I'm a little ahead on my work (in that I still have to study and finish one paper but that long-ass paper is done entirely). So, have some more development.
A bit of revision towards the end, thanks to HP2011, who pointed out my loose thread there. Proof I shouldn't try and write prose after redoing a seven page paper.
Riley found herself unable to keep occupied. Doing the paperwork and ordering supplies only did so much. The person she hired, a kind, motherly woman by the name of Emily looking for work with her kid at Hogwarts, would shoo her out of the door and see her back to the stairs.
Needless to say, she had redone her Fidelius charm. The old lift, hidden away in a corner of the building became her new way home. Fuck stairs. She hated stairs.
Inspiration struck her one day. She found herself uncurling and getting out of bed, taking a shower and truly bothering to groom herself. Her hair was a mess. She took a pair of scissors and trimmed it. She got dressed. Pulled out flour, eggs, sugar, cocoa. Threw things together that she wasn't quite sure about but ended up making a wonderful combination.
She had surprised Emily with her creations, who happily served them.
Riley began functioning again. New desserts, new ideas. She changed the layout of her flat, the flooring, the furniture. It was based on a central corridor from the front door. To the left were two bedrooms; the master and a guest with a large shared bathroom. Straight ahead, the kitchen, larger than before with an island. To the right, an office and the living room across from it.
She'd smile at customers, her scars still pink and bumpy but healed. She covered her eye at the counter with a patch, for the sake of not scaring away people. They used to look at her with pity, with shock, and to see her up and going back to her life some three months later seemed amazing.
One of her male patrons had commented on her scars, merely saying they added character. Horrible circumstances, he hastily added, but he thought they didn't detract from her looks.
She'd blushed and thanked him. It continued, flirting, stopping in on excuses to see her. He was handsome, around her age, a little older. Brown hair, brown eyes, clean shaven. Polite. Shy. He reminded her of a little puppy, trying to figure out the workings of the world.
She'd agreed to dinner; casual, nothing fantastic. The more time she spent with him, the more she missed…
Her rational mind went berserk whenever her mind went there. He hit her. Plain and simple, drunk or not. He took his hand and hit her. No man would lay a hand on her. She was done being abused and hurt.
But on the other hand, Scabior had changed, to some degree. He had wanted to flip his life around for her. All for the sake of having a life with her.
He ruined it, her mind would scream. The moment he raised his arm, he ruined whatever they had built.
Her heart always seemed to win in the end, because she would find herself waking up with tear streaks on her face and clutching the pillow that once belonged to him.
There was a noticeable change in Scabior when he returned back to his men. He was aggressive, easily angered, and withdrawn. He'd threaten his men, and the ones they captured several times. He kept to himself in camp, and there was always a space between him and his men when they traveled.
He hated himself. How could he have let that happen? He was trying to make up for his first fuck-up, and he managed to fuck that up, too.
The burning of the Firewhiskey did nothing for his pain. The guilt he carried was a constant ache, unquenchable by any alcoholic means.
They had stopped in London, in the Alley, for the sake of supplies; they had gone to the Ministry anyway, why not head to Diagon Alley for a little while and grab something at the Leaky Caldron and grab some rooms for the night.
He had peered in on Riley; she kept the shop open until nine now, according to the sign. She was at the counter, smiling at another man. Younger. He watched as she disappeared from view and then backed away from the figure opposite her. She had kissed him, in sight of everyone.
They never did that. Goodbye, sure, but she kept him and her work separate.
Had she been ashamed of him?
Then again, they weren't together at the moment, what did it matter?
The guilt rose up again, mixed with jealousy and desire.
No. He'd leave her be. He wasn't about to go begging forgiveness. What was he, a dog?
His meeting with Audrey earlier had been hellishly awkward. It was clear he wasn't sleeping well, was frustrated and angry about something. She had merely cocked her head at his stubble-laced chin and ringed eyes, but she knew. Having seen Riley with her stranger, clearly something had gone down.
"Give her time," was all the woman said before he left. He didn't reply. He couldn't. What was there to say?
Weeks went by. More of Fenrir's men captured, but the wolf himself remained elusive. His attacks were sporadic, happening in staggered moments with no warning and no pattern. Although that there wasn't a pattern was a pattern in itself, really. He was clearly hiding somewhere Scabior didn't know of. Apparation had its limits, and they were determined to find a den.
He found himself in London more often again, spying on Riley for a minute every so often.
"Clearly something didn't work out if you have to skulk to see her," Audrey had come from somewhere, obviously, but he hadn't been paying enough attention.
"I ain't skulkin'. Observin'."
"Oh? And why don't you just stroll in and talk to her?"
"'Cause I'm not welcome, I'm pretty sure. I did somethin' outta anger and drunkness, somethin' I'd never do. I can't apologize to 'er yet."
Riley was sitting on her break, reading and drinking her tea as he looked in again.
"I'm not having a man who can't keep his emotional business out of his work out in the field being a belligerent arsehole." Audrey stated, the underlying threat obvious. Get your shit together and fix this or you're fired and sent to Azkaban.
Scabior growled, but pushed open the door. He was hit with the familiar scent he hadn't smelled in so long. He swallowed, relatively fixed his hair and straightened scarf and jacket before walking over to Riley.
She looked from her paper, her single grey eye (she bothered to cover her other eye, he was slightly disappointed) questioning. She didn't look angry, merely curious and waiting.
Shit, what was he supposed to say? He was pretty sure, "I'm sorry" didn't cover being a drunken jerk and smacking the woman he cared about in the face.
"I'm…not even sure what needs to be said. I can't apologize, 'cause wha' I did can' be covered under "I'm sorry." I was selfish, and stupid, and I never meant…" he gestured to her cheek, free of bruises and covered in pink claw marks. "I never 'it women. I was raised a bit more proper than that, believe it o' not."
She just continued to look at him. Assessing. Still waiting.
"It's more than just me missin' bein' wit' you, Riley. It's beyond that now. I wanted to 'elp but I was too wrapped up in bein' a miserable sod. I miss you. I miss wakin' up next to you and cookin' dinner and just…you. I was willin' to turn myself in if it meant spendin' the remainin' years I've got wit' you. And I know I fucked that up, and I fucked up tryin' to fix my fuck-up. I love you, Riley, that's…"
He paused, thinking about what he said. He just spewed out a speech to say three words.
"That's the only way I think I can cover 'ow I feel about you." He murmured.
She blinked. The slowly assessing blink. She was far from confused. Here he was, scruffy and eyes like a raccoon, telling her he loved her. He wasn't begging for her to take him back. He wasn't repeating an apology. He told it like it was.
She got up, realizing anyone in the café with an interest in other people's lives was watching and had heard everything he said, and laid her hands on his chest, looking up at him.
"I'm not saying that I don't love you back, because I have to on some level. I've missed you, and I missed having you around. But…"
"We have to start again."
"Yes. I…want to give you a life; I want us to have a life together, Scabior, Merlin knows I felt that way before, and still do. But how can I trust you?"
"I'd be shocked if you did after that, love." He reached up and took her hands in his. "In fact I'd be rather upset if you did. Let's just…backtrack, yeah? Not forget, but just…and 'oo's the new bloke, anyway?" It was extremely off-track from where they had been heading. He didn't ask it with anger, with jealousy (although he certainly felt it), or with a threat. Merely curious and confused, with a tad bit of hurt he thought he was hiding so well.
Riley opened her mouth, to say it was just a slow thing, but he shook his head, pulling away slightly. "I still 'ave werewolves to find. Spend some time with the bloke your age. I'll come back, say a month or two or somethin'. If you decide you like 'is company better, say the words and I'm gone. Not because I'd be hurt, and I would, but because I'm not gonna be wit' you if it makes you un'appy. That's...that never bodes well for anyone, I'm told."
She nodded slowly, hands fixing his scarf out of habit, running her fingers over his vest. "You're not at all what I expected sometimes, do you know that?"
"I try." He ducked down, lightly kissing her left temple. "I never meant to 'urt you. I only want you safe and 'appy and…I will find Greyback, an' I'll kill 'im. Or make sure 'e's dead before I am."
"I know."
He was gone before she realized, like the Snatcher he was. She stood there foolishly, arms in front of her, awaiting another body. She sighed, put them back down to her sides and looked at her tea. She already knew her choice, which would sit and fester in her mind, surrounded by doubt and possibilities.