She had still been in a daze when she stumbled through her front door, a mask of indifference on her face. She had walked back to London, using Muggle transportation when she could afford it.

She didn't care how long it took. She figured there was something more in the journey than the destination.

Caden saw the people coming together and welcoming in those who were finally able to come home. Others were sliding comforting arms around one another as they heard the inevitable had happened too soon.

She would look at them in silence, turn around and start walking again.

A part of her kept repeating a mental mantra of stupid things.

He wouldn't want you to cry over him. C'mon, you're stronger than that. You struggled for years to keep yourself above water and now you're going to sink because of a single man's death? Was that all it took? Get yourself together.

The silence of the house was only aiding in the soul-crushing realization that she had come back alone. She knew, of course, knew all along he wasn't there with her.

But…it was only now, as she closed the door and looked at the very empty house, that it hit her. Now that she was out of sight from anyone, away from the world for a moment, she felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach.

Caden couldn't breathe, falling against the door behind her and letting the tears fall. They were followed by sobs, an occasional short shriek that hurt her throat.

It wasn't fair.

He was a good man. Or he had the potential to be. He hadn't been like Jonathan; he hadn't tried to woo her, and she had no money to give immediately (although that held her to him, their deal). She was nothing when she met him; her name meant nothing, her money was gone. She was a woman in need of a way out; desperate, but not enough to do anything stupidly rash.

He should have come back with her.

The wand she clenched in her hand was his.

All that she had from him was a wand, a key, some papers, and memories of campfires and tents and running.

Things were slow at first. The processes of rebuilding the castle, fixing the Ministry, and capturing those on the run had begun almost immediately after Potter won. It was months before Aurors had come knocking, questioning her.

She had waited to go to the vault Scabior had left her. She should have known that was a dumb move; no one would have noticed in the mess right after the battle. But having waited three months, they now knew she was alive. Goblins had upped the security, Aurors were stationed all over.

Only a matter of time, really.

She was alive. Her name signed on a contract between her and the puppet Ministry, hiring her as a Snatcher. A thief, a kidnapper, a potential murderer. A war criminal, to boot.

In her defense, she laid out the problem she had found herself in the previous year; too broke from a stealing ex-husband to pay off the house in her name. She was desperate, yes, but she did it out of necessity. She didn't enjoy it, and would never dream of doing it again for pleasure. They questioned her employment prior to her house being in the midst of short-sale; why she hadn't bothered to at least try and find a job.

She said she did, but she felt the stigma of old-fashioned society; people looked at her with pity, a woman from a fairly well-off family, her husband taking her money and dashing off. Skeptical eyebrows were raised at that, considering that, from a logical standpoint, a job mattered more than societal standards.

Her documents matched up; previous bank statements, her mortgage contract. Bane had come in, to testify that the documents were true and to act as a character witness. He explained that she had made good on payments until a year prior to signing her Snatching contract. The small change she had made with the Improper Use of Magic department had finally run out and she begun to sell her belongings to make payments. With exceptions on not leaving when the house was being shown, she was a good client and well-to-do citizen of Wizarding Britain.

With Kingsley as Minister, they were willing to give everyone a chance and hear the story. No fear. No more shoving innocent people away in Azkaban. They needed the room for the actual criminals.

The voting had been close; three votes swayed the verdict into clearing away her charges and her name.

She had released a breath she didn't know she was holding, her shoulders softening from the lifting of a heavy weight on them. Caden had looked around to find everyone getting up and leaving, Bane included. She caught a glimpse of his figure walking away, towards the lifts.

She'd thank him, properly. Without a crowd of people around.

For now, she headed to the Atrium and the fireplaces. The monument that once claimed "Magic is Might," displaying Muggles and Muggleborns crushed under the weight of the saying, was gone. Destroyed. It was a terrible reminder that was not necessary and, thus, was obliterated to pieces.

Instead, there was a black, glossy stone cube, carved with the names of every individual, from both sides (the exceptions being the inner circle of Death Eaters and Voldemort himself), who died. Alphabetical order by last name, the timeline from the disappearances two years before the War. It was tall enough to have room for every name but not so high as to obscure the list. The stone itself was polished to high gloss, reflecting like a mirror. Charmed with a silencing spell, those who stepped into the boundaries found the hustle and bustle of the open area gone, entirely. Silence, absolute silence amongst a busy lobby.

It was an eerie experience when she had first stepped close. Everyone kept walking, talking, going on with their lives just beyond an invisible line. She could see a blurry of movement behind her as she stared at herself and a name.

Her foot crossed the barrier and every sound around her dissolved. It was not difficult to locate A. Scabior. Her fingers found the letters, carved in all uppercase symbols, easy to read. Her own reflection stared back at her, a woman she sometimes barely recognized. Changed, because of the man whose name she stared at. She looked down, closed her eyes for a moment and remembered his face, his scent, his voice. Her index finger tapped the stone twice, remembering his words to her. Eyes locked with her own reflection again, she nodded to herself.

She stepped out of the boundaries and headed towards the fireplaces.

This story took me a lot longer than I wanted it to, due to a lot of real life priorities. I was determined to finish it, even though this section of the fandom's a bit dry. I planned to follow the canon from the beginning; I wanted to do something different since I've already written another story in which he survived.

I've said it how many times, but I'll say it again: thank you to every single one of you for reviewing. I'm very glad you stuck it out and enjoyed the story. Thank you for sticking through to the end.

The monument here is based off the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington D.C. We studied it as part of a section in my art history class; I've never been to D.C., and at some point in my life, I most certainly want to. The idea of a memorial to be included came about, and then I remembered that particular one and drew from there.

The Vietnam Veterans Memorial is a V-shaped wall below ground level; done so that, when you enter, the sound from the city is blocked out. The wall is polished black granite, carved with the names of soldiers who died. When you look at it, you see yourself reflected back amongst the names.