1945

"There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it."

She snorts because it sounds rehearsed and memorized.

He doesn't laugh this time.

Her snort trips into a quiet sort of laughter, falls into a smile, jumps into silence. Silence between these two people who were never meant to meet in this way, whose interactions in this world, in this time, are a thing of magic. A thing that, in a logical world, between normal people, in ordinary circumstances, would have never happened. Their interactions with each other, how they talk together, how they see together, how they breathe together, how they live together, are impossible, untrue, unbelievable, fantastical, wonderful, a dream that Hermione tries to convince herself is a golden opportunity for change but can barely grasp the pain of the fact that it's happening at all. She floats through this dream, constantly forcing herself to see the reality of it all and pushing herself to not succumb to the pain, to be strong, if not for her or the fate of the wizarding world, then for Harry, for Ron, for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, for anyone and everyone that has lost, for anyone and everyone that will never have to feel such a pain if she succeeds.

She must be strong, must be brave. And she is, but only because she tries so, so very hard.

Today, they went to the library. A muggle library, the very idea of which Tom had turned his nose up at, but Hermione had rolled her eyes, his small negative sentiment being the least of her problems but hitting much harder than it should have, and pulled him along.

He visited her this time. She assumed it had been a long, tedious journey without the aid of magic, but she doesn't hear a complaint out of him.

After the library, she had proceeded to drag him out to an unused stone building that was falling apart at the very edge of the Blacks' property. Green vines hold pieces of the wall together, the blue sky clearly visible in areas where the roof has fallen in, the pieces that had hidden the pale blue jewel now laying on the dusty floor, as forgotten and abandoned as the structure itself.

"I come here when I need a second away from," she had smiled, "Well, from them."

And he had nodded. She knows he doesn't see what is so special about it, but it doesn't matter. She knows he will stay here with her regardless, maybe she can even make him see what makes it so special, make him understand this small thing that has become such a regular part of her life in her time at Black manor.

Maybe she could make him understand much more than just that.

So, they sit and read and it is quiet and peaceful, with sunlight streaming in, the shouts of Walburga too far to be heard, the chirps of the small birds fluttering from tree to tree around the run-down structure just close enough to be pleasing and just far enough to not heighten Hermione's building headache, her peaceful stay with Alphard so brutally interrupted by Tom's completely unexpected and completely planned visit.

The pair read together quite often and, as remains true for this session, it ends in a bout of arguing as they share ideas from their respective works and, as is to be expected, have largely differing opinions on the texts, on the theories and issues shared in the works, on the authors of the literature, on the real-world applications, on the teachings of it, on the learners of it, on their peers, on their professors, on themselves, on each other.

So, that is how they reached this point, how they had argued about good and evil and the forces that commanded these powers and how he had sprouted his ridiculous belief and how a small mob of tiny birds had been frightened away by Hermione's snort and how they had found themselves in silence, awkward and all-consuming after his words, and how he had spoken without turning to her, preferring to look at the veins of the green leaves invading the stone of the broken walls.

"Do you hate me?"

And she thinks of Harry, of Ron, of Fred, of Sirius, of George, of Professor Lupin, of Tonks, of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, of Hagrid, of Neville, of Luna, of, of, of

And it's all far too much. More than she wants to think about, more than she wants to remember, but now it's all bouncing off the walls of her mind, hitting her skull with such an intensity that it makes her dizzy and she thinks she might vomit. Her hatred for him boils underneath her skin, the faces of all the people who have been lost and who have lost flashing before her eyes and herself steaming with anger, with sadness, with hatred, tears threatening to surface and she's not sure if they would come out as liquid or steam.

And she knows, within her she knows that she hates him. As he avoids her eyes, pretends to investigate the green ivy around them and then the neat text of his book as he watches her out of the corner of his eyes, as he keeps his hands still on the book, and she knows he's working to keep himself so incredibly still, that everything he does is calculated, thought out, and she hates him all the more.

But she cannot say that. She cannot let him know about any of that, she cannot let him know anything near the truth or near her heart for she knows he would use it against her.

So, she doesn't.

She smiles and she's sure he can tell it's a fake and she can't bring herself to care anywhere near as much as she should.

She shakes her head and all the faces, the dead bodies, the pain, the tears, stop. It's all still and a solitary word glides through the labyrinth of her mind, a mere whisper after everything that had just been yelling at her, everything that had been rushing through her like a tornado, banging at her skull and through her heart, now only a single, gentle breeze that hits her just as hard.

Liar.

"How did it go?"

Whatever he had been reading, writing, annotating, is abandoned, pushed to the side as soon as she steps into the room. And she knows he must have had a hard time concentrating, trying to do anything to distract himself from the fact that Hermione and Tom were sitting together and alone, possibly in danger and possibly in love, a concern she had tried to dissuade to no avail, besides what he may say to her. He usually brushes off the conversation saying it's none of his business, their relationship only exists for this mission anyways, but she can see the pain in his eyes and can't ignore it, as much as she may try.

She takes a second to gather her thoughts, them still going back to Tom, to dropping him off at the train station, to the quiet that had followed them, the faked smiles, the forced nonchalance. She wonders if this is how it'll always be for them and she worries because she cannot possibly destroy him like this, not if he doesn't trust her, care for her. And she knows she should have worried much more about her fake smile, she knows it, and she cares so very deeply now, now that's it's too late to do anything about it. Isn't that how it always goes?

But he must still care. He must understand.

And now she's looking for understanding in that crazed monster.

Well, he isn't a crazed monster yet.

But he has already killed his father, made a horcrux, ruined Hagrid's life, without a second thought.

But, he isn't a crazed monster yet.

She desperately wants to believe herself and it's hurting her to not forget, to not separate Voldemort from Tom, to not separate the pain of everyone she has ever known with the joy she feels battling him, wit against wit, wand against wand, body against body. And she desperately wants to believe, but she cannot possibly let herself forget, she would be worse than him if she did.

"Hermione?"

And he's standing now, this poor man whose life she's altered, bent, ruined, destroyed.

She draws into herself as he gets nearer and shakes her head. His pain is palpable, but she can't bear his touch, not right now, not when she's thinking of his nephew, who looks so much like him, acts so much like him, who feels the same pain, makes the same jokes, was ruined so utterly and completely because of the same frightful creature that she now talks to with ease, that she thinks might care for her, that she can laugh with so easily, and her self-hatred suddenly reaches new heights.

She feels like vomiting, like emptying out her entire being. Her lungs so she can no longer breathe, her heart so she can no longer feel, her brain so she can no longer think, her soul so she can no longer live.

But, as always, dying is not an option. Duty must come first, duty always comes first.

He stands a few feet away, awkwardly, his feet clothed only in socks, his hair disheveled, his eyes betraying an exhaustion that he would never speak to her about, lest he worry her more than she need be, lest he bring her more stress. So, he keeps all the pain to himself, works in her best interests, and she thinks she might hate him for his kindness, hate him for his consideration, for his love and sacrifices.

And he calls her name again, ignoring any pain he might feel in his quest to help her, to rescue the damsel, to be her savior, never thinking that he might need one, that he doesn't have to be one and she hates him, her heart drawing out the hurt of it all.

She wants to say that she's fine, that it didn't affect her so much, that he doesn't have to worry, doesn't have to pile her own stress and anxiety on top of his own, she's fine and she can handle it, she's fine and is he? She's fine and it's okay. But it's not. And she can't lie to him, she can never lie to him, not after everything they've done for each other, are doing for each other, will do for each other. She cannot lie to this being who cares so much about a world he'll never know, a world he's never seen.

She doesn't say a word but she looks down and a small crystal drops from her eye, marking the carpet beneath her feet. Sparkling rivers quickly engrave themselves on her cheeks and a coldness she hadn't realized had followed her since Tom first knocked on the door suddenly leaves her and Alphard's familiar scent envelops her and the soft material of his shirt surrounds her and he's everywhere and she's not okay, not okay at all.

She's sorry.

She's so sorry he has to help. She's so sorry he has to marry her. She's so sorry that all of this has happened to him, and will continue to happen to him, because of her, everything because of her. She's so sorry.

And it's fine. It's okay. He's sorry she can't go home. He's sorry this pressure was put on her. He's sorry she can't rest, can't possibly think of stopping until all of this is solved, fixed, completely erased. He's sorry she can't go home. He's sorry he can't save her. He's sorry that she's sorry. It's fine. It's okay. He's sorry she's been forced into this sad existence. He's sorry some old man thought this was the only solution.

He's sorry she hasn't been able to go home in years, he's sorry she may never be able to go home. He's so sorry.

It's fine.

It's okay.

He wants to be her new home, to give her all the warmth and comfort that feels so far away, so distant, so old and untrue.

She wants to let him, wants to believe that it can be real, that she can be happy here, complete her mission and not want to die throughout every second of it.

But

There's always a but.