EDITED: 02/21/2015

Chapter Seven

Her eyes were still swollen a half hour later after they had trudged through the deep snow that ended in the warm house. The temperature, however, was about the only thing that could be considered warm about her surroundings. Everything seemed so dark and cold - sea foam greens, tarnished silvers, smooth cut stones. The possessions were so pristine - so sterile - that Olive worried one slight touch might break something that cost more than she could ever imagine. Even the people - tall, lean, pale - sat with perfect precision, their shoulders straight and chins upright, though the forlorn looks on their faces didn't seem right with the otherwise proud appearance.

The Malfoy family. Olive was sitting across from Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy in their parlor, their deep burgundy seats - which would be plush and inviting on any other occasion - seeming formidable in the thick air. Not a word had passed between them yet, though their cool eyes never left her, a faint look of distrust etched around their sharp features. Olive didn't trust them, either. She was a mudblood, after all. Dirt - scum. This was a place where she didn't belong. Life certainly had a way of being unexpected. Two years ago, Olive would have never believed she would have ended up being within a hundred yards of their home, let alone inside it. She still remembered those days at Hogwarts, watching Draco out of the corner of her eye, teasing herself with things that would never come to be.

"What happened to your eye?" Mrs. Malfoy asked, fidgeting in her seat as if she couldn't stand the silence any longer. Another long moment passed while Olive decided she didn't enjoy the tone in the woman's voice - it was an unattached interest which didn't sit well with her. It was almost as if the woman was judging her on the basis that a young lady, regardless of blood status or being in the middle of a war, shouldn't walk around with a blackened eye, which angered Olive. The cool, piercing eyes of her husband watched on in silence, never leaving the girl in front of him.

"He beat me into unconsciousness and then proceeded to rape me," Olive said in an even tone, as if they were talking about the neighbor next door. Both of their eyes shot down to the marble table in an instant and Olive felt the ghost of a smile trace her face. There. Silence. The only way to ensure that the conversation didn't continue was to be blunt and make them uncomfortable, for they were not experienced with people who said things so openly. No, these were the type of people that worried what their colleagues might think of them. A small shuffle was heard through the room, amplified by the silence, and the three of them turned to look at who had entered the room. There he stood - just as tall, just as lean, just as pale as his parents that sat before her. For a moment, there was a flicker of horror across his features while his eyes laid on Olive, though it was quickly masked when he turned to his parents.

"They're ready for her," Draco said, his eyes flitting back to Olive again for the slightest second. His parents nodded, though she noted a small look of relief on their faces at the news. Unsure of where Scabior had even gone, she stood, not looking forward to going and meeting whoever they were or whatever they were ready for. Without a word, Draco turned on his heel without so much as a look her way and she followed, a nervous flitting in her stomach that she hadn't felt since she'd last seen him. For a few minutes, they walked in silence, but it became obvious that this house was much larger than it appeared and it would take them more than a short walk to get to where they were going.

"What is the date?" she finally asked, looking out at the snow covered ground from the tall windows as they passed. Another moment of silence passed, so much silence here, before he turned to look at her, an almost sad look on his face while his stride slowed for her to walk next to him.

"December 24th," he muttered, looking back ahead of him as if the mere sight of her had burned him. Olive's eyes found the floor.

"Christmas Eve," she murmured to herself, her own eyes burning for a moment before she straightened up and took deep breath through her nose. "Stupid question, I suppose. I just didn't see a tree," she added, falling into the quiet once again. Figuring that was all to be said, she was surprised when he spoke again.

"We didn't put up a tree this year," he said, a note of bitterness in his voice. "They said it would get in the way."

"That's sort of sad," she answered after a moment, risking a look up at him. There was something sort of pitiful about him, something haunted, but Olive couldn't put her finger on it.

"You didn't know it was Christmas Eve," he said, looking down at her and meeting her eyes for a few steps before returning his gaze to the long corridor in front of them. "I think that's sort of sad."

It was. Olive knew she was in a bad situation, but she didn't realize how pitiful she seemed until someone she found pitiful pointed it out. And pitiful was not a word she liked to associate with herself. In the past few months, she'd grown stronger, physically and mentally, but that was the pitiful part. Olive was only eighteen years old and was forced to grow up just to stay alive, when she should have spent the last few months at Hogwarts, her only worry the upcoming NEWT exams. That perspective in mind, she didn't feel so strong any more. Draco must have noticed because he stopped, looking down at her for a moment before turning around the opposite way and beginning to walk the way they'd just come. Confused, she shook her head a bit and started after him.

"Where are we going?" she asked in a hushed tone, right on his heels.

"I'm just going to show you something really quick," he replied, opening a door and stepping into another long corridor. Olive followed, looking up to the portraits around them, which watched on with feigned interest. Halfway down the hall, he turned and gave her a look that told her not to say a word, then opened a door on the left and stepped in. She grew confused when she realized they were in a bedroom, but then she saw it - a small, baby pine tree sitting in the corner, decorated with clumsy ornaments that had been cut from paper and colored by hand.

"I figured they wouldn't find it in my room," he said. Without a word, she stepped closer to the small tree, reaching out to trace the thin ornaments with her calloused fingers. The drawings on the paper were elegant, colored in rich hues. "They're beautiful," she said, voice thick. She'd gotten to see a Christmas tree this year, something she hadn't even had the time to think about, and the small act of kindness moved her.

But, when she looked up to him, there was a glint of anger behind his eyes.

"I can't stand looking at you with that bruise on your face," he said out of nowhere, looking back to the tree in embarrassment. It didn't surprise her. He'd spent just as much of his time at Hogwarts looking at her from the corners of his eyes as she did him. It had been a mutual thing that they shared, a silent agreement to never speak of it or to each other, besides the occasional 'excuse me', although their eyes usually stayed on each other during meals when no one else would notice. The few times they'd been assigned to be partners in Potions, which they both excelled in, their interactions were curt and to the point, though Olive never missed the pink tinge his ears took when their names were announced together.

"Blame him," she said. It came out stronger than she wanted it to, more sour, but it wasn't like she could help having a black eye. And she was not about to apologize for something Scabior did. The idea was absurd.

"Can't you make it go away?" he asked, giving her a short look. With a sigh, she concentrated, changing the skin under her eye to match her normal tone. Two strides and he'd closed the gap between them, his index finger reaching up to brush where the bruise had just been. Olive winced, turning her head, but catching a whiff of his cologne, which made her want to stay there forever, away from the stale cigarette smoke that clung to Scabior.

"It still hurts," he noted, taking his fingers away from her eye, but tracing them down to the area of marred skin over her cheek where she'd splinched.

"Of course, it does," she said, looking up at him. He was so much taller than her, even taller than Scabior himself. "It's not gone, just hidden."

"What does he do to you?" he blurted, a note of disgust in his voice. Olive knew he'd been dying to ask this question, though she didn't think he really wanted to know the answer. It came as a great surprise to him when he saw her in his parlor because the story of her escape was widespread, moving from mouth to mouth, climbing even to the Death Eaters. It wasn't so much that Olive had escaped, but more that Scabior had finally messed up, and the gossip had spread with much glee. No one knew yet that Scabior had her back in his fists, but everyone did know that Scabior was a vengeful man, which accounted for the look of horror Draco had first given when he saw her.

"What do you think?" she asked back, a note of misery clear in her voice. Another moment of silence passed and Olive had to wander how well Scabior would be able to smell Draco's cologne clinging to her shirt with only mere inches between them.

There was no noise to be heard as her words settled around them. Draco's hand began to drop from her cheek, but she caught it, clutching it in her fists. "I'll live," she said with a note of finality, her chin lifting upwards in pride, just as his parent's had earlier. "I won't let him be the one to kill me."

"He won't be allowed to kill you soon."

Olive stared at him for a moment, her eyes narrowing. "You know more than you're letting on," she finally said, reading it clear as day on the expression of his face. "Don't lead me into this blind, Draco, please. What am I about to walk into?"

It was the first time his name had ever crossed her lips, the feeling of it foreign, but welcome. Draco looked up to the ceiling, then in a spur of the moment decision, he bent down, lips touching her own. It wasn't long, but it was sweet and chaste, a shuddering sigh leaving her. She enjoyed it for a few seconds before she clenched her eyes shut and ducked her head away, facing the floor. "We've got to go," she said, pain evident in her voice. She took two steps back before opening her eyes and glancing up to him. There was a pained expression on his face, too, but he nodded and led her back into the hall without another word. It seemed forever that they walked, the only sound their footsteps against the stone floor, but he eventually came to a halt outside a heavy looking door and nudged his head toward it. Olive looked up, their eyes meeting for a few seconds, and she managed a nod, pushing the door with a shaking hand.

It was a library, shelves running from floor to ceiling, lit by an overhead chandelier and a fireplace which was quiet in the most eerie way. No cracking logs, no spitting flames. Scabior stood there and she saw his nostrils flare for a moment, fury present in his eyes. Yes, he knew. He most definitely knew. That small comfort she and Draco had allowed themselves would certainly not go unpunished on Olive's behalf. There was a flicker of grey in the corner of her eye and she turned, sucking in a quick breath. There he stood, the long-robed man who had haunted the lives of every filthy mudblood on the planet. The man whose skin seemed dead and cold, whose nostrils were mere snake-like slits, whose eyes lived and burned with a crazed passion, outshining the rest of his face.

Somewhere behind her, the door clicked shut, but the sound seemed amplified, more terrifying than it should. "Olive Westin," said the Dark Lord, the airiness of his voice making her skin crawl, "I've heard so much about you."

Scabior was enjoying the look of terror that she didn't bother to hide. "You're very strange," Voldemort continued, a look of greed gleaming in his eyes.

Olive swallowed the thickness in her throat. "Why is that?" she managed in a squeak, Scabior savoring every second of this.

"A mudblood," the Dark Lord said, a grin growing on his face to expose the jagged teeth inside, "that is willing to fight against those battling for her freedoms."

"Potter is outnumbered," she stammered, rooted to the spot in fear, "Call me a spineless coward all you want, I won't disagree, but I'm out for myself."

The Dark Lord was silent for a moment, looking her over as if appraising her, though there was a clear look of amusement in his face. "I wouldn't call you a coward. I certainly wouldn't call you admirable, either, but I do think you're wise," he said, offering her his terrifying smile. "Pity you weren't born of a higher caliber blood. Though, I suppose I could make room for you in my new world. If you pay the price."

She stiffened, giving him a nod to continue. His eyes, so alive, the most alive thing about him, gleamed in the low light, gazing into her with such intensity that it took her breath away. Shifting on her feet, she lost her nerve and looked to the floor, unable to handle meeting his look any longer. There was a funny feeling in her head and her eyes widened for a moment, though she didn't look up.

"Yes," he answered to her silent question. Yes, he was reading her mind. Scabior stood nearby with a quirked brow, unsure of what was going on as he watched the silent exchange. "Such a drive to achieve your goals," he said, the image of a lifeless Scabior crossing before her eyes. "And a will of steel," he continued, Olive seeing herself rip her lips away from Draco's. "Such determination for life," he said, the scene that had taken place earlier now flooding her vision, her fingers prying Scabior's arm away from her neck. She heard herself wheeze out, "I'll take you to Harry Potter," before she was empty again, alone without the Dark Lord's prying, back in the library with the two men nearby.

"This will make for marvelous entertainment. Come, take his hand."

Olive looked up with a questioning expression, seeing Scabior facing her, his right arm extended. Knowing better than to disobey, she took his hand, as if they were about to shake. With the wave of Voldemort's wand, there were thick, rope-like bindings around their hands, causing her heart to pound in quick successions. Scabior could hear it, feel it against his palm, and a menacing grin curled onto his lips.

"We're doin' an Unbreakable Vow," he said in a dark voice, even his eyes laughing at her. "After your little stunts you like ta' pull, it's a necessary precaution."

Fury pooled in her chest, forgetting their company. "And what if I refuse?" she spat, face burning with anger.

"Then, I'll kill you right now," said the eerie voice beside them, "As you said, Potter is vastly outnumbered. We will eventually find him without your assistance, though you will greatly quicken the hunt. It is your choice. Death or Vow?"

Her eyes never left Scabior's, even as her expression broke into desperation. It was there, right on the tip of her tongue, but her pride won her over in the end, forcing the word away and snapping her mouth shut. It was no matter - Scabior knew what had lingered on her tongue for a moment, threatening to fall out, and that was enough to feed into his oversized ego. His chest welled up with some demented form of pride. She was going to beg him - she was going to say please.

"The Vow," she whispered, her eyes on the floor to hide her distraught expression. Voldemort gave light chuckle, almost musical, that sent a shiver through Olive.

"Do you, Olive Westin, vow to deliver Harry Potter to the Snatchers to the best of your ability?" the Dark Lord asked, while Scabior's gleaming eyes roamed her face with a look of pure triumph.

"I do," she whispered, eyes still glued to the floor as the tears threatened to well up. A thick, hot rope bound their hands tighter together.

"And do you vow to accept the terms of my new world, that you might live, but will never use magic, with a wand or without, with the exception of magic for your Snatching duties, with the exception of performing magic on Dreagan Scabior's orders and permission, and with the exception of defending or saving a pureblood witch or wizard, so as to preserve the bloodline?"

Olive bit the inside of her cheek as a tear ran down her face, dropping to the floor for Scabior to witness with a grin. "I do." Another thick rope bound around their hands and she wanted to scream when his thumb caressed her wrist.

"Do you vow to be under Dreagan Scabior's command at all times and follow his orders to the best of your ability, never attempting escape?"

"I do," she said, looking Scabior dead in the eye, letting him know she would find a way around it. A smile crept on Scabior's face as another rope tightened, the circulation running low in her fingers which were now smashed against his wrist.

"Do you vow to cause no harm to any Snatcher, Death Eater, or pureblood in the form of assault or death, unless they are fighting for or with the Order of the Phoenix?" the Dark Lord asked.

"I do," she spat, the ropes nearly cutting into her skin with the newest addition.

"And last, do you vow, upon Potter being captured, whether it is you that leads us to him or not, that you will continue service for me in my new world and uphold the previous vows until your death or the death of Dreagan Scabior breaks the agreement?"

A pain began in her chest, her heart thumping as she began to panic. An entire lifetime of being with Scabior, to do as he said, when he said. No fighting, no escaping. For a moment she considered death right then and there.

"I do," she said with fury, the final rope wrapping around their arms and sealing her to him for the rest of her days.