Chapter Fifty-Eight

Malachi turned the Walkman over in his hands – he could only look at it, here, for it didn't work in his dark, twisted world – and leaned his head back against the pillows propped behind him.

It had already been a week since he'd last seen her.

He was ready, now, physically to go back to school – Julia had checked him over that morning – but only if he wanted to, his dad had said. He'd keep him home, longer, if he just said the word.

As much as he didn't want to be back at Hogwarts, Malachi didn't really want to stay home, either. Not here. Not anymore. Especially now that the boxes were down and ready to be packed up; he and his dad moving on, now that their home for the past eight years was no longer safe for them.

He didn't want to be here for that.

He didn't, really, want to be anywhere.

So Malachi leaned his head back and closed his eyes and clutched the Walkman and pretended he could actually hear it; the music that had played in his ear on the beach as Emma sat opposite him, smiling and laughing and alive.

There was a knock on his bedroom door, and Malachi opened his eyes just as his dad's head popped round it.

"Mind if I come in?"

Malachi shook his head, glancing down, and shifted over slightly.

His dad came over, making as if to sit on the edge of the bed – as he normally would – but instead changed tact and sat up higher, swinging his legs up over the side so that the two of them were sitting side by side.

Neither of them said anything at first.

His dad didn't seem to know what to say, in the days that followed. He was just there, holding him, whenever he needed it.

His dad should know what to say. He should know what he was supposed to do. He'd lost his mum for the same reason.

But then, his dad hadn't known what to say back then, either.

"Tell me about her," his dad finally said.

Malachi glanced down, as he remembered the things his dad had said to him, right before all of this had happened. His voice was quiet; "You don't want to hear about her, Dad."

"I do."

"She…" Malachi swallowed, eyes on the Walkman in his hand; "She was just a muggle."

His dad turned and Malachi met his eyes. They were filled with an understanding, a warmth and a compassion that he wasn't expecting to see, when his dad said, quietly; "She was not just a muggle."

Malachi lowered his eyes, drawing in a breath; "Um…she…she liked the, uh, the ocean and swimming. She said we'd go swimming in the sum – uh, she liked…she liked school and, um…" Malachi found it hard to even talk about her, to remember back on the things he'd learned and knew about her, his voice becoming quieter; "she liked music…and…we didn't dance but…she liked that too. And um…she wanted to -" Malachi swiped at the rogue tear that had slipped down his cheek; "she wanted to…to go places. And…and see things –" his voice broke then and he looked away.

She wanted to live.

Malachi didn't want to – couldn't – talk about her.

Maybe that was it. Maybe that's why his dad had never known what to say when they'd lost his mum.

It had taken years before he hadn't looked sad, mentioning her.

His dad's hand appeared next to his, as if reaching for the Walkman, and Malachi handed it over as he asked; "Did she give you this?"

"It doesn't work."

His dad turned it over in his hands – looking as bewildered as Malachi had felt the first time Emma had given it to him – before he gave it back to him.

The two of them just sat there, lost in their own thoughts.

He wanted to ask his dad if it got better. If it still hurt when he thought about his mum and he had just gotten good at hiding it. The guilt of it was almost as bad as the grief, to know Emma had died simply for knowing him.

But he didn't.

He knew his dad carried that. And not just because of his mum.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Son?"

"Are you gonna marry Julia?"

His dad glanced down, considering the words for a moment, as he drew in a breath. And when he met Malachi's eyes again his smile was small and wry, and he shook his head; "No. I'm not."

"She said no?"

It was both surprising and not. They obviously loved each other. They obviously couldn't get married.

"Not yet."

Malachi glanced down, realizing what his dad meant. And he swallowed; "Why did you ask her, then?"

His dad didn't answer right away. As if he were weighing it, whether or not to actually say it – for he, surely, had a reason as this had happened almost two weeks ago, now – and then he said;

"Because I want to. And I forgot myself, for a moment."

It became clearer then, why his dad had stopped before saying it. The truth of it. It was the reality, not just for his dad, anymore, but for him, too.

They would always be alone.

"And we can't ever forget," Malachi said, quietly.

His dad shook his head; "No." His dad met his eyes, and there was such shame and regret in his when Malachi looked at him; "I'm so sorry, Son."

Malachi shook his head – rejecting the apology – and leaned his head on his dad's shoulder.

He still had his dad.

Even that, that day, had no longer been a given.

Malachi leaned in closer, and he felt his dad press a kiss to the top of his head, before he spoke again.

"Come on."

His dad got to his feet, reaching and taking the Walkman from his hands.

Malachi looked up at him with a frown; "Where are we going?"

His dad gave him a smile, before eyeing the device in his hand, and saying; "Somewhere it works."

Malachi looked at him for a second, before getting a small smile and getting to his feet.

His dad put an arm around his shoulders, gave it a squeeze, as the two of them made their way from the room.

He killed Emma.

Harry stared down at the piece of parchment clutched in his hand.

It had arrived by owl that morning – Friday – by which time Harry had already heard the full story. He'd been more than a little concerned when Malachi hadn't turned up to school the previous Friday – as he'd knew had been arranged – and with each day he didn't Harry grew more and more concerned.

Until on Monday, once classes began, the whispers started.

Whispers about 'Regulus Black's son and that muggle girl' that began to filter through the year groups, little bits and pieces, that had Harry's blood run cold. For if everyone knew about Emma…

Tonks had been at Remus' on the Tuesday.

She was there a lot now.

But, still, they pretended there was nothing odd or, even, good going on there. She was just an expected presence, now, and she'd come up with some excuse for being there whenever Harry dropped by about making preparations for the Duel Club or the Defence Curriculum updates.

Harry was glad of her presence that night, when she was able to detail the full story to him – as much as she knew, in any case – and he learned the truth of what had happened to Emma and Malachi and Mr. Black after he and Grace had left.

Harry glanced back at the note.

He killed Emma.

The note was so blunt, so devoid of information, that where Malachi's head was at right now was obvious. Harry had seen, with his own eyes, how besotted he had been with the blonde girl from the beach.

Harry ignited the parchment, letting it burn, even if there was no point in keeping it a secret now. Everyone at Hogwarts already - somehow - seemed to know.

Billowing black robes – the very ones Harry had almost given up hope of spotting – were suddenly caught in Harry's line of vision.

It was so fleeting – Snape striding past the doors to the Great Hall – that Harry would have easily missed it.

Be he didn't.

Harry got to his feet, hurrying after him.

Snape hadn't turned back up at the Castle when expected, either, and once the whispers began to filter Harry had been concerned – more than a little – that, possibly, Snape had got caught up in it, too.

But his worries were put to rest when, during his potions double period on the Tuesday, Snape had strode into the room as if he there was nothing amiss, he had never been away.

But he was there – handing out assignments – and then he was gone and Harry didn't see him again for the rest of the day.

Or the Wednesday.

Or the Thursday.

That wouldn't be happening again.

Harry hurried down the stairs to the dungeons – Snape had somehow managed to get out of sight – but he would surely be going down here.

Harry hurried up, further - so much so that he was almost scrambling to catch up – and, when he eventually reached the corridor and caught sight of Snape's office up ahead, he stopped suddenly upon seeing Snape, himself, standing at the unopened door, looking directly his way with his arms crossed.

Harry didn't hesitate. He approached him, immediately, lest the man try to make his escape.

But Snape didn't, he just stood there and waited until Harry stopped in front of him.

Snape eyed him, carefully for a moment, before he turned – unlocking the charms on the door – and went inside, leaving the door open as an invitation for Harry to follow.

Harry did, closing the door behind him.

"Might I suggest a less conspicuous arrival next time, Mr. Potter?" Snape said, his back to him as he made his way over to the desk, before he stepped around the back and began opening the drawer and pulling out the few items that usually scattered it. A journal, some ink, parchment, old books –

"I want you to tell me about the prophecy."

Snape looked at him, sharply.

Harry hadn't meant to say it so bluntly, nor so quickly, but he had waited long enough.

Snape pushed the drawer beneath his desk shut, before straightening and looking at him, closely; "What do you know about it?"

"Not enough," Harry said, stepping forward; "But I know what it said. And I know you were there. And I know…I know that – you were the one who passed it on. Right? You're the one that told him."

Snape looked at him, soberly for a moment, before he simply said; "Yes."

That was it.

Yes.

Yes.

No apology. No explanations.

Just; yes.

Ugh! Harry could just…could just punch Snape sometimes for his bluntness, so devoid of normal, human feelings of remorse and of empathy and of –

Harry turned away, furiously, because that prophecy – that prophecy – was the reason that Sirius was dead. He died because of that thing. And Harry stormed for the door, once again burned for making the grave, stupid error, of trusting Severus Snape, and he grabbed the handle, making to yank it open.

But Harry hesitated.

Closed his eyes and bowed his head – called on the calm he had, finally, learned – and then drew in a breath and turned back around. He walked back up to him, closer this time, so that there was only the desk between them.

If Snape were impressed or alarmed by his decision not to storm off, he didn't show it – of course, Merlin forbid – and simply looked at him.

"I want you to tell me everything."

"That is something you know very well I cannot do."

"Not the spy stuff. The us stuff. You've been sitting on this, the whole time. I've been telling you things – you knew I knew he was after me – so why not just tell me then? Why leave me to just wonder and feel like I'd killed my Uncle Sirius when…"

"When it was me?" Snape said, eyeing him; "Is that the crime laid at my feet?"

"Are you even sorry?"

Snape drew in a breath, eyes still on his, and then he said, with only the slightest increment of warmth; "Yes, Mr. Potter. I am. As I have said before, I do not take any pleasure in any actions of mine that have had the consequence of causing any pain to either yourself, or those whom I care for."

Harry sighed – barely able to keep from groaning at the long-winded response – and said; "Then just say 'sorry'. Say 'sorry, Mr. Potter, I made a mistake. This is what you're up against' and then tell me what I'm up against!"

"You really need to talk to your mother about this."

"Mum's not here. You're here –" as if his mum would tell him anything " – this can't wait anymore. This thing you've been trying to hide from me and trying to get me ready for, it's happening now. How can you expect me to do this if you won't even tell me what we're up against?"

Snape was staring at him – still – but it was no longer as stoically as before – as always – rather, it was as if he were actually considering it. The benefits against the cost of Harry actually knowing something for once.

And then he indicated the seat at Harry's side.

Harry sat down.

Snape didn't.

An expectant wait in silence before Snape finally spoke.

"The prophecy was made in the winter of nineteen-seventy-eight. I turned over the details of what I had heard to the Dark Lord in the first instance –" Harry made to open his mouth, unable to help himself, but Snape cut him off; " – if you want to hear this, you'll hear it, and silently –"

Harry leaned back, shutting up, Snape waiting until he did so before he went on.

"In the summer following, two boys were born. Both fit the criteria and the Dark Lord was paranoid enough, even at the height of his power, that the threat must be eliminated. He, obviously, did not believe that an infant possessed such powers as to be able to defeat him. But the Dark Lord was on the brink of victory - the Wizarding World bowing beneath his influence, as one by one each institution was infiltrated and fell –"

Harry swallowed. This was what was going to happen to them. And soon.

"- and with his victory within his grasp, his attention was no longer upon only the war but what would come next, when he were to finally rule."

It was a stark, hard truth – an alarming one – how close Voldemort had been, how different the world would have been - and would be – if this prediction were true, and Harry – he – was supposed to hold the key to their victory.

Snape went on.

"An infant may not pose such a threat in the cradle. But, perhaps, twenty years forth, or even, thirty, that infant would no longer be something to simply be sneered at. And the Dark Lord – the entire Wizarding World – was certain that this is what we were headed for. The Dark Lord's ascension and regime. As such, the Dark Lord took action. And he named you as his adversary."

"But the prophecy said he would mark his equal – if it said that, why didn't he just stay away?"

"The Dark Lord was not privy to the contents of the prophecy in its entirety - even now, he is aware of only half of it – as I was ejected from the building before Professor Trelawney's declaration was completed."

Harry considered the statement.

"Do you know it, now?" he asked him; "All of it?"

"I know enough."

Harry stared at him, and recited it, word for word - for it was etched into his memory, now - so that Snape would know of it, before the conversation - and this fight - went on; "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."

Snape's eyes were on the desk, the slightest of frowns on his brow.

"Did you know all that?" Harry asked.

Snape met his eyes. The frown was gone. Suddenly, composed.

"The majority. Yes."

"Dumbledore told you?"

Trusted you.

Harry didn't understand. He didn't understand how – or why – Dumbledore would trust Snape, after that.

Snape did not confirm the statement – the question – and then Harry realized.

"Mum told you."

That made even less sense to Harry. That he and his mum had been friends – surely they had only been friends, as this was before Harry was born – despite him being a Death Eater. And she a muggleborn.

"I don't understand. If mum told you…why would she tell you? If you knew one another –"

"I learned of it years later. Upon our reconciliation."

"Reconciliation. Then you knew each other, before?"

"Yes."

Okay. That made the tiniest bit more sense.

"But it…it wasn't really me, was it?" Harry said, as he digested the information Snape had told him, as it didn't add up to the history. Not the history he knew about; "He went after Neville Longbottom, first."

"You were a decoy. With the darkness rising and the reality of the world the Dark Lord was offering become more and more apparent with each of his victories, even the most devoted of followers were beginning to break ranks. There were defectors – "

"Mr. Black?"

"Far more than only one, Mr. Potter, the majority of which did not make it into the stories. And the Dark Lord knew of this. He, of course, had spies of his own."

"Peter Pettigrew."

"Yes. Another one of several. And as he was aware there was a spy within his own ranks, feeding information to the Order of the Phoenix – Albus Dumbledore was, and remains, the only other wizard the Dark Lord truly fears – he sought to throw said spy off course. He selected you as a decoy and hunted Neville Longbottom. The Headmaster suspected that he might and hid you both."

"And it worked, throwing off the spy? Death Eaters still came for us. For my dad."

"Those circumstances were unrelated to the prophecy; vengeance, for the fall of their Lord."

Harry nodded.

"Okay. So. Who was the spy working with Dumbledore? Mr. Black?"

For the first time in the conversation, Snape looked away.

And the answer to Harry's question was surprising clear when he looked back at him.

"It was you?"

Snape neither confirmed nor denied it; which was confirmation enough.

But that…that made no sense.

"I don't understand," Harry shook his head, trying to untangle it all; "You're the one who told him the prophecy. So, what happened between winter and summer to make you change your mind?"

Snape simply stared back at him.

"Oh."

Oh.

Wait.

What?

"But…my mum. And my dad. They were still together then," Harry said, wondering if his head was going to explode with all of this – this information that had been held back from him all this time; "I saw it."

"That was irrelevant. Your mother was not informed of my involvement."

"But…I don't…you defected because of us. You became a spy to…to protect us? And you never told us that's what you were doing? And we were just supposed to…live?"

Harry met his eyes, uncertainly, as the truth of it sunk in; "You became a spy to protect us."

"My concern was a bit more focused than you're implying."

"You were in love with my mum. Even then."

"There were feelings," Snape shifted, not quite meeting Harry's eyes; "Perhaps not quite so acute as they may be perceived to be now."

"Well they must have been pretty acute for you to basically throw your life away for her."

"Are you implying I ought to have done differently?"

"No. Obviously not. I'd be dead if you hadn't. We all would be. You…you saved us."

Snape's lip curled, obvious disgust at himself when he spoke; "You forget who handed over the prophecy in the first place."

"But you're still spying now. For years and years," Harry frowned, as the weight of it, all that Snape had been doing, everything about him and his mum and what they had been doing suddenly became clear; "Mum. I…I thought she threw it all way to be with you. But…that's not how it was. You did it for her, first. And…that's why mum's with you."

"I sincerely hope that is not the reason, Mr. Potter."

"I don't mean…I mean; if you did it first –" Harry explained, as if saying it out loud would help him understand it; "If you committed your life to fighting the war, for my mum, then…then obviously she would do the same for you. Obviously, she would. You…you gave up everything for her."

"Nothing that mattered," Snape dismissed the assessment, without hesitation; "I have gained far more. As you know."

Harry looked down. He did finally get it. Why walking away was never an option for his mum, once she'd fallen in love with him. Why she couldn't just walk away and leave Snape to spy and to fight this war – for her – while she set up a life, happily, somewhere else, with someone else, and her children – his daughter – and Harry drew in a breath.

"Okay," he nodded; "Okay."

He turned his attention back to the prophecy – the issue at hand – because Snape and his mum and their commitment to one another was so deep-rooted and complex, that it was almost giving Harry a headache attempting to make sense of it.

"So, you went to Dumbledore and he hid us, and you kept spying. And then the Longbottom's defeated him," Harry met Snape's eyes, remembering what had happened – from the stories at least – and went on; "That first time, they did. How did they do that?"

"They evoked a form of magic that the Dark Lord is unable to access."

"Power the Dark Lord knows not – how do we know that wasn't it?"

"We thought it was. Some of us, even, were entirely convinced that was the end of it. Though we were not privy to that particular aspect of the prophecy. Neville Longbottom was never marked - though that is a detail not learned until far later; that Neville Longbottom never faced the Dark Lord the night he fell to the Longbottom's magic."

"What magic was it?"

"Blood Magic. Ancestral. It can be accessed only by those pure of birth; a calling of magic down through the blood lines – at very great cost –" Snape added, at Harry's obvious increasing interest; "- as such it is something that neither yourself nor the Dark Lord can count upon should the prophecy come to pass."

Of course not.

That would be easy.

To actually have a chance.

Harry shook his head; "So, there's some other mysterious half-blood magic I'm supposed to be able to tap into, instead? Maybe we should be focusing a bit more on that, instead of just occlumency."

Snape glowered at him.

"And what good would that do if the Dark Lord can just sift through and have a look at what you have discovered? Occlumency, as you well know, is non-negotiable."

"I'm not trying to negotiate it," Harry rolled his eyes; "But we need to do more."

More than more. They needed to do everything. More than this, more than what they'd been doing.

"I'm glad you think so."

"I would have thought so if you'd just told me all of this in the first place."

"That was not my choice to make."

"Mum made you stay quiet."

"That's not what I am saying," Snape said, quickly, even though that was obviously the reason. She'd kept Snape quiet about this, just as she'd kept Remus quiet about them; "Even if it had been my choice there was – and is – no doubt in my mind that you are not ready for this information. No one should have to carry this burden, least of all a fourteen year old child."

"I'm almost fifteen."

"And what a difference that will make."

Snape was right.

It did make no difference.

What difference would be made from now, until summer, to grant Harry this great title of World Saviour – what mysterious 'powers the Dark Lord knows not' were supposed to come to him.

It was just…hopeless.

"You don't think I'm going to be able to do this, do you?" Harry said, quietly, speaking more to himself that Snape; "Not really. You want me to be able to, obviously, because you and Mum built a life in your head about how everything was going to just be fine and dandy, the four of us, when this is all over. And that everything we're doing right now is going to be worth it."

That was it. The dream, for all of them. That they'd actually be a family. And that, when all this was over, they'd be able to just…go home.

A fantasy. A fairytale.

A lie.

"But it won't be," Harry looked down; "I'll be dead. And if he lets my mum and my sister live after that, they're going to be living in hell just for being mine."

What was happening with Malachi, right now, such cold hard evidence of that very fact.

He met Snape's eyes, going on; "You won't be able to save them. He'll just kill you, when he realizes that they're yours, too."

Snape's eyes were upon him, dark and contemplative and, then, he glanced away, shaking his head. His disappointment in him – in his response – evident.

"Ah. So, that's it then, is it?" Snape looked at him, down his nose; "That's to be your decision, having finally learned the truth? That it is...hopeless. Not even worth fighting for. You refuse to even try?"

The weight of it all – the truth and the expectation and Snape's disappointment – Harry couldn't take it.

It was hopeless.

"How the hell am I supposed to do this? No one else can. You and Mr. Black and Dumbledore – you've been trying to fight him for years and none of you have been able to do it. So, how am I supposed to do this alone?"

Snape kept his eyes on him for a moment.

And then he drew in a breath and took a seat behind his desk, so that he now faced him. And when he spoke there was sincerity along with the assertion. A warmth.

A vow.

"Harry. You are not alone."

Harry kept his eyes on him.

The statement made with such certainty that, for the first time in so long, in this fight, he finally, finally believed that were true.

The cottage – their home – was a lonely place without Malachi or Julia there with him.

A loneliness entirely of his own creation.

Malachi's situation, now, only reminded him of that.

Regulus tossed the book he held into the box, almost carelessly.

His son blamed himself, Regulus knew, for the death of that girl but it was not his son's sins that had led them here. He was just too pure and good to turn the blame upon he who should bear it.

Regulus lifted the framed portrait – the still portrait – that usually hung from the wall above the mantle, finger going to Evelyn's face. Another. Gone long before her time.

She was not the only one to pay the price for his crimes.

Regulus swallowed and carefully wrapped the portrait before placing it into the box on the table before him, as he carried on packing up their belongings; preparing to leave the home that they had become far too comfortable in for either of their own goods.

The fireplace flared – the floo having been set up by his contact within the Ministry following the Dark Lord's discovery of his location – and Regulus glanced up, as Julia stepped through.

He smiled.

He was happy to see her, as he always was, even if it was weighted, now, by the cold, hard truth of just how much they had been fooling themselves these past few months.

"Hey," she returned his smile, stepping towards him and he drew her in for a kiss, before the two of them sat down on the edge of the sofa table; "How's Malachi?"

"Back at school, ready to start tomorrow. Like you said, he's tough. He'll pull through."

Julia smiled, giving a nod, and glanced around the room.

There was clearly something on her mind.

He knew, obviously, what it was as it was surely the same thing that was on his. And had been since he had spoken those forbidden words to her the fortnight before.

Julia indicated the box sitting on the table behind him – backing out of whatever it was she had come here to say – and said; "I could give you a hand. Now this is a lot of stuff you've got here, Black."

Regulus smiled, but it was still heavy with the pretense of normality, of light-heartedness, and he knew they couldn't go on like this.

Not now.

Regulus took her hands; "Julia. If you're worried that this is a bad time, you don't have to. I already know what you came here to say."

The playfulness in her expression that she had managed to muster up dissolved and she lowered her eyes, when he called it. Called on them to finally, properly, deal with this. And when she reached up, running her hand through her hair, and released one of those trembling breaths he'd only ever heard once before from her – the night he'd asked her to give herself over to him – he realized it was the first time he'd ever, truly, seen her vulnerable. He'd come for her and taken her down a path that could have only ended up here and he hated himself for that.

She was the one who'd be leaving him.

But he was the one who'd broken their hearts.

Julia met his eyes.

"I love you."

Regulus drew in a breath. The words – an entirely deserved – punch to the gut. He had never heard it – not for so many years – from anyone other than his son.

It was far, far more than he could ever deserve.

He lowered his eyes, the hand that still held hers tightening as he did.

There were declarations of love that held hope and a promise for the future: of a devotion and a camaraderie and a life.

This was not one of those declarations.

No. This one sounded very much like goodbye.

"I've been in love with you," she went on, more assuredly after drawing in a breath; "That's why I haven't…"

Her assuredness faltered.

"Why you haven't left?"

She met his eyes.

And the vulnerability was back, then, in her eyes and it took all of Regulus' willpower not to look away.

"Did you mean it?"

Regulus knew she meant the proposal. For a moment, he considered saying no. Of course not. He knew – she knew – that it was impossible. It was a joke. A moment of weakness. And, then, maybe they could just smile and laugh it off.

And then she would stay.

They would carry on, just like before, pretending that the world outside these windows wasn't touching them.

He would keep her a little longer.

Until, another few months from now, this happened again.

And a few months after that, again still.

And the cycle would go on and on.

One more day. One more night. He would pull and she would come and time would pass her by.

The best years of her life, gone in a flash, wasted on Regulus Black and a promise of nothingness and heartache – at best – and utter devastation and death, at worst.

For better or worse.

Regulus shook his head.

And he knew she'd never go for it. He knew her. So, for the first time in his life, instead of pulling. He pushed.

"Yes. I meant it, Julia."

Julia didn't disappoint him. Well. Not his expectations, in any case.

Julia swallowed, shaking her head; "I just…I don't think that I can do it, Regulus."

He knew that – he knew – and this was why he had pushed but he was unprepared for and fought down the – remarkably rapid – rising ache and the grief – was that truly grief – now that this was actually happening.

"Whichever way we did it," Julia went on, quietly; "It's either too much to hide, or too much to give up. I can't hide myself and my life from the rest of the world, that's…that's not me."

Regulus knew that. Julia Bradbury did nothing half-way. She was bright. And fearless. And alive. Someone who deserved to be seen. That was why he…

"No. I know," Regulus said, mustering up his strength to not weigh them down – this moment – any more than it had to be. If he wasn't careful, if his resolve broke, there was too real of a danger he might convince her otherwise; "I…I could never ask you to. I could never ask you to wait for me. It was wrong of me, to ask you."

Julia's eyes glimmered, then, and that – more than his own heartache – forced him to pull on his strength. To do this; for her and for them. She deserved that.

"Regulus, I'm so sorry."

"No," Regulus shook his head, moving in closer to her; "Ah ah. No. Julia. This is our last night together," he decided as he reached up a hand, cupping her cheek, and his thumb brushed away the stray tear that had begun to fall; "There will be none of this."

He leaned his forehead to hers, giving her a smile; "Tonight, there will be candles. And there will be music. And there will be dancing. And there will be some pretty epic goings-on under the cover of darkness tonight –" she smiled at him, through the tears and the sadness in her eyes, "- Miss Bradbury, let me assure you, that tonight is going to be the best night of our lives. And tomorrow when you walk out that…fireplace…" they chuckled, both of them, before he asserted:

"There will be no regrets."

Julia's expression changed then, as her eyes flitted between his; because no regrets, that was Julia Bradbury all over, and he could never regret this. He could never regret that he could say that for a little while she had been his.

"There will be no apologies and there will be no goodbyes," Regulus went on, taking both her hands back into his own; "There will only be this; thank you."

Julia frowned in puzzlement; "Thank you?"

Regulus nodded, saying with certainty; "Thank you. For even being here at all."

Julia simply stared back at him.

And then she sighed and took his face in her hands, kissing him deeply, and he felt it, then, more than he ever had before; all the love that she felt for him. And he cherished it, wanted it, and he reached for it – for her – and poured it all back.

For one more night.