EDITED: 02/22/2015

Chapter Nineteen

The next month was the best Olive and Scabior had ever shared. Not once did they fight and not once did he have to threaten her. In the morning, they would stake out at the little inn across from Fairpike's, in the afternoons they would hunt mudbloods, and in the evenings they would fuck, usually more than once.

Olive had grown compliant, doing exactly what he said when he said it. If he told her to spread her legs, she did. If he told her to look at him while his cock was in her mouth, she did. And the one time he'd told her to lay there and touch herself while he watched, she did, despite the embarrassment burning on her cheeks.

And though he dominated her in all other aspects of life, on the field they were equals. Together they were unstoppable, bringing in so many mudbloods, halfies, and blood traitors that the Ministry raised them to the highest premium of pay. Undesirables with rewards stayed the same, but any no-names they brought in, they got paid double for. Their vault at Gringotts was beginning to overflow.

The way they worked together, dueling mudbloods, was something of legend. Once, when outnumbered five to one, they had dueled with such flawless perfection that it was as if they had practiced each and every step. The two had spun, backs toward each other, the matching hoops in their ears gleaming, with such precision that they stepped in time with each other as they warded off the circle of attackers around them. It was a good paycheck that day - ten mudbloods at 200 apiece.

And sometimes, like Oliver, they let one go, if only because they knew survivors would talk. Talking was what made them notorious. Talking was what got them recognized toward the end of the month. A school-aged boy had seen them snaking through the woods and ran, sobbing the whole way back to his family, screaming, "It's them, it's them!"

But that glorious month came to an end with the next full moon. They'd figured Fairpike's out. For days upon days they poured over Fairpike's with their eyes, looking for any indication of a safe house. And then they saw the obvious. Each of the buildings on the street were the same - three floors and an attic. Except for Fairpike's.

Fairpike's had no attic.

Olive and Scabior compared the architecture of the buildings, all identical, all probably built at the same time by the same people. And with that logic in place, they knew the attic of Fairpike's had to be the hidden safe house.

The mudbloods were easy to spot. They showed up, dirty and grimy, and went inside. And the next morning, or any after, when the other guests were checking out and leaving, the mudbloods never left. They were still inside somewhere. In the attic.

The trick was getting inside the attic. Someone would have to tell them the location before an entrance would even reveal itself. And that's what had them stumped for most of the month. But, Olive had a plan and no matter how much Scabior hated it, this seemed to be their only option.

"I don't like it," Scabior said in a dark tone, giving her a moody look. Their plan was in place now and they'd gotten a room at the inn across the street, making sure to have a view of Fairpike's. "You can't be alone on a full moon, Olive, look at what you did last time."

It was true. That violent feeling was already swimming through her.

"And what's it matter? They're nobody mudbloods, if I lose my cool, no one will miss them."

"You'll be outnumbered," his voice rang out, sharp and tense. Olive grew quiet for a moment.

"How about this - if I start to feel like I'm going to lose control, I'll tell them I'm doing a patrol to look for trouble and I'll come right back to you."

Scabior only grumbled from the chair of the inn room, crossing his arms with a scowl. The full mood madness hadn't completely taken over either of them yet and Olive couldn't help the laugh that snaked up her throat despite her throbbing head.

"You're such a baby," she teased, wide smile taking over her face. Scabior's eyes darkened and he stood in one fluid motion, towering over Olive, each inch of his rising height intimidating her.

"Am I?" he asked, stepping toward her. Olive didn't dare back away or tear her eyes from his.

"Yes," she challenged, keeping her chin high, smile growing.

She knew it wasn't anger behind his eyes, but lust.

A half hour later, while Olive re-buttoned her trousers, Scabior laid on his back with eyes clenched, the stress and headache getting the best of him now that his distraction was finished.

"What do you think of this?" she asked, turning toward him. When he opened his eyes, a knot lodged in his chest. Olive had disguised herself, eyes the same green, but her hair was shorter and wavy, a deep brown color.

"No," he said, looking away from her. "Not brunette. I hate brunettes." Lysia had brown hair - she even wore it similar to Olive's disguise. Scabior didn't want Olive to be anything like Lysia.

"It's just a disguise," she laughed, unaware of how serious he was being.

"Change it," he demanded, refusing to look at her. Olive's smile faded and she did as she was told, the lengths of her hair flooding with ginger coloring.

"Better?" she asked, the grin in her voice gone. Scabior looked her over and gave a curt nod.

"C'mere," he said, reaching an open hand toward her. Olive crossed to the bedside and knelt, his open hand reaching to take her chin in gentle fingers. "Let me see your face."

The hair hadn't been the only thing she'd changed. Now her eyes were a bit smaller, lips fuller, nose longer. But again, she did as she was told and changed her face back to normal.

"You could make me look like anything and you insist on this," she said, slight trace of amusement in her voice. Though Greyback's bruises had long faded, there was still the first splinch wound that crawled from her neck up across her cheek. Olive didn't really take care of herself anymore, as there was no time or reason. The lengths of her hair were riddled with split-ends and she knew there had to be imperfections in her complexion from lack of care.

Scabior gave her an indignant look. "Why would I want you to look like anything else?"

The list of things Scabior did that made her heart feel strange was growing by the day and now she had something new to add.

"C'mere," he said again, drawing her chin near to take her lips with his for a moment. "You'd tell me if something went wrong, right?"

Olive's throat constricted, face faltering for a second. She bounced back to her grin in a heartbeat, but she could see in his eyes that the damage was done. Even if he'd meant if something went wrong with their plan, her mind moved to her hidden stomach, the cause of her slip up.

"Of course, I would," she said and, to brush her mishap under the rug, bent to capture his mouth once more. "Tomorrow, ten o'clock," she said, standing and hurrying out the door before he could interrogate the slip of her face.

Scabior watched her leave, then stood and crossed to the window with a scowl. There had been something in her eyes ever since she'd returned from Greyback - something she wasn't telling him. It had sat in his stomach all month, eating and gnawing at him from the inside out. Whatever it was, he would get to the bottom of it. If she had some fucking plan with Potter or Malfoy or even Greyback to escape again, he would nip it right in the bud. Olive was his. And Olive wouldn't leave him, even if he had to make her stay.

When Olive stepped out into the road below, he stared daggers into her stupid red hair. As if she'd felt it, Olive turned and looked at him over her shoulder, a hand resting on her stomach. It wasn't his Olive, though - her face was back in disguise, just some decent looking girl about on her business.

She met his stare for a few moments longer, then remembered herself and dropped the hand from her stomach, turning and entering Fairpike's. But as soon as she opened the door, the familiar musk hit her. With a shuddering breath, she stepped inside, fighting to keep her pupils normal. Oliver was there.

Everywhere in the air, he was there. Her heart was thumping in her throat, all reason shooting from her head, thinking only of fucking the boy and killing him. And though she should have turned right around and told Scabior, her feet carried her to the bar. Scabior sounded like a terrible idea after the heated look he'd just given her through the window. And the scent of Oliver was just so…ensnaring.

"Can I 'elp you?" an old woman asked from behind the bar, wiping her hands on an apron.

"Are you the owner?" Olive asked in a hushed tone. It didn't really matter if they were overheard, but it added to the charade of secrecy. The woman looked Olive over, seeing Scabior's ratty clothes, and glanced back with a nod. Good, she thought Olive was seeking help.

"When you get a chance," Olive said, eyeing the few other patrons in the bar, "Could we speak in private?"

The woman, as Olive predicted, seemed quite used to this and gave her a kind smile. "Of course, dear," she said, pointing toward a door behind the bar. "Go right through there and I'll be in just as soon as I pour these drinks."

Olive nodded and made her way around the bar into what looked like the woman's flat. Looking around at the quaint belongings, she pulled the two pieces of parchment from her pocket and took a seat on the threadbare couch to prepare. Oliver had been here, too, she could smell him on each thread of the fabric, making the pressure between her eyes build.

A few minutes later, the door opened again and the old woman stepped in and locked them inside.

"Now, what can I help you with?"

The woman was quite convinced Olive was there seeking safety, but you could never be too sure and so the charade continued.

"My name is Anna," Olive lied, "I'm mu-ggleborn." She'd nearly slipped and called herself a mudblood. "I'm told you have a safe house."

The woman inspected her for a moment, eyes narrowed as if looking for something on Olive's false face.

"These two," Olive continued, not letting herself get deterred, handing the parchment over to the woman. "Dreagan Scabior and Olive Westin. They tortured and killed my whole family in front of me and then they left me tied up to die."

The parchment crinkled when the woman stood in a flurry, eyes wide.

"It's them," she said, not tearing her eyes from Olive and Scabior's Snatcher forms. It had taken another half day of waiting in lines at the Ministry, but they secured their forms on the grounds of doing a major mudblood bust. Minister Pius Thicknesse himself had brought them the copies of their papers and congratulated them on their hard work. Each form held all of their information and shared the same moving pictures as on their Snatcher IDs.

"After that," Olive said, "I got picked up by a group of Snatchers, except they weren't Snatchers at all, they were muggleborns who had stolen red armbands. They went around protecting people - they knew several safe houses and when they came across those in hiding, they would explain themselves and take the others to safety. No other Snatchers would bother them if they were already claimed. So I joined them."

"That's brilliant," the woman said, in awe of Olive's made up story. No mudblood was actually stupid enough to impersonate a Snatcher except her. "But, I don't understand…Are you bringing us new refugees?"

"No," Olive said with a slight shake of her head, "I'm here to move the refugees you've got. You're in danger."

The woman's brow tucked, but Olive didn't allow her a turn to speak.

"Dreagan and Olive have been at the inn across the street, watching this building for the past month. I don't know who, but somebody talked."

The woman was quiet for a moment, worry twisting her mouth. "They have to be moved," she said, frantic panic in her words. A deep satisfaction flooded Olive's chest.

"Not yet," she said, "They'll panic and draw attention. That's the last thing we need. Trust me, I've done this before. Let me talk to them, explain, and we'll do the move tomorrow morning. I already have a safe house set up. Olive's not with him today. I'm not sure where she went, but Dreagan won't do anything until she gets back."

Olive knew she had to refer to the two of them as either first or last name and, though Dreagan sounded funny in her mouth, the idea of calling herself Westin seemed even more strange.

"Let me tell Oliver at least. He'll want to fight if I don't warn him first." Olive's stomach clenched, as did her fists, but the woman only saw her curt nod. "Stay here, this may take a while," the woman continued, leaving back out the door and locking it once more behind her. Olive gasped in relief, letting her shaking hands find her temples while her pupils expanded.

It did take a while. A very long while. But it took that long for Olive to calm down, for the headache to ease and the jitters to cease.

And no sooner had she gotten that small comfort than she caught the dark musk scent growing nearer and the rage began again. She'd hardly had time to right her pupils before a bookcase near the bed wiggled and shifted, revealing a passage behind. The smell hit her so hard that she nearly lost control of her disguise.

Olive clamped her teeth together when he stepped into the room, the same ski-slope nose, the same golden hair and scruff as before. Oliver.

His face was red, but it seemed to be fading, and his fists were clenched despite the comforting hand the woman rubbed on his shoulder.

"Anna, this is Oliver."

Olive nodded toward him, fighting with everything to keep her pupils from spreading and giving her away. When Oliver nodded back and their eyes met, it was as if he knew who she was, like he was looking right through her. But then she watched how his own pupils quivered outward in a small display of attraction. Scabior's did that, too, when she looked at him.

'So, he likes me better with red hair,' she thought darkly, trying now to conceal her grin. This could be fun.

"Let me see the papers," he said, stepping toward her with an outstretched hand. Olive handed him the papers, making sure their thumbs brushed for the slightest moment.

Oliver acted as if he hadn't noticed, but she didn't miss the way he pupils quivered again before he tore his eyes away to look at their Snatcher forms.

"That's them," he confirmed, darkness and anger invading his voice.

Olive wasn't even listening. She was lost in her thoughts, flooded with the sight of her forearm across his throat, of fucking and choking him, his face and lips turning purple, hot tears running down his cheeks.

No.

A far more sinister plan invaded her thoughts, images of Oliver fucking the red-headed Anna shooting through her mind, of making him like it and then revealing her face only after she tricked all the mudbloods to the Ministry.

Yes, that was it. Olive had decided and wouldn't budge.

Scabior was long forgotten across the street, where he sat at the window all night, watching for any signs that Olive was in danger.