EDITED: 05/03/2015

Chapter Twenty-One

Olive vaguely remembered the stinging on the back of her head. Scabior had made her drink some vile tasting mixture and she thought he'd said something about a concussion.

When she properly woke up, everything was spinning around her. In those few nauseous moments, she'd been unsure of where she was, though when her vision stabilized she realized she was back in the tent.

She'd killed Oliver.

That memory - the green light reflected in his angry eyes - tore through her so suddenly that she raised a heavy hand to her chest.

"Scabior," she called out, hoping to fix the damage she'd done. His name sounded warped in her ears and she swayed with the room. "It's not how it looked!"

There was no answer. Grunting at his stubbornness, she stood on weak legs, clutching on to everything she could. She'd woken on Scabior's bed and crossed to her own, but was met with something soft and fuzzy. Olive turned her head too fast and nearly lost her footing, but when she regained her composure, she saw her mattress and pillows had been sliced to pieces. Bits of cotton and feathers were strewn everywhere, reminding her of a time not so long ago when she returned home to find her bedroom in a similar state. Dread weighed down her stomach, knowing she was in trouble.

"It's not what you think," she called out again, but still there was no answer. Determined to set things straight, at least so he wouldn't hurt her as much, she put one wobbly leg in front of the next. Every inch of her felt heavy and her sight went in and out of focus, though she still kept pushing herself forward. When she found the kitchen empty, she trekked further, bracing herself on the carved up table as she made her way outside. But at the tent flap she met a barrier. With an irritated sigh, she lifted a hand and felt the invisible glass which blocked her path and kept her prisoner. Too exhausted to move another inch, she slid down onto the floor to await his return.

The sun had been up for a few hours before she heard the crack outside that signaled his arrival. Olive could feel the dark aura rolling from him as he neared the tent flap and she recalled with dread that it was a middle moon. But she felt no anger, only anxiety, and wondered if her head injury or whatever he'd made her drink had her out of it enough to not be affected by the moon.

"What're you doin' out'a bed?"

It was the first thing from his mouth upon seeing her crumpled on the floor. The thinly veiled wrath in his tone was enough to keep her from looking up at him.

"You made me kill him," she said out of nowhere, her face welling up in pain. "You don't understand."

Silence rested between them for a few moments before Scabior knelt next to her.

"I just went an' single-handedly cleaned up your fuckin' mess an' busted that inn. Do you think I want to get home an' listen to you talk about wanting to fuck that boy?"

"I wanted to hurt him," she said miserably, covering her face with her hands to hide the tears welling in her eyes.

"But you still wanted to fuck 'im."

He knew that urge. He'd felt it himself many times and most often indulged in it. But, this was different. Olive was his. And no one else was going to touch her. She wasn't allowed.

Scabior waited for her to say something, but the silence she offered in return was all he needed. It was worse than hearing her confirm his suspicions. With one sudden movement, he snatched up the hair at the base of her neck and dragged her across the floor, trying to ignore both her wails of pain and the thick knot in his throat.

"You don't understand anything!" she screamed out, giving up any fight and letting him drag her across the floor into the bedroom. "You won't listen!"

Scabior threw her head toward the floor in the corner and silenced her with the wave of his wand, stopping her next words just as they were forming in her throat.

"Merlin, shut the fuck up before someone mistakes you for a naggin' girlfriend."

There was just no talking to Scabior when he was like this. Not that Olive could speak at the moment, anyway, but she didn't even bother to give him a pleading look. It was the middle moon. And with that in mind, her face grew resigned.

"If you're gonna go out an' act like an animal with no fuckin' self-control, then you'll fuckin' stay down there on the floor like an animal."

When she refused to look up at him, Scabior grew even angrier.

"Merlin's fuckin' beard, Olive, it's like you try to make me angry with you. An' fuckin' hell, all I can smell is that fuckin' boy all over you."

Scabior was working himself up into a frenzy, grabbing Olive's face and forcing her to look up at him. When he saw her red-rimmed eyes he regretted it and pushed her face away, not wanting to see anymore. With one fluid motion, he pulled the dagger from his boot, fist clenched around the hilt. Olive watched the knife, but made no expression of fear, not even one of her little twitches. That bothered him. But what bothered him more was how she looked up at him for the first time on her own. There was no surprise in her expression. No betrayal, no pleading. And then she did the worst thing of all - she lifted her chin and exposed her neck. Olive gave him an expectant look, as if to say, "Well, get on with it."

That wasn't his intention at all. But it was that she thought it was his intention that made his chest feel heavy. Scabior hadn't felt guilt often in his life, but the few times he had, it had been over something he'd done to Olive.

She said he didn't understand. She didn't understand. She was the idiot. Just because he hurt her didn't mean he wanted to kill her. Not anymore. Didn't she realize that? Because the day he told her that, Hell would freeze over. Couldn't she see how it messed with him when she was gone? How terrible and miserable it made him? Did she really think, after everything they'd done, that he would kill her over a silly little row?

"Stop starin' at me like you want me to slice your fuckin' throat," he spat, the full moon madness making the mess worse, even though he knew to stop, wanted to stop. But those feelings were dangerous territory and so he pushed them away, reacting the only way he knew how. With violence.

It would have normally excited him, but as he ran the knife under her shirt and from neck to waist, Olive's shudder made him feel guiltier than anything ever had.

When he was finished, he scooped away his clothes from her body, leaving her only in his knit socks. With an irritated scowl, he tossed the garments out into the kitchen, looking at his hands in disgust. Olive could smell it, too - Oliver on his fingers now that he'd touched the clothes.

"You fuckin' reek of 'im," he spat, then aimed his wand down at her and blasted her with so much water that she coughed and choked in silence. "Don't you dare move from that spot," he added, his cruelty never failing, no matter how heavy his chest felt to see the thick tears building in the corners of her eyes. Merlin, she was such a fuckin' idiot. She was the one who didn't understand.

Scabior didn't speak to her for the rest of the day, instead spending his time chain-smoking in the kitchen or walking the perimeter outside to listen for mudbloods. When he came in for the evening and kicked his boots off, he let his eyes fall to the corner where Olive was still crumpled. Now she was curled on her side, facing away from the bed. Even in the darkness, Scabior's eyes crawled up the curve of her naked hips and waist, his mouth twisting down when he saw the small jerks that gave her crying away. Even without seeing it, he could smell the tears. But by then the middle moon was overhead and there was no remorse for what he'd done. Scabior left her shivering in the cold puddle of water and, despite the urges of violence coursing through him, somehow managed sleep.

Neither of them wanted to move the next morning. The third day was always the most exhausting. When Scabior finally grew irritated enough with Olive's unmoving position, he reached down and jerked her arm toward him, flipping her over on her back. Though her eyes were still swollen, there were no new tears to be seen. Now there was just a resigned expression on her face and she kept her eyes averted from him. It was odd behavior for her and, for the first time, it felt as if she'd truly given up. Scabior wasn't sure how that made him feel and so he sent her away to take a bath, telling her he could still smell the boy on her. Really he just needed her away for a while because he couldn't stand the look on her face.

Things were still so blurry in Olive's pounding head. The heat of the water was welcome after the chill of the wet floor through the night and she was glad to have this small refuge behind a locked door, away from the monster. The socks had been folded and put aside with care for reuse. The previous night would have been that much worse without them and she didn't want to lose what small comfort she'd been allowed. It had been one of the most miserable nights of her life, taking turns between shivering, crying, and wondering how much longer she would be alive to even need socks.

'I'm sorry,' she thought, gliding a heavy hand through the water to rest on her stomach. There was nothing else to be done. It was better to die than to live like she was and she'd decided as the sun was rising to Scabior's deep breaths that she would take her own life before he did. It was better that the baby was never born anyway – things were looking good for Lord Voldemort and it would be cruel to bring a half-blood into a world of persecution. It might have been different if it were a child born out of genuine love. But there was no point to bringing a baby into a world that was shrouded in hate, born from rape.

'And something even worse than hate and rape,' she thought, the fist on her stomach clenching. Those strange feelings she got when she thought of how much Scabior had done for her instead of against her – those were the worst. The hours she spent the night before admiring how much restraint he must have exercised around her made her feel sick with herself. Wondering in awe how he hadn't killed her after experiencing those urges first hand…it amazed her. These thoughts, the awe of him, it was the cruelest thing he'd done to her yet. And she was so afraid of the strange feelings that she vowed to end herself and this foolishness.

Olive wondered how she would do it. She wasn't sure if she could Avada herself. No doubt it would be the easiest, but she wasn't sure it was even possible. The less violent, the better. If it came down to it, she would find a way to hang herself, but after living in nothing but violence for the past half year, she wanted to go peacefully. Maybe poison. Hell, she could try and drown herself right then if she wanted.

Despite the drowsiness, despite the dizziness, her head snapped to the cupboard which hung on the wall. If she was going to do it, she should just do it, right? Olive's vision danced as she focused on that wooden cupboard. Even with heavy limbs, she pushed herself from the warm water, barely noticing the way goose bumps crawled across her skin.

Scabior, laying on his bed with a scowl, heard her leave the water. Irritated at thinking she'd finished already, he drew a breath to scold her from the bedroom. But, he heard the water splash again and his mouth snapped shut with both annoyance and relief.

Olive brought the bottle down into her lap, squinting her eyes to try and read the instructions. She didn't need enough to kill her, just enough to make her fall asleep. The water would do the rest.

After living with Scabior, one came to realize that he woke with a start several times a night. A bottle of sleeping draught was always kept in the medicine cabinet so that, on particularly bad nights, he could sneak off to self-medicate. Holding the bottle up to the light, Olive could see it was more than half full, which meant there was more than enough to do the job without depending on the water to drown her.

The high-pitched ringing was back in her ears, along with the metallic taste. Part of her yearned for a cigarette, though she had other means of making the vile taste stop and it was right there in the palm of her hand. Olive struggled to see the small print on the bottle, managing to read that one teaspoon was enough for a restful sleep. There was at least a half a cup left in the bottle.

No part of her was afraid, only sad. By the few who might remember her, she would be recalled as a cowardly monster. But they would never understand what she'd been put through. None of them would have made it this far.

With steady hand – not a single tremor – Olive uncorked the bottle, grimacing at the slight noise it made.

Scabior sat up, a feeling of alarm flooding through his stomach. The little pop he'd heard was distinct and familiar, though he couldn't place it.

"What're you doin'?" he demanded in a loud tone, standing from the bed with a chilly feeling spreading through his stomach.

If Olive was unsure before, hearing Scabior's alarm gave her no choice. If she backed out now, he'd surely kill her himself once he found out what she was going to try. The bottle was at her lips and the liquid drained before he made it to the door.

'I'm sorry,' she thought for the second time, returning her hand to her stomach. Olive's eyes closed as the water welcomed her, enveloping her inch by inch as her body relaxed. It felt peaceful, like she was floating, and she was glad for such an easy death.

The draught worked fast. Somewhere beyond her drug-induced haze, she could hear Scabior screaming out and banging on the door, which she was glad she'd locked. But then, with one last breath, the sound was lost as her ears slid under the water, followed by her mouth and then nose.

It was the most peaceful moment she'd had since before the war.