This is a sequel to my other Scabior/OC story, The Bargain. I plan for it to be much longer and have an actual plot (I've got a basic, basic outline that's subject to change now because of a detail in an already written chapter).

However, I have started college. I have to get back into the swing of studying the while balancing work-study, community service and my off-campus job. I need a thesis for a midterm in October. Those reasons were why I wanted to wait and get a few chapters written before I posted it here (Tumblr's easier to post on, and it gives me a bit of feedback before I give it to a broader audience). Keep ahead and if I don't have the time to get something written, I can at least, give you something and not keep you waiting.

I don't know if that's going to work, honestly, but I can try.

Right, so, back to the story. Those who supported Voldemort and the people that took part in Muggleborn persecution and torture are, here, considered war-criminals. There are still Death Eaters that fled and are wanted, and Snatchers, while not Death Eaters, are still wanted because of their actions in hunting down people according to blood status for money. They benefited from Voldemort's skewed Ministry. I use 'crimes against humanity' because it's general; they hunted 'blood traitors' who could have been half- or pure-blood, not just the Muggleborns. Greyback is still doing his thing, but he isn't really touched upon just yet.

I'm going to shut up now.

He had survived that fall from the bridge, apparating away at the last second. Cowardly, maybe, but he refused to die via plummeting to the ground.

Scabior fell upon the floor of his destination, both from the continued downward fall he was in the middle of and from lack of standing ability. He had hit some of the support beams on his way down, earning him bruises and a few open wounds. Having gone feet first, it was no surprise his legs were where most of the injuries were. Great.

He was in some one-bedroom apartment he had gotten earlier in his life. The landlord was a Muggle, and when pestered about rent being overdue, he simply cast Obliviate and was left alone about it.

He was in the middle of the tiny bedroom, and he used a bed post to hoist himself back up and sit on the bed. His boots were untied and gingerly pulled off; at least those things were steel-toed, ensuring there was little damage there. Pants came next, carefully. They were torn in places, slightly stained with blood. He'd spell them clean, mend them when he got the chance.

His coat was flung onto the floor, his vest and scarf and shirt following suit. Those too, were dotted with blood. There was a gash along his ribs, bringing a sharp pain with every inhale.

Not so bad, otherwise. The bruises he could live with. The large lacerations on his calves and thigh…not so much. Muttering a few healing spells, he watched the muscle begin to string back together, flesh grow back, leaving a large pink area of scarring. That large, horrid thing that was hindering his breath came next, and he brought in a large amount of air, testing. No more sharp pain.

The pain didn't seem to end though. It'd be worse tomorrow, he knew it. The day after was always the worst.

He scooted back, pulling his legs onto the sheets. He turned onto his side carefully and opened the drawer in the bedside table. He kept a few potions of various uses in it, but there was one that never seemed to fail him.

A small, clear glass bottle containing a clear liquid. Firewhiskey. The solution to everything.

Not true, of course, but he could wish.

He twisted the top off and took a long swig, the substance burning in a way Muggle alcohol couldn't. It was wonderful, and took his mind off the other pain for a short while.

Scabior replaced the bottle and sighed. He'd be counted among the dead, or at least the missing. There was no going back, not entirely. Not that he wanted to. He was fine with the snatching. He liked that. In another life, he could probably have been an Auror. But his life was too full of the darker aspects for that to work out too well.

When it came time to be a foot soldier, to rush down that hill and surge into the castle…it wasn't the same. He was expendable in the end. And he supposed no one liked to discover that. It made their life a little less meaningful.

Not that his life was full of meaning in the first place.

He reached for that bottle again. This shit needed to stop. Just because he had a near-death experience didn't mean he had to go and be all philosophical.

Scabior closed his eyes, plagued with the sensation of falling.

Riley had waited it out. Auror though she was, she didn't like war.

As much as she didn't want to accept it, she was a part of it. The times when she had to supply identification (fake, of course, but the ones checking were dim enough to not notice), and the attacks she happened to be caught in were evidence of that. A by-stander, subject to the new rules of the puppet-Ministry.

She had rolled out of bed to an owl at her window; the Prophet, proclaiming Voldemort was vanquished and all was well. Well being used in relative, since there were so many victims and their families and a mess to clean up.

She had purchased an empty shell of a store, and in the fervor of the victory returned it to its former glory. A small café; baked goods, coffee, tea. She lived above the shop, where there were a few apartments above she could rent out to those in need of a place.

She had gone to her parents, just to give closure that she was alive. Her father was the one to answer the door and give the news that her mother had taken her own life. The news of the war, the death and the discrimination had become too much. The war had done what every war does, kill whether you were in battle or not.

Riley had missed the funeral.

It was strange how quick everything moved. From closed down, gray and dismal to colorful, animated and lively in the matter of a few months. The Alley was the place of everything again, stores reopening; Ollivander's was sporting new paint, new windows and a new sign.

The Prophet had begun to stop the propaganda and return to being an actual newspaper. There was an official list of casualties and a list of missing witches and wizards published; she kept them tucked away in a drawer. She had known a fair amount of the dead and missing.

Her mind occasionally wandered back to Scabior. He was on the list of missing, with 'wanted for war crimes and crimes against humanity' in big, bold letters next to his name and a picture. The memories of the woods, of that night and the short morning after, would plague her at times.

She had almost given in and gone to find him once or twice. She missed his scent of tobacco and campfire and leather. She wore that scarf all the time, remembering not only her mother but the Snatcher as well.

Hogwarts wasn't entirely restored by the time September rolled around, but it was still open. Education had to continue, McGonagall had said. The castle was, to some, the only home they had now after all. Good, she thought. As a society, Wizarding Britain had moved past the power Voldemort had over them, and this was a demonstration of that.

After a rather stress-filled day (she had to remind herself she could no longer hex people and get away with it), she wanted nothing more than an evening along with a bottle of Butterbeer and some of the onion soup at the Leaky Caldron. She sat at a table, reading over the Prophet and taking slow spoonfuls of the salty broth.

A silhouette of a figure crossed the table, blocking out the light she was relying on. She looked up; no one ever bugged her. She gave off a vibe that said "do not disturb" and no one bothered to think otherwise. She knew it was because she still looked like an Auror.

She looked up at the figure, a man. Tall, thinner than she remembered. His hair was still long, if not slightly neater than before. The plaid pants were missing. That smirk hadn't changed much, if only a bit less cocky. And those eyes still carried slight traces of belonging to a predator, a hunter, although very tired.

"'ello again, beautiful."