Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing in the Harry Potter franchise. This is for the personal enjoyment of myself and others. Olive Westin is my creation, but I acknowledge that I have no rights to her whatsoever as long as she stays in the Harry Potter universe.

AN: I do not, under any circumstances, condone the behavior of this story. There is a definite line between fiction and reality. If you ever feel you are being mentally, physically, or emotionally abused, reach out to someone. This story includes: rape/non-con, extreme instances of violence, self-harm, alienation, manipulation, and behavior modification. It is explicit. - DC

EDITED: 08/17/2015

Chapter One

The girl held her breath as Scabior entered the tent. Though, to him and the rest of the Snatchers, Olive wasn't a girl at all - she was Xavier Booke, one half of the infamous Booke Twins that haunted muggleborns on the run. The longer they thought she was the middle-aged Snatcher, the better her chances.

She was a rarity, as Professor Dumbledore had once put it. Her mother had hated her since the day she'd been born. In her first pictures taken at the muggle hospital, a tuft of bright pink hair was clearly visible - everything about her befuddling the doctors. Olive had been told her mother left when she was barely six weeks old and remarried, having a second child later who didn't know she existed. She wanted nothing to do with the unusual.

Her father, on the other hand, thought she was the most amazing gift he'd ever been given. The muggle magic he used to be so fond of only paled in comparison to his colorful daughter. He thought she was the most special little girl in the whole world.

Olive did not always feel the same. It was difficult for her to control her appearance when she was a child and so she wasn't able to go out in public very often. Her father was scared someone would take her to make money or run experiments, even though no amount of research he did ever amounted to anything. There simply was nothing like Olive recorded and he wasn't about to let them steal her away. Homeschooling only further alienated her from children her own age and she began to grow jealous and resentful of other kids, who got to play outside at the park across the street. Day after day was occupied with her dolls and, later, her books.

"Your magic is beautiful," he told her once, sitting her down on her creaky bed for a much needed talk, "But, you can't show anyone you don't trust."

Olive did not believe it was magic. She did not believe it was beautiful. She was a freak and nothing more.

She was eleven and a half when she received her letter from Hogwarts. A tall, strange man in a funny cloak had delivered it to her since she was muggleborn, as they called it. Olive was sure it was a cruel joke until he suddenly disappeared and re-appeared in the room with two load cracks. This, she learned, was called apparating - and she would become quite skilled at it in her later years. It was on this first meeting when Dumbledore explained that Olive was a rarity. Muggles could birth a witch or wizard, but it was nearly unheard of to have a child who was a metamorphmagus. Not that it hadn't happened before, he'd assured Olive - who was afraid she would be outcast even in the wizarding world.

Her father was filled with even more excitement than she. When they were escorted to Diagon Alley later that month, his wide eyes scanned everything possible, grin plastered for days afterward. Olive had only peeked up a few times during their trip. At one point she bumped into a blonde boy about her age and knocked everything out of her arms, apologizing profusely while trying to gather her things from the ground. When he bent to help her, Olive's head and hair turned a bright pink and he gaped at her, while his father clacked his cane impatiently for him to hurry. Mortified, she hardly looked away from her feet after that.

Twenty-nine days before her twelfth birthday, Olive was sorted into Ravenclaw.

She was a hat stall, the decision taking almost a full five minutes. Her skin grew from pale to red as she waited, feeling all eyes in the room on her. Even the blonde boy from Diagon Alley, who was sorted ahead of her and sat over at the green table now, watched with a smirk. The Sorting Hat had told her she was too unfriendly toward others for Hufflepuff and she wasn't near brave enough for Gryffindor. It came down to Ravenclaw and Slytherin, which she thought were the green and blue tables. Maybe she ought to have read into the school history a bit more. In that moment, embarrassed now that the blonde boy and his friends began to giggle at her for taking so long, she begged the hat for the blue table and that was what it gave her.

Those things didn't matter anymore. In the midst of this war, it made no difference what house a muggleborn had been in. They were all just as guilty for existing.

Scabior muttered under his breath about lazy good-for-nothings. He hated to see his men lying about.

Olive had been laying there on Xavier's bed thinking about many things. She wondered if Potter, Granger, and Weasley had gone back to Hogwarts. Surely, they were on the run and she hoped they weren't skirting under the enemy as she had been doing the past few months. She wondered if Draco Malfoy chose to be a Death Eater or if it was thrust upon him. Olive had fancied him for a while in Hogwarts, but after learning how the wizarding world worked, she knew she never stood a chance. Even if she always did catch him watching her from the corner of his eye as she entertained her few friends by changing her nose or hair.

But, she wondered most if she would avenge her father's death.

"Take guard, I need sleep," Scabior ordered, his dark hair pulled back into a disheveled ponytail, exposing his tired and unshaven face. Olive nodded in her manly guise and stood from the bed, walking past him with a quick step as he took a deep sniff into the air. She closed her eyes.

"Well, what'er you waitin' for?" he demanded, though there was an accusing tone to his voice that sent shivers down her spine. Olive gave a quick shake to her head and left the tent before he decided to get angry. It was too difficult to hold in her feminine screams when he Crucio'd.

Scabior was one of the Ministry's best Snatchers due to his unmatchable tracking skills. As an experiment, he'd been released from Azkaban only after Greyback had marred his back with a twisted scratch. He had beyond perfect hearing, cat-like vision, and a keen sense of smell, which followed Olive around like the plague. Scabior thought it was odd that an old man like Booke smelled of honeysuckle. Sometimes, after days of hard work, the smell would disappear. On his off nights, Booke would go out for a while, muttering about some pub, and return with a crack and that wonderful smell.

It reminded him of her. It reminded him of the embarrassment she'd caused him. It reminded him that she was the only one to escape.

Olive was glad the men she snatched with were always assuming things. "Never assume -," her father used to say with a laugh, "- or you'll make an ASS out of U and ME!"

They all assumed Xavier was heading out to some pub for drinks, but Olive was simply sneaking off to the closest river, pond, ocean, whatever for a well-needed bath. She couldn't help it that she smelled like honeysuckle or that the vile man was attracted to the sickly sweet scent. If he thought Booke was going out at night and sleeping around with some woman that smelled like her, that kept her in the clear. The longer he thought it, the better.

As she walked the perimeter, she began wondering again on that last thought. Would she ever avenge her father's death? She'd had plenty of chances to do it, but they all seemed too risky at the time.

She knew - weeks before any Snatchers turned up in her father's home - that she wouldn't be returning to Hogwarts for her final year of schooling. Olive had informed her father about the struggles of the wizarding war and both agreed that it was safest to not return. Unsure of what action to take, she would sit at her bedroom window day-by-day to watch for unwelcome visitors, despite her father's wishes to run. To ease his mind, she agreed to pack a bag at the beginning of summer, so they were ready at a moment's notice. One night, she'd fallen asleep with the window open and awoke the next morning to men laughing across the street at the park. Five men, all dressed in ratty clothes, sat around a small picnic table. There was another who stood out.

He was sitting alone on one of the swings, kicking himself forward and back every now and then. He wore muted plaid trousers, colorful compared to the drab attire of his mates. While the others sat and talked, he only said the occasional word, his eyes never once leaving Olive's bedroom window. She was alarmed, peeking out from the very edge of the window sill, but they made no sudden movements. If they saw her, they gave no indication. She looked right at the strange man by himself and he seemed to be looking back, though he just kept kicking the swing like nothing was amiss. When he reached into his coat, she froze solid, but he pulled out a cigarette and not his wand. Maybe they weren't even wizards. Maybe she was being too paranoid again.

"But, why would six grown men be sitting in a playground?" she muttered to herself. The plaid man was still staring at her, his friends forgotten, and said something that she couldn't hear as if answering her. A chill snaked up her spine.

After another half hour of crouching around the edge of the window, her legs began to cramp and she ducked back behind the wall to stretch out. They were either weird muggle men or Snatchers. Weird muggle men would pass on eventually, Snatchers would stake out until they had the cover of night. It was only early afternoon - that gave Olive a few hours to figure a way out in case they were Snatchers. She couldn't apparate well enough to take her father with her, but if it came down to that, she would risk splinching.

She couldn't think, her head was beginning to pound against her eyes. Panic was creeping up on her and she drew a long breath. What could she do? If she told her father now, he would panic and flutter around the house grabbing things, drawing attention. In the back of her closet sat her bag, packed with clothing and the essentials. She knew her father kept a bag in the back of his closet also. Outside, she heard the men laugh again and she began rubbing a red spot into her forehead, trying to think. An idea struck her and her eyes shot to her alarm clock - they'd have just over an hour. There was a daycare down the street and the morning session would be ending soon. If they could head out to her dad's car in the confusion of parents and toddlers everywhere, they may be able to get out. Not that the Snatchers wouldn't see them, but they wouldn't dare make a scene on a street full of muggles in broad daylight. The Ministry had grown a bit lax, but not enough for them to risk it.

An hour. Her hands began shaking as she crawled across the floor and snatched her bag from the back of the closet, dumping the contents on the floor. She'd packed months ago and wanted to make sure she had everything she needed now that running was a real possibility. It took her fourteen minutes to rummage through everything, refold, and repack with a few additions. Another three minutes to get the zipper shut, the whole time cursing the fact that the Ministry would know if she did magic. Seventeen minutes in, she was doing good. The shower was calling her name - who knew where they would end up or how long it would be before she had another chance to bathe? A minute debating on a shower. Yes, she would shower, it made her think clearer and would take her less than ten minutes. That would leave just over a half hour to get the food, get her dad, and get out. It made her wary to leave the strange men unattended, but if they were a real threat, she assumed they wouldn't strike mid-day.

Assumed. A mistake her father had always warned her about.

If they were even a real threat, after all. They could still just be muggles. Yes, she'd take a shower and if they were still there when she was done, she would execute her plan.

The soft crooning of Frank Sinatra could be heard from her father's radio downstairs, drifting up the stairs as Olive crossed the hallway to start her shower. Remembering the window was still open, she crossed back and stood now, giving the men a long look before sliding the window shut.

The plaid man's eyesight was much better than her own. He could see from across the street that her earrings were silver hoops, that her burgundy jacket had buttons instead of a zipper, that the corners of her lips pulled down to reveal a small frown line at the edge of her mouth. Olive could only make out that his trousers were plaid, but not the dirt-stained red band around his arm.

When she left the window, he laughed. "She thinks she's runnin', gents," he said, giving one final kick on the swing before standing on the stretch of bare grass beneath.

"Ready then are we, Scabior?" one of his men asked, to which he nodded in return. The five men followed him across the street and stood behind as he knocked gently on the door.

Olive was already in the shower, scrubbing as fast as her hands allowed and counting the seconds under her breath. She didn't hear the knock. She didn't hear the yells from downstairs - the "Where is she?" or the "Crucio!" She didn't hear the funny man's sly steps up the stairs or his hand resting on the warm door. She didn't hear him inhaling the honeysuckle scent that was rolling out into the hall with the steam or see Scabior's eyes roll back as she turned the water off, breathing in the last warm wave of the smell.

Olive only knew that her shower had taken her seven minutes and that she had roughly 35 left to get out of the house.

She grabbed a towel from under the sink and secured it around her light hair, grabbing another to wrap around her body.

Scabior stood outside the door flexing his fingers in anticipation, the excitement of the chase building up. He had heard her counting under her breath and wondered if he should count to see how long it took her to scream. He hoped she struggled, too. He loved it when they struggled. His stomach gave an uneven jump as he thought of her writhing under the ropes, her scent wafting wild around him. Sometimes he laid in bed and wondered why he liked such wicked things or when, exactly, he began enjoying to hurt others. He mused about how sick he had become.

The door made a soft click, but halted, only open a mere inch or two. In those few seconds, Scabior realized his mistake. The music was off downstairs after the scuffle that had taken place in the living room. It didn't matter, this was it, she was his and the honeysuckle was overwhelming him, making it difficult to breathe quiet enough that she wouldn't hear. Upset, he heard her give a small huff in debate on what to do and knowing she was right there behind the door made his heart beat in his throat.

Olive knew she was wasting time. There wasn't a noise in the whole house, but it had to be her paranoia, her dad had probably just turned off the radio. Nearly two minutes passed and she couldn't waste any more time, they had to get out. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door, squeaking out for her dad and stopping mid-word when she saw the plaid man.

"Hello, love," he purred, inhaling the aroma rolling off her skin.

She tried to dodge past him, screaming for her dad and clutching the towel. Her wand was in her room and if she wanted to stand any chance, she had to reach it. He stepped in front of her quickly, throwing his arms around her so tight that her feet lifted off the ground. Olive struggled against him and he slammed her into the wall, a quick wail leaving her mouth. It was daylight, why were they inside? She still had at least twenty minutes, god, why did they come inside?

"Let me go," she screamed, eyes welling up in tears while she thrashed her legs against him.

She was struggling. His stomach clenched, feeling himself getting aroused. The honeysuckle bounced off the walls with every writhing movement she made, amplified every time she screamed for her dad as it bounced around the invisible vibrations in the air. Caught up in the moment, he grabbed a fistful of her hair - bringing his nose into her damp curls. Olive took the opportunity to knee him between the legs, but she didn't hit hard enough. Scabior still gave a small grunt of pain, but he felt his blood rush with lust. If there was anything he liked better than them struggling, it was when they fought back. She wrenched a hand free and backhanded him with all she had, rolling against his arms and out of his grip before darting toward her room. She needed her wand, it didn't matter now if the Ministry knew.

He let out a growl of frustration, grabbing her ankle and causing Olive to trip, smashing her head off the hallway table. Olive laid still for a moment, the room spinning while blood ran down into her eyes. The most she could do was claw at the floor as he dragged her backwards on her stomach, the towel leaving her behind while he crawled on top of her, pulling a fistful of her hair and forcing her head up at an angle.

"Fight all you want, sweet'art, you're still comin' with me," he said, nuzzling his face into her exposed neck. There was blood in her mouth and the scent of it mixed with the honeysuckle was now among his favorites. "You smell fuckin' delicious," he purred, laughing into the space behind her ear, his nose running up her hairline. "But, you're pathetic now, all the fights gon' outta ya."

Olive never answered. She lay still, facing the floor, trying to keep from throwing up. Bile rose in her throat, a mixture of her head injury and knowing she was going to die soon. One long, pitiful squeal escaped when her face screwed up, thinking of her dad downstairs and what had happened to him.

"Where is your wand?" he asked, his mouth muffled by her hair. He knew she could feel the stiffness rubbing against the back of her thighs and he reveled in the way her face scrunched up in disgust.

When she didn't answer, he slammed her head into the wood floor until she began sobbing again, her face a bloody mess.

"Where. Is. Your. Wand?"

"On my bed," she cried, sobbing harder.

"Good girl," he muttered into her hair, leaning close to chomp his teeth down on her neck, causing pain to erupt down her entire body. Olive let out a cry, screaming out for her dad once more.

When he left her to grab the wand, she slumped against the floor, unable to move her limbs. Everything in her vision was red and she clenched her eyes shut, feeling her body shake violently against the floor as she sobbed. She'd already grown tired, she hoped they killed her quickly.

When he returned, he picked her up bridal-style and fixed the towel around her before he carried her downstairs. Olive's eyes were closed now, but she heard the other men whoop and holler, yelling crude things about her half-naked state. To Scabior's amusement, her beaten father struggled against his restraints with tear-filled eyes at the sight of his daughter limp in his arms. He would not be so amused later, though, when he realized that Olive had slid her wand from his back pocket as he'd carried her down the stairs.

With an unceremonious creaking of springs, Olive was dumped on the couch and let out another moan of pain, careful to keep her wand hidden beneath her and the cushions. Luckily, that arm landed first, so it didn't draw too much attention and the wand was exposed for only a short moment, the men all missing it. She risked opening her eyes and rolled her head toward her dad. His face was cast in red light, like everything else, and the room danced and spun when she tried to lift her head.

All the men shifted with a sudden movement, Scabior grabbing his chest.

"Fuck, someone Taboo'd. Booke and Booke -," he said to two similar men, all enjoyment out of his voice, "- take care of the muggle. Bind the mudblood an' bring her to camp. I want a night with her before we cash'er in," he said with a coy smile aimed at Olive's father, daring him to make one noise of protest. "The rest o'you lot, let's go."

The men all nodded to Scabior.

"Epping Forest in the valley, the usual spot" he said to the Booke twins, him and the other three disappearing with a crack.

The thick boys chortled as they looked down on her nearly exposed body, the blood still running from her head and many bruises forming.

"Go' a li'le rough 'wiv ya, that Scabior?" the shorter one asked. Olive was frightened by the chunk missing from the man's nose, but continued to lay emotionless. She waited for the Obliviate which would erase her and the wizarding world forever from her father's memory.

It never came.

The one with the scar across his lip raised his wand.

"Avada Kedavra!"

All the pain left her body in an instant, frantic as the light left her father's eyes. She snapped.

She thought of that night now as she walked the camp perimeter a third time, listening for muggles or muggleborns. Half-bloods, even. She thought about it a lot, even though she sometimes wished she would forget.

She'd killed both brothers with her hidden wand that night. She'd stolen Xavier's clothes and identity and hid their bodies. Stuffing a few small reminders of her father into Xavier's pockets, she alerted the muggle police that she thought her father was dead, gave him a final kiss goodbye, and apparated to the exact spot Scabior had told them to go. It was stupid and she knew it, but she was going to kill him. Every time her body screamed out in pain, warning her to run, she took another step toward that camp, hell-bent on revenge. She faked a deep crying to cover for her own feminine voice and told them lie after lie - how the girl had a wand, how she killed Alexander after he killed her father, how he had barely gotten away. Scabior Crucio'd Xavier for his stupidity and Olive thought she was going to die from the pain. Even though she appeared as unharmed Xavier, her wounds were still very much real under the guise and he tortured her so badly that her head ached for nine days after that night.

That had been months ago now. At first, she said she was waiting until she was fully healed, then until the right moment. Meanwhile, she had to snatch these innocent people with Xavier's body to remain safe. She could feel their pain as they sobbed, but she continued. She continued to turn them in, knowing full and well they'd be killed. It was survival, she would tell herself. It was hunt or be hunted.

While Olive took guard around the camp, Scabior lay in the tent, surrounded in the honeysuckle aroma. It seemed to follow him everywhere - taunting him for falling for the girl's act, for letting her steal back her wand and kill one of his men.

He would find her for making him such an embarrassment. He swore to himself that he'd make her cry out for a father who was no longer there.

And he suspected if he wanted to find her, he needed to start with Xavier. The scent clung to him every few days when he would disappear and Scabior was beginning to theorize that she was paying him off. It wasn't a common scent for a woman and he knew it had to be her he was smelling. Maybe she had friends with money. Maybe she was fucking him in exchange for her freedom. Whatever it was, he would find her through Xavier.