1951

"Why would I kill you?"

Alphard hesitates at Tom's words, his back, leaning against the white wall, goes stiff, his eyes, closed against the stars, open and settle on the far off lights in the sky, tired and weary, but creased at the corners from the happiness of times spent far away from Tom. The wedding party on the other side of the wall claps as the band finishes a song, the golden light encased within its borders only spilling out in thin, wavering lines onto the dark meeting in the alleyway. Alphard holds a cigarette in his hand, the embers dull even against the darkness surrounding them.

"Tom, are we really going to pretend?"

The voice is tired, strained from years tiptoeing and acting as if everything were fine, as if he weren't burning out, as if the ocean weren't scarring and drowning him as he tries to reach land.

Tom releases a sharp breath without so much meaning to and without so much caring that he had. He moves to lean against the wall a few feet from Alphard, staring up at the same stars, trying to recognize any string of constellations in them so that he can focus his mind and gather his thoughts. He always knows when Alphard lies to him, but this truth is new and unexpected and he doesn't know how to react. It might have been nice not to have a plan before, but not now, not now that this man has just married the woman he loves, the woman they love, the woman that shines brighter than all the stars and can drag him deeper than all the seas. He'd let her waters fill his lungs with glee if it meant she'd always be with him.

Tom laughs, a short and brittle sound. He lets his gaze drop to the broken pavement of the dirty alley, trying not to think of the light above him and behind him so this lie won't become tainted with the image of his Hermione, with the pain he knows the truth would, will, is, causing her.

Alphard is startled by the sound, its jagged edges scratching at his psyche, at his will to remain calm, to appear unaffected. His hand jumps and the cigarette drops. Tom notes Alphard's frown as he puts out the embers with his dark shoe, letting it all fade into the same darkness blanketing them.

"I can't kill you, Alphard."

This seems to startle him even more. He leans away from the wall and then seems to catch himself, not allowing his feet to take any more steps forward. His eyes shift back and forth, trying to understand why he hadn't denied the entire thing, why he hadn't just laughed it off, why he hadn't called him crazy, why he couldn't kill him, why he was still alive now.

"Y- you can't kill me?"

His voice shook without his permission, but Alphard was too confused, too worried to think about it much.

"I would've thought that would have been an easy enough sentence to understand, but I suppose you don't need to worry about being intelligent when you're rich."

Alphard's gaze drops away from Tom and he shakes his head.

"No, I- I understood you, it's just-"

And now he looks right at him, worry and fear swirling through him, his lips staying parted, his hands clenching, likely in an effort not to reach for his wand, or a way to trick his mind into believing he's even a little safe because, logically, they both know that him reaching for it would be futile. Tom could kill him in a second, would if he needed to, but

"You can't?"

Tom pushes himself forward from the wall, turns to fully face Alphard, tilts his head to the side. The motion puts him closer to his love's husband and the man takes a step back, his self-hatred evident once he realizes the move his subconscious has taken.

"You may have married her, but that does not mean I have stopped caring for her. Hurting you hurts her."

Hurting her hurts me.

"I couldn't dream of doing that to her."

I couldn't dream of doing that to myself.

Alphard stares for a second, eyes wide and mouth agape with this easy release of information, with his safety and future so secured. He gathers himself. His eyes narrow, his mouth closes, his back straightens. He nods.

"Okay."

"Okay."

The door back to the party creaks open and there stands Hermione, the golden light from the wedding reception haloing her, and her own radiance shining onto the men, her smile large at the sight of Alphard.

"My loveliest love, it's time for our first dance as man and wife."

She sways her hips and flutters her eyelashes at him exaggeratedly, clearly a joke they've had going and a while that they've been looking forward to.

The couple laughs together and suddenly Tom feels as if he'll demonstrate his lie sooner than planned, kill Alphard just in this moment and keep the gold for himself.

Alphard moves forward to take her arm and the movement forces her to notice Tom, in his dark robes and grey skin, standing next to her golden husband and their platinum world.

"Oh, Tom. I didn't realize you were out here."

Her back stiff, her smile flat and fake, her radiance dimmed. He hasn't been this close to her since the night he almost killed Alphard. He wishes he were close enough to smell her. She might be using a different perfume for her wedding, but the scent would calm him all the same, just as it always had when she ran her fingers through his hair and he could smell her with his head against her chest, or when she whispered into his ear or when she just lay beside him, reading or breathing and being.

"Yes, we were just going in."

His pleasant tone, so carefully practiced through the years, is rough and choppy with waves struggling to break free, with waves desperate to trap the gold on the ocean floor, hidden, and never to be found or touched by anything but his waters, gentle and heavy and protected and consumed so deep in.

She pretends not to notice, smiles, lets her boat rock in the waters and remains calm, pretends not to notice the growing waves, the shaking vessel.

"Alright then, I hope you have a nice time tonight."

He can almost convince himself her smile is real, can almost be satisfied with the shine it gives, but he's been thrown glitter, cheap and artificial and lingering long after it's no longer wanted, while Alphard gets to walk away with gems dripping in gold, always valuable and always beautiful and real, for now and forever.

He nods and they go inside, cheers erupting almost immediately and a song he's never heard before, but he's sure must mean a lot to them, begins to play soon afterwards.

Sweet tones of love have never inspired such feelings of loss.

Such feelings of anger.

Such feelings of desperation.

Of rage. Of end.

He doesn't bother to say his good-byes, might as well grant Hermione a day of happiness. Who knows how many days of end he'll force on her, she deserves these moments.

And, even as the thought of her pain makes him sick, makes it feel as if the waters of his soul are draining and convulsing, he goes home and plans.

He pursues his Death Eaters with renewed fervor, carefully reminding himself at every meeting to not call on Alphard, as he is on his honeymoon, enjoying his beautiful bride and crafting the most artful light.

Even with all the work he continues giving himself, with all the respect rich purebloods that would have been disgusted by him before now give him, it's still not enough. He needs more. He needs to be more powerful, more amazing, fantastic. He's spinning waves when he wants to create tsunamis.

He quits his job at Borgin & Burkes early on, the lowly position where he had gotten to learn so much, where his goals were re-envisioned. Hermione is and will forever be something he wants, maybe even needs, but there are so many things for him to do, to be.

Power is all there is. Power and the immortality required for it to exist forever. Even as he tortures people for information and travels to Albania for dark magic and fights and screams and schemes and plans and tires himself day in and day out with this big, fantastic goal, even when he finally manages to convince himself that this is all he needs, that this is all he's ever wanted, he can't stop thinking of her. Even though he knows that, if she were here, she would only hold him back, try to convince him that his goals are ridiculous, that his words are those of a psychopath, that all that he's ever strived for comes from his troubled youth, that he's a troubled person. And she would stop ranting at him and smile at him and look at him with her soft eyes and run her hands through his hair and kiss his neck and make him feel loved. And he would listen to her. He'd say she was right. He would abandon it all to spend a single life with her. A single moment where she loves him too.

But Hermione's not here. He's wading through the cold of his heart and she's running through the heat of Alphard and Alphard's running through the heat of her.

Hermione's not here. Hermione's not going to be here for a long, long time. And he was fine before she came along. He was fine in his darkness, in his slivers of moonlight. It wasn't until she brought the sun into his life that he thought the burn was good, craved peeled skin and red marks. She is all his pain, a pain born of warmth and life. And he was fine in his moonlight, but it's impossible to forget the burn. He's doing his best. Sometimes he can really convince himself that his followers gossiping in the corner hadn't mentioned her name and pointed at him, thinking he wasn't paying attention. Sometimes he can really believe that the bakery on the road doesn't smell like her perfume every time he passes by. Sometimes he can stop himself from craning his neck to check if the bush of curly hair that had just turned the corner was her. But, sometimes he can't, so sometimes he has to hate himself and remember that she didn't pick him, that she didn't, doesn't love him. That, somewhere, she's whispering into Alphard's ear and he's making her laugh and they're in love, so very in love. Sometimes, he's too tired to try. But he keeps going. He wakes up, takes a breath, and tries again. It's all he can do and all he's ever wanted to avoid. He's a slave to her memory and dependent on her care, a care that's long since been ended, a care that may never return.

But, this is something he can't accept, can't push to the back of his mind and ignore or forget. His power means nothing without her. And he'll have her someday. She'll be his. Just not now, not this second. He just has to try for a little longer, live everyday, one at a time, live every second and try, try, try. There are other things to occupy his mind. There are other things to think about, other things to do. His power is a pastime until he has her. His power is his focus, will be gaining until she comes back to tell him to stop, when it will be too late, when she'll only have him to turn to, when he can relax and she will have to try.

They exist for each other, it's just going to take a little more work to show that to her. And that's okay, he'll just keep trying until he doesn't have to anymore, until it's time to rest with his dream finally firmly in his grasp, finally safe on the ocean floor.