EDITED: 08/17/2015
Chapter Twenty
Olive's head was pounding even worse by the time she'd told the hidden group of witches and wizards the fake plan. Night had fallen by then as Hazel, the old woman, and Oliver had hashed out every detail, forcing the rage inside Olive to grow with every irritating word that passed their lips.
But, it was done. Olive had effectively dodged every small change they wanted to make and kept the original plan intact. The next day at ten o'clock, she was to apparate the thirty-some people to what they thought was a safe house, one by one. They were really going to be handed over to Scabior at the Ministry. Her reasoning for not telling the group the exact location of the new safe house was that someone had talked about this one and put them all in danger, therefore if they wanted to go to the new safe house, they couldn't know the location. They simply had to be taken there and that was all they could know about where they were at. There had been one older woman who stared at her with mistrustful eyes, but ended up saying nothing and fading into the mob mentality that this was the best course of action.
Olive had explained to them how her family was killed in front of her by the same two Snatchers that threatened them now. And she told them how, after that, she went on to pose as a Snatcher, which wasn't untrue. The part where she said she helped save mudbloods was the untrue part. Even in the very beginning, when she pretended to be Xavier Booke, Olive never lifted a finger to stop the rapes, the torture, or the murders. It would have given her away.
This Anna that she was pretending to be now – this Anna was a war hero. Olive was a spineless coward. But she knew without a doubt that if Anna really existed, she'd have been dead long ago. And Olive was alive. That had to count for something.
"Are you nervous?" he asked her later, when they were alone. Oliver had arrived at Fairpike's as soon as he untangled himself in the woods a month ago. Not to run and hide, but to warn them that they may be under attack soon. It told volumes about his character that he'd warned complete strangers about an impending threat before cutting down and properly burying his family the next day. Oliver was conditioned by war – the living came first, the dead second.
"A little," she lied, standing up from the chair in the corner of his room and stretching. Olive closed her eyes while she did so and urged her pupils back to normal size.
Oliver refused to stay with the others in hiding. There were three ways into his room – one through the hidden passage to Hazel's room, the normal door that could be used through the corridor connected to all other patron rooms, and another door that was visible only when you knew where it was – the door to the attic. Oliver acted like any patron, left the safety of his room, and even did nightly patrols down the street to watch for Olive and Scabior. He stayed in the room that connected Hazel's flat to the attic so he could guard the weak spot in their system. As he'd explained, Hazel couldn't include his room in the concealment spell because the other patrons would notice if a door in the hallway were missing when each of the doors were evenly spaced out on each floor. So, in order to protect the two skinny stairwells that were a lifeline for thirty-odd people, Oliver put his own life at risk.
"Here," he said, tossing a bottle of amber liquid on the bed. Despite the roaring headache, the pounding heartbeat, the way her fists clenched and unclenched to quell the violence inside, Olive felt satisfied. She knew Oliver thought he was being sly, offering her alcohol. "To calm your nerves," he added and she nearly rolled her eyes. Scabior and Greyback had her accustomed to a different sort of behavior. There was no wooing or veiled attempts at getting her drunk. Olive was used to men who took what they wanted. Such a devil-may-care approach made this seem almost childish in comparison.
"Thanks," she muttered, popping the top off and swigging straight from the bottle. Since that afternoon, they'd established some amount of rapport, already having bonded over their families being brutally murdered by the same two Snatchers. Oliver had declared that after they moved the mudbloods, he would join her and help others in need. It was all rather dull to Olive, but she smiled and said he must be brave, remaining painfully patient with her eventual endgame in mind. She carefully capped the bottle and laid it back on the bed, some part of her wanting more for her headache and the other part fighting for the safety of her baby.
Oliver took his turn now, drawing a long drink from the bottle and then a second before handing it back to her. Olive lifted the bottle with pursed lips and pretended to take another long swig. The baby won in the end. Though, it wasn't just that she was pregnant – she had to keep her wits about her.
This went on for a few more minutes – Oliver taking a long drink while Olive pretended – and few words passed between them. A new flush had crept up his neck and, though the darkness inside was urging her to hurt him in any possible way, some strange and small part of her found it cute.
"D'you want to patrol with me?" he blurted, looking right at her, the expansion of his pupils giving him away again.
Olive feigned a small smile, wondering how it looked on this foreign face she was wearing. "Sure," she said in a low voice, more to ease the pain in her head than to sound timid, though it worked to her favor. Oliver grinned and tugged at her elbow, the musk attacking her in the movement and causing a great shudder to run through her.
"C'mon," he said with a sloppy grin, the alcohol having loosened him up. Olive wondered if this was the first time he'd relaxed since she'd murdered his family. To everyone else, he was stern and unyielding. Regardless, she made herself giggle, copying how the girls had always laughed around boys in school, even though she found the noise annoying and irritating. The redness crept further up his neck before he turned and looked at her. "You're cute," he added, Olive making her cheeks flood with color. She wondered if he would have found this girl cute under normal circumstances or if this was all just a distraction from the war.
"Thanks," she muttered, ducking her head with a feigned grin. Olive tucked a clenched fist into Scabior's spare jacket to hide her attempt to control herself. Oliver's scent was growing to be too much and she was fighting tooth and nail to contain herself.
"C'mon," he repeated with a grin, tugging her by the arm out into the corridor. The lights were dim now and everything was silent except for the slight ringing in her ears and the faint thrum of his heartbeat. When she brushed against him, she noticed the thrumming picked up, much to her satisfaction.
Olive was surprised when she glanced up to the large clock hanging in the corridor – it was already past two in the morning. It had just seemed a little while ago that she had dinner with Hazel and Oliver, but the time spent alone with him had flown by.
Oliver tugged her down two flights of stairs into the pub area, which was dark and quiet. Instead of going out the front, though, he led her through the kitchens and out a thin door which emptied into an alley.
Across the street from the front of the building, unseen to the pair, Scabior's jaw drew tense as his head shot up. Those scents were undeniable – it was Olive and that boy from before. His fingers clenched the sill as he leaned farther out the open window, honing his hearing. A few doors down, a woman was snoring. Below, two late night lovers were whispering to one another and, above, a man was muttering to himself, quill scratching against parchment. And with those distractions, he didn't hear what exactly that boy muttered to his Olive, only that he had muttered something.
What followed made a terrible, sick knot rise in his gut. Olive's giggle danced through the still air, bouncing off brick and window, amplified by Scabior's irrational jealousy and fear of losing her. The sound was so lighthearted, so girly that he couldn't conceive how she'd been the one to make it, though there was no mistaking it. The noise made him think of every idiotic girl he'd ever come across, how they giggled and batted their eyes. That was not his Olive. That was someone else's Olive. Oliver's Olive. And that thought nearly drove him into madness.
Out in the darkness of the alley, Olive let her pupils relax. Oliver's scent was hanging between the looming buildings, filling her was the need to just hurt him. The urge to choke him right that moment was pounding against her skull, but she pushed herself to stay calm and remain patient. The payoff would be better if she waited to hurt him.
"Oliver?" she asked, forcing an edge of innocence into her tone. "Are you sure you don't want to go with the others to the safe house?"
In the light of the full moon, the golden scruff on his chin seemed to glow.
"You tryin' to get rid of me already?" he asked in a joking tone, though his shoulders stiffened.
"No, not at all," Olive said slowly, measuring her next words to find those that would appeal to him most. "It's just that you'll be surrounded with others if you stay with them. This life is…lonely."
Oliver stopped a few steps shy from the mouth of the alley. She fought off the grin which threatened her face. "Do you all work alone?" he asked, turning toward her when he noticed she'd stopped. Olive kept herself well into the darkness, not yet ready to leave the shadow and hide her pupils again.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "Most work in groups or as pairs."
"Then why are you alone?"
"They can't take it," she lied, drawing a deep breath of his scent, though it seemed like a sigh. "They always leave me, one way or another."
It disgusted Olive to take such a damsel in distress route, but she'd seen it work time and time again at Hogwarts. And it wasn't as if she was actually a damsel in distress. If anything, she was the wolf in sheep's clothing.
"What do you mean?" he asked, stepping away from the mouth of the alley to be nearer her. Olive's heart hammered in her throat and for the first time since stepping into the pub, she doubted herself. Did she really want to be the wolf in sheep's clothing? How long had she been becoming the monster? Those two thoughts slid through her brain so fast that it took her breath away. What happened to her? What was happening to her? No, there was no going back. That musky scent was attacking her and she'd be damned if she went to Scabior for help.
Scabior.
That only led to more thoughts, which lead to more doubts. Where were these questions coming from all the sudden? Was this what Scabior felt whenever she was around him? Was this what her scent did to him? That…changed everything. The sudden uncertainty on her face must have showed because Oliver bent down close, brow scrunched in concern.
"You alright?" he asked, the hot huff of breath and liquor tickling her nose. It overpowered some small part of the musky scent and she let loose a long breath, trying to recompose herself.
"I'm fine," she lied. Despite the full moon blaring overhead, she pulled away from the madness and found some small fragment of her rational self.
Oliver was her.
And she was Scabior.
When did that happen? Why did she want to hurt him? Why was there a fading ache in her stomach for violence? Even before Greyback's scratch, back when she tortured poor Hermione. How long had she been like this, aching to hurt people? Was it Scabior? Or had she always been a monster?
"You look a bit pale," he added in concern, throwing an arm over her stiffened shoulders. But, they weren't stiff from Oliver's presence. They were stiff from Scabior's.
Olive heard the slight scrape of his boot and looked away, unsurprised when her wand flew from her hand, quickly followed by Oliver's.
"Get your fuckin' hands off her," Scabior said from the mouth of the alley. Olive watched how his shadow stretched across the bricks in front of her, but she refused to look up. All she could think about was how her scent affected Scabior, how he dealt with it all the time, how the few times he'd managed to stop hurting her must have been an iron grip of self-control.
Oliver cursed under his breath and moved to stand in front of her. The whiff of his scent stirred the ache behind her eyes, but now that she only saw herself in Oliver, she lost the urge to harm him. But every coin had two sides and now she saw Scabior in herself and with that came conflicting feelings of guilt and understanding. Olive didn't want to understand why he hurt her. She wanted to hate him for it. Their shared history was rewriting itself, every time he'd managed to stop hurting her flipping through her mind, with amazing acts of self-control.
"Fuck off," Oliver spat, urging over his shoulder, "Run, Anna!"
Olive didn't move. Nor did she look away from Scabior's shadow. Everything seemed muddled in her brain, not sure where she stood, uncertain on whether she wanted to kill Oliver or help him. It wasn't as if she could run anyway, not from Scabior. This whole plan was going to shit because she got sidetracked, too focused on Oliver, and now it was a mess. Scabior was out from hiding and Oliver was probably going to get killed sooner rather than later. Where did that leave the refugees? Hazel? The Ministry was already closed for the night, but if they waited to move the mudbloods until morning, surely someone would find Oliver and then it would be her they were after. Merlin's fucking beard, Scabior was going to beat her senseless for this. And she couldn't even blame him, she'd fucked everything up.
Oliver grunted and fell thrashing to the ground after a familiar metallic clunk took him prisoner. When he landed, the chains scraped against the bricks making a terrible noise that sent a shiver up her spine.
"Stop being an idiot and run!" he screamed, but Olive held still and watched the shadow grow bigger and bigger until Scabior's boots and legs came into view.
"Shut up," he muttered and flicked his wand, stopping any further noise from Oliver. "Don't call her an idiot," Scabior spat, but lifted a gentle hand under her chin and tilted her face upward. "You idiot," he said to her now. "You've made a mess of things."
Olive's eyes stayed glued on his shirt, finding herself unable to look at him. Nothing made sense, one moment she'd been ready to kill Oliver and the next she was contemplating helping him. She felt bad for her thoughts, but couldn't bring herself to aid him. Then those sneaking questions clawed at her again. Did Scabior ever feel bad for the things he'd done to her? If he hadn't, he'd of just killed her long ago, right? Was she overthinking this? Emotions were crashing all over her face and Scabior's brow furrowed, pulling her chin closer though she still wouldn't look at him.
"What's wrong, you look pale," he said, giving her chin a squeeze. "Show me your face."
It was a nice guy act laced with genuine concern, though it ended abruptly the next time she exhaled and he caught a whiff of Firewhisky on her breath. The anger that had forced him out of the inn and into the alley only grew when he wondered what Oliver had done to her, where he had touched her, and if she let him. With a growl of frustration, he pulled his hand away and backhanded her so hard she lost her footing. Olive tumbled down over Oliver and a sharp crack echoed down the alley as her head collided with a cement stair.
Scabior watched her hair flutter back to blonde, shaken from her disguise by the hit. Things went fuzzy in Olive's vision for a moment, but she stayed alert enough to stop her stomach from expanding. Oliver looked at her in shock, betrayal etched on every last inch of her face. All she could do was look away and try to blink the fuzziness out of her eyes, ignoring the tug of guilt in her chest. Then another question: did Scabior ever feel the guilt that she felt now?
"Get up," Scabior ordered. Olive wasn't listening. There was something warm running down her neck and when she went to wipe it away, she pulled back with red, sticky fingers. Things went fuzzy in her vision again.
"Get up," he ordered again, smelling the blood, but not realizing how quickly the gash was bleeding. Even with his eyes, the alley was dark enough to conceal the blood staining the back of his coat that she wore. But, using the wall to steady herself, she managed to get to her feet and stagger over toward him, one hand clamped over the gash in her head. Merlin's fucking beard, how it gnawed his insides that she wouldn't even look at him.
"While you were out here giggling and carrying on," he spat with a snarl, "I've been over there all night watching for any sign you might need help." Scabior grabbed the collar of the shirt and drew her close, causing her to sway on her tip-toes. Still she wouldn't look at him and he began to shake her violently with grunts of frustration. "Why will you look at him and not me?" he yelled and in that moment they both huffed out a breath, unable to clean the air of what he'd just said. That was beyond his normal jealousy and selfishness. And as much as she loathed herself for it, something felt funny in her stomach at his words.
"Because I don't understand what this feeling is in my chest," she blurted, though there was a strain in each word to form correctly in her mouth. Scabior's face darkened and he tossed her to the ground.
"Kill him," he said, holding out her wand and refusing to look at her.
"That's not what I –"
"Kill. Him."
Scabior misunderstood. He thought she meant that she had a feeling in her chest for Oliver. But, the feeling in her chest was for him. And Olive's lack of movement only irked him further.
"I won't 'ave you taken from me," he said in a fury, snatching her up from the ground and pressing her back into his chest. Scabior forced the wand into her hand and held her wrist out, pointing at Oliver. "Do it or I'll do it for you."
Panic was ringing alarms through every cell in her body. Olive tried to pull her wrist away, but was unable against his steel grip. Oliver was her and she was Scabior. And if she killed Oliver, it was as bad as Scabior killing her. Even looking down on Oliver, with his eyes filled with nothing but hatred for her, she fought against Scabior and turned her head away with a sob when it proved no use.
"Please don't make me kill him," she begged, eyes clenched tight, face away from both of them. It felt like her knees were going to buckle and everything was spinning behind her eyes.
"Why?" Scabior demanded, forcing her head back toward the chained boy. He could smell the blood, but he was far too worked up to realize just how much it was.
"It's not how it sounds, you're twisting everything!" she pleaded, ignoring the pounding in her head. Scabior thought she fancied Oliver and now everything she said only made it worse. Olive couldn't think clearly enough to find the words that sounded right. Everything was too out of control and her vision was swimming. All she could do was beg for Oliver's life, which only added fuel to the fire.
Scabior wasn't having any of it.
"Look at him," he ordered, relishing in the slight shudder that ran down her as she caved to him and quit squirming. Scabior ran his hand down hers, correcting their aim. "That was an order," he added when she didn't turn her head. Unable to disobey him, she looked at Oliver and Scabior could smell the tears welling up in her eyes.
"Don't cry," he cooed into her ear and she felt that sadistic smile against her skin. "If you cry now, you won't 'ave any left for when we get home."
A huff of breath shook from her and his free hand raised to rest on her throat. "The longer you take," he continued to threaten, "The more Crucios you're gettin' when we get back. Right now, you're at about five, but my patience is wearin' thin, Olive."
"You're such an idiot," she choked out, an edge of begging in her voice. "You don't understand anything."
"Kill him," Scabior urged, fist tightening around her throat. "Then we'll talk."
"You don't understand!" she begged. And he didn't. Scabior didn't understand that if she killed Oliver, it was essentially the same as Scabior killing her. If he made her kill Oliver, it changed everything. It made her weaker than him. It made him the all-powerful puppeteer of her life. And though this was already so, there was always hope. Even if the past month had gone well, it wouldn't last – they both knew that much. They were playing pretend, still loathing each other underneath it all. But, watching Oliver die would extinguish any flame of fight she had left in her. If he died at her hand, then surely she would die at Scabior's.
But, everything happened so quickly, there was no stopping it.
Scabior shoved her away with a fierce growl of irritation. Olive remembered scraping her hands when she fell, but after that she was taken by a familiar fog. So caught off guard, there was no fighting off the Imperio – it closed in on her and then she was under his control, just like that. Somehow she'd gotten to her feet, then all she saw was the hatred in Oliver's eyes reflected in the green light leaving her wand.
Oliver's scent was already fading by the time Scabior released her from his control.
Olive looked at the boy for a moment, focused on the way his stubble gleamed in the moonlight, surrounding his face like a halo. Then her vision began to swim and her feet went out from under her. She swayed, two violent jerks running through her, and then everything went dark.