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Less Than Dirt

Something a smidge different from my usual Death Eater fanfare. XD

Fic: "Less Than Dirt" [FFN] [AO3]

Pairings/Characters: eventual?pre?Stan Shunpike/Scabior, with OCs & cameos from Fenrir Greyback & Sally-Anne Perks

Rating: light T

Words: ~7,000

Additional info: romance, slash, cross gen, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, Dark magic, Harry's era, 3rd person POV

Summary: When you're the dregs of society, it becomes paramount to band together.

He'd mouthed off one time—just once—and now he was on the run. Or, that's what Stan thought, given that he was prone to black, empty spots in his memory these days.

"Lapses," people called them. But didn't people eventually fill in the blanks with something that made sense? For him, Clapham or the Knight Bus…those would make sense. But not this.

He only read about the crazies dressed all in black; he never expected to wake from one of his dazes to find himself surrounded by them.

Stanley Shunpike, former employee of the Knight Bus (and who was sorely missing it right about now), froze and kept his mouth shut for once as a nearby witch picked up her head. She turned from where she stood chatting with a compatriot by the carriage house set aside on a swath of land in the shadow of an overbearing stone manor and looked Stan's way.

Well, fuck, he thought. He didn't meet her eyes, instead staring straight past her at a random wooden slat on the side of the carriage house.

After a few seconds, the witch shrugged and resumed her interest in her cohort. The two of them even walked away, leaving Stan to his own devices.

He had no memory of coming here. He didn't even know where here was! But, given the wide-open space and the weathered look of the grounds, Stan had no doubts in his mind that this was absolutely not London nor anywhere near it.

If only he weren't so terrified, he'd ask someone where the hell they were.

Stan turned around, slowly, in a wobbly circle, to get his bearings. Once he spotted the large path leading from the carriage house up the hill, he began meandering up it, but he kept to a lazy stroll so as not to spook the countless others nearby. They all wore black and blended into shadows, but shadows didn't move the way Death Eaters did.

That thought sobered him up some. The two strongest things he recalled best were bragging to his mates half a block from home about knowing things about these nutters' plans and subsequently getting dropped into Azkaban for saying exactly that. Azkaban. Azkaban! No bloke could tell a little white lie to catch a witch's attention or to impress his mates without raising hell with the bloody Ministry anymore.

But how, pray tell, if he'd been in Azkaban, had he landed himself here?

The sky was terribly dark, nearly pitch in color with the faintest traces of blue and sickly green. Any light this far removed, surrounded by Death Eaters, wasn't Muggle-made. It had to be all magical.

Stan blinked a few times to adjust his eyesight. His nose, meanwhile, picked up on the damp earthiness. Were they stationed close to the coast? There was a tinge of saltiness, but there was something more, something fetid…

Something squelched off to his right. A wizard growled a curse as others burst into laughter. "Fucking Fenlands!" A streak of orange lit up the darkness, sending marshy mud everywhere. The laughter ceased or morphed into groans.

The Fens. Good Merlin, he was far from home. They had moved him after taking him from Azkaban for whatever reason, but he couldn't be on the run in one of his rare moments of clarity, not this far away. And hailing the bus—he patted himself down, finding his wand tucked into his waistband—yes, he had the means to hail the bus, but he didn't want to risk it. Ernie Prang had been one of the few people good to Stan in the lad's fruitless adulthood. Stan didn't want to imagine what the Death Eaters could or would do to the old man if the bus swung out here to collect its stranded conductor.

Stan swallowed the lump of fear and longing clogging his throat. He needed to breathe. He needed to think. He needed to do anything but talk right now. His parents, his mother in particular, had warned him that his running mouth was full of nothing but tall tales that would get him in trouble eventually. His parents had stopped their pestering for a hot minute when Stan had landed his conducting job, but he'd seen it in their eyes since. Parents knew their children best. They knew that that part of Stan wouldn't change.

But he thought about changing it now. He picked up his pace, just a hitch, as the slope from the carriage house increased and led up to one of the Fens' rare hills, atop which sat the stone manor. Yes, the manor. He would go there, pack his pockets with a few items, mostly food, and then he, too, would melt into the shadows. He wasn't like them, not a Death Eater, but if they'd kept him around this long, then surely he must've picked up a trick or two that would enable his escape.

Lost in his thoughts now that he'd come to his senses, Stan didn't realize he had a tail. That, and it was hard to hear footsteps out here. The earth wasn't packed. It was soft and cushioned each step, muffling the sound. He was almost to the manor's front gate when the person behind him caught up and grabbed his right arm from behind.

Again, Stan froze. He wouldn't let himself think the worst (Imperius), but he wasn't as stupid as his friends, family, everyone thought him to be. Stan had made it twenty-one years (or was it twenty-two now? how unnerving, losing so much time) knowing how to save his own neck. One needed some brains for that.

His companion circled around to Stan's front. It was a man with unkempt hair longer than Stan's and a piercing gaze that stood out in the scarce light thrown off the manor. He didn't wear the Death Eaters' pristine all-black ensemble but instead had chosen a ragged, on-the-go look. He, himself, looked ragged, with scruff on his jaw and dark rings around his eyes that might be from lack of sleep, might be on purpose. But Stan's attention didn't stray long. A red streak of hair always drew his attention back to the man's eyes, which appeared to read Stan now.

Stan fought the urge to lick his lips, to say something. Did they let him speak when under control? They must, to an extent. He imagined the Dark deeds they might've had him do, and for that he'd need his voice. The Shunpikes had never been very good with nonverbal magic.

"Shunpike," the man said.

Stan stared at an iron bar in the manor's gate behind him. But he nodded, sluggishly, dumbly.

"I saw you comin' this way. Wondered why. You're not meant to be 'ere."

He panicked. "Loo. Sir," he added as an afterthought.

The man with the red streak narrowed his eyes at Stan. He was shorter than him by a few inches, but his presence loomed large. His hand darted up, snatching Stan's face between grimy fingers. He turned Stan's head this way and that, which forced Stan to meet his eyes.

Did he know? Did he see? Would he cast the Imperius Curse anew?

The man tilted his own head back, slightly. His right eyebrow quirked, but then he released Stan. He exhaled and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the house. "Do it in the woods, Shunpike. Just as the Snatchers 'ave to rough it, so do you low-level Death Eaters. It might be one of the Selwyn estates, but it don't mean we're welcome."

Stan risked a single nod. Then he turned back around and meandered down the path he'd come, exercising his newfound restraint by not running straight into the scant woods.

For several days, Stan faked his way through life at the Selwyn Fen Manor grounds. It was not difficult, staying out of others' way, and keeping his focus on inanimate objects was a simpler task than risking making eye contact again. He couldn't chance that others would be like the man with the red streak and be unable to see that the spell had worn off on Stan.

Besides, his mind truly was elsewhere. The pub, then Azkaban—but he knew, he just knew he'd lost far more time than that. It was rather hot and very humid, and the sun blazed overhead, piercing the stark gray and white clouds that threatened to cover the sky during the daytime. All signs pointed to summer. Stan had been jailed in September.

How long had he been locked away? When had he been freed?

His memory felt like his face: scarred by pockmarks, unlikely to heal handsomely. But Stan ran his hand over his face, comforted by its familiarity. The only downside to drawing his hand close was letting his eyes wander down his wrist, where he'd see the cuff of a black sleeve…

He wasn't one of them, but he dressed like them.

Stan fought back a shudder. A broken piece of memory floated to the surface, something that felt recent, of flying high (had he been flying? but Stan wasn't a fan of flying, he rather liked the bus) and colorful, deadly streaks of light flashing across the stormy sky. There had been groups…seven groups…and seven of one to attack…

It made no sense, but the idea of attacking anyone made Stan's stomach lurch. He covered his mouth with his hand, and—

The last thing he heard was a woman whisper, "Imperio."

His days ran together that way. Stan collected bits and pieces of his dazes, his daydreams, but he also collected more blackouts. The blank spots warred with his memories, but Stan fought to cling to whatever he could.

It didn't matter that the scenery would change without warning (Selwyn Fen Manor, Cair Carrow, Malfoy Manor—so close to home but still not worth the risk). It didn't matter that that witch from before appeared to be keeping an eye on him (what had her compatriot called her? "Faraday"?). It didn't matter that Stan would wake with that terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, which he concluded as the side-effect of casting whatever Dark magic they demanded of him at the moment (he wanted to wretch but never did—that was a surefire sign to someone that the magic was wearing off).

Stan mentally snatched up any fragments he could and put together the puzzle-that-wasn't-a-puzzle that he called life for now. Desperate not to let their magic take complete hold of him, he tried to quell his panic, understanding he'd been taken as a sort of hostage. …but could he really call himself that?

This struck him as Faraday and others seemed enthusiastic to walk the infamous gardens behind Malfoy Manor in late August. Their group had arrived here the day before yesterday and been told to stay outside, as if Malfoy Manor didn't have enough space. These old pureblood dwellings always had enough space. The families just didn't want to share with them.

…"them." Stan brushed the thought off. He knew he wasn't actually one of them. That was why he was so concerned, for Merlin's sake: Clearly he hadn't been under the curse the entire time, otherwise he wouldn't have any of these memories. And if someone, anyone learned he had these memories, he could be killed.

He didn't miss the irony. He'd known nothing of their plans before and landed himself in Azkaban; now he knew a thing or two, and he'd rather go back to Azkaban than wait and see what the Death Eaters had in store for him.

Stan tucked himself into a corner way back in the gardens, away from the manor and in the shade of a wisteria someone's ancestor had planted. Thinking himself alone, he gave in to the need to shudder at his inevitable fate.

"Shunpike."

He stilled. He knew that voice. It only cropped up occasionally in his fragmented memories; Stan had overheard Faraday remark about him to the wizard who appeared glued to her hip. The man with the red streak was no Death Eater but someone perhaps equally unhinged: the Snatcher, Scabior.

Scabior stood a few feet away, on the other side of the wisteria and in the light. His fellow Snatchers—colleagues, if one presumed that ragged appearance a common theme amongst Snatchers—either went on ahead without him or intermingled with a few in Faraday's group. Scabior was unperturbed to be left alone. He placed one hand on his hip and jerked his chin at Stan. "Were you ordered to the corner like a child?"

Stan bit back a smart remark. He nodded his head.

That hand left Scabior's hip. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowed like before, as though scrutinizing Stan even from this great distance. Then he snickered. "You'll 'ave to tell me what the 'ell you did sometime, then," he said. He grinned, amused.

Stan nodded again.

Scabior chuckled and shook his head, at what, Stan didn't know. "Well, brilliant Petrification impression. Good luck with the fakin' things, Shunpike," Scabior said. He sauntered inside afterwards.

Stan nodded once more. A second later, Scabior's words sank in, and Stan felt Petrified for real.

Scabior knew. So…he must've known before, too.

There were eyes everywhere. Stan would never be safe, nor would he ever be free of the Imperius Curse.

Fear paralyzed him as Stan awaited the next blackout, the next whisper of Faraday's spell. But…it didn't come.

Not that afternoon.

Not that night.

Nor the following day, or the day after.

Had Scabior been playing him? Or did Scabior know and simply not care to inform the Death Eaters that the magical leash on one of their captives was loose?

Stan's confusion over the Snatcher didn't make him any less scared to be at Malfoy Manor still, but it did give him something else to occupy his mind. He also, for the first time since pushing through the enchantment and becoming properly aware of his surroundings, gave consideration to something outside of his own predicament.

The low-level Death Eater groups moved from place to place as needed and without any pattern, plus they stayed for as short or as long as needed. In contrast, the Snatchers came and went often, a far more active group who seemed to be of a higher rank or some sort. Was their work rounding up Muggle-borns that important? Or did it have weight, the Snatchers being led by notorious, bloodthirsty werewolf Fenrir Greyback?

He doesn't seem all that interested in leading, though, Stan thought nearly a week after his second exchange with Scabior. He watched the Snatchers leave via the back door, and Greyback alternated laughing and snarling at his Snatchers and nearby Death Eaters and allies. Scabior, meanwhile, kept his distance and motioned the Snatchers along. They began to Disapparate, Greyback among the first, when Scabior changed course and headed for where Faraday sat on one of Narcissa Malfoy's favorite stone benches.

"I 'ave some news," he said, glancing at Faraday before pulling his eyes up to meet Stan's "blank" look behind the seated witch. "I just got permission to borrow some of your newbie Death Eaters."

Faraday exhaled loudly; it didn't take much imagination to picture the redheaded witch flaring her nostrils. "To borrow?" she spat.

"Yep. We're a little low on Snatchin' power lately, need some fresh blood—"

"Death Eaters are not as disposable as you low-li—"

Scabior cocked his head to one side and held a single finger up to his lips. Then he opened up his palm, as if saying, "That's that, luv." "Be that as it may, I get to take a few with me. Stand down, Faraday."

Faraday ground her fists into her lap and aimed her gaze upward. From Stan's vantage point, he surmised she glared at Scabior. "Return them intact, Scabior."

"Eh, I'll try my best."

"Your best is subpar."

He snickered. "You wound me." But then he dropped his air of niceties. "I'll be takin' Moyer, Rumford, and Shunpike 'ere. You'll only be down three men, luv."

But that pulled Faraday to her feet regardless. She flung her arm behind her, nearly smacking Stan in the face. "This one—! This one stays here, Scabior. You know why."

Scabior produced his wand from his sleeve and waved it in front of her nose. "I've got that covered, crazy wench."

Faraday swallowed a frustrated scream. She glared at Stan as though he had had a hand in arranging this. But then she wisely changed her mind and stomped into the house.

The two wizards watched her go. After, Scabior returned his attention to Stan. "I take it you'll behave?" he asked Stan.

He felt this fell within the curse's purview, so Stan nodded.

But so did Scabior. It was a short, jerky motion, perhaps a reaction or of appraisal. "Good. We set out tonight, as soon as I 'ave Moyer and Rumford in tow… Come along, Shunpike."

Stan gratefully complied. He feared Scabior's knowing eye on him, but the taste of even the tiniest breath of freedom was too good to pass up.

The group of Snatchers was smaller than Faraday's group of Death Eaters. Where she ordered around nearly twenty individuals, Scabior and Greyback rounded up…almost a dozen? That was with the addition of Stan, Moyer, and Rumford, though. Scabior hadn't lied to her. The Snatchers' numbers were running low.

"First things first—out of those bloody robes," Scabior groused when he arrived at the Snatcher campsite with the Death Eaters in tow. "Barkin, give 'em something from the stash."

The willowy Barkin stopped stuffing his face and put his plate down in front of the fire. Scabior took his spot to eat while Barkin went to a small pile of bags and rummaged through them, pulling a potpourri of clothing out. With a selection gathered in his arms, he jogged up to Stan and the other two and handed out items of clothing.

"I prefer my robes," Moyer griped, shoving the offerings back into Barkin's arms.

"You won't while you're with us," Scabior quipped. He slurped from a bowl and dragged the back of his hand across his face. "We move faster and out in the open. Sometimes close to Muggles. Black robes get remembered, and they're too easily tangled."

Rumford eyed the exchange between the Snatcher and Moyer and made no move to change. Stan didn't think twice and dressed, seeing Scabior's point but also glad for the excuse of the "curse" right now.

Scabior huffed when he realized the Death Eater challenged him. "I'm not sendin' you back safe and sound, Moyer."

Rumford gawked at him. "But—! Faraday would want—"

"You can't follow a simple order like this, and you think she'll 'ave you back?" Scabior scoffed. "Ditch the stupid robes or I'll signal Greyback. 'E's out 'untin' right now, boys."

With that, Moyer lost his bravado. He was the last to undress, but still he was ready before Rumford, who bumbled with the buttons on his shirt.

Scabior sighed and tossed his empty bowl to one of the Snatchers behind him. He opened his jacket and pulled a shabby list from the inside pocket. The list he waved in front of the Death Eaters' faces. "I carry names, you know. Those pure, those 'alf. And even a few prominent suspected Mudbloods."

The last part confused Stan. But Rumford spoke up. "Uh…if they're well-known, then—?"

"Not everything's given to us directly from the Ministry, Rumford," Scabior groaned, as though Rumford were the dimmest-witted of the bunch. "Some things come only from those who know a thing or two, especially within 'Ogwarts." Scabior tucked the list back in his pocket for safekeeping. "So eat and rest up. We 'ave an early mornin' awaitin' us, boys."

Moyer and Rumford eagerly joined the campfire, but Stan dragged his feet, now unsure about this "freedom" Scabior had offered. He knew he couldn't dawdle long, otherwise Scabior would make good on his promise to Faraday and refresh the spell.

As though he were a Legilimens, Scabior walked up to Stan with wand in hand. His expression was impassive. He said nothing, but that was no comfort given the existence of nonverbal magic. But, after a moment, Scabior spoke—directly to Stan. "Snatchin's pretty good work," he said, as though thinking aloud quietly to himself. He snickered, toying with the lapel of the short cloak Barkin had passed to Stan, flipping the fabric with the tip of his wand.

Stan internally frowned. A snicker, really? It wasn't the height of fashion like his Knight Bus uniform, but it was a league better than those burdensome black robes.

"Look, just—think of roundin' up Mudbloods like they don't 'ave a ticket for the bus," Scabior insisted, revealing his thoughts had wandered in vaguely the same direction.

The mention of the bus tripped Stan up. He couldn't help it: He stopped staring at the tree beyond the campfire, blinked, and met Scabior's eyes. Though backlit by the fire, Scabior was highlighted by moonlight. Huh. His eyes were blue, too.

Scabior grinned. "There we are, Shunpike. Thought you were still in there somewhere."

Stan opened his mouth, but he had no words to save his skin, not this time.

Regardless, Scabior subtly shook his head. "You confirmed before we left that you'd behave. Keep this between us, or I'll see to it that you will behave."

Just like that, Stan shut his mouth. He didn't have it in him to glare at Scabior. It wasn't just that he lacked the fight.

Something told him that Scabior wasn't all that interested in delivering on that promise anyhow.

Morning came. The Snatchers left without Greyback—Scabior's whim or another reason, it was anyone's guess—and Apparated to Northamptonshire, into a shiny, rich neighborhood where every building looked as though it wanted to compete with Gringotts in terms of opulence.

"I thought Snatchers chased after Mudbloods and let us handle first things first," Moyer grumbled when they arrived at a three-story home that was three times as wide as any bus Stan had ever seen.

"We're catchin' the scent first, you numbskull," Scabior groaned with a roll of his eyes. He waved to that willowy man from before, who stood taller than the rest of them. "Barkin, take Moyer and keep 'im in the back with you. I can't stand 'im."

Barkin did as told, earning Scabior an irate look from Moyer. Rumford fell towards the back, as well, but Stan stayed towards the front, closest to Scabior. Scabior knew his secret, but he didn't use it. It made him the most dangerous and yet safest option for Stan.

The lavish home stood with its black door seemingly closed. But Scabior gestured to one of the other Snatchers, who pushed on it. It creaked open.

They stepped inside and carefully fanned out. A few went upstairs while most cleared the ground floor. Scabior had Stan collect the old post that had fallen on the floor through the door's slot. There were assorted names in the pile, but most things came for an S. Finch–Fletchley and a Justin Finch–Fletchley. Stan passed the pile to Scabior.

Scabior smiled. This wasn't his grin from before but something darker. He pulled the list from his jacket and checked something at the bottom. "…this is 'im. One of those upstarts givin' the Death Eaters trouble the last few years with that 'Dumbledore's Army' nonsense." He dropped the post, letting it scatter anew as the Snatchers reconvened by the front door. "Well?" Scabior prompted.

"Clear," a short man with dreads stated. "Gone on vacation, according to the mum's notes."

Scabior snorted. "Their son's in the same year as Potter. He may be a Mudblood, but Potter's gang is a wily sort. They're not on vacation. They're in 'idin'."

"That's why we checked the enchantments left up here," Moyer piped up. He ducked his head when Scabior huffed at him. "And…that's the thing. There's nothing left in place."

Scabior clapped his hands together, once. "Gentlemen! You know what that means."

Murmurs of excitement and intimidating smiles caught on with the others.

"It's time to get Snatchin'."

The Snatchers exited the Finch–Fletchley home, though not without a few letting their fingers sift through some of the finer things the family owned first. Outside, they left the home much as they'd found it, since this was too close to Muggles, and started their search on foot.

It would be pointless, Stan thought. Some neighborhoods were full of magical blood while others were not. If this Finch–Fletchley kid had hidden his family or taken them on the run with him, they weren't going to be nearby. At least, that was what Stan would've done. But he was a half-blood and never had to worry about Muggles, which was why he thought it contradictory that the Snatchers cared at all about not raising hell around the non-magical folk.

They didn't stay long in the neighborhood, though. They went to Shrewsbury in Shropshire next, scoping out another vacant home. Stan saw over Scabior's shoulder as the latter pointed to another suspect name towards the bottom of the list: Perks.

But, unlike with the Finch–Fletchleys, the Perks home stood on the outskirts of town. Close to the woods. Away from the Muggles and their curious, not-too-bright-but-can't-keep-to-themselves noses.

Scabior entered the tiny home first this time. He touched the kettle in the kitchen and marched back out. "Kettle's barely warm," he said.

It were as though he'd Blasted the group apart. The Snatchers dispersed, running loose like hounds after prey. Moyer followed after Barkin, and Rumford followed Moyer for lack of better direction.

That left Scabior with Stan outside the Perkses' house. He shook his head at the young conductor. "That's right. Can't 'ave you goin' into action without a bloody specific order, can I?"

Stan bit his lower lip to keep quiet.

"All right, Shunpike. You're in the clear. Everyone's on the chase, and you can mosey with me." Scabior took a step towards the town limits.

But Stan remained rooted to his spot.

Scabior turned around, that hand back on his hip. "Shunpike. I meant it. I know Faraday's curse wore off. Now, get to Snatchin' with me already, you nitwit."

He waited a moment longer, until Stan finally caved and furrowed his brow. "…'ow do I know this innit a trick?" he dared to ask.

"Because I've seen it wear off before and never told 'er," Scabior answered.

Stan doubted that. Scabior could've chosen to inform Faraday a few days later, much the same as Faraday figuring things out for herself. "I been finkin'—"

Scabior snorted.

Stan glared at the ground. "I been finkin'," he repeated. "Wonderin' why you've done and left me alone. Don' make sense, dunnit? You could get in loads of trouble, much as me for fakin' it, as you say." Stan darted his eyes to the man. Even freely permitted to be himself, he was distracted first by the red streak of hair. He had to drag his attention back to the pensive expression on Scabior's face.

"You could say that," Scabior said. "Or…you could say that I've learned a thing or two, kowtowin' to those in charge these days."

"They're right scary creatures, Death Eaters," Stan mumbled.

Scabior nodded. "But are they the worst thing out there, Shunpike?"

Stan opened his mouth, "yes" on the tip of his tongue—but he stopped. He…couldn't get the word out.

Scabior eyed him but didn't take any amusement from Stan's discomfort. "Think about why that is," he said.

Stan nodded.

They didn't have time for more conversation as Barkin caught sight of two witches near the river's edge. Someone in the group howled (no, not Greyback, as he'd been recalled to the manor), and the sound invigorated the others. Suddenly, they poured on speed. Scabior jerked his head at Stan, who resumed his previous "cursed" behavior, and they pulled up the back of the pack.

It was an older woman, dark-haired, and a younger witch, younger than Stan by a few years—she still wore her red hair in plaited pigtails. The woman shoved the girl away from her, screaming, "Sally-Anne, run!"

The crying girl froze for half a second. But then she Disapparated before Rumford had her within arm's reach. He cursed when he grabbed nothing but empty air.

The witch stood her ground as the Snatchers circled her, her dark eyes flicking to each and every face. The only time her defiance flickered was when she landed on Stan. Perhaps she was unwilling to hurt someone supposedly moving against their will.

Scabior approached her. "You just let a suspected Mudblood get away."

"No blood of any kind should be spilled," she stated, her back ramrod straight, her wand aimed at the Snatcher leader.

"Name," he said.

"Roper, Sophie," she said proudly.

Scabior pulled his list out and looked it over lazily twice. "Mm… Definitely not pure…and not 'alf, either."

Her posture slackened. "That's wrong. I'm Sophie Roper. I went to Hogwarts. Gryffindor House—and my daughter, she's in Gryffindor now—"

Scabior shrugged and put his list away. "I don't know of any Ropers."

"No, you've got to check! I was in Gryffindor back in—my daughter, Fay Dunbar, she is half—we are safe, by your standards—"

He shrugged again. "Sounds like a nice lie that Mudblood 'elped you spin.

Her face crumpled. "She didn't! It's not a lie! I raised my daughter after her father passed—and Sally-Anne has nothing to do with any of this!"

Scabior smirked. "Lie or not, 'Roper,' you still let the Mudblood get away." He gestured to the other Snatchers. "Time to bring 'er in."

"Sophie Roper" screamed and fought, but there were too many of them. They subdued her after she got off two hexes. Barkin and Moyer Disapparated with her, leaving the rest of them to hunt Sally-Anne Perks.

The Perks girl gave them a run for their Galleons. In the burgeoning autumn foliage, a redheaded girl dressed in yellows, reds, and light browns practically blended in. The Snatchers were nearly at the Welsh border and had caught a family of three in the process, but still Perks evaded them. And there was no sign that that Finch–Fletchley kid had come this way whatsoever.

At first, capturing people brought back bad sensations and fleeting memories for Stan. He had yet to participate in the Snatching, really, but it likely would only be a matter of time, and he wondered if he could do it, given what had been done to him. Knowing that he had no future no matter what, he took a risk and voiced this thought to Scabior after the Snatcher with the dreads and Rumford took the family of three away and the Snatchers resumed their pursuit.

"It's not the same as what was done to you," Scabior declared. His voice had a hard edge to it, his volume loud enough that Moyer picked up his head and looked behind him at the two of them. Scabior flipped him off and Moyer scowled.

"Innit, though?" Stan countered. "Where they goin', when we Snatch 'em and 'and 'em over to others?"

Scabior hesitated. Then he looked up at Stan. "Shunpike, I'm goin' to do a little trick."

"Like what? A Zonko's gag?" Stan didn't want the childhood memory of Zonko's to be darkened into something…well, Dark.

Scabior pulled a face. "No. Now shut up and answer only when I ask you a question."

Stan shrugged.

"You grew up, Stanley Shunpike, the only son to middlin' parents. I'm guessin' those same middlin' parents expected a son with much more talent and ambition than they 'ad, and they got you."

Stan frowned.

"Maybe you got into the right 'Ouse, maybe you didn't."

Stan mumbled under his breath.

"Come again?"

He ran his tongue over his teeth, as though the word tasted filmy and unpleasant. "'Ufflepuff," he repeated. "A badger born to two eagles. 'Not the brightest candle in the set,' me dad used to say."

Scabior was quiet for a moment. A beat later, he resumed his hypothetical story. "And I s'pose you dawdled in some of that self-fulfillin' prophecy once you got to school, never known as an outstandin' student, but known for some things, nevertheless."

Stan bit back a remark about his bragging. No one bragged like him. …but he knew now, that wasn't a fantastic skill.

"And then, of course, school spat you out, and people did their best to be rid of you."

Now he scoffed. Stan raised his eyebrows and shook his head at Scabior. "Well, no, not exactly. They almost kicked me out, but I proved 'em wrong, I did. Ern 'ired me, and I 'aven't looked back since." Not really, he added to himself.

Or perhaps he'd said the last part aloud. Scabior's dry look when he peered up at the younger wizard was piercing, knowing like before. But it held no ill will for Stan at all this time. There was something there, like…a touch of melancholy?

"Your point?" Stan asked, tearing his eyes away. Fear was one thing. Pity or whatever that was—it unnerved him just the same.

"That story's not unique. It don't belong only to you."

"And that condones the Snatchin' now?" Stan shook his head, unconvinced.

"To an extent, it does, Shunpike," Scabior retorted. He came to a stop, and Stan halted with him as though commanded by the absent spell. The other Snatchers were far off ahead now, and Scabior faced him like two days ago. "It's the system, Shunpike. The whole system. One that accepts any drop of magical blood, any drop at all. One that embraces Muggles like kin even though we're not on equal ground. The system breeds distaste for our own kind, the true magical ones, because there 'could be' countless others out there…if we accept them as our own."

Stan furrowed his brow. Some of Scabior's point was lost on him. But much of it was not. He'd known what it was like to be discarded, and he'd never thought Muggles to be very bright things. But still… "…I don' like bein' under someone else's control," he weakly argued.

Scabior grinned. "Who does?"

"…but…"

The man with the red streak cocked his head to one side. The red streak fell into his eyes. It took a second for Stan to gather his thoughts again.

"…but I fink I can see your…side."

Scabior clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man." They resumed walking, but Scabior didn't hurry them along.

Stan felt emboldened by the absence of others, the more he mulled over Scabior's mini speech. "And that woman from the other day—Roper—anyone can lie." He laughed. "I'm guilty myself!" His laughter faded. "But she mentioned 'er daughter, and it makes me wonder—is it true, or is that another lie? And if she 'as a daughter, what's to say that girl don' get the same treatment I did? 'Ow many other Stan Shunpikes are there out in the world?"

Scabior nodded in agreement.

"'Sides, the other side—they tossed me in Azkaban what for nothin' but a tiny 'xaggeration… They not so innocent themselves, y'know?"

At that, Scabior chuckled. It was reminiscent of that day weeks ago when Scabior let on that he knew the curse didn't have hold of Stan. There was genuine mirth in the tone of his voice. "Yes, Shunpike… My sentiments exactly."

The longer Scabior kept this current band of Snatchers together, that volatile mix of Snatchers and new Death Eaters, the more Stan wondered how long this would last. Faraday had implied she wanted her Death Eaters back.

At night, when he was supposed to be sleeping, Stan would check the inside of his left arm. But no, no Dark Mark. As he'd previously thought, he was one of them, but he actually wasn't. He was only one of them so long as Faraday or another made it so.

He didn't want to be a Death Eater. He knew that much. Despite him and his big mouth, Stan Shunpike was no Death Eater.

…but his chats with Scabior kept coming to mind. The Snatcher's words often kept him awake, mostly for how good a point they made, that the side of the "light" was tainted itself, too…and partly because Scabior didn't look right through him. Imperiused or not, the others paid Stan no mind. But Scabior didn't treat him as someone to be ignored.

As someone less.

But similar thoughts about prolonging their roles here occurred to Moyer and Rumford, as well. Burly Moyer grew quite vocal with his sighs and frustrations at still being attached to the Snatchers, even after the full moon halfway through September passed and Greyback joined them on the next leg of their hunt. Greyback struck fear into Stan and Rumford (and most of the other Snatchers, if one paid close attention), but Moyer would have none of it.

"Haven't we 'helped' enough already?" he whined as the month drew to a close and they camped in the north, north of and not far from Liverpool. "I'm sure Faraday wants us back by now."

Greyback gnashed his teeth, baring them at Moyer in threat, but the effort was futile to someone as stubborn as Moyer. Scabior held up a placating hand to the werewolf and scowled at the Death Eater. "You think you're done? The mission's over when you say it is?"

Moyer paused. He looked away before retorting, "Not my mission to begin with."

Scabior clenched his jaw and palmed his wand. Stan could understand retaliation—he'd never liked Moyer much, either.

"Wait. Stop," Greyback said.

Everyone turned to him. "What is it?" Scabior asked.

Greyback lifted his head. He sniffed the air, his actions so fluid and wolf-like that it was hard to see any man left in him. He narrowed his eyes and looked to Scabior. "Tonks and Cresswell. They don't realize it, but they're heading our way." He sneered, baring his teeth again.

Scabior nodded. He waved to the rest of them. "Remember, they slipped away last time. Let's not 'ave a repeat, boys."

Greyback bounded away on all fours, a massive blur that disappeared in the blink of an eye from their occupied abandoned pier.

Moyer groaned, and Scabior let him. "Barkin, Rumford, Shunpike…well, gentlemen, sometimes there are things you just 'ave to do yourself. Shall we?"

"Shunpike can't even agree! He's under the Imperius Curse!" Moyer growled after them.

"And yet 'e's still more useful than your irritating arse," Scabior argued. Then they left Moyer by himself at the campsite.

They Disapparated and Apparated to cover some of the distance Greyback made. But Scabior grabbed Stan's arm before they continued on with the other Snatchers, and the two of them walked back out of sight behind an empty warehouse inland from the pier.

"Is Moyer goin' to be a problem?" Scabior asked him.

Stan blinked in surprise. He shook his head. "No! No, I don' fink so. Moyer's just one of those sorts, y'know, the one who wants to wear the Mark and wear it proudly. At worst, 'e'll go runnin' back to Faraday, but 'e won't come back and interfere."

Scabior didn't release Stan's arm but shook it instead. They locked eyes and Scabior asked, quite slowly, "Are you goin' to be a problem?"

If it had been ages ago, Stan would've shaken Scabior off and pretended this had nothing to do with him.

But that was before Scabior read him like a book, revealing something else in the process.

Stan went slack in the Snatcher's grip. "I don' plan to be," he confessed. "But unless someone who's not Faraday demotes me to Snatcher, you won't 'ave your 'ands full for much longer."

"Who the bloody 'ell says Snatcher is a demotion?"

Stan winced. All right, so he had yet to learn his lesson fully. His mouth still wanted to run a mile ahead of him, even at this worst of times.

Scabior loosened his grip but didn't let go. "Shunpike… I could always keep the curse going."

Stan met his eyes again. It wasn't a threat this time, to be under the Imperius, but an odd promise.

"But I see a kindred spirit."

Stan snorted and leaned against the warehouse as he slipped from Scabior's grip. "Then that story really wasn't mine alone." He raised his eyebrows at Scabior. The melancholy had returned in the other man's stare, but there was a kind of satisfaction, too, at having his story known to at least one other.

"Shunpike, do you want to be under the curse, doing things unknowingly? Or would you fight alongside us willingly?"

The options gave Stan pause. Again, with Scabior, he detected no threat here, only a promise for the best possible outcome. Stan stroked his chin. "Well, you Snatchers do need extra 'elp these days…"

It was Scabior's turn to snort, though his amusement came through more. "Your kind's 'ere, after all," he quipped. But the lilt in his voice implied that he didn't mean the Death Eaters or the Snatchers. He offered Stan an appraising smile, as well, something else unspoken (amused curiosity? no, Stan didn't want to guess—he wanted to find out) behind it.

Suddenly, Stan didn't feel like crap meant to be scraped off the bottom of someone's boot. He pushed off the warehouse wall and stood tall in front of Scabior. He met his eyes, blue locked on blue, and he was glad he was free of the spell, which would've kept him from this sight. "…so long as I've got someone in my corner," Stan acquiesced.

Scabior's eyes crinkled but didn't pull away. "And that's the very best place to start."

Well! There are two things in the HariPo universe that don't sit well with me, for the same reason: the Imperius Curse and love potions…because of a lack of consent in both cases. Now, clearly one's a curse and is meant to be used nefariously, while the other's sort of downplayed?? Anywho, knowing what canonically happened to Stan in HBP/DH, I knew that any ship during his time away from the Knight Bus would face an issue of consent, hence exploring how/why he might've stayed with the Death Eaters so long. The result is this oneshot. There are aspects of his personality/life that would lend well to turning Dark, hence letting Scab play devil's advocate here and being lazy/not bothering to keep up the Imperius Curse. (And, I confess, I'm a huge Scabior fangirl—I've written him nearly a dozen times by now, *lol*; he's just a lot of fun to write.) There's a nod to canon, the Seven Potters scene, btw. I also included some hcs here even tho this isn't a Maydayverse (MDV; my overall headcanon) fic, such as Sally-Anne and Justin (the "S. Finch–Fletchley" is an Easter egg for anyone who's read "Trial By Fire") being on the run, and Sophie Roper (hc as Fay Dunbar's mum) finally makes her debut in one of my fics. Another hc is that this is smthg of an age-gap ship, since I picture Scab in Regulus' yr, but alas that's not as impt to the meat of this story…but you know what is? THEIR THICK ACCENTS! Which are hard (but fun) to write. So! Here's to generating some interest in the Stanior ship, bc I know I have it…who's with me?

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

~mew

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