Devil Doesn't Bargain

The Snatchers

"Run!" Hermione shrieked, dodging a sharp green spell. The hex whizzed past her face, missing her by a few centimeters. Snatchers had come out of nowhere in the middle of the abandoned wood. How had the bounty hunters found them? They had been so careful, and Hermione's protective enchantments were impeccable. No. There was no way it could have been a fault in her wards.

She jumped over a fallen log and sprinted between trees. The sound of pounding footsteps assaulted her ears, and she lost sight of the boys. Only seconds ago, they were ahead of her, but now she couldn't see the vibrant red of Ron's hair. Perhaps Harry had thrown the cloak over the two of them in an attempt to attack as she ran. A small trickle of fear eased its way down her spine, whispering that she was alone, that they had left her. No. They wouldn't. She pushed her legs faster.

Hermione slid to a stop in a large clearing, lungs shuttering as she tried to catch her breath. The only sound was her own violent heartbeat, and she raised her wand, surveying the empty area. Seconds passed, and still nothing. Had she lost them?

Crack. A twig snapped. She spun around to face the woods, just as three cloaked figures shuffled into the clearing. She took on a defensive stance; Hermione Granger did not run from a fight, especially when her friends might still need her. A nasty curse stood ready on the tip of her tongue.

"Well, well, well. Looks like we've found ourselves a treat." The voice emanated from the middle figure. Hermione's eyes strained in the dim lighting, but she couldn't make out any identifying features. It was a gruff voice, like sandpaper. She loathed it immediately. The tip of her wand sparked as her anger grew. Snatchers were the most loathsome creatures she could imagine. Worse than Death Eaters, snatchers had no loyalty; they were willing to betray friends and family if it meant they'd be paid. She'd like to spit in their face and curse them into oblivion. She pressed her lips into a disapproving line and stared them down.

The left cloak's shoulders heaved in mirth. "The mudblood looks ready to fight us." Hermione flinched involuntarily at the slur but held her wand steady. She needed a plan. Harry and Ron could be injured behind them in the woods, or worse, captured. She needed to find them. Without giving them a moment to anticipate her next move, she lunged forward, slicing a powerful jelly-legs jinx that sent the trio tumbling to the ground. She nimbly leapt over them and began sprinting back the way she had come. Their furious shouts echoed through the trees and she risked a quick glance over her shoulder to see how much time she had before they caught up with her. Twenty seconds. She rushed onward, quickly losing the downed men in the thicket.

Where were they? Hermione didn't want to risk calling out for her friends, lest she give away her position. Instead, she cast a quick locating charm. Nothing. They must be too far out of range. She bolted through the underbrush, careful not to trip. A brief feeling of elation rose in her stomach–she was getting away, she'd shaken the snatchers. Her mouth twitched in the beginning of a grin.

Suddenly, Hermione was wrenched off of her feet and thrown into the air. Time seemed to slow, and she realized with a shock that it was quite an impressive levitation spell; it must have been cast at close range. A second later, she found herself plummeting to the ground, a sickening crunch sounding as her bones slammed into the earth. With a groan, she turned her head to spit the blood out of her mouth. Merlin, that hurt.

"Rule number one." A cold voice hissed directly above her aching form and she scrambled to a sitting position, desperately searching for her wand. That was no snatcher, it was a Gold Mask. A Gold Mask, here, of all places. Why in Merlin's name was he here? Voldemort's inner circle of Death Eaters was notorious for their brutality and efficiency in their kills, and he honored them above all others. While his typical followers donned masks of silver, these skilled assassins wore gold. Only six were known by name to the Order of the Phoenix: the three Lestranges, Severus Snape, Nott Sr., and Dolohov. There was a rumored seventh, but he thus far hadn't shown his face, leaving it up for speculation. Most of the Order suspected Crabbe or Goyle, but Hermione had always doubted that. If the men were anything like their sons, they were daft pawns; Voldemort did not value such idiocy.