mirrorball

chapter eighteen

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Clara looked around at the other three, now mere outlines in the darkness. She saw Hermione point her wand, not toward the outside, but into Harry's face; there was a bang, a burst of white light, and he buckled in agony, unable to see. 

"Get up, vermin." 

Unknown hands dragged Clara roughly off the ground, before she could stop them, someone had rummaged through her pockets and removed her wand. She looked at Harry who clutched at his face, which looked unrecognizable beneath his fingers, tight, swollen, and puffy as though he had suffered some violent allergic reaction. His eyes had been reduced to slits; his glasses fell off as he was bundled out of the tent.

A few more people grabbed Hermione and Ron, and a second pair of hands gripped Clara.

 "Get— off—her!" Ron shouted. There was the unmistakable sound of knuckles hitting flesh: Ron grunted in pain and Hermione screamed, "No! Leave him alone, leave him alone!" 

"Your boyfriend's going to have worse than that done to him if he's on my list," said the horribly familiar, rasping voice. "Delicious girl . . . what a treat . . . I do enjoy the softness of the skin. . . ." Clara's stomach turned over. She knew who this was, Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf who was permitted to wear Death Eater robes in return for his hired savagery. 

"Search the tent!" said another voice.

"Now, let's see who we've got," said Greyback's gloating voice from overhead, and Harry was rolled over onto his back. A beam of wand light fell onto his face and Greyback laughed. "I'll be needing butterbeer to wash this one down. What happened to you, ugly?" Harry did not answer immediately. "I said," repeated Greyback, and Harry received a blow to the diaphragm that made him double over in pain. "what happened to you?" 

"Stung." Harry muttered. Clara's capturer, now only one as the other had left to loom over Harry, pressed his wand into the side of her neck. Clara pushed her head away, only to be held tighter, the wand pushing even harder. "Been Stung." 

"Yeah, looks like it." said a second voice. 

"What's your name?" snarled Greyback. 

"Dudley." said Harry. 

"And your first name?" 

"I—Vernon. Vernon Dudley."

"Check the list, Scabior," said Greyback. He moved over to Ron and peered at him, "And what about you, ginger?" 

"Stan Shunpike." said Ron. 

"Like 'ell you are." said the man called Scabior. "We know Stan Shunpike, 'e's put a bit of work our way." 

There was another thud as Ron was punched, hard, in the nose. "I'b Bardy," said Ron, his mouth filled with blood. "Bardy Weasley." 

"A Weasley?" rasped Greyback. "So you're related to blood traitors even if you're not a Mudblood. And next, your pretty little friend . . . "

"Easy, Greyback." said Scabior over the jeering of the others. 

"Oh, I'm not going to bite just yet. We'll see if she's a bit quicker at remembering her name than Barny. Who are you, girly?" 

"Penelope Clearwater." said Hermione. She sounded terrified, but convincing. 

"What's your blood status?" 

"Half-Blood." said Hermione. 

"Easy enough to check," said Scabior. 

Greyback strolled over to Clara. She met his cold eyes, trying to appear as confident as possible, though really she wasn't sure anything she said would be believable. "And you?" asked Greyback, pushing a lock of Clara's hair off of her eye.