1976

"I do not forgive. I do not forget."

"My lord, please. Please, my lord, I beg you, please, please, please-"

The follower's sobs cut off, melting into his convulsing body in a small, strangled sound. Tom quite liked it when they were quiet. It made it easier to concentrate.

Hermione shudders as she pulls out of the memory. Tom- Voldemort. The dark lord. The largest shadow inside her, formed just like her, mimicking her every moment, taking up every inch of space inside her body. Impossible to escape. Impossible to forget. Impossible to love, to hate, to leave. Torturing yet another follower, the same awful gleam in his eye. The same gleam that had once seemed misunderstood, if not bad. Pained, if not cruel. Troubled, traumatized, small, hopeful. Shattered, gone, evil.

Alphard is speaking. She can hardly tell sometimes. His voice has gone so small now, ever since Tom- Voldemort- did whatever it was he did. No one can figure out what it was, not a million healers in St. Mungo's, not a million more in France, in Japan, in America. Not any line in any book Hermione can find, not any connection the Black's can put in front of her. She can hardly tell and half the time she's lost in her own mind. Thinking of Alphard, of Tom, of herself, of her friends. She's been gone from them now longer than she was ever with them. She can hardly remember their faces anymore, when before they were all she ever thought about. Her heart would stutter when she saw Tom from behind, for a second fooling herself into believing the dark head of hair would turn to her with a kind field of green in his eyes. But she quickly realizes the dark head of hair is smooth and arranged where Harry's was wild and true. And so the head turns and she is once again met with only the cold ocean of her nightmares in those eyes. Every laugh used to sound like Ron's, no matter the person, and she would foolishly turn and look for him desperately, her heart pounding far too quickly, only to have to turn back around after the meeting the startled eyes of a child and force her heart to slow down again. But now she can't even remember the last time anyone laughed around her, can't remember the last time she even smiled. She can hardly remember why she's still here, still doing this, why any of it matters.

But Alphard. Alphard is here. Not for long. They know that much, haven't spoken the words, don't need to, don't want to. But they know it. She knows she will soon be alone in this world, and she knows she will have brought this cruel end on the kindest man she's ever known. She can hardly let herself think about it a second before she feels the shadow inside her threaten to overtake her, rising and rising within her until she can hardly breathe, until she is hardly anything but it, falling into that same cold ocean that threatens to drown her every night.

Alphard, barely able to speak, barely able to stand, still talking about going back as his hair falls out in clumps with every word. Still talking about finishing their mission when his eyes can't focus, when his skin has lost all its warmth, when his every breath stutters.

One morning, Alphard woke up coughing blood until he passed out, not enough breath in the world to sustain him. And even unconscious the wine still seeped from his mouth. Hermione thought he was dead. He had been sick for so long already. He would sit and stare at the wall for hours while Hermione tried to feed him, clothe him. And he'd be so sorry each time, so embarrassed, and she didn't know how to tell him it was okay. It was like he would look away for only a second and days would pass and he couldn't figure out how to come back. He cried, sometimes. When he thought Hermione wouldn't hear him. But she always did, and always dutifully avoided him so as to not embarrass him. Or maybe to not embarrass herself. Because what would she say to him? That she was sorry? That she loved him? Loved him enough for this? Loved him far more than this? But there was no time for any of that. In that moment, when she thought he was gone, she didn't think of their mission, or their children that never were. She didn't think of Tom, or Harry, or Ron. She didn't think about the fact that she was alone. She thought about Alphard. About how much better he deserved, more than to live this broken life until his last breath.

So, when he wasn't dead, when the healers at St. Mungo's drew a wretched gasp from his shriveled body, she knew. She moved him to a little cottage by the sea that no one would use for a decade more. And she took care of him there, as best she could. In between research she made him soup, and in between visits to St. Mungo's she played games with him or read him books. Half the time he wasn't listening, had fallen into another trance, and he'd return to her quiet, as if, even with no way to measure, he knew he was gone for longer and longer each time. As if whatever he saw on the other side was becoming more real than what he saw in this world each time.

And still, he spoke of their mission, about stopping Voldemort. And she knows she loves him now. Not like before, not because he was her friend and they've built this life together, and he was all she had. Not from convenience or her own selfishness. But because it's him. It's him and his kindness, his stubbornness, his unending, unfair, angering understanding. In another world, she thinks, she hopes, she might have chosen him from the beginning. Ran away together and forgotten it all.

He tells her he loves her. He never expects it back.

He tells her there's no world where he wouldn't love her, no world where he could ever hate her, no world where he's not hers.

She doesn't know what to say to this. She knows the truth of his words and, though he does not say it, though he would never say it, she knows that in his steadfast, unending murmurs of love and devotion, there is pain. Pain at this bitter end, pain at this life he's barely lived, pain in playing a part he never chose.

"I'm yours," has been a declaration of love in every scene she's ever read. But Alphard is hers in the worst ways. He's hers to use, to spend, to shatter, to disappear. He's hers to send on missions with no way home. He's hers so she can take, and take, and take. He's hers but she is never his.

He's going to die soon anyways, he says. They both know it, there's no use denying it, but still she flinches every time the words leave him, and it's more and more now. It's almost all he says. Their quiet days filled with his ragged breathing and broken mantra. He looks away from her then, so she knows he's not done, has one more thing he won't back down from.

"Tom likes you in white."

He says it so suddenly one afternoon. It's been so long since he's spoken of anything but his own death that Hermione jumps, almost dropping Alphard's meal. She does not reply to him but he turns to her earnestly, a desperate gleam in his eye that she doesn't know what to do with.

"Our anniversary is almost here, Hermione. Probably our last one." He lets out a sharp laugh that sounds like it hurts.

She hesitates, afraid she knows what he's asking and finding it impossible to complete the thought for him, finding it impossible to make her mind move in that direction.

"He likes you in white." And another laugh that quickly descends into an awful cough.

Hermione rushes forward to help him steady himself and Alphard grabs her hand with much more strength than he's had in a very long time.

"You have to finish this, Hermione. Please. Please tell me you will."

His last words are silent but they both hear them clearly. His death can't be for nothing. She can't give up and let him die for nothing.

She wants to say no. She wants to keep hiding, keep avoiding, keep quiet. But he's right. It's been long enough. Hiding and trying to forget has brought them nothing but pain. There is no place where they can be safe in this world, no place where Tom's web won't find them, and she's wasted years trying to free herself from its tangles. Trying to steal back space and time and losing everything instead as it's all dragged back to his hungry mouth.

So she can do it. She will do it. She doesn't even need to say this to Alphard. Alphard, who has known her so long now, who can finish her sentences and guess her thoughts and knows her feelings better than she does most of the time. He nods when he knows she agrees and a calm seems to come over his face, and his grip on her hands loosens, and he stares back at the wall once again.

Alphard could take a few of the more experimental potions that the Black family had dug up, ones that usually did more harm than good but did at least let him stand for a few hours, let his eyes focus on something other than the wood grain of the dining table that has always been much too large for them.

He does have one other request, though. One that he shares with her in the dead of night, one that she would never have heard if she hadn't still been up thinking, if she could ever stop thinking, her eyes closed against the dark room as a million lighted panics leave a trail of destruction behind in her brain.

He asks her to bury him with his family. As much as he talks about his death, he's never mentioned this. This true acceptance of his fate, these true plans for the end. She doesn't think she breathes the entire time he speaks, not until minutes later, when she hears his breath slow and his body relaxes into their bed in this empty home. Alphard hates his family most of the time, sure. And in another life he surely would have abandoned them, she can't remember if he did, before, can't remember almost anything about what his life would have been and the guilt about this threatens to overwhelm her too. But he's been forced to have them in his life because of her. And they've been so helpful. Prejudiced and cruel at times but they love him. It's so clear in how they talk to him when they come over, so clearly itching to hold him in their arms and their pureblood practices never allowing them to show any of it. So they throw money at them instead. Every healer, every potion master, every possible solution that money can buy. And, when none of them work, when Alphard just keeps getting worse and worse, they don't visit as much. They send countless letters, countless trinkets, countless house elves carrying bundles of food and treats and drinks that Alphard had loved as a child, that he had never been allowed to eat very often, but that they had remembered all this time anyways.

It's a love he has always deserved, a love he may have had otherwise. And a love she wishes she wasn't taking him from. A love she wishes she didn't have to deny.

She wishes she could tell him yes, she wishes she could fulfill his every desire. But she fears what Tom may do to his body, what horrors he might conjure from his bones. She can't imagine Tom wouldn't desecrate a grave to torture her. And she doesn't want that fate for Alphard. She's glad he asked her now, when she could pretend she never heard, though she's sure he knows she did. She's sure that's why he asked now. He knows it's not possible, that Tom's cruelty knows no bounds. But maybe he can die in peace, thinking of his family and an eternity in peace, finally at rest.

A/N: I started writing this story when I was 17 years old, and I posted the first chapter just 4 days after my 18th birthday. I am turning 24 this year. This story was with me throughout all of college and through a very unhealthy relationship. When I started writing it, I thought it sounded romantic and beautiful, if a bit dramatic. A lot has changed about my perceptions of love and relationships since then, and I think I have grown a lot as a person since I was 17 years old. So, it was a little difficult to convince myself to return to writing this. But, fear not, I will finish this story this year (as long as no great tragedy befalls me), and will be following the same basic outline I made 6 years ago. Thank you all so much for reading and for your kind comments over the years, I have often returned to read them when I felt down, so I truly cannot thank you all enough. I hope you all stay happy and safe this year and beyond!