And this is the start of the actual plot, kind of. Tiny things leading into larger events, and sometimes everything looks better in my head. The point where I'm questioning characterization and making sure I have the plot straight (I didn't, I had events flip-flopped in future chapters, and was about to go to sleep one night and was like "The hell? That's not right at all…").

All of the reviews, favorites, and alerts are always appreciated. : )

Things began to even out over the following months. Sometimes he'd disappear for days, simply saying he was heading out somewhere. She knew he'd be back, though.

He always came back.

It didn't help that there was news about Greyback nearly every day in the Prophet. People whispered things, wondered where he was. He was attacking Muggles and Wizards alike; bodies were found in multiple areas with roughly the same time of death, increasing the likeliness of the theory that he was raising an army of werewolves or something.

They tried to get out of the bedroom and simply go grab dinner occasionally. Places out of the way, to try and get away from people who knew what he looked like. There wasn't much talking; sometimes she'd mention something, causing his lips to quirk up. But there was predominantly silence, and they were both okay with that. What was there to really talk about, anyway?

Sometimes she'd wake up from a night they spent together, alone. A reminder that they had nothing extremely substantial.

It wasn't until around the end of November that something clicked.

They had decided on staying in and eating at her place; both of them cooking half of the meal that consisted of pasta and breaded lemon chicken. She knew something had been up. He seemed very occupied, but was attempting to make-up for something. Something he had yet to tell her.

Half-way through the meal, he glanced down at his plate and then looked at her. She was caught off-guard and pulled her head up, looking back.

"What?" She asked, eyes flitting back to her plate before meeting his again.

He licked his lips, brow furled in thought as he looked off to the side for a moment. The words wouldn't come out. He knew them. But they were stuck in his throat in a way he wasn't used to.

"I'm goin' away for a bit. Considerin' 'ow often I'm around the Alley, wha' with the Aurors an' everythin', someone's bound to notice me. I gotta leave London for a while. Weeks, not days."

She was quiet, but understood. If he wanted to stay out of Azkaban, he had to keep moving for a time.

"Of course." She murmured.

He half-expected this reaction, but he thought she'd be a bit more miffed. She wasn't crying, she didn't look upset (although he was well-versed in hiding emotions on his face, so for all he knew she could be hiding it). The words that spilled out of his mouth were the words that always seemed to get any man in trouble with the female variety. He bit his lip before leaning forward, forearms on the table and silverware down on his plate.

"Wha's wrong?"

"What?" She was putting a lot of effort in to keeping her nonplussed expression on her face, he could tell.

"You're not upset or anythin'?"

"Should I be?"

"Are you?"

"Scabior, we don't have an emotional attachment, do we? I mean, we talk. But it always about last year. It's always about who we were camping with, things that happened, the Ministry, Potter. Not to mention we fuck. A huge amount of time that we spend together is physical. We're rolling in bed, shoving things off tables, climbing onto counters. I've had my back against an actual wall more than I can remember. We've spent an entire day messing around, and I still have bite marks and bruises on my wrists from that damn scarf of yours from three days ago."

To prove her point, she rolled up her sleeves, showing green marks from where he had tied her hands above her head to the headboard.

"Wha' are you sayin', exactly? Because we're not always rollin' in the 'ay."

"I'm not saying that I don't enjoy it, because we both know that'd be a lie. But I don't want to be a plaything that you don't have to pay for. Am I happy you have to leave for a while? No. But I'm not bawling my eyes out because it was bound to happen. I don't know how to react. I haven't exactly had the emotional experience and we're not exactly focusing on that level."

Shit. He should have seen this conversation coming. He did find himself asking the question she was beating around the bush about: what were they? She had a point; they weren't entirely emotionally invested (something he would only do if he knew, if he felt something was right about the girl).

And she was right on her being inexperienced on relationships-she could have had a boyfriend, but he had been her first. She hadn't gotten involved far enough, but she knew the order in which things were happening between them wasn't correct.

In any other situation, he'd let his anger out and scare her like he would the others he captured. She was frustrating him, asking for something when she wasn't putting in the effort on her side. But he wasn't a Snatcher anymore and he didn't want to drive her away. Because driving her away meant getting rid of the one thing that gave him a bit of purpose at the moment.

"You wan' to try an' make this work on a level tha's not physical, in other words."

"Yeah."

He only had one actual relationship under his belt, one where he truly cared about her. It had begun very differently, involving teasing. But she had been pretty and clever. She had been killed and he was locked up because no one took his word for it that he didn't do it. Much like Crouch Junior, he was young when he tossed in; eighteen or so. He was nearly thirty now. He was different now, and he wasn't about to let down the walls he'd built up all for some girl much younger than him.

Ten years between them. Not a horrid gap, but not the most ideal.

"We can try, I s'pose. I can't promise anythin', Riley."

She nodded. "Alright."

His fingers dangled his fork loosely at her, "Jus' don't try an' change me. I was never extremely open to begin wit', so don't expect it now."

He caught a small smile on her lips at that.

Usually, they'd end up in bed and he'd disappear before she woke. But he wanted to leave feeling a little frustrated; he'd enjoy it more when he came back to her, and he knew she'd feel the same way.

Instead, he embraced her, pulling her to his chest and trying to remember what it felt like before, what he had done back then with the only woman he had cared for. Warmth. The scent of peppermint and coffee and a hint of vanilla. She fit against him perfectly. He kissed her hair, trying to burn the moment in his mind. A part of him knew he cared, wanted something more than an extension of the life he had as a Snatcher.

She wished him to be safe and sent him on his way with a scarf she had bought earlier. Riley had planned for it be given to him at a later date, but since it was getting colder and she didn't know where he was going, she had run back into her room to get it. The scarf was thicker, made for colder weather, and was green with traces of gold woven into the material.

He smiled to himself later as he brought it to his nose and realized she had sprayed his favorite scent of vanilla onto it.

He hadn't forgotten how shitty the weather was in November up north. It was colder than he expected, and he'd look out the window of the small cottage and find frost on the grass. It had been weeks since he left London, and it was closing in on December; he'd eventually get a little snow, some hail. Something other than rain.

The place he was staying belonged to a trusted friend of a trusted friend. It was a small place, well into the woods with barriers and enchantments. The owner had decided to flee state-side, and said Scabior was free to use it for a while.

Being this far out, away from people, gave him time to think about anything and everything. Riley being the forefront of many of them, along with how to clear his name, and what the hell Greyback was doing.

Having lived with the monster for months, he knew what he was capable of. Turning young children into werewolves, creating his own clans in hiding and having them continue his mission of biting and mutilating people. Killing for the sake of killing; bloodlust.

The werewolves' claims of wanting equality and being forced to live outside of Wizarding society were rebuked the fact that a large chunk they never actually acted like humans. Even when they weren't transformed, they were still vicious and vile to an extent to which Scabior couldn't even begin to understand.

There were exceptions, as with everything, but Fenrir was the example that people looked at and immediately assumed the worst with every werewolf.

If he could, he'd always be the one to negotiate with the captives. He'd be the one to punish them or coax them into his bed. He knew he was far from an outstanding human being, but Fenrir was something none of them would be prepared for.

There was a village not far from where he was now; he needed supplies, and a good walk. It was a Muggle village, and he wasn't going to chance Apparating when he'd traveled all this way just to remain hidden.

He straightened his thermal, pulled on his fingerless gloves and Riley's scarf. He slid on his leather coat, the single thing he had brought with him from the previous year. As much as he liked the red streak in his hair, it was too identifiable. Much like his beloved plaid trousers.

It hadn't taken him long to reach the small village, a few cars here or there. He nearly got hit by one because he had crossed without a care in the world.

He decided to check out the pub, out of habit. He glanced around, seeing no familiar faces. Good.

He ordered a beer, not feeling like getting shit-faced. Just a drink. It was just past five, some of the patrons coming in straight from work.

Riley would be rushing around and pointing her wand at things and cursing if the coffee machine wasn't doing what it should be. She'd be tired and her hair would be falling out of the quick bun at the nape of her neck, but she'd give a smile when he walked in. Always.

He was busy looking around, taking in the only difference between a place like The Leaky Caldron and a Muggle pub; a lack of moving furniture and flying glasses, when someone slapped him on the shoulder.

"That you, Scab?"

He'd recognize that voice anyway, a slight Irish lilt being all that was left because of years of being out of his native country.

"Davidson." Scabior shook the extended hand, gesturing with the other for the man to sit.

He was just as Scabior remembered; stocky with muscle, wearing a hat with earflaps over close-cut blonde hair. He looked well enough, for someone in the same position as him; running from the law. A part of Scabior didn't like this; what if Davidson worked for the Aurors, and this was some kind of set-up?

"Wha' are you doin' out 'ere?" The ex-Head Snatcher asked, taking an offered cigarette and match.

"Passing through. I'm going to visit my cousin down south. But trying to keep away from Aurors, you know?"

He knew very well.

"What have you been up to?" Davidson blew smoke out of his nose, looking like an angry bull.

"I've been 'idin' 'ere an' there. Was in London for a while, but couldn't stay too long. Not with the Ministry bein' in th' same city an' all."

"Do you have a place I could crash at, in London? Just for an afternoon. I have to meet someone else there, anyway, and I can't afford a room at the moment."

Scabior had gotten rid of his tiny flat as soon as he decided to get away for a bit. No traces. He had given the Muggle back-rent and then some, and packed what little he owned.

Davidson was one of the few Snatchers he had worked with that actually hated Greyback as much as he did. The other men didn't much mind, simply because they had twisted senses of humor. Davidson, a half-blood, had gotten tangled into snatching in order to keep his sister away from the Dementors; she was a Muggleborn, his mother having had an affair with a Muggle.

He knew Riley's hours. She'd be out until nine on Thursdays, the days she usually went shopping. She wouldn't even have to know…

"I've got a…friend o' sorts who 'as a place in Diagon Alley. Fidelus charm, but…I'll show you. You never let me down before."

Which was true; there was no reason to not trust him. They had survived together, a raggedy band of brothers. The camaraderie that came with living with other people in a small encampment for months on end hadn't left them, not entirely. Davidson was good at what he did, obeyed orders and never took action without his say-so.

But Riley…he would be breaking whatever trust they had built. And for her to have used herself as a bargaining chip in the first place, she had been putting a lot of trust into him not killing her, into him not torturing her and humiliating her. Which he hadn't, because there was no need to, not really. She still had walls up, of course, and so did he. But she'd tell him things, about her life before the war or even during-they could relate to some of each others stories simply because they were in similar environments.

He listened, partially because she didn't seem to have anyone else anymore, but because she trusted him enough to talk about things. The war weighed heavily on everyone, and it was not an easy thing to discuss.

It was now that he understood a bit more of what she had been saying. They had a physical connection, they understood each other due to the war, but there was nothing else. No backstory. No knowledge of what Hogwarts House the other was in (he thought it was obvious for him, really). They had a small emotional connection that was more like co-dependency. They needed each other physically, and needed someone to relate to on a level no one else around them really could.

But…surely then she'd understand someone needing a place to stop?

It shouldn't be this difficult. He knew Davidson longer than he knew Riley. She may have been an Auror and have seen things and have been on the other side of the war, but fact was he knew little about her. The man sitting across from him was someone he lived with, someone he had to get to know because of living space.

"Are you sure, Scabior? I mean..."

"Don' 'ave to know. S'long as you don' leave a mess behind, and you touch nothin' tha's not yours."

Davidson gave a slight shrug. They used to do it all the time, back when the weather was absolutely unbearable and they were piss-poor and couldn't get rooms. They'd use the house of someone they had captured for a few days and then abandon it to move on.

"I'm serious, Davidson. Leave no trace."

"I won't. I'm just wondering why you're so pissy about it. This friend…?" A blonde eyebrow rose in curiosity.

"Was never involved on our side. I don't wanna drag 'er into my mess more than I already 'ave."

"Oh? This friend's a she?"

Scabior glared at the man across from him; he was certain, if it were possible, frost would be forming on Davidson.

"Relax, Scab. I'll be careful."

He relaxed his gaze, looking down and to the side for a moment. "When'd you want to 'ead to London,then?"

"Tomorrow."

"We'll 'ave to go 'round eight, then. Apparate near the Leaky Caldron, go from there."

Davidson nodded in agreement, an old habit.

They spent the rest of the evening shooting the breeze, drinking, and stuffing their faces. Just like old times. Too much like old times.

They had Apparated into London with little problem; Aurors were more concerntrated in Knockturn Alley than around the pub and the Diagon Alley shops, but there were still a few around.

Scabior had lead Davidson to the red door, the glass panes set in tones of blue and hardly shifting around. If they were linked to Riley's mood (which would make sense, since she owned the building and had a magical contract of ownership), she couldn't be feeling too well. Was it because she missed him?

He told himself he'd still have to be gone for a little while longer. Just another week or so, and come back a few days before Christmas.

"You 'ave to be out by five. I'm not kidding. She closes shop at five-thirty or so, and comes straight 'ere. Avoid the portrait at all costs." The staircase shifted out and then ascended them, Scabior opening the door.

He pointed to the couch near the office area. "You sleep there. You don't get near 'er bed. You don't steal anythin' and you don't give this location to anyone else."

The men looked at each other. Scabior was being extremely defensive (then again, he protected what was his, Davidson recalled. He'd seen him take the offensive on Greyback over breaking a negotiation on a girl he'd taken claim to).

"Don't make me regret this, Davidson."

The unspoken threats hung in the air as the ex-leader left, leaving the other man to his own devices.