((authors note before you begin: it's been a while, i know i know...But before you read, I would encourage you all to remember Rosalie is the most complex character I write and her storyline with Tom is supposed to be big right now in order to understand her more for the rest of the book (i swear, he is not the focus for it all). I hate spelling things out, but since so many wish to get angry about Tom and accuse me of having her act of character when we know she's super in love with someone else, I would just like to say we see him in a certain light because we are witnessing who he is with her. This story is extremely long and we are just now getting to ONE of the bigger climaxes of it in the next few chapters. Therefore I am not going to have any of my characters break all generational cycles, or fix every bit of their issues, right now. Character arcs are not supposed to be a straight line, there is back and forth and no one is guaranteed endgame or a happy ending. And for the love of God, if Tom's age as an immortal bothers one of you so bad, please swear off TVD and all other things of the sort that involve underage girls---which Rose is not. She's an adult, physically and mentally and legally. Now...lastly, I am not trying to excuse abusers' behaviours by giving them a redemption arc: bringing back Walburga and Orion. There is a reason for this, and you will see it all worked out in the next few chapters. Please be mindful that I write this for practice and fun, being rude or making heavy statements is extremely harmful when I promise you that everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) I write in here is intentional and pointing to a bigger picture. Nothing I write is just there, it all gives you hints to the future or a deep meaning. I have rewrote this exact chapter five times, and I finally figured out how i'm doing the next few chapters so regular updating should start again now (plus my workload is lighter finally). On a joyful note, I love and missed you guys tons!! Enjoy this chapter that took months <3))

ALWAYS AN ANGEL, NEVER A GOD.

               The next day they were all set to leave. News of the Azkaban breakout had spread after the Prophet published that morning. Rose giggled uncontrollably as they passed by people with opened copies and fearful faces while moving to their cart, letting them think her mad. The minister was, of course, blaming the breakout on Sirius Black. This caused the day to feel like third year all over again, everyone whispering her name and gawking at her as if she was a zoo animal on show.

In their closed cart, each of them looked ridiculous. Whitman and Blaise were sitting on one of the bench seats, leaning in closer to the other three friends crouched together by the wall, beneath the window.

Draco tossed Theo the knife before wrapping his arms around the dark-haired witch in his lap. He had been so relaxed that day, and rested his chin on her shoulder as he watched Theo get to work. Etched into the metal walls of their cart were the initials that read : W. R. B.Z. D.M. R.B.

Theo finished marking a T next to Rose's B before starting a N. And when he finished that, the knife almost slipped back into his pocket, but Rose leaned up from Draco's arms and swiped the blade away. Everyone watched, half-confused, as she began drawing lines around their names.

After finishing and handing the knife back, a chorus of groans rang out.

"You've ruined it!" Blaise claimed.

"I have not!" Rose defended her 'art' fiercely before sinking into Draco's hold. "It's a heart! It's cute!"

Whitman grumbled to himself, and tipped his head back into the seat. "We are never beating the allegations now."

"Never," Draco muttered, then pecked her shoulder and whispered, "But I like it."

Rose grinned up at him. "You're a lovesick fool, Malfoy. Now, tell them too. Let them hear how much you adore it."

Theo collapsed fully to the ground and kicked a leg over her lap, resting his back into the bottom of the seats. "I heard him,"

"That's because you're less than two feet away, you idiot," Draco deadpanned.

"Watch it," Theo pointed the knife toward Draco, "I'll take that blonde hair off your head."

"Oi!" Blaise smacked a hand on top of Draco's head, and before the blonde could lose his mind, Blaise said, "You leave our precious albino alone!"

"Blaise..." Draco began, resting his chin back on the girl's shoulders without a care of the hand on him, "You have five seconds to stop touching me."

"Or what?" Blaise dropped into the floor, his amrs circling around Draco and Rose's conjoined. bodies.  That was until Theo lifted the leg he had thrown over them, kicking Blaise's hands away.

*

             On the crowded platform, Draco was ripped away by Narcissa, and for the first time Rose realised he had grown taller than Lucius.

It was an odd reminder of change.

She doesn't know how long she stood there, uncaring of the others, or the Malfoy's need to show no affection in public, with her arms around Draco. She wished he would come with her. He would be happy, like Theo. He could have a new home.

Kreacher was the only one waiting for her. He took Whitman's bags though, and Whitman, then left. She didn't catch where the two claimed their presence was required, but she didn't care.

All of her worries melted after a long journey to the South of France, where she was able to walk through the front doors and feel relief—not tension of what was to come.

Theo wavered by the door, as if he didn't know if he was truly allowed inside.

Rose took his hand, a crooked smile on her lips. "What are you so afraid of? Going back to your new, comfy bed? Not worrying about which footsteps are heading to your room? Getting to finally see pictures of us on your walls? Or," she moved their fingers together, inching him a step closer into the kitchen. "Is it the fear of finally having an ocean view from your bed? Are you afraid of your new home, loverboy?"

"I--" Theo stopped short, tilting his head down at her. He yanked her into him with their intertwined fingers. She yelped. "Are you taunting me?" he asked, his eyes dropping down over her entire figure.

She opened her mouth, but he had already swept her off the ground—leaving nothing but laughter to pour from her lips as he carried her into their home.

An hour later, Regulus, Kreacher, and Whitman were still no where to be found. The home had returned to its natural state with candles burning and a few windows opened, regardless of the brisk weather it blew in—fire places existed for a reason.

But she and Theo were by the water, his body wrapped in heavy jumpers, and her own in a wool blanket while her feet carried her along the stones buried into the oceans waters. He had chased after her on each stone.

Once catching her giggling self, he curled curling his arms around her neck, and his smile—that never came out unless it was for her—was on full display as sea salt made his hair become unruly.

Maybe they belonged to no one. No family, not really, but they were here—together.

*

             Muggles were such interesting beings around the holidays. They hung lights outside their homes, blew up inflatable snowmen, placed garland around their mailboxes, and seemed to stay inside a bit more than usual. When she lived at Grimmauld, Rose would take chilly walks during this time with Whitman by her side. Even on the latest of nights, he would hold her hand and let her guide him around the different neighbourhoods and businesses in London that put Yule decorations up.

Little Whinging was no different. Lights decorated the matching homes in hues of reds, blues, green, and whites. Garland hung from windows, and the air felt like ice melting on her cheeks. Winter and Yule always seemed so comforting, in a way other seasons and celebrations were not.

But she cannot deny the ache that the season brings. When winter comes, and families are cozied up on couches together, there's a sudden dull twinge in her tired bones. Even when she is the happiest on Yule night, and when the frost is freezing the window panes, there's a longing she thinks the world feels as they look out into the greying skies.

Tonight her body had been draped in black, and she didn't have the mind to rip off the cloak barely clinging to her shoulders. She stepped onto the Dursley's small porch, her cheeks already stained with the freezing weather and sadness of a millions daughters that had come before her. The derealization started hours ago, and there were too many tears clogging her vision to see the red door as she raised her trembling fist and knocked.

Maybe Harry would take her back. Maybe he would call her a friend regardless of the stain on her heart and buried into her veins. Maybe—in some mythical way—Harry would make a miracle from her savage mistakes before she ruined them all.

She sniffled, her nose turning pink from the cold, but the tears kept coming in fast-paced waves as her limbs shook on the small platform. Her eyes darted around anxiously, finding every inside home light off, and one street lamp flickering a few feet away.

You'll drown in it if you're not careful, Sirius warned her. No matter what they tell you, our last name does not make us capable of withstanding the worst of storms. We are still human.

Walburga and Orion made her believe she could do it, that her manipulation and strength would be enough to take on hell and all of its demons. More importantly, the hellions leader. But she has gone too far.

She does not care if she dies tonight.

She would tell Harry everything. Give him the horcruxes. Her mind could not think of anything else. She tried forcing herself to think of the boys, of Luna—they needed her. But she cannot bring herself to conjure their faces now. And every time she looked down at her hands, hoping to use the initials Blaise wrote on them in ink as a reminder of the family she must live for, all she can see is the blood from tonight covering her palms.

It is too much.

Too much death. Pain. Agony. Fear.

She wanted to be a woman unable to be shattered, capable of withstanding and turning away with no guilt from any sort of bloodshed. But she is human, and she has too much filth in her soul.

The door opened, but she had yet to notice—too busy staring every which way with sharp nails piercing into her cloak.

"Rosalie?"

The name made her flinch away at first. Alarm bells rang in her head.

But it was Harry's voice, laced with sleep and confusion.

And when she finally raised her head to look at him, he sobered awake—paling to a shade of white.

"Harry—" She couldn't recognise her own tone, achy and shaking like some unfed animal. "Harry, I—" she began again, "I've done something awful."

She waited for him to slam the door in her face, or ask a million questions. Maybe even scoff at her distressed state and turn away.

But Harry, with a heart too big for his own chest, left the door ajar and stepped forward. His hand grasped onto the back of her head, pulling Rose in until her face was pushed into his chest. Then his arms draped around her neck.

He didn't say anything, but he let out a shaky breath, as if he knew whatever brought her to this point had been awful. He is as used to the atrocities of this world as her, and when her arms in turn wrapped around him, all she felt was guilt. Hearing his name was enough to make her ashamed, but for him to be this way—to understand without an explanation—is something that makes her feel as though she is back in the empty theatre Draco took her to. She could almost hear that aching melody bleeding with sadness again. She could feel the ache of longing the music caused.

She thought of Hermione the first time she heard it on stage, it reminded her of the feeling of losing something meant to be close. But now she thinks of Harry, a boy with no one in this world who she had left behind.

But she could fix it.

Suddenly her life was in her control. Not in her grandparents' control. Nor Dumbledore's. Or even the Dark Lord.

She had the power.

Not them, not anyone.

Rose was the one to pull back and when she did, Harry's hands drifted onto her arms with green-eyes full of concern behind rounded glasses.

"I have to tell you something." She sniffled. "And after I do, something bad is going to happen. But you need to trust—just trust me, okay?"

His brows pinched together. "Rose...you're scaring me. What's going on? If someones after you...if it's him again, I will help you."

Her mouth opened, but a voice, deep and rough like sandpaper, entered her mind.

'Choose your next words carefully, Rosalie.'

No.

No.

No.

Gods, how foolish had she been to think he wouldn't know—that anywhere she went, he wouldn't find her. She didn't know how he knew where she was standing, but he did. The Dark Lord had always been able to find her in a moment, why had her brain failed to remember that?

And again, the voice sliced into her mind as she trembled before Harry.

'I will give you five seconds to walk away.'

Every muscle in her body locked up, the hairs across her arms stood.

"Harry," she whispered shakily. "I'll come back soon, okay? I promise."

She pushed away from Harry, rushing off the porch and through the grass. The Potter calling her name turned into a blur as the night provided her with shelter away from his screwed sight.

Then she ran, and ran, until her lungs gave out and she somehow found herself in an empty field. The Christmas lights were far off now, and weeds almost reached her knees.

Her lungs heaved for oxygen, and she almost sunk into grass, but her name being called in that same deep, haunting voice made her whip around in search. It sounded as if it was coming from every corner of the world, all around her, in every direction. And, like some mythical creature of the night, from some shadow, the Dark Lord revealed himself before her.

"Stop!" she screamed. "Leave me alone!"

The Dark Lord adjusted the collar of his dark coat and gazed out into the field, his jaw twitching. "Rosalie, you should know by now that your episodes do not phase me."

She would turn away, but it would be no use.

She wiped her tears roughly, and muttered, "How did you know I was there?"

A small sound of amusement came from him as his eyes stayed off in the distance, and his lips curved upward on one side. "I'm always watching you, darling. I always know where you are. Doesn't that make you feel safe?"

Her throat tightened. "The opposite, the complete opposite."

"Hm. I would think you lucky to have me of all people keeping an eye on you. Surely you could never be harmed now."

"You were, you were stalking me?"

"Tonight? Yes."

If peace had been crafted into a person, it would be him. Nothing about him radiated nervousness despite his apparent knowledge of her almost betrayal. If she were to see him on the street, without remembering his name, her lips might form a smile at how calm he looked. How sturdy, how content with life. Someone strong, someone a girl like her could find shelter in.

The wind blew in harsher than ever, and a dark curl dangled down toward one of his brows. The sight made her angrier. How could he stand there and be so perfectly fine? Why is he not killing her? Shouting and promising her coming death?

"I will betray you—" The words shot out shakily, desperately. "I will be a martyr," she vowed. "I will do it."

"Will you?" he asked calmly, still refusing to look at her.

"Yes!" she shouted, internally begging for a reaction. "I will!"

His tongue clicked. "My dear, when will you learn?"

"Learn what?! What more could I possibly have to learn?!"

At once, his eyes snapped onto her own, and she now yearned to take her wish back. Never did she want to meet his gaze again. And in mere moments, her sight was filled with the black across his chest and arms. She was forced to look up, to be okay with the fact he could see the tears still pouring down her face.

"In betraying me," he began. "You will be betraying yourself. Every time, Rosalie. It does not matter how much you rewrite the story in your mind, how much you convince yourself that things could be different if you had never met me—even if you kill me, I will find you again. Haunt you until your dying days. It would seem as though I am doomed to torment you, and you doomed to do the same unto me. It is a fate you must face."

Her limbs trembled, but she did not dare to step away. "Let me go," she breathed out. "Let me out of the ranks, of the vows, of...everything."

Everything—what a simple word for something so complex.

"The only way out is death. You know that."

"Then kill me!"

"Never."

"I'll do it myself then." She tried raising her voice, "I'll go to Harry, or Dumbledore—anyone that will...will listen! I will rip these horcruxes off my body and tell them everything before Death takes me away!"

His left hand clenched into a fist before relaxing, and she could see his anger finally boiling to the surface. "Do you know what people are doing to keep you alive?" He spoke harsher than he had all night. "Have those idiots not told you what they've done? What about your uncle, hm? Are you so foolish that you really believe your issues will disappear if I'm gone?"

She stopped breathing.

And then she clutched the font of his coat in her hands pleadingly, venom on the tip of her tongue. "I don't want them to live in a world with you in it. I—I don't want to live in a world with you in it."

Nature seemed to react to her words, or his magic had just made everything within nature go still.

He pulled her wrists off and yanked Rose fully into him, her body colliding with his steel frame. "Then go do it," he snarled viciously. "Tell the Order everything, break the vows, throw my soul into the hands of another. But I will bring you back, I will bring you back and make you stand by my side. Death won't keep you from me, Rosalie. It never has and it never will."

No words left her.

"Go," he demanded cruelly, releasing her wrists and sending her tumbling back a step. "Go and do it."

"As if you would let me."

"I mean it, Rosalie." He gestured behind her to the home she had run from. "Go. I won't stop you."

Fine.

She lifted her chin and tucked her shaky hands beneath the cloak, but in the haze of her mind—in the stupidest, childish manner ever—she wanted one last look at him.

How foolish.

She couldn't move now, trapped by his guarded eyes boring into her soul.

But it is not the idea of him that truly sobers her. Her head has cleared, just enough, for her to think of the others—the people that are her home, her world.

And then came the remembering, of what it had been like before he came back. When she walked the streets and mourned him like a fool. The gaping hole that had been there for far too long.

"You're hesitating, darling." There was spite behind the mockingly endearing term. "Do you want to know why I'm not angry with your actions?" He paused, awaiting her nod. "Because you are never going to betray me. Even if you had gotten far enough for him to take you inside and calm you, your mind would have stopped you before you could do it. Deep down, you know that the consolation of my ruin being a brave thing would burn you alive, and soon enough you'd be stuck with me in death once the guilt became too much. Killing me will kill you too. Face the truth that you're too much of a coward to admit."

Maybe he was right.

Maybe she will hate him forever and curse the Gods until death for letting her walk into that chamber all those years ago. She was not without a heart like him, perhaps she will never possess the strength to get rid of his residue smudged across her heart.

But tonight, guilt has eaten at her soul.

"I almost killed them!" she blurted out. Her hands flung across her mouth, and her head shook as if in denial—which she was.

"Who...?"

"My...my grandparents." She would throw up, surely. There was no way for her to say it. Madness has stolen everything from her. "They told me about the boys killing them both, and I—I was scared, Tom. I thought they'd...try to kill all three of the others!"

Everything turned into a blur again.

Her vision.

Her memories.

And there was blood covering her palms.

"I realised I wasn't angry, that I understood why they did it and I—I was going to do it too. To protect the boys," she rasped. "But you don't understand." Rose stumbled back a step, pressing a hand into her chest as another cry choked her lungs. "I still killed a man tonight,"

"Who did you kill? Rosalie, listen to me and stop slipping away."

"Arthur Weasley," she whispered with a voice crack. "I told you—I told you what to do. And now...Ron's father is dead."

She could not feel her legs now.

But two hands grabbed ahold of her face with another level of firmness and strength. She felt herself being shaken, her name being called, and at some point she could see him through her waterfall tears.

"He is not dead, Rosalie. Do you hear me? He is not dead."

Her hands wrapped around his wrist, her nails instantly digging into his flesh. She looked as though she had seen a ghost—eyes wide and covered in crimson veins, a portrait of something beyond fear.

"You're a liar," she cursed. "Dumbledore told me. I–I saw it."

Then, she disappeared.

*

And by three in the morning, she found herself standing in front of a door she had no business being at.

But she came anyway.

There was no light on within the home, but there never was at this time.

She didn't wait for another to open the door, stepping into the dreary foyer and shrugging off her cloak before hanging it on an empty rack. When she had been forced here, all those months ago, she hated it.

But it no longer felt so foreign after her stay.

The witch walked through the darkness of the home. She headed down a long corridor until reaching an open drawing room where a fire burned. Thin curtains blew as if wind had entered, but there were only orange flames calling her name.

After so long here, she could easily grab a blanket from the dark corner, slip off her shoes, and nestle herself into the centre of some slouchy couch a mere three feet away from the fire.

The darkness of the room was not as comfortable as it should've been. It reminds her of him.

He will come.

And he does—half an hour later.

She caught a glimpse of the whiskey glass in his hand before the space beside her filled with a body that radiated warmth. The flames roared as he leant forward on his knees, and she knew it was him who made them so.

How easy it is for him to control the world, how frightening that fact is for her.

Rose's gaze dared to trail over to him, and she believed she was going mad once again. Shadows danced over their bodies in a mocking routine, forcing her to see every curve of his face that has changed with age. Sharper now, defined in a more beautifully cutthroat manner, and the many years he did age—before he completed immortality—she can see it too.

She wondered what the future will be like, when he watches her grey and turn to wrinkle while he stays the same masterpiece he will always be. Perhaps she should give in, beg him to make her just as immortal as he, but she suddenly yearned for the idea of growing old. To see the lines formed by her lips as proof of how much she smiled, to see her ebony hair turn silver.

"You came," she said.

"Don't I always?" He spoke bitterly, as if she truly were his curse.

But he doesn't ask why she was sat in his home after tonight's events.

Perhaps he knows that it is not because she loves him. Nor because he is everything to her. Or even her place of rest. She had come here because he is just as much of a monster as her. The enormity of his sins make her own seem small. She couldn't face the people she loves tonight. Not when her hands are stained red and her last sliver of who she wanted to be, who she could be, has left for good.

"Arthur might make it," she muttered.

"I would not lie to you, no matter how evil you wish to think I am." He brought the glass up to his lips and drank the dark liquid. Plenty was left when he was done. She almost took it away, downs it herself.

The silence felt thick, hanging heavy in the air like candle wax stuffed into her lungs.

"It is supposed to snow soon," he said, eyes caught in the flames.

She recalled their conversation, when the first fall of snow happened. How she stupidly wanted him to see how much it glistened, how she foolishly believed he might even go look. Perhaps he did, she does not know. But she remembered how much he listened to her ramble about the powdery substance raining down.

"You thought of me when you found out, hm?"

He does not reply. Instead, the glass in his hand vanished and he leaned back onto the couch until their arms brushed together. She had to force herself to keep her knees from falling onto his lap.

"Am I too much?" she asked.

He is the only one who will tell her the truth in a brutal manner.

A humoured smile pulled at his mouth, but his teeth never show. "No one is quite as vexing as you, nor as maddening as yourself."

"But am I too much?"

"Yes, but it is your spirit. I do not wish for it to be broken."

Her bent knees fell onto his leg, and as smooth as the blanket on her, his arm wrapped around them.

"You were not made for this world, Rosalie," he told her. "I am wise enough to understand that."

"What was I made for then?"

He looked over at her, the shield no longer there in his eyes. She likes him best this way, when there is a glimpse of her turning him human once more.

"Something much bigger than this place," he vowed, "than all of us."

She almost called his name, but she does not believe him worthy of that.

Except the fire is warm and he is cold, and time is sweeping by them quicker than anyone would like. So her arm slips through his own and she shuffled close enough to curl into his side before resting her head against his shoulder, foolish as it is. Tomorrow they will both forget he allowed this. She will blame the hysterics, he will blame the alcohol that could never truly affect him.

It is an awful thing to find comfort with the devil.

And she knows this, but she also knows when her fingers skate along his wrist, she can feel a smudge of warmth—she can feel his pulse. He does not tense up this time, nor does he force her away.

Perhaps tonight he will be as gentle as a monster can be.

She has never had to explain herself much to him. Even in the beginning, he understood her.

She hopes he will tonight too.

"Dumbledore is planning something," she muttered. "I messed up before leaving Uni. I told him I knew he was trying to manipulate me."

A beat passed before the Dark Lord said, "He believes he will lose you then. I'm presuming he will try to get back in your good graces before I can sink my claws into your mind and corrupt you."

"No, he knows better. Never believed I fully got over the death of that part of your soul. If he thinks I'm already meeting with you...nevermind that. He called an Order meeting tonight but didn't tell me. He's planning something, I don't know what."

"I will speak with Severus, see what it is about." His arm curled tighter around her legs, and she paused her mindless ministrations on his wrist from the action. "Now, may you relax? I fear you will have a stroke if you do not learn the art of calming down."

She almost laughed, but instead tips her chin up toward him. "I need to relax? Have you ever met yourself, Mr. World Domination?"

"I mean it, Rosalie. The universe is full of boring humans, you are not allowed to die and leave me with them."

Now laughter actually left her lips, and he looked down at her with deadly seriousness that made her come to a slow stop.

"I mean it," he repeated harshly.

"What?" She tried to hide a smile. "Was it really so bad? All those years of not knowing what fantastic, astonishing, peculiar witch was coming into your life one day?"

He sighed and tipped his head back against the couch. "Well...I guess you could say I always had this feeling that I was missing a certain grating sound in my ears. Perhaps I knew you'd come along."

She scoffed, but there was humour in it.

Now is when the world slips away from her.

She is lost in the ether with him.

Her head rested against his shoulder once more, and she heard manic whispers of ancestors telling her to get up and go far away from him.

To go home.

His fingers danced in a circle along her knee, and he dared to ask, "Do you really despise me enough to wish me death?"

"I can't live with you," she said bitterly, because it is true, "I can't live without you."

It was the most honest thing she had ever said.

"Quite the predicament you have."

"Quite."

A humoured sound left him once again at their own miserable torture, and his arm leaves before wrapping around her shoulders—pulling her in close. His chin rested on top of her head as she sunk into him. And in a low whisper, he vowed, "The Order isn't going to lay a hand on you. I'll make sure of it."

It is disgustingly comforting.

And Gods, she knows how stupid she will feel tomorrow. But tonight she wants to hold onto him, and she does. Her arm drapes across his stomach and she snaps her eyes shut, wanting to remember how this moment felt before he can force her away and return to being the shut off man he is.

"I need to go," she whispered.

"You do," he said, keeping his chin on her head as his hand smoothed down her bare shoulder. "I'm afraid I only get night shifts with you, and the sun will be up soon."

"I'm serious, they will all come looking for me."

"Then go, Rosalie."

"I don't want to."

His fingers ran down her arm hanging across him. "I can see that."

"I hate you," she muttered, but stays in the same position and keeps her eyes closed.

"Stay," he said suddenly, and harshly. "Get some rest. You can tell them I kept you for a long mission, I'll wake you before the sun comes up."

She shouldn't.

She really shouldn't.

And still, she held onto him tighter.

"Will you stay with me?" she asked in a whisper, afraid of shattering the world they've left together.

There was silence.

A long pause of silence.

"Yes," he said.

*

            The sun rose an hour later in France than it did in England.

She stepped through the front door of their home in the South of France, her eyes heavy with exhaustion after last night's hysterics. The stovetop coffee pot blew steam into the airy kitchen, and crisp morning air floated into her nose with hints of the sea's salt.

"Morning," a quiet voice muttered.

Regulus sat at the tiny table pressed against the opened window, a thick cream sweater swallowing him whole and two cups of coffee sitting right in front of his arms.

She didn't flinch.

Rose threw him a nod and shrugged off her cloak, hanging it on the chair opposite of him before sitting down. She ran her hands through her tangled hair with a yawn.

"The Dark Lord spoke to me," he said.

"Hm."

"Where were you?"

She lifted her eyes and gave him a blank look.

Regulus pushed a ceramic mug over, the crease between his eyebrows full of knowing.

"I had a long mission."

"And after that 'mission'?" Regulus rolled his eyes. "You stayed with him, didn't you?"

She sighed, picking up the mug and staring down at the inky substance.

"Rosie,"

"What?" she muttered. "I'm too tired for this."

"I need to know if it is working." He raised his voice, "This is serious. The literal fate of the world rests on this."

"Well..." She paused to take a long sip before nodding and forcing some seriousness into her body. She met his eyes, this time with intensity no one should have at five in the morning. "He certainly won't ever think I'm capable of betraying him now."

A tight, malicious smirk pulled at Regulus's lips.

"You've done a good job, Rosie. Me and Theo, and the others can take it from here. You just need to stay normal through the holidays. Keep a close eye on him. Keep him thinking you're an obedient little soldier, a good future right-hand."

She shook her head, peering down into the mug.

If only he knew that she almost threw it all away last night—she almost let herself die just to break vows and give the Order information because of everything that happened. Regulus doesn't know what she almost did to his parents. Or what has been done unto Arthur Weasley.

He doesn't know that she almost became a martyr, or that there was nothing soldier-like in the aftermath with how she slept on the devil's shoulder as if being protected by an angel.

Regulus reached over, covering her hand flexing on the wood with his own. "Don't," he said. "Do not tell me you're having second thoughts. You have been planning this since the beginning. All you have to do is prove your ready to be in his top ranks. I know the mission last night must have been hard but...I'm sorry."

Rose shuffled her hand away and placed the mug back in the centre. "You think I was ever going to let him come back, ruin—and threaten—the lives of everyone I love? I'm not having regrets. Just...thinking." Her eyes lifted, turning out toward the small window. "I'm going to kill the Dark Lord, and you are all going to help me through it—to whatever end."

Regardless of her clear distaste to be touched, Regulus leaned over the table and enclosed her hands in his fists. He pressed his lips to their conjoined limbs, and vowed, "To whatever end."

Her mouth lifted slightly, but the weight of the world was still hanging on her shoulders.

But in the midst of the morning, as the sun bled through the windows and filtered onto the wooden floors, she found her safe haven standing a few feet away. Wearing a rumpled grey jumper, and a worry crease between his dark brows.

Her throat closed up as their eyes met.

Then his gaze dropped to her hands. He must have seen it, had a vision or a dream. His face fell as she ripped herself from Regulus's hold, fingers suddenly trembling, before his features hardened.

"Arthur," she choked out, sounding just as sickened as the night before.

"I know." Theo spoke in a sleepy rasp before he began moving toward her, "But you're home now."

She wanted to hold him until the earth exploded. She wanted him to swallow her whole, keep her by his side where safety lays, and never let her go again. She was sick of playing with their lives. Of being anywhere else but caught in his gaze. And now she knew everything. What he and the others did not only to Orion, but to Walburga. After learning the truth, hearing the anger in her grandparents' voices, and the way they spoke of their murders, she realised her resentment had no place toward the ones trying to protect her.

When her hands were wrapped around Walburga's throat, she saw her own reflection in her grandmother's eyes—this is what they were trying to keep me from, she thought. They were trying to stop me from ever having to become her. She could stand up to anyone—Albus Dumbledore, Lucius Malfoy, and even the Dark Lord, but never to her grandmother.

They were being strong for her, doing the hard thing for her.

All she thought of then was how hard it must have been for each of them to keep such a secret.

Rose stumbled from jumping up so quickly, and the chair she sat in tumbled backwards. But when she crashed into Theo's chest, everything was okay again. And when he lifted her up, his hands taking the back of her head and forcing her to bury herself into his neck, she felt relief. He knows how much blood stains her hands, yet he holds them anyway. He knows what she has caused to an innocent family, but he holds her body as if she is the purest soul to walk this earth.

Love had made him crazier than she even thought. He has killed for her, and she is ready to set the world aflame for him—to whatever end.

She smells cinnamon and thyme on his neck and she knows she is home.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He held her tighter, his head shaking. She has nothing to be sorry for in his eyes, she knew what he was thinking. He wouldn't even entertain the idea of hearing her apology.

By the Gods, she almost forgot that feeling. When you spend so much time in the darkness, you almost forget how the warmth of the sun feels on your skin.

But now it was time to set things right. To have more than this moment with Theo.

"I need to see Whitman." The words tumble out of her mouth like a breath of fresh air, relief filling her lungs at what is to come. "I need to see him," she repeated.

She needed, more than anything, to tell him she was sorry. That she understood. That she loved him. That she had lied when she said she could ever hate him. That, despite the scars on his skin and the sins on his back, she will do anything to have him back by her side.

"What do you need to see me for?"

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A/N: hello loves <3 ik i said it already, but i really did miss you all tons. uni is crazy and busy and i just got overwhelmed and when i tried coming back to update my mind kept changing on straying from the original story plan. if you don't know, i started writing this when i was a teenager and there is a lot of stuff in it that haunts me bc i hate it so much now but i also love this book because it was the first one i ever fully wrote and there is tons that I do adore so don't ever think i'm leaving it behind :) we are going back to regular uploading schedule because i finally have a little more time and i figured out exactly how i want the next few chapters to go (it is chef's kiss and beautiful) and I pinky we are finally get quality time with our favorite found family and lovers<3 love you all, hope you have been doing well---thank you for checking on me so much <3 our little community means the world and so much more to me <3

—so many reveals happened in this chapter wtf??

xx bri