1968

"Voldemort is my past, present, and future."

The followers remain shrouded, their heads bent as Tom turns to them each from the center of the circle, a large cauldron steaming behind him, the glow of its fire offering the room what little light it could, and making Tom's growing paleness glow against the darkness.

He whips his wand out and the follower nearest him jumps. Tom pounces on him immediately.

His hand on the follower's neck, Tom drags the man's face towards his own.

"Afraid, are you?"

The truth of this rings in the man's light eyes, sweat crowding his forehead and pain pooling in his heart.

"N-no, my Lord."

"No?"

"I— yes, my Lord?"

"Well, which is it?"

A sharp smile covers Tom's face as the follower's fear so clearly crystalizes before him, and he readies himself to make the man fall apart into precious shards.

"M-my Lord," And with defeat ringing through his words so clearly, "I am not sure what the correct answer is."

"Well," He releases the follower and the man stumbles back, dragging in a deep breath, his shoulders shaking violently, his heart beating far too quickly.

Tom makes a wide gesture towards the group.

"What do you all think? What is the correct answer?"

The followers shift from foot to foot, but no one speaks a word.

Tom twists his wand between his fingers, looks to each covered figure, awaiting a response, and, receiving none, grows irritated.

He turns from the man abruptly and to Alphard instead, stabbing his wand in his direction.

"Do you have an answer for me?"

Alphard's breath catches for a moment, and he slowly lifts his head to look Tom in the eyes.

"I would presume the truth, my Lord."

He takes great care not to stutter.

Tom tips his head and a narrow smile plays on his lips.

"The truth? What an interesting answer. Quite unexpected from you."

Alphard says nothing more but remains staring at Tom, awaiting release from the gaze that makes him the target, the shining bullseye in the center of the rings of all that are in danger still. But he has no such luck.

"And Alphard, what might your answer be?"

Alphard hesitates for only a moment, but the eyebrow that Tom raises makes him hurry his words and stumble over them, "I am in awe of your power and all that I know you will accomplish, my Lord."

Tom seems to mull this over, his wand still never ceasing its movement between his fingers. He turns away from Alphard for a moment and he almost believes he's safe.

"Pity."

But what a foolish thing to hope for.

"You didn't answer the question."

Before Alphard can even process his words, Tom spins back towards him, is about to launch a curse, but hesitates, and his pause is so rare, so unexpected, that it makes the followers antsy. They shift their weight, look around to each other for guidance.

Tom seems to consider Alphard for a moment, seems to be trying to convince himself towards one side or the other, before abruptly turning back towards the first man, who had so foolishly believed himself to be safe, who had thought he had faced death and lived, and launching a curse so powerful that the man is thrown against the dark stone wall surrounding the group, a muffled crack echoing through the room, and his body crumpling back to the ground. Tom steps towards him, his wand still raised and his eyes still manic.

The man draws in stunted, shaky breaths, blinking rapidly as his vision fades in and out, the shadow of the curse still running through his body, its dark steps thudding against his soul.

He raises a hand shakily towards Tom, palm out, begging for mercy, but Tom keeps moving forward regardless, his eyes shining as a spark begins taking form on the tip of his wand, his lips just beginning to speak pain into existence once more—

Alphard pulls them out of the memory, quickly drawing a trembling, pale Hermione into his arms.

"We don't have to do this, Hermione. We don't have to watch any of it."

She smiles meekly at him, almost ashamed of how much comfort she finds in his arms.

"It is our duty, Alphard. It is the entire reason I'm here at all, why we— our—"

"I know, I know it more deeply than you'd believe."

He sits them down on the cool wooden floor of their home, her withered form still wrapped securely in his arms, and his hand running up and down her arm giving her her only warmth in the world.

He kisses the top of her head, hoping to impart as much love and support and safety as he can in such a small gesture, impart all that he loves her, how much he wants to still help her, all that he would still give to her in an instant, in just this one touch, this one small brush of his lips. He closes his eyes tightly and holds in the sigh that bristles through him.

"Hermione."

He takes a steadying breath, takes in the scent of her hair, the chill of her skin beneath his fingers and her coat. He remembers their pain, and their laughter, and everything they have had in between. And he thinks of how joyous they could be. Of all they could have had if this were not their lives, if they were not given this responsibility, if they were not made Atlas and obligated to carry the world.

And, truly, why did they have to be? What gave them this war? This never-ending battle? That she has fought for so long already, has already lost so much for, before ever even meeting him, and has only continued to lose to and for after him, this battle that he can never protect her from, that they do not even know if they can win, if they're doing the right things, making the right choices. Why them? Why did it have to be them?

"Hermione."

He releases just a bit of the breath he's holding in, just the bit that's threatening to explode, threatening to make him throw her over his shoulder and take them away from this life forever. To never hear of this world again, to never concern themselves with the future or the fates of the world. To only think of themselves and their own happiness, their own livelihoods.

He hardly connects his thoughts to his mouth before the words escape him, their gravity and the earnestness with which he proposes it sitting heavily within him.

"We can forget our duty."

Her breath pauses, and she pulls away just a bit from him, though remaining firmly in his arms, completely unable to abandon his warmth, fearing being unable to continue without it, too weak to survive on her own.

And, afraid, he continues on quickly.

"We can focus on ourselves, we can focus on being happy and living normal lives. Hermione, w-we can—"

He tentatively places a hand on her abdomen, looking deeply into her eyes, hoping to show her how serious he is, how much he has to offer her if she'll only accept it and him, wishing against all that he knows that she'll agree.

"We can try again. We can be happy, Hermione. We don't have to save the world. We can just save ourselves."

She hesitates a moment and he fears she'll pull away, fears the chill that will creep in to his heart if she hates him for suggesting it, if she pulls away from this, if she can't bear to think of him and love together again.

She puts her hand over his, offering him a small smile as she shakes her head. And her cold hand over his fills him with warmth so quickly it feels like flames licking at his insides, tumbling through and bringing him rushing back to her.

Her eyes shine bright with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He shakes his head and smiles at her, her same tears shining in his eyes as he wraps her tightly in his arms.

He's afraid to say it out loud right now, afraid she doesn't feel the same way or doesn't feel it strongly enough, not for him, and he can't handle her not saying it back, not right now. Maybe he can be strong tomorrow or the next day, and for every day that follows, but today he only wants her warmth, her comfort. But Merlin he loves her. He loves her so deeply, so completely. And he wants her love more than anything, enough to never ask for it.

And, maybe, even besides everything that has happened, everything that still has to happen, maybe they have reached some kind of happiness. It's not all rainbows and skipping through fields, and it's hardly even something as simple as peace, or the mute security of their baby wrapping his little fist around their fingers. But it's something. And it's the only something they have, and all that they can even hope to have after all these years.

"Can I show you something?" He whispers into her hair.

She takes the hand he offers as if it is the most secure decision she's ever made, something she is so thankful to get to say yes to.

He takes her outside. It's cold, but she's been numb before and this feels no different. He gives her his jacket regardless. He's not cold anyways, with the warmth of her touch, with the warmth of what ever love she can offer him, the warmth of what ever life they'll live together.

They take a winding path near their home, directly into the small bushel of trees besides it. Alphard still fearing rejection, still careful of how much he can ask for in their shared existence, in their life of compromises and of situations they never would have wished for. Would she have ever chosen him? If they didn't have to pretend, didn't have to save the world, would she have ever chosen him? He's too afraid of the answer to entertain the question for long, so he focuses only on leading her down the path and takes as much comfort as he can from her nearness, from the fact that, whatever would have happened, would have been, she's here with him now. And that's all he can ask for, all he can hope for, and all that he has.

The trees open up to a small meadow ringed by great trunks on all sides that couldn't be more than fifteen feet across. But it's warm here, with worn couches strewn around and bookcases brimming with all kinds of literature sitting beside them.

She turns to him, stunned, her cheeks pink from the new warmth.

"Alphard?"

He doesn't look at her, staring at the ground and the trees besides them.

"I cast some charms so the weather's always nice. I had to make it small because those long-lived charms take a bit of power and, with everything, I just didn't have enough to do it, but—"

She has not replied so he continues, speaking quicker as his nerves grow.

"I gathered every book I know you like, and some more that you might, that the bookshop owner suggested, or that I think you've mentioned before," He chances a low laugh, "So some of them might be a bit off, especially the muggle books, they were a bit hard to find, so…" He trails off, recognizing his tangent and having no more to say, wanting to know what she's thinking, what she's feeling.

The meadow is sprinkled with flowers and, as he stares down at the white blooms, he's suddenly embarrassed that he thought to do all this, that he thought to even include the little flowers. She must think it's ridiculous, lame, a frivolous thing to do in the middle of all that's happening and all that they have on their shoulders. And maybe now will be when she rejects him, when she rejects what life he can offer her and this relationship transitions into one of necessity, rather than one where they can hope to find love and comfort. Maybe now will be when she admits what he already knows. That she does not love him, cannot love him. Whatever they have shared has been because they had to, has been because she had no choice but to stay with him and go through the motions of life at his side.

But, she takes a step towards him, eyes filling with the warm waters of joy, and throws her arms around him. She warms his cheeks with her hands and plants the lightest of kisses on his lips, her mouth as gentle as the petals of the flowers below.

"Thank you," she whispers, words for only him, words that not even the birds in the trees are privy to. This space is for her and this moment is for them, and no one else, only for however long they are here. And, though it's small, though it's short, for now and here, she's happy. Just now and just here, she's happy.