Night of the Hunter

Captivated

" 'Ello, beautiful," Scabior drawled.

Fingering the beaded pink scarf, he greedily drank in the girl's appetizing appearance.

He made no attempt to hide his thorough examination as his dark eyes hungrily raked over her slender, feminine form.

He saw what he liked—and he liked what he saw.

Scabior licked his lips with predatorial anticipation; this scrumptious lil' piece would make a fine catch indeed.

He saw the girl's forehead crease with worry, and she made a small choked noise—somewhere between shock and dismay.

Scabior formed a sly smile as she shakily stepped back from him, before promptly taking off with the other truants.

His hapless gang hung back—anxiously awaiting his command.

What'd they think they needed to do—the useless sods...

He sighed briefly, rolling his eyes.

"Well, don' hang 'bout...snatch 'em!"

His lackies started to sprint after their respective targets, breaking off in their usual formation.

Scabior zeroed in on the delectable girl—reasoning that, between Greyback and the others, her little boyfriends would soon fall into place, too.

He streaked towards her, scarf billowing in his wake.

She nimbly dodged their spells, haphazardly returning their volley with her own.

The girl was quick, but he was just a tad bit quicker—but some of his compatriots, not so much.

Scabior snorted in derision as they collapsed onto the muddy forest floor in a cohesive, pitiful heap.

Now, it was just him and her—and that's how he wanted it.

"Clever little minx, ain't ya," he murmured in appreciation as he swept effortlessly across the uneven terrain.

How he relished the pursuit of the prize.

It had coursed through his veins as a lad when he'd won footraces against his peers—it even provided him a rather illustrious career as a Slytherin Chaser, when he translated his physical prowess to one of a broomstick.

Despite the short-lived fun he had had with past endeavors, none of that compared to that heady thrill of stalking living prey.

This same hunt would also, on occasion, provide some rather succulent spoils that he would treat himself to—monetarily, and otherwise.

He'd always been told that if he were good at something...never do it for free.

And this swift little bird was literally giving him a run for his Galleons, but he wasn't worried—yet.

Scabior was closing in now, and she knew it.

He gave a low growl as he quickened his pace to secure the remaining gap between them, his leather-clad boots thudding steadily against the muddy earth.

But he needn't have bothered; by the time he finally neared the girl, some of his men had fanned out and formed a semi-circle to head them off, like a noose coiling around the neck of its next victim.

He watched as one-by-one, each youth was swiftly snagged.

Scabior slowed to a swagger, then stopped to lean against a tree.

He quietly scrutinized his quarry, his fingertips unconsciously traipsing across the scarf's silky patterns.

The moment the girl was captured, the ginger barked, 'Don't touch her!' earning him a fierce blow to the abdomen from Greyback.