I'm just throwing this up here because I want to, and because I get the nagging feeling that if I do, I might not be as distracted. Chapter 7's not even close to being finished, but I've got so much to do for school and I need to write papers, not fanfiction at the moment. So this is a treat for you guys, tide you over.

I'm not sure if the portion of Riley's backstory makes sense; like everything, it's subject to change. And also, a warning: there's some fluff, especially towards the end. Yeah. I don't even know myself, to be honest. I'm hoping everything except the crack-fluff at the end comes off as a slight evolution of character for Scabior, showing that he's slowly growing to care about Riley...or something.

And…a bit more of Davidson and what he's up to. Because it moves the plot along and it becomes a bit clear who he's working for.

He had woken a little before five, rubbing sleep from his eyes with a large, meaty hand. He couldn't simply lay here, it wasn't in his nature. He needed to move and he motivated himself enough to walk over to the desk across from him.

His eyes fell upon pictures by the desk, old ones. A trio of teenagers, happy as pigs in a sty. A blonde boy a girl with dark hair and grey eyes.

He had heard a drunken tale from one of the other men once; a girl came to their camp, asking Scabior for her scarf back. Their leader bedded her and sent her on her way with her scarf and a pack of food. She was on the list too, they had said. The little slut.

There was a more recent picture in a silver frame. Scabior glaring at camera, which was obviously being held by the girl, a giddy smile plastered on her face in the picture. Despite his annoyance at the captured moment, the photographed Scabior nuzzled her neck, a gesture that seemed slightly tender for the ex-Snatcher. He would then look up and send the viewer a glare that screamed dominance over what was his.

Davidson was slightly disgusted, but knew there hadn't been a woman to create such an effect on him in many years. For her to give him sanctuary in her arms with nothing but absolute agony to gain, she was either a masochist or there was something else they both had yet to tell the other.

His boss would want to know what Scabior was up to these days. He was considered a coward, but hardly a threat. They'd leave him be. For now.

His hands went for his wand, pointing it at the photograph. Muttering Geminio, he created a duplicate, frame and all. Useful information, and no one had to know. There didn't seem to be wards around, except for the Fidelius.

Davidson looked around once more, and then showed himself out, heading into the bustling city.

Riley was tired, as always, when she finally opened her apartment door. She was in no mood to cook for herself, and had picked up something from a new Asian place in Muggle London, close to the Alley. She had grown up on having take-out once a week with her parents. Her mother always got beef and broccoli, and in truth she hadn't liked it much; she'd decline the offer of a helping every time. But her mother always offered, and Riley would never snap at her for it. Just one of her mother's idiosyncrasies.

The beef and broccoli was on the bottom of the bag, under a pint of roast-pork lo-mien and a tub of wanton soup.

She had settled on the idea of a hot bath, greasy-but-delicious food, and reading for the night. She could go through order forms and bills tomorrow.

As she dumped the bag on the kitchen counter, she couldn't help but feel like something was out of place. No one was here with her, though.

"Homenum Revelio."

Nothing.

Suspicion crossed her face for a moment, but she chocked it up to just being paranoid. War did that to people. Being an Auror did that to people. Moody being the prime example.

She shrugged to herself and left the bag on the counter; the heat of everything packed together would keep it warm and she wouldn't have to waste time re-heating it.

Kicking off her shoes as she walked to into the bedroom, Riley went through her drawers and picked out underwear, sleep pants, and a tee shirt. The pants were actually Scabior's, and were far too big for her. But she didn't care. No one was going to see anyway.

Riley placed her clothes on the counter in the en-suite bathroom, looking up at herself in the mirror. Her skin was clear, no circles under her eyes, no marks of unhealthiness. In the garish light above the sinks, the scar on her cheek stuck out like chalk on black pants. She brought a finger to it, and it felt cold compared to the rest of her face.

"Stupid Riley. Stop. Decided not to think about anything tonight, remember?"

She flicked her wand at the claw-footed tub, seated next to a circular window that looked out over the Alley, into London. Water began spewing out of the faucet, steaming. A bottle of scented bubble-bath poured its contents into the water.

She could see the lights of the Muggle city, beautiful against a back-drop of oranges and pinks and purples and blues of sunset. She wished she had someone to share it with. The tub and the sunset.

She caught her own eyes in her reflection, and glared, pointing a warning finger.

Back to the kitchen she went, reaching into the wine rack of the top cabinets and a glass. It wasn't filled; she hardly drank to begin with. But to hell with that. She was going to spend the night alone, why not some wine?

Scabior plagued her thoughts. Was he okay? Where was he? What if he was hurt? What if he was caught? The worst was: What if he's with someone else? That one was dominant. It was the pettiest of them, and it was the one that snaked its way into her mind most often. Which was stupid, because if he was with someone else, at least he'd be alive.

It was like the scarf incident all over again. She was starving and needed shelter and she was more concerned about getting her scarf back. Perspective seemed to be lacking in her life.

He could have lied to her. Really, he had no reason to stay with her. It wasn't like she was protection, because she had nothing behind her anymore. No power as an Auror. She was a citizen now. He could have found someone beautiful and shacked up with her and was shagging her brains out for all Riley knew.

Another nagging part of her brain asked why she cared. Maybe she had driven him away with her talk of emotionally attaching. She wondered why she said what she did.

She was clearly emotionally attached already, the way her thoughts were running. What did she want? She had asked herself this so many times. She wanted to know more about him, to an extent. It wasn't her place to ask about his past unless he was willing to tell. She did not want him burdened, but on some level, she did not feel as though she could help him.

Scabior was an emotionally-guarded man. He was bitter. He was angry. He was gentle one second and then rough the next. He'd be crooning in her ear and then hissing and thrusting hard enough to make her cry out in pain rather than pleasure. Consistency? Is that what she wanted?

No one could give her that. It was kind of exciting sometimes, not knowing what to expect.

She simply wanted Scabior. That was the only way she could sum it up. She wanted him in her life. There were moments when he seemed like he was going to say something, something he was remembering. Sad. So sad. It would leave as soon as she he looked at her. It was replaced by a tiny amount of…she didn't dare say love. Joy? Hope? It wasn't lust. He was never in the mood when he was remembering things.

The water stopped pouring into the tub, and Riley threw her clothes into a pile by the door. She had forgotten how cold it got in the apartment in the winter. Damn.

She hissed as she stepped into the warm water, but got used to it quickly. She kept her wand on a small table beside the tub, where she had placed the bottle and glass as well. She reached out, pouring a generous helping of the red substance. She looked it for a moment, the light catching it and throwing a red reflection onto the floor before she took a sip.

The last time she'd taken a bath to relax (she preferred using the shower that was situated in an alcove), it had been when she was unable to sleep, some days before he had left. The sun was barely up over the skyline, and she hadn't gotten anything resembling sleep that night. And it wasn't from her bedroom activity with Scabior. Her thoughts were in a thousand different places and sleep was impossible. It took one look at the calendar she kept in the kitchen to figure out why.

Of course. That day. She had picked up that stupid picture, the three of them thrilled and giddy and happy before everything went to shit.

She said nothing; there was nothing written on the day that gave away what it was. She hadn't even glanced in his direction as he sat up, watching her. She simply walked into the bathroom and ran a bath.

She'd been interrupted and opened her eyes to hands running up her calves and Scabior on the other side of the tub, his feet touching hers. She hadn't even heard him. This was the one place they had not been together (the shower was another story entirely), but they made no effort to change that. He had simply stayed silent and gestured to her to come to him.

She laid against his chest, his head on her shoulder, one arm on her leg, the other around her waist. They watched the sunrise from the window, golden light casting a wonderful contrast against white and silver of the bathroom floor and fixtures.

She remembered him once mentioning spending his mornings alone and watching the sun rise when he could. Never said why, but she could see the appeal, and on a small level understand why. She had seen his neck enough times to know the mark of Azkaban. The sun was something he hadn't seen for how long?

She got the feeling that if she were bawling her eyes out, he'd snap at her to get her head straight. He had every right to do it too; no doubt it was in his personality to be bossy, otherwise he wouldn't have been the leader of a band of Snatchers. A part of her wished he would have. She hated the way she felt the past constricting her, mourning for someone she hadn't spoken to before...

She knew nothing about who he had previously dated, why he had the Mark of Azkaban. Scabior could have understood in some way, pieced enough together to figure out she was missing one of them.

As she watched night creep over the city, she drank her wine in silence.

She had come out some time later, the food still warm and the feeling of someone else being there gone. She fell asleep with a heavy tome on her lap, her wine glass and plate empty on the coffee table in front of her.

It was a week or so later that she had once again fallen asleep on the couch. She felt a weight being taken off her lap, and woke to a hand bookmarking the page and placing it onto the table quietly.

"Mornin' sleepy 'ead."

She was still slightly in the realm of sleep, but was brought back to reality when she finally looked up. Her eyes widened, and she couldn't help but throw her arms around the figure to her left. Much different than when they had seen each other months ago; hesitant, cautious. Now she simply leapt at him like an eager puppy.

He was taken off-guard by her sudden joy, lurching back from the force of her body against his. He gave a quiet chuckle at her enthusiasm, and embraced her tightly.

She wouldn't be this happy if she knew… He thought.

But considering her mood before he had left, and the note they had departed on, he was slightly happy to know she was happy.

It also meant she was ignorant of what he had done. Which was good, but he had to stifle the feelings of self-hatred for having betrayed her trust.

Then again, she gave it so easily, her trust.

He buried his face in her hair, smelling lavender. Different. He preferred the vanilla.

She ran her hands up his chest, resting underneath the scarf she had given him. Her face was plastered with a stupid-happy grin, as if she couldn't believe he had come back. Of course he would. He always did before.

Her right hand went further up, and she laid her hand on his cheek, thumb grazing the corner of his lips. He had stubble again, not that she expected anything different.

"It's really me, love. You're like a child who's just go' the gift she was waitin' for."

He swooped down and kissed her. He hadn't forgotten what she had tasted like, but it was wonderful to have it again. Her lips, warm against his.

That was as far as he would let it get. The tiny whine that escaped her throat when he pulled away did not escape his ears.

"You're gonna have to wait a bit longer, beautiful. You're the one tha' wanted somethin' more substantial."

He still had that power over her. The power to leave her aching for him, to feel his lips linger on hers. He was just as frustrated as she was, and she knew it. Why not resolve it now? It'd been weeks.

Her facial expression must have given something away. He leaned down, their foreheads touching. "I know, Riley. Believe me, I know. But I gave it thought. If I'm tryin' to get back into the world, migh' as well make it worthwhile an' try out the relationship thin' again."

"Really?"

He stole a quick kiss in reply before turning away and raiding her kitchen. "I'm going to make pancakes. Go fix tha' mess you call 'air and get dressed. I was thinkin' we could go 'round the city or somethin'."

"You're one to talk about messy hair." She walked into her bedroom, not bothering to close the door as she undressed and threw on jeans and a long sleeve shirt.

"I'm burnin' your pancakes for that." He had found the ingredients he needed and began pointing his wand at them.

She simply laughed. Riley couldn't do much else.

They were walking, shoes splashing into puddles, sending droplets to scatter onto the already soaked sidewalk. The park hadn't been a part of his ideal itinerary, which was supposed to be window-shopping. He was going to get her something for the holiday (he had something in place for New Year's, but that didn't cover Christmas). She had done a lot for him, simply by not giving his name up. He could spend a few galleons on woman he was holding to him.

His arm was around her lower torso, loose but possessive. She was huddled in a knitted scarf and pea coat, hunkering down into the collar. Endearing. She looked like a baby bird, fluffing up her down to keep warm.

There wasn't anyone around, really. Some Muggles walking their dogs were the only exceptions.

"Scabior?" She had been hesitant on opening her mouth for a while, conflicted.

He peered down at her, her head back at its proper level and expression contemplative. "Wha', Riley?"

"I…If we're going to do this," she waved a hand between them, gesturing to their relationship, "I want to tell you something."

She had stopped moving, and he was caught like a dog on a chain that held him back, snapped tight. He backtracked a step or two to be on level with her again. She wasn't looking at him, but at the pavement ahead of them, lost, sad. A twinge of remorse.

His thoughts ran a mile a minute. No, she couldn't be pregnant. They'd been careful, very careful about that. Terminally ill? Gave his name while he was gone? Slept with someone else? Wasn't entirely human?

The fuck had that last one come from?

He closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. He'd caught one too many of those science-fiction things on the TV at the place he had been staying (simply a cover, in case Muggles came around and went "Where's the telly? You haven't got a telly, are you mad?"). But Scabior flipped it on in mere boredom and he spent the night watching what he thought were stupid things. Infomercials...what the fuck were Muggles thinking inventing half of that crap?

"You can't interrupt, though, alright?" She was focusing on her words, the tale she had to tell him. "I just…I don't want secrets, to keep things from you."

He moved his arm up from her waist to her shoulders, and they began to walk again, Riley narrating.

"It was during the Triwizard Tournament. I was sixteen, a silly little Ravenclaw too wrapped up in the spirit on the grounds to notice anything. I had two people I considered my best friends; Olivia and Sebastian-there's pictures of the three of us by the desk,"

So that confirmed his thoughts that those people meant something to her.

"Sebastian and I were…like brother and sister. We met outside Hogwarts, as we lived close by and our parents knew each other. Olivia was jealous of how close I was to him; she liked him, and he her. He had tried explaining this to her with no avail. She wouldn't have it. I became the awkward third wheel and soon found myself without anyone to be around except my study group.

"Sebastian and Olivia were both Hufflepuffs. So they were always together, even at the end of the day. It wasn't until Olivia approached me at breakfast, without Sebastian, that I thought something was odd.

"She had told me that Sebastian was snooping around, that he thought Moody was a bit odd. I told, 'Well, yeah, it's Moody. He's a bit eccentric, to put it lightly.'

"'No, Riley. That's not what he thinks. He went to go and get some help on the essay that was assigned, something about too vague of a context or not understanding the difference between something. He knocked on the office door, and the sound that replied didn't sound quite Moody-ish. A half-octave too high. He heard bumbling about, a bit of gagging, and then Moody answered the door. So he claims.' She did this weird, huffy bitch stance, like his world should revolve around her.

"'So he's out spying on the professor that's not sitting at the table.' I concluded

"'Yeah,' Her eyes had flickered to the table, where there was no Alastor Moody.

"And it was like you could have cast Crucio on us and we wouldn't have felt it. We had the same thought. Sebastian had this…strange intuition. He could read people, really well; it was a skill he wanted to take with him to the Ministry, work as an Auror with it. He'd be reading you like an open book."

Scabior did not like that idea at all. Someone reading him like that. No. He liked his thoughts and actions to be his own and understood by only him. Occasionally someone else.

"We dashed out of the Great Hall, shoving first years in our paths. We were dashing up to the Defense Against the Dark Arts Room, dealing with those bloody stairs up to the tower. Olivia had said she knew a short-cut, but I never trusted passageways in the castle. And considering the two of them left me hanging for months, I wasn't about to trust her word.

"I made it there first, and I wish I hadn't."

She sniffled, wiping tears away with a gloved hand. She didn't want to cry, she didn't want to look pathetic.

"Sebastian was sprawled on the corridor floor, dead. Just dead. Pale. Shocked, eyes wide and jaw slack. I shook him, and he was so cold, Scabior. Like he had been there all night. I had my wand out, thinking I could do something, and Olivia came at the moment when I was trying to revive him, thinking he was only knocked out; I couldn't let myself think my best friend was dead. Denial.

"Olivia screamed and cried, and portraits ran for Dumbledore and we were lucky there was no one else there except the imposter that was Moody and the other professors. They kept it very hush-hush for a while. But that didn't stop the Aurors from coming, from Scrimgeour interrogating the two of us to our wits end.

"She refused to believe that I hadn't done it. I had my wand, but Sebastian's was the one that was used to kill him, lying next to his body. I had picked it up to identify it, stupid me. I had motive, supposedly; I was left out, jealous of the time my friends were spending together without me.

"My voice was drowned out by the Ministry ensuring everyone that everything was fine. My cries of innocence meant that the only other person capable of having done the act was in fact a Death Eater. People saw this; they read the article about Crouch Junior in the Prophet, and put two and two together once news got out another student died on campus that year. If people weren't believing Harry Potter, how were they going to believe me? Fudge refused to accept it, of course. Scrimgeour was keen on letting me go; it was him, ultimately, that got me into the Aurors after graduation. I was acquitted after the battle in the Ministry, once Scrimgeour went into the Minister's office-there was no evidence against me, nothing substantial. I owe that man, may he rest in peace."

She stopped talking; her tears had stopped a short while ago. She looked up at him. Puffy eyes, red cheeks.

"Wha' 'appened to that girl tha' didn't believe you?"

"Dunno. Don't really care, to be honest. Bitch was my best friend and put her dead boyfriend before me." She smiled a wry, self-mocking smile.

Scabior stopped walking, and they faced each other. He couldn't help himself, he ran his hands into her hair, nuzzling his nose to the top of her head. He wouldn't be doing this if this silly woman hadn't done something to him. He hadn't felt this way in so long.

"That's why I couldn't sleep that night. That day was when I found him. Early December."

He understood it now. Her restlessness. Her decision to be Auror. Why she preferred to be the only working on the case rather than in the field. She was afraid of being hurt, of seeing people she knew dead. The war had enhanced that for her. It ended up with people she knew dead. No wonder she left her post.

"C'mon, let's go grab a bite to eat," he murmured into her hair, kissing her forehead right after.

He led her out of the park, his arm back around her.

"Why am I doin' this again?"

It was the fifth time he'd asked that question. Her attitude had become perky, and considering their conversation the other day, it was a change of pace. An annoying, frustrating change of pace.

"Because it's fun! I love baking without magic. And besides, they're cookies. Who doesn't love cookies?"

"I don' think I do anymore."

She was pushing a shape of a bear into the rolled-out dough, her face dusted with flour that continued into her hair. She wore an apron, caked with batter and more flour.

He was trying to get the shape of a gingerbread man to come out without the use of magic. It was always missing a limb by the time he went to move it onto the tray.

"There's too much hassle wit' this. I can't get a single one to turn out decent."

"Then do me a favor and simply roll out the dough, alright? I can't have customers thinking someone's been biting arms and legs off."

He grunted, balling up the scraps and rolling them out again. He too, was covered in flour and looked quite daft.

"You can frost them, though." She gave a grin, and he rolled his eyes. "Please? That's easy, I swear. It's just like putting butter on bread."

"You said this was easy too and I'm shite at it."

"Because you're too used to magic. Why do think all my stuff tastes like it does?"

"'Cause you cheat."

"Because I do it this way. There's a little more toil and effort put in. Some things need magic, sure, but I avoid it if I can."

"You're so cheesy sometimes."

"I know."

They frosted the cookies hours later, which he had gotten the hang of quickly enough. He was trying to perfect a polar bear, putting a little face on it. He was thrown off when something wet and sugary hit his nose.

"The hell…?"

He looked up and found Riley holding a spoon, holding the position of having just flung some icing at him. She had a smile on her face; amused at his deadpan expression.

Scabior raised an eyebrow, and threw some of the candy-covered chocolates that were supposed to be the noses. This continued, eventually involving running around the apartment and icing going everywhere except on the cookies.

There was more icing on the walls than on them. Eventually they stopped, having run out of icing and Riley, while happy, was faced with the sheer amount of cookies still left unfrosted for the next day.

Scabior swiped a bit of frosting from her cheek, licking his finger like a child. He kissed the corner of her mouth, under the pretense that she had more icing there.

It became a kiss full of fervor, an awakening of something that she had forgotten about. Regardless of how messy they both were, they stood there, lips being bitten and tongues fighting.

He pulled away at her moan, fighting himself. Her eyes pleaded at him, her hands tugging at his waistband.

"A little longer, pet. Just a little longer."

"But…"

"No buts. It's good to be a little frustrated. You'll enjoy it more. We spent too much time doing that, it'll get old. You said it yourself."

"I didn't mean I wanted to give up sex."

"Just a little longer. A week."

"You're not going to give me a reason why?"

"I can't. It'd spoil everything. I never divulge my plans."

Her wide, pleading eyes narrowed into a sultry gaze. "Not even if I…" She nuzzled his neck, for he had removed his scarf and coat so they wouldn't get dirty, and kissed his flesh, sucking. He shuddered at her touch; she hadn't been like this before. He was the one that used pleasure as torture. Her hand touched the flesh just below his waistband, reaching for him.

"Riley…" He growled. No. He wanted this, they both did. Sexual frustration between two people that hasn't slept together in a while and needed the other like they needed air was a bad situation. It felt as if they'd be throwing everything away in favor of the carnal again.

And while he loved that, loved that she was becoming comfortable enough with him to do this to him, he wanted more. She made him comfortable, disregarded the horrible things he had done. So beautiful, outside of the sheets.

His hand snapped around her wrist, her lips stopping instantly.

"I would love this more than anything right now. But we can't. I…I just want you to wait a week. I can't tell you why, but let's just say my plan is putting me out of my comfort zone a bit because I haven't actually done anything like this in a long time. So just… trust me when I say it'll be worth it."

She sighed, knowing she would not win this time. He pulled her wrist, and let go when her hand was free of his trousers.

"Go shower, you look you got into a fight with a powder bottle," She murmured.

He could barely bring himself to smile, conflicted at his own words. He turned and walked into the bedroom.

She waited until she heard the shower running to clean up the apartment and finish the cookies.

She walked him to the front door of the building, and their usual goodbye of a kiss felt strange, a bit forced out of habit. Disappointment emanated from her, with a twinge of anger at him for not leaping at the chance when she was giving herself so willingly. But if he had a plan for the two of them to do something, a week being New Year's Eve, then she could wait. She'd waited weeks, if not close to a month. What was one more week?

They broke apart, Scabior's hand resting on her cheek. This wasn't like him. What the fuck was wrong with him? Any other time, he would have grabbed her thighs and pulled her up to him. He would have laid her on the floor and fucked her brains out. They would have spent the night on the floor, against a wall, on a table, in the bed, in the shower, so many different ways. He was denying himself the thing he enjoyed most.

He knew he was right to. It'd get too old if that was all they did. The surprise he had in mind had been something he had done weeks before getting arrested, with the woman he had loved so long ago. He wanted to it be enjoyable, and if they didn't let those frustrations build up, it wouldn't be the same, he figured.

He kissed her forehead for good measure and hesitantly took his hand away from her face, walking into the Alley and into the cold winter night.