Chapter Twenty-Eight

Olive didn't have the sense to close her mouth, hanging ajar in shock, until Bastian turned around and eyed her. He took one look at her and turned back to the decanter, pulling another glass from the caddy and pouring her a drink.

When he offered it to her, she hesitated, one hand hovering over her blooming stomach.

"It's alright," he said, taking a step closer with his arm outstretched. "It's not alcohol. Tonic for the nerves."

Still Olive made no move to grab it. Bastian's mouth tugged up in a reluctant smile and he offered her the glass in his other hand - his own, which he'd also refilled.

"I'm sorry he's made you so distrustful of others."

Olive swallowed and took the glass, figuring he wouldn't poison himself. It was as if he knew the exact thing to say, irking her into taking the glass by suggesting it was Dreagan who had made her wary.

Olive waited for him to take a drink before taking a sip herself. Though the amber liquid itself was not warm, it left a hot sensation in her mouth that seemed to spread through her and sink into her. With a sigh, she felt the tension in her shoulders relax.

"If you were trapped taking care of a madwoman, you would keep a nerve tonic in your decanter, too," he said, offering her a wry smile.

The warmth had trickled down to her toes. She felt...nice. Olive gave him a sad smile in return.

"Do the others not help? Your youngest brother and sister, I mean?"

The words left her before she had the chance to think them, process them. The warmth through her body was such a familiar feeling - of a time before, a time at Hogwarts when she could speak freely amongst her few friends, a time before the war, before her entire body was tensed with anxiety, before she had to dissect every word she would say before it left her mouth.

She took another drink, longer this time.

Bastian gave a slight shrug. "They have been around," he said, offering a small wave of his hand at nothing in particular. "There are...ideological differences. Causes family drama, the usual. But they come. We've all learned not to discuss opinions around each other. It upsets Mother."

Olive nodded, unsure what to say. Instead she eyed the well-kept bookshelves, pretending to read the titles, but actually just unsure of where to let her eyes rest.

"It does give me a chance to work on the house to my own taste," he said from behind her. "A lot of it is beyond magical repair, but I've gotten this wing and the gardens straightened up. Perhaps this afternoon I'll take you out to see them. The flowers are starting to bloom."

Again Olive nodded. Flowers were nice. Gardens were nice. Everything felt so...nice. But then something niggled at the back of her mind, her brow furrowing.

She turned to him, brow tucked. "Mr. Scabior," she said, a torrent of past forgotten manners flooding back into her as the bad habits and anxiety of the war melted away.

"Bastian, please," he said with a small smile.

"Bastian," she said slowly, uncaring of how the heat crept over her cheeks at the use of his name. "Will you tell me about Lysia?"

The smile slowly disappeared from his face, leaving instead a resigned expression. Before saying anything, he turned and filled his glass once more, then crossed over to her and topped her glass off, as well. Olive took another long drink while he replaced the decanter. When he motioned toward a leather loveseat, she offered him a nod and sat. Dreagan wouldn't like that he sat next to her. He wouldn't like it at all that Bastian's leg rested along Olive's. But there was no fear in Olive, just another swallow of the warm liquid.

"Lysia was-," he said, staring out into nothing as he recalled her, "- sharp as a blade. Beautiful, but spiteful. Petty."

Olive's mouth popped open to prod further, but before a single noise could leave her the door to his office swung wide open. They both turned to look.

His mother stood there, eyes hazy, glancing around the room.

"Mother," he said, a note of authority in his voice, though it wasn't unpleasant. Olive took the opportunity to drain her glass, giving a slight shudder as the warmth sank in. "Why aren't you in your room? The house elves have just gotten you settled."

"I heard voices," she said, seemingly to the air, then her eyes drifted down and settled on the two of them. "Is this your wife, Bastian?"

A small, uncharacteristic giggle jumped from Olive's throat, her face flushed. She opened her mouth to correct the woman, but paused when she felt Bastian shift his arm along the back of the loveseat. His hand gently cupped the back of her neck.

"It upsets her when she's confused," he muttered, mouth close to her ear. His breath was hot against her skin. "Just go along with it, she won't remember."

The warmth of his hand made the heat once more rise to her cheeks. He studied her for a moment, a quirk to the corner of his mouth, then turned back to his mother.

"It is, Mother. This is Olive, my wife."

The awkwardness, the tension in knowing how cross Dreagan would be, the suspicion that something was terribly wrong - none of that came to her. All she knew was the warmth of his hand and the way the edges of her sight seemed to sway in the most gentle way.

The woman stared at Olive, then nodded as if she accepted that answer. Her eyes fell and lingered on Olive's blooming stomach, just as they had at breakfast. "She'll have your face," she said, eyes both intent and faraway. "But our coloring. Dark." Then her eyes met Olive's. "When she feels like it."

Metamorphmagus.

Olive laid a hand protectively on her stomach. "You think it's a girl?" she asked quietly, the strangeness of the situation lost on her drugged mind.

But the woman had lost her sharp gaze, eyes going soft as she looked to Olive now in confusion.

"Why do you let her dress that way, Bastian? Take her upstairs, find her something of mine or...or...or Mira's," she said, face crumpling at the mention of her daughter's name.

At the sound of her first wails, the well-trained house elves appeared with a crack. They took her hands, trying to soothe their mistress, and then the elves and the woman were gone in the blink of an eye.

Bastian stood and offered Olive a hand to help her up, though he didn't let go once she was standing. She let him, his warm hand giving her own a gentle squeeze.

"She is right," he said, leading her from the room and down the corridor toward the stairs. "I'm sorry, I don't know where my manners went. Of course we can find you something else to wear."

Olive slowed, brow furrowed. "It's alright, Bastian," she said, looking up at him as he turned to see why she slowed. "These clothes are fine."

Dreagan's too-long trousers were rolled up to accommodate her shorter height. A long shirt hung from her, down to her thighs. No one else would be able to see, but the trousers were buttoned under her stomach, allowing room for her pregnant belly.

Bastian was quiet for a moment, assessing her. "Do you even have a choice or does he make you wear his things?"

Olive's brow creased. Who were they talking about? The room spun. Oh! Dreagan!

"No," she said lightheartedly, a misplaced grin crossing her face. "He burned all my things. But I'm fine, it's comfortable."

The room around the edges of her vision swayed again and her smile broadened. It just felt so nice to not be weighed down by her fear and anxiety.

"Nonsense," he said, dark eyes raking over her face. "We'll find you something better."

His eyes, the same dark brown as Dreagan's, made her blush. They were every bit as intense and intruding, making her feel undone.

"FInish your drink first," he said and it was then she noted a slight dominance in his voice. Not cruel, not like Dreagan. But firm. Any concern that may have caused bled away when she tipped the nearly full glass back and downed it.

She had wanted to tell him that she couldn't change, that Dreagan liked her in his clothes, liked his scent on her skin, but the words were replaced with a shy laugh at how quickly she downed the drink.

She did not miss the dark gleam in his eye as he took the glass from her. A house elf appeared with a crack, holding a tray above its head. Bastian placed the glass on the tray without tearing his eyes from her. "Bring her another to Mira's rooms," he said and the elf was gone with another loud pop.

Bastian continued to stare at her, those dark eyes boring into her. "How do you feel?" he asked, voice quiet.

The lazy grin spread over her face. "Good," she said with another shy laugh.

Bastian tugged her around toward him and reached up with his free hand to tuck one of her errant curls behind her ear. Something in her stomach did a little flop, the way it did when Dreagan gave his genuine laugh. But Dreagan was far from her mind, almost as if he didn't exist. "Good," Bastian said, sliding his hand along hers and lacing their fingers. "Come, let's get you cleaned up."

He led her to the foyer and up the shabby staircase. There was no fear this time. Olive felt as if she were floating on a cloud. Bastian tugged her along several corridors before stopping at the end of a hall in front of a single door. When he opened it, a small gasp passed Olive's lips.

It was not what she expected. Dreagan's room had been small, bare of furniture, tucked off in some forgotten space of the house. This room was huge. A four-poster bed dominated the middle, delicate fabrics trimmed in lace making up the canopy. There were at least three wardrobes against the wall and the single largest vanity Olive had ever seen. The mirror was easily as wide as she was tall and it went clear to the ceiling. Every flat surface of the vanity was covered in hair brushes, combs, and pots of makeup.

"Mira always did have a flair for the dramatic," he said, grinning down at her. Bastian nudged her toward the vanity. "I'll fetch a few things. Go on, sit."

Olive did as she was told, approaching the gigantic mirror slowly. It reflected her face of wonder and then, standing in such a fine room, she realized how silly it was to remain in Dreagan's clothes. She looked...entirely out of place.

The room spun again as she took a seat, grinning. Bastian was at the wardrobes, doors flung wide, pulling out dresses and putting them away when he decided he disliked them. There was a crack and Olive started, noting the house elf had returned with the same tray. A full glass of the liquid was balanced on it. Bastian turned and watched her, but she did not have to be told to drink it. Olive decided she quite liked the drink and how it made her feel.

Bastian watched her take a long drink and turned back to the wardrobe with a satisfied smile. "That will be all, thank you," he said and the elf was gone as quickly as it arrived.

"I believe this will suffice," he said, pulling a light green dress from the wardrobe. It had an empire waist, which would allow it to sit comfortably above her stomach, rather than under it. "She has a dressing parlour through there," he said, waving a hand toward a door next to the bed.

Olive nodded and stood, swaying just the slightest as she did.

"Are you alright?" he asked, a knowing smile in place.

"Yes," Olive said with a quiet laugh. "I think I've had too much of this too quickly." She lifted the glass in her hand to signal what she meant.

Bastian stepped around the wardrobe door and was in front of her with two long strides, dress in his hands. "I think you deserve to feel nice after what he's put you through," he said quietly. That same errant curl had come loose and he once again tucked it behind her ear. Olive looked down at his chest. "Don't you think so?" he asked.

Olive gave a nervous sounding laugh. "I'm not quite sure what I think," she said, adamantly not looking at him. "Everything feels like it's dancing."

Bastian grinned and stepped even closer, too close, but Olive didn't have the sense to back away. He gently laid the dress into her free arm and took the glass from her other hand. Bastian placed the knuckle of his index finger under her chin and raised her face.

"He's going to be cross with me," she said, but there was no fear or anxiety in her words. Just a statement. "That's what I think."

Bastian only lifted the glass to her mouth and tipped it so she would drink. And she did. When she thought he would pull away, he didn't, only tipping the glass higher so she would down it. Every part of her body hummed with the warmth, her vision dancing. Olive felt like her head was a boat out to sea, swaying with each wave.

When he pulled the glass away, a small droplet of the liquid dribbled out over her lower lip. Bastian ran his thumb along it, causing an eruption of goosebumps to crawl up her arms, then he stuck his thumb in his mouth. His eyes were so dark, so commanding, lidded in what her foggy mind deciphered as wanting.

Bastian took his thumb from his mouth and ran it along her bottom lip again. Olive's mouth parted. She looked at him through her own hooded eyes.

"Shouldn't we get back at him for the things he's done?" he asked quietly, eyes unmoving from her mouth. He rubbed her lip again, harder but not cruelly, tugging it along under his touch. "Even if it's only for us to know?" His thumb parted her lips then, past her teeth, resting on her tongue.

The room was swimming and everything felt so wonderful, like nothing could ever go wrong, like life was just one big game to be played to its funnest.

Olive closed her mouth around his thumb, guiding her tongue along it before pulling back and releasing him.

Bastian's eyes seemed glossy, perhaps from the same liquid. He'd drank some of the tonic, too.

Without a word, she stepped away from him, dress in hand, and made her way to the dressing parlour. Her head was humming, vision swaying so badly that she barely took in her surroundings. Olive remembered shucking Dreagan's trousers to the floor and wrestling with his shirt. She remembered sliding the dress over her head. But nothing else.

The rest of her day was patchy, too. She remembered her arm tucked into Bastian's as he led her through the gardens, though she couldn't recall a single flower. There was a hedge maze, perhaps? Yes. He'd let her enter alone, laughter in both of their voices. She was going to try to hide from him, getting a headstart, face hot from laughter and running. She thought he caught her. She thought she remembered his arms around her waist.

They ate lunch at some point. Or was it dinner? She'd spent her whole day laughing, gliding through a spinning world, smiling so much her face was aching.

And the drinks. Always the house elves with the glasses of amber liquid, more, more, more. Bastian had a few, she remembered. But with every drink she had, she fell farther into the fog.

Bastian's face suddenly grew serious. Olive blinked in a moment of self-awareness. It was dark outside the windows. They were in a bedroom, standing at the foot of the bed.

Why did he stop smiling? Every word, every vision blurred from one to the next. She'd asked him where Dreagan was, she thought.

"You don't have to worry about him anymore, Olive," he said. "If he's not dead yet, he will be before long."

Something niggled at the back of her mind. That wasn't right. Something wasn't right.

Olive tried to step back, to get away from him, but she realized his arms had already been around her, holding her tight against him. Olive's eyes darted around the room. Something was wrong, but any panic she should have felt was lost in the drunkenness of the tonic.

Bastian released one arm from around her and she felt his warm fingers on her chin, guiding her to look at him. Everything seemed hazy. Everything except his eyes. Those same eyes she knew, but not the same person. There was steel in them now, but it wasn't cruel. Not the eyes she knew. Not Dreagan's eyes.

"He stole her from me, Olive," he said quietly. She had the urge to look anywhere else, but his fingers kept her jaw in place. "She was mine. I...I was going to ask her to marry me. But we had a row before I could. She was spiteful, so spiteful. She went to him because she knew how I couldn't stand him. She went to him and he took her from me."

Olive tried to lean back, to put any distance between herself and Bastian, but he wasn't allowing it.

"Greyback will give him what he deserves, Olive," he said, voice quiet, eyes drifting down to her mouth. "And if he took what I held most dear, why shouldn't I do the same to him? What greater revenge would there be than stealing you from him when there is nothing he can do?"

Olive's heart thrummed in her throat. It was an odd sensation, her body telling her she was in danger while her mind insisted all was well.

"If he's dying, then what is the point?" she asked, voice void of any emotion. "He won't even know."

Bastian ran a thumb along her cheek. "But I will know," he said, so quiet it was nearly a whisper. "My sister-in-law," he added in admiration. And then the heat of his mouth covered hers.