved to be cherished instead. Greyback circled around her, like a predator to its prey, hunger plain and raw in those poisoned eyes of his.

"Easy there, Greyback." he found himself saying, earning a glare. "Migh' be of sum use to the Dark Lord." he added, his pitch black eyes zeroed in on her, and her alone.

"Look at ye," said one of his crew. "What 'appened to ye, ugly?"

They followed standard procedure, because he needed to know how many Galleons he could get out of them. And how many would he'd have to renounce to, so he could keep the girl. But as luck would also have it, the girl had to be Potter's Mudblood. Somehow the dirty blood didn't mind, not when it came to her—maybe he could clean it.

So he closed the distance, making the disgusting Werewolf to take a few steps back—not far enough, apparently also stating his claim on the skinny witch—he took a deep breath, closing his eyes and smiling those putrid teeth of his, "Hermione Granger," he tasted her name, "the Mudblood travelling with Harry Potter."

Greyback decided to take the lot of them to Malfoy Manor, get a good look before fetching the Dark Lord. His muttered consent was enough for the beast to calm down. Taking a few extra minutes he searched around for some souvenir of the sort, because his soul craved her scent. And he was a filthy snatcher after all, lowest of the lowest kinds.

If her voice, when she lied about her name, was sweet and soothing to his aching mind. Her screams of agony were more than euphonious. His throat dried and some warmth crawled at his skin settling down, tight on his trousers, as she was subjected to the Cruciatus Curse on repeat by the mental Madame Lestrange.

But her smell, it was there. Wrapped around his neck in the form of a scarf. He'd been so focused, so dazed by the piece of silk and her sweet cries, that he missed the chaos that ensued in the form of a ridiculous House-Elf. The smell of blood, coconuts and vanilla, ink and parchment, became infinitely stronger, overwhelmingly enough as he stared at the witch that had been thrust at his feet.

He didn't hesitate one bloody second in grabbing her wrist and Disapparating the fuck away from there. He needed her after all. She was his.

For dearest Salazar's sake he watched her unconscious form, sprawled on a dingy bed at some abandoned building on the outskirts of London, as if he'd been saved from damnation. The tight knot of his stiff member wouldn't be over, no matter how many days he stared at her and wanked off on her figure. He'd lost count of time, and releases. He lost contact to the outside world, watching her behind the blurry image of his burning liquor bottle. He saw her stir for the first time, but blamed it on his high frenzy.

That was all until he couldn't take it anymore. Until her smell had caught every single space in the room. Until the tightness of his trousers were murdering him. Until stumbling about the demolished place, commando, with his hand wrapped around his shaft, wasn't what he wanted anymore.

So he grabbed her wrists, adjusted the ropes around them and slapped the young witch awake. He grinned at her terrified face and spat on his hand, touching her immediately.

The release he got with her scream was instantaneous.

"Merlin, girly. You be runnin' me dry so fast like this."

But she struggled. Fought endlessly, mercilessly with her perfect legs, fierce character and brilliant talent of wandless magic.

He wanted to last longer, to savour her. But her euphonious sounds got him to the verge all too easily.

"Listen 'ere, Missy. We can do 'is the easy way, or the 'ard way—Ungh. Fuck. You like makin' me c—"

"Stop. Please. Please."

"Aww, beauty. Don't cry. I love you, y'know? You are my Amortentia. And we—"

She spat at his face. He smiled.

He climbed off the bed and staggered to the closest piece of furniture, where a half empty bottle of Firewhiskey stood. His wand besides it. Her wand next to his. After three big gulps of the alcoholic beverage he turned back to look at her, wiping a drip from the corner of his mouth, bottle firmly on his grasp—very much unlike his drunken posture.

The witch's face turned from feisty to broken, hollow as she stared at one of the wood-covered windows, dawn or dusk outside. Her hands above her head tied to the splintered bedhead, her dirty clothes torn exposing her goddess body, making him hard for the thousandth time. But her face, it was wrong.

He didn't like the brokenness amongst all the pretty. So he fixed it.


He took another three longs swigs out of the bottle. Some of it gurgling out of his disgusting mouth. He looked at the empty bottle and smashed it against the wall. Grabbing a new one from the pocket of a leather jacket on the floor. He flopped himself on top of her and looked at her face.

She look peaceful. At ease with him. Just how he had imagined it. Her pupils highly dilated, almost overpowering the brown he liked too much. But his pupils were dilated as well, and he rather liked that they matched.

This round he took his time, she would jerk occasionally and he would simply reinforce the curse on her. He roamed his tongue from the tip of her delicate fingers, to the base of her slim talon. He licked her perky nipples, nibbling and sucking each as he came one, twice, thrice, before he ordered her to touch herself. As the Imperiused witch enjoyed herself, he couldn't decide if watching or tasting.

He tasted. And he found that Amortentia not only had a smell, but a taste too, and it was addictive.

By the time he awoke, his sight heavily blurred and a splitting headache, he found himself alone. Abandoned in a forgotten room, with clothes on the floor mixed with something liquid that could rather be alcohol or piss, or very well vomit. Sparse tears came out of his eyes as he tried to sit himself up, he sniffed. The cut ropes by the bedpost the lone reminder that it had all been real.

Her smell was gone from the air. It barely remained in his hands, and his mouth.

Even the scarf was gone.

He spent the next month more unconscious than not. Only stepped out of hiding to steal food, and to snitch updated information on the war's progress. He learnt about Hogwarts from a passer-by, sobering him up immediately, because he knew his witch would be there.

And he needed her. Again.