Forty One

Albus

  She was gone and her final cold breath was all that was left of her. Something about the unsettling temptation of locking himself inside the dark void that was his mind tapped at Tom's soul every second that passed in the house without her. Hands over his mouth, eyes at the floor, face sleepless of nights upon nights and heart shrunken in his chest into nothing more than a prune of what she had made it; He might've just died right along with her. 

  He leant back, sat on her side of the bed, sheets tucked and duvet still messy from where she had gotten up that fateful morning. He sat there inhaling her sent, his eyes closing as he swallowed down hard on words that he would never again get to say to her. 

  Tom moved a hand down to the black suit he wore, brushing past the pocket that he knowingly kept a photo of her in but couldn't bring himself to look at again today. He stood up tidily, his mind begging him to turn back, to imagine her, asleep and safe, right where he was just sat. 

  But he knew that looking back couldn't change anything. It wouldn't change the fact that he had been the one to kill her. He could imagine Dumbledore in his office soaking in the irony that he had gone there to end her, but her own husband had managed to do it before he had.  

  Tom had never hated himself before but now it was such a prominent emotion in his mind that it was overbearing. The constant headache of consciousness taunting him every time he dared to think of her. 

  When he apparated the sky was aptly grey, thick clouds swirling above as if reflecting the turmoil in Tom's heart, and the loss of the moment. The wind whispered through the trees pressed against the inward side to the scene of the cliff, carrying the scent of rain and freshly turned earth.

  The robes over his suit billowed around him, the fabric heavy, and he knew then, in the midst of the dark clothing he saw in front of him, that he would do anything to see Rosalie in a dress of flowers. 

  He could hear reverberating through his heads the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below the mountainside, and Tom watched from afar, his appearance noticed by no one as he looked down the kill, grass as grey as the sky as people huddled on its coldness around the sickening sight of a coffin.

  It had only been days since he had last seen her smile, since he had watched every warmth suddenly drain from her face by his hand without even the tiniest shred of regret or hatred for him.  It had only been days. But it felt like an eternity. Her last breath seared into his mind, the flash of green light, the sudden silence, the way the world seemed to shatter around him.

  On an instinct he felt himself drawn to the coffin, her body supposedly inside though it didn't express any warmth as it once did. The light steps down close to the small crowd of people only seemed to be heard by a woman on the outskirts who turned to watch him approach. His hair waved in the wind, his face bereaved and harsh, his robes brushing past him.

  Tom felt numb as he got loser, as if part of him had died with her, not just because of the horcrux but because of the very loss of her soul on this tainted world. The love they shared, the life they had planned, the son she had carried—it was all gone, ripped away in a moment of cruelty and fate.

  Lily's scream broke through his thoughts, sharp and filled with fury. "What the hell are you doing here?" Her voice was raw, trembling with anger as she stepped forward, her eyes blazing with hatred. She parted from the crowd to stand in front of him, preventing him to let him get any closer.

  Tom's focus was singular, his thoughts consumed by the desperate need to see Rosalie one last time. The world around him blurred into insignificance; nothing mattered except the urge to be near her, to feel her presence before it was lost to him forever. He could feel the darkness clawing at the edges of his mind, threatening to pull him under if he didn't reach her in time.

  "Let me see her," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand already pushing aside whoever was in front of him without so much as a glance.

  But Lily was quick, her reflexes sharp. She caught up to him in a heartbeat, her hand gripping his sleeve, pulling him to the side with surprising strength. Before he could even register what was happening, her wand was at his throat, the cold tip pressing against his skin. The crowd around them stirred, murmurs rippling through the air as people recognized him—not just as Tom, but as Voldemort. Yet no one moved to intervene. Not here, not at a funeral. Not when the woman lying in that coffin had once loved him.

  Tom breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling as he tried to calm the storm of emotions inside him. He finally looked down at Lily, his eyes blazing with a sadness so intense it was almost masked by the anger simmering beneath. His gaze bore into hers, silently pleading with her to understand. She met his stare, unwavering, though the tears pooling in her eyes betrayed the firmness in her grip.

  "How dare you show your face here?" Lily's voice was a venomous whisper, her hand trembling ever so slightly as she kept her wand at his throat.

  Tom didn't flinch. He stood tall, unyielding, his gaze shifting past her to where Rosalie's coffin lay, a stark reminder of the reality he was struggling to accept. "I need to say goodbye," he said, his voice steady but laden with a grief that threatened to choke him.

  Lily's grip tightened for a moment, her knuckles white as she clenched her wand. Then, with a shuddering breath, she pulled it away, lowering her arm to her side. No matter how much she despised him, no matter how much she couldn't understand the twisted love between him and Rosalie, she couldn't bring herself to hurt him. Not here, not now. Rosalie wouldn't have wanted that.

  She bit her tongue, the words she wanted to hurl at him clawing at her throat. Instead, she spat out, "You have no right to say goodbye. You killed her! You murdered her, and now you stand here as if you have the right to mourn her?" Her voice trembled with the intensity of her emotions, each word cutting through the air like a blade, striking at the fragile armour Tom had tried to build around his heart.

  Tom looked at her, his eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it threatened to drown him. "I didn't mean for this to happen," he whispered, the words barely audible over the wind. "I loved her."

  Lily's face twisted with grief and rage, and she hit her fists down hard on his chest. It was the second person he had taken from her, ripped from her hands. "You don't get to say that! You don't get to claim love when it was your love that killed her! You destroyed everything she was, everything she could have been." She screamed at him, her thoughts on the verge of defying Rosalies wish of not harming him.

  Before Tom could respond, a calm yet firm voice sliced through the tension, carrying a weight that stilled the murmuring crowd. Dressed in his dark robes, Dumbledore appeared, his face etched with a harshness that only deepened the chill in the air. His wand was hidden within his sleeves, but Tom could sense its presence, a subtle reminder of the power the man wielded. "You need to leave, Tom," Dumbledore said, his tone unwavering. "This is no longer your place."

  Tom turned slowly, meeting Dumbledore's gaze. The old man stood just a few steps away, his expression inscrutable, but there was something beneath the surface, something dark and secretive. Dumbledore's presence was a living reminder of that fateful night, of the terrible truth he carried—a truth that Tom could feel gnawing at the edges of his consciousness but couldn't fully grasp.

  "She was my wife," Tom said, his voice trembling with barely restrained emotion as he buried his hatred for Dumbledore, if only for a moment. He clenched his fists, trying to steady himself, trying to keep the rising storm within him at bay. "This was my life, my family. How dare you tell me I don't belong here?"

  Dumbledore's eyes softened, a flicker of pity crossing his face, but there was something else in his gaze, something that sent a shiver down Tom's spine. "This woman is no longer your wife," Dumbledore said gently but with a finality that cut deep. "The life you had together ended the moment that curse struck her. You must let her go."

  Tom's heart twisted painfully in his chest. He could still feel Rosalie, her presence lingering in the deepest parts of his soul, as if she was still with him, not just in memory but in reality. The thought of her being gone, truly gone, was too much to bear. He looked at Dumbledore, desperation bleeding into his voice. "Then why can I still feel her?" he demanded, his words raw and desperate.

  "Why do I still feel some part of her inside me, in my heart and soul? She's not gone, Dumbledore! She can't be."

  Dumbledore's expression shifted, something unreadable passing over his features, a shadow that Tom couldn't quite decipher. "Love does strange things to the heart, Tom," Dumbledore said softly, his voice almost too gentle, as if he were trying to soothe a wounded animal. "It can make us see things that aren't there, believe in what we wish were true... But love cannot change what is real. She is gone."

  Tom shook his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought to hold onto the fragile thread of hope. The truth was too painful to accept, too devastating to bear. "No," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. "She's not gone. I can't let her be gone."

  He could see her smile in his mind, the way it had lit up his world. He could still remember the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her touch. But now, that warmth was gone, replaced by a cold, empty void that threatened to consume him. Would he ever smile again? Would he ever feel anything but this unbearable grief?

  Dumbledore didn't waver. He stepped closer, placing a hand on Tom's shoulder, his grip firm and steady. For a moment, Dumbledore seemed to see not the man Tom had become, but the boy he had once been—the boy who had spoken to snakes, who had been so full of potential, so full of promise. The boy who could have been good, not just great.

"Everyone deserves to love, to feel love, to be loved," She said

"Even monsters?" he had asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Even monsters,"

  Dumbledore's voice brought him back to the present, the weight of his words pressing down on Tom's soul. "You must leave, Tom. For her sake, and for yours."

  Tom stared at Dumbledore, searching his eyes for any sign of deception, any clue that he might be hiding something. But all he saw was the weight of a truth that he wasn't ready to accept, a truth that threatened to crush him under its unbearable burden. The numbness that had consumed him since that night deepened, spreading through his veins like ice.

  Without another word, Dumbledore turned away, leaving Tom standing alone at the edge of the gathering. Tom watched him go, his heart heavy with a sorrow that threatened to drown him. He didn't know why he didn't fight, why he didn't demand to see her one last time, to touch her, to kiss her goodbye. The thought clawed at his heart, tearing him apart from the inside. Her touch, her warmth, would be unknown to him for the rest of his days.

  As the funeral continued, Tom lingered at the outskirts, watching as they lowered Rosalie's coffin into the ground. He couldn't bring himself to step closer again, to say the final goodbye that would sever the last thread connecting him to her. The love he felt was a curse, a torment that would follow him for the rest of his life.

  Because love, he realised, was only worth it if she existed. Without Rosalie, there was nothing left.

---

  Ben paced the dimly lit room, the shadows of the flickering candles dancing across his face. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled out a small mirror from his pocket. This mirror, an artefact of old magic, connected him directly to Mrs. Black. The Blacks had always been close to the Dark Lord's inner circle, their loyalty unquestioned until a few weeks ago.

  He glanced around the room, ensuring that no one could see or hear him. The walls seemed to close in on him as he hesitated, the weight of his actions pressing down on his shoulders. He had made a decision, one that could alter the course of everything, but the price was steep. He knew the Dark Lord's wrath was something to be feared, yet his loyalty had never truly been to the man who called himself Voldemort. His loyalty was to the ideal, to the vision of a world reborn, but not to the woman who stood in the way of it all—Rosalie.

  He breathed deeply, steeling himself before he finally whispered into the mirror. "Caldera."The image of Mrs. Black appeared, her face as sharp and unforgiving as ever. The corners of her mouth curled into a slight smirk. "Avery," she greeted formally, her voice smooth and calculating. "What news do you bring?"

  Ben hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. The truth of what he was about to say gnawed at him, but he forced himself to continue. "It's done," he said, his voice steady despite what he had done. "Because of yours and your husbands service... She is gone."

  Mrs. Black's eyes narrowed slightly, her expression unreadable. There was a silence that stretched on for what felt like an eternity before Ben spoke again. "Our Lord thanks you for your service," he added, his tone cold and distant, as though discussing a mere transaction rather than the life of a woman.

  "The Dark Lord will be pleased," he said, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. "Rosalie... she was a threat, one that could have undone everything we've worked for. You did what needed to be done."

  Mrs. Black nodded, her gaze unwavering. "Indeed. Rosalie was always too soft-hearted, too conflicted. Why Capella let her do to her what she did I will never know. Her father and I were disappointed to hear she had gotten herself killed by her of all people. But Rosalie's loyalty to Tom would have been her undoing—and ours if we hadn't acted."

  Ben's mind raced as he listened to Mrs. Black's words. He had always known that Rosalie was a problem, a weakness that could have destroyed Tom, and by extension, the entire movement. But hearing Mrs. Black speak of her so coldly, so detached, made him feel a pang of guilt he hadn't expected.

  "We did what we had to do," Ben said, more to himself than to Mrs. Black. "For the greater good."

  Mrs. Black's gaze hardened. "For the greater good," she repeated, her voice a deadly whisper. "But remember, Ben, loyalty is a fragile thing. If you ever look to waver, if you ever question your place, the Dark Lord will know. And there will be no forgiveness."

  The warning hung in the air like a noose tightening around his neck. Ben swallowed hard, nodding as he met her gaze. "I understand," he said quietly. "I won't fail him."

  The image in the mirror flickered, then faded away, leaving Ben alone in the darkness. He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. The room felt colder now, the shadows darker, and the weight of what he had done heavier than ever.

  He had betrayed Tom, betrayed the man who had trusted him implicitly. But more than that, he had betrayed Rosalie, the woman who had for the most part been extremely kind to him. He had done it for the cause, for the vision of a world cleansed of impurity, but the cost... the cost seemed to be more than he had ever imagined.

  Ben collapsed into a chair, burying his face in his hands. The words of Mrs. Black echoed in his mind, a haunting reminder of the path he had chosen. Ben sat alone in the darkness, knowing that the price of his actions would haunt him for the rest of his life. The Dark Lord would never know, Tom would never know, but Ben... Ben would always know.

---

  Nurmengard's towering stone walls, cold and lifeless, bore the weight of countless sorrows, not least of all its own. The guards barely acknowledged Albus as they led him through the dark corridors, where the air was thick with the smell of damp stone and despair.

  At the end of a narrow passage, the heavy iron door creaked open, revealing a room lit only by the dim, flickering light of a solitary candle. There, seated in a high-backed chair, was Gellert Grindelwald. Despite the years of confinement, he still exuded a certain aura of power, his sharp eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and curiosity as he regarded his old friend.

  "Albus," Grindelwald greeted him, a faint smile playing on his lips. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I trust you haven't come simply to exchange pleasantries." 

  The tension between them was palpable, a mixture of old wounds and unspoken truths that hung in the air like a dark cloud.

  Albus took a moment before responding, his gaze settling on the man before him. "No, Gellert," he replied, his voice heavy with the weight of his lies. "I've come to discuss... your daughter."

  Grindelwald's smile widened slightly, though his eyes remained calculating. "Ah, my dear daughter. What has she done to warrant your concern? Or rather, what have you done?" He taunted at him, liking to play the game of auror and prisoner.

  "Tom is dead," Albus said, his voice unsettled just enough for Grindelwald to notice.

  A brief silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the candle's flame. Grindelwald leaned forward, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Tell me the truth, Albus," he murmured, his tone laced with amusement. "You and I both know that Tom Riddle is not so easily dispatched. Do you really expect me to believe that you've come here, to me, simply to announce his demise?"

  Albus's resolve faltered, and his shoulders slumped under the weight of Grindelwald's piercing gaze. "I beg you, Gellert," he pleaded, his voice thick with desperation. "Please, don't tell her. She cannot know the truth."

  He buckled under the pressure of his old lovers gaze almost instantaneously, and for a second he felt like a teenager again, sharing his secrets with his best friend, with his other half. 

  Grindelwald's smile faded as he studied Albus's expression, his amusement giving way to something colder, more serious. "And why should I keep this from her?" he asked, his voice dangerously low. "Would you choose to deceive your own daughter?" He tempted him.

  Albus's hands trembled slightly as he clasped them together. "I've put a curse on her," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "A curse that shields her from any sign that Tom might still be alive. She's been through enough, Gellert. He was a poison to her, you have to see, and I won't let that poison continue to seep into her life. She deserves more—more than what he could ever offer. I'm doing this for you as well, so you know that Rosalie can live a better life."

  Grindelwald rose from his chair and crossed the room to stand before Albus, his eyes narrowing as he stared down at him. "You think you're protecting her?" he demanded, his voice rising with intensity. "You're condemning her to a life of lies and emptiness! Rosalie loved him, Albus, with all the fire in her soul she told me that much. That love was the only reason she ever tolerated me, the only way she could come to terms with the darkness inside her."

  Albus flinched as Grindelwald's words cut deep, exposing the cracks in his own self-righteousness. He had always known that Rosalie's love for Tom was dangerous, a tether to a world steeped in shadows and suffering. Yet the idea that Gellert could see this darkness as something desirable, even necessary, was something Albus could never reconcile.

  "There shouldn't be any darkness inside her!" Albus retorted, his voice trembling with both anger and desperation. "I tried to rid her of it—for you!"

  Grindelwald's eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. "You, Albus, are more tainted than you dare to admit. You're no noble saviour riding in on a phoenix. You're a coward, and now you're forcing her to do what you did to me. You're making her choose the safe path, the cowardly path, when she was brave enough, bold enough, to love who she truly needed, not who she was told to love."

  Albus's face paled, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I couldn't do it, Gellert. I couldn't go through with our plans. I loved you, but I saw the light."

  "The light?" Grindelwald scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "You were blinded by it. And then you left me to rot in the darkness, abandoned and alone."

  "I..." Albus's voice faltered, his words catching in his throat. He had no response, no justification that could bridge the chasm between them. He had always prided himself on his moral clarity, but now, standing before Gellert, his certainties crumbled.

  Grindelwald stepped closer, his gaze unyielding. "You think you saved her, Albus, but you didn't. You shackled her to the same fear that bound you. And now, you'll watch as that fear consumes her, just as it consumed you."

  Albus opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. The truth was too bitter, too heavy to voice. All he could do was stand there, silent and defeated, as the weight of Grindelwald's accusations bore down on him.

  Grindelwald breathed and allowed his voice to soften, his tone laced with a sadness that Albus hadn't expected. "If she believes Tom is dead, Albus, she'll never visit me again. The only reason she ever came here was because of him, because she needed to understand why she could love someone like him. Like me. If you take that away from her, you take away her last link to the parts of herself she can't reconcile. You'll turn her into a ghost—a shadow of the woman she once was."

  "She cannot know," Albus whispered, seemingly uncaring to his concerns, his voice cracking under the weight of his decision. "It's too late, Gellert. I've made my choice."

  Grindelwald stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded, a look of resignation settling over his features. "Very well, Albus," he said quietly. "But know this—by keeping this secret, you may save her from one darkness, but you're leading her into another. She'll never forgive you for this."

  Albus closed his eyes, the gravity of his actions pressing down on him like a crushing weight. He had made his peace with his decision, but in doing so, he had condemned Gellert's daughter to a life without Tom. But he couldn't help but think, it was surely what she needed?

  Grindelwald turned away, his gaze fixed on the flickering candle. "Go, Albus," he said softly, his voice tinged with a sadness that echoed through the cold stone walls. "Before you do any more harm."

  Albus hesitated for a moment, his heart heavy with regret. Then, without another word, he turned and left the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click. As he walked away, the echoes of Grindelwald's words followed him, a reminder of the price of his choices.

---

  The first thing she noticed was the cold. It seeped into her bones, contrasting to the warmth of Tom's embrace that she so desperately tried to recall. But the warmth was gone, replaced by an aching emptiness. Her eyelids felt heavy, as if they were weighed down by the memories of what had transpired.

  Rosalie's world was a disorienting swirl of pain and darkness. In her last moments of consciousness, she had been consumed by a green flash—a curse hurled with deadly intent. She had felt the impact, a searing pain that tore through her, and then... nothing. An abyss.

  Slowly, she forced her eyes open, her vision blurring as she adjusted to the dim light of the room.

  The space around her was unfamiliar. Shadows danced on stone walls, cast by the flickering flames of a fire that crackled in the hearth. The scent of herbs and potions permeated the air, mingling with the musty smell of old parchment. Shelves lined with various magical artefacts cluttered the room, giving it an feeling of age and secrecy. She felt the softness of the bed beneath her, but there was nothing comforting about it. It was too soft, too unfamiliar, and it only heightened her sense of displacement.

  Panic began to set in as she struggled to piece together what had happened. She tried to sit up, but her body rebelled, a sharp pain shooting through her abdomen. Her hand instinctively went to her stomach—a life growing inside her. A sob caught in her throat as she realised what had happened. What Tom had done.

  Where was Tom? Why wasn't he here with her?

  The door creaked open, and Rosalie's heart skipped a beat as she turned her head towards the sound. Her eyes locked onto the figure that stepped into the room. Dumbledore, his expression somber and lined with the weight of a thousand burdens, approached her with slow, deliberate steps. His presence filled the room, but it was not the comfort she sought.

  "Rosalie," Dumbledore's voice was soft, a gentle murmur that barely cut through the fog in her mind. "You're safe now."

  Rosalie looked him up and down. Safe. The word felt foreign to her, as if it no longer held any meaning. Safe meant being with Tom, wrapped in his arms, their future stretched out before them like a promise. But Tom wasn't here, and the word felt hollow.

  She was on edge, feeling that she needed to prepare for a fight, to prepare for the man in front of her to try and kill her. But her body was too tired and her mind was a mess of dark clouds and only one distinct thought.

  "Where... where is Tom?" Her voice trembled, barely a whisper, as she forced the question past her parched lips. Fear gripped her heart, squeezing it with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. She needed to hear his voice, to see his face, to know that he was still with her.

  Dumbledore's face darkened, a shadow passing over his features as he took a seat beside her bed. His silence was unbearable, every second of it feeding the growing terror inside her.

  "Tom is gone," he finally said, his words heavy with finality.

  Rosalie shook her head, and she stared at him, her mind refusing to process what he had just said. "No he's not." she whispered, shaking her head in denial. "He was with me... he was right there..."

  Dumbledore's eyes were filled with sorrow, a sorrow that only deepened her panic. "He's gone, Rosalie," he repeated, his voice barely holding back the weight of the lie he was about to tell. "Daniel... Daniel struck him down. In the chaos that followed, his followers turned on Daniel. They... they killed him, too, and then they fled."

  His words hung in the air, a death knell that reverberated through her very soul. Rosalie felt as though the ground had opened up beneath her, plunging her into a void from which there was no escape. "No," she whispered, the word catching in her throat. "No, it can't be true. Tom... Tom wouldn't leave me like that."

  Dumbledore's face was a mask of controlled grief as he reached into his robes and produced a folded piece of parchment. The weight of the moment seemed to hang heavy in the air, each second stretching into an eternity as he extended the parchment towards Rosalie. His solemnity was almost palpable, and it twisted her stomach with a growing sense of dread.

  With trembling hands, she took the parchment, the paper feeling cold and unforgiving against her fingertips. As she unfolded it, her eyes fell upon the bold headline: Dark Lord Defeated: Voldemort Dead. The words seemed to pulse with a cruel finality, and the room around her began to close in, the edges of her vision darkening as the weight of the headline sank in.

  "No!" The scream that tore from her throat was raw, a visceral cry of pure, unfiltered agony. It reverberated through the room, mixing with the crackling of the fire in a haunting symphony of despair. She clutched her stomach as if trying to shield the life within her from the searing pain. Her cries were desperate, a primal plea to a world that had turned unbearably cruel.

  Dumbledore stood by, his heart breaking at the sight. Each of her cries felt like a physical blow, a reminder of the lies he had spun to protect her. The weight of his deception was a crushing burden, each breath he took feeling heavier under the strain of his choices. He knew there was nothing he could say to ease her suffering, no words that could undo the horror he had set into motion.

  "Leave me," Rosalie's voice was choked with a mixture of rage and profound sorrow. "Just leave me." She fell back onto the bed, her body curling in on itself, as if trying to escape from the unbearable truth.

  Dumbledore hesitated, his own grief mirrored in her shattered expression. The room seemed to close in on him, the walls pressing in as he realised the depth of the suffering he had caused. But he knew there was nothing more he could do, nothing that could mend the shattered pieces of her world. Slowly, he rose, casting one last, sorrowful glance at her before turning and leaving the room. The door closed softly behind him, the sound muffled by the heart-wrenching cries of the woman.

  Rosalie's screams continued to fill the night, a haunting melody of despair that refused to be silenced. She curled up on the bed, clutching her stomach as if it were the only anchor in a sea of grief. Her sobs were relentless, each one a reminder of the crushing weight of her loss. The life within her, the only piece of Tom she had left, now seemed like a cruel reminder of everything she had lost. Her cries echoed through the darkness, each one a plea to a world that had become impossibly cruel and unforgiving.

  The hours dragged on, stretching into days as the boundaries between night and day blurred. Rosalie lay in bed, her body unmoving, staring at the ceiling as the memories of Tom replayed over and over in her mind. His smile, his voice, the warmth of his touch—all gone, leaving behind an emptiness that consumed her.

  Dumbledore had moved her to a safe house. It felt weak to let him do it but she couldn't think of much else but Tom. It was meant to offer refuge, a sanctuary where she could grieve away from prying eyes and the harsh realities of the wizarding world. But for Rosalie, the peace it was supposed to offer was elusive. Every corner of the cottage, every silent shadow, reminded her of what she had lost. The silence was oppressive, a constant reminder that Tom's voice would never fill the space again.

  Weeks passed, and Rosalie's depression deepened into an almost tangible fog. She refused to leave her bed, her thoughts consumed by the gnawing pain of losing Tom. She felt like a ghost drifting through a world that had ceased to hold any meaning. The world outside the cottage might as well have ceased to exist; nothing mattered without Tom.

  The pain of Tom's absence was a constant companion, an invisible weight that pressed down on her chest, making each breath feel like an effort. The cottage, intended to be a haven, felt like a prison, with its silence amplifying the depth of her sorrow. The news that Lily hadn't made it either only made the depth of her discomfort deeper, and the pity in Dumbledore's eyes sparkle with secrets.

  Then, one night, as she lay in bed, a small, gentle kick from the life growing inside her stirred her from the depths of her despair. It was the first time in weeks that she felt something other than pain. The tiny movement was a sign that, despite everything, a part of Tom still lived on within her. She placed a trembling hand on her stomach, feeling the flutter of her unborn child. For the first time since Tom's death, a fragile light of hope flickered within her—a glimmer of something that reminded her of the love they had shared.

  But even as she clung to that small spark of hope, doubts gnawed at her. Was this child really worth anything if Tom wasn't here to share in the joy? Could this tiny, fragile life possibly make up for the immense loss she felt? She wondered if having a baby was worth anything at all in a world where Tom was gone. The thought that the life growing inside her could never replace the man she loved made her heart ache with a new intensity.

  As the days dragged on and the time for her child's birth drew near, that flicker of hope began to grow, but it was fraught with uncertainty. The prospect of nurturing this life was both a blessing and a torment. Every movement of the baby was a reminder of Tom, and every flutter was a painful reminder of his absence. Rosalie clung to the hope that this child was all she had left of Tom, a living testament to their love, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something essential was missing.

---

  The dim, shadowed safe house seemed to hold its breath as the hours of Rosalie's agonising labour stretched on. The room, cloaked in a muted light that barely penetrated the heavy drapes, felt like a world apart from the chaos and heartbreak of the outside. As Rosie's cries of pain gave way to the final, wrenching push, the room was suddenly filled with the piercing, raw sound of a newborns first cries. 

  All of those weeks of hearing her own cries, Rosalie couldn't feel more relieved to hear the voice of something other. Desperately alone in that safe house the noise cut through the stillness like a siren, a herald of life in the midst of overwhelming grief. In the span of a few weeks Rosalie had become a widowed mother, and sat against the cushioned bed frame she had made up for herself a few hours earlier, she felt the skin of her baby in her hand but she felt the tears at her eyes and didn't think she could even come to look at him.

  Rosalie lay back against the pillows, her body drained and disheveled, her hands covered in her own blood and the sheer determination to go through labour alone, without Tom. Her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, her face was streaked with sweat and tears, the two mingling in a poignant testament to the pain and relief of the moment.  As the baby's cries gradually softened into a contented murmur, she extended a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against the delicate, wiggling bundle that now lay in her arms.

  She finally pulled herself to face the impossible, and brought the baby up to her fact to look at him.The tiny form was a marvel of fragility and wonder, his small fists clenched tightly, his face a mix of determination and curiosity as he faced the world for the first time. Each soft, rhythmic murmur of the baby was a bittersweet reminder of Tom, a living echo of a love that had been torn from her.

  Rosalie's gaze was fixed on her son, and every regret and resentment she held against this child seemed to wash away. She cradled him gently, the weight of the tiny life in her arms both a comfort and a torment. Tears streamed down her face, their warmth contrasting with the coolness of her sweat-drenched skin. The baby, a fragile embodiment of everything she had lost and everything she had left to hold onto, was now her sole anchor in a sea of anguish.

  "Tommy," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. The name fell from her lips like a sacred promise. "I'll name you Tommy, after your father."

  Her heart swelled as she looked down at her son, a bittersweet smile lighting up her face. It was the first time in months that joy had pierced through the overwhelming sorrow that had consumed her since Tom's death. For the briefest of moments, as she held her child, she felt a connection to Tom. The pain of his loss was still there, an ever-present ache in her chest, but it was softened by the love she felt for Tommy.

  Dumbledore, who had been waiting silently in the doorway, watched the scene unfold with a heavy heart. He had hoped that this new beginning might offer Rosalie some semblance of comfort, but instead, it served as a stark reminder of the deception he had woven.

  The child's dark hair, the sharpness of his features—he was a mirror image of his father, a cruel twist of fate for a man who had done everything to shield Rosalie from the truth.

  Dumbledore's own emotions were a tumultuous mix of regret and sorrow. He had thought he was protecting her by fabricating Tom's death, by concealing the truth to shield her from further pain. Yet, standing here now, facing the living embodiment of the lie, the weight of his actions pressed heavily upon him. Tommy's very existence was a testament to the love and hope he had tried so hard to extinguish.

  Unable to bear the sight any longer, Dumbledore turned away, his heart aching with the burden of his decision. He stepped out into the cold corridor, the chill of the stone walls seeping through his robes. His footsteps echoed in the emptiness, each step a reminder of the chasm between his intentions and their consequences.

  The safe house was eerily quiet, the sounds of Rosalie's soft lullabies to her newborn the only things breaking the silence. Dumbledore walked down the dimly lit hall, each step heavy with regret. He could still hear the faint murmur of Rosalie's voice, the gentle coos and soft words of affection she bestowed upon her son. The sight of her clutching the baby, her face etched with a mixture of love and sorrow, was a bitter pill to swallow.

  He paused by the window, staring out into the darkness that enveloped the world beyond. The night sky was clear, the stars shining brightly—a contrast to the darkness that clouded his conscience. Dumbledore's mind replayed the events that had led to this moment, the choices he had made, the lies he had told. He had thought he was saving Rosalie from a world of pain, but now he wondered if he had only succeeded in condemning her to a different kind of suffering. A widowed Mother was no situation he wished to bestow on anyone.

  The hours slipped by, and the dawn began to break, casting a pale light over the world. As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the cracks in the old curtains, Dumbledore knew that he had to return to Rosalie. He couldn't stay away forever, even if every step toward her was laden with the weight of his guilt.

  When he finally reentered the room, Rosalie was lying in bed, Tommy nestled against her chest. She looked up at him with eyes that had seen both the heights of joy and the depths of despair. Her expression was guarded, but there was a softness in her gaze that spoke of a fragile hope.Dumbledore approached slowly, his movements deliberate. "How are you holding up?" he asked, his voice gentle but tinged with an undercurrent of his own sorrow.

  Rosalie's gaze hardened for a moment before she sighed, looking down at Tommy with a mixture of love and exhaustion. "I'm managing," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. 

  Dumbledore nodded, his heart aching at the sight. "He looks so much like his father," he said softly, more to himself than to her.

  "Yes," Rosalie replied, her voice choked with emotion. "It's like he's a part of Tom that never truly left."

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of the silence was palpable, filled with unspoken truths and unresolved feelings. Dumbledore knew that he could never truly make amends for the pain he had caused. He had hoped that by lying, he was protecting Rosalie from further heartache.

  "Rosalie," he began, his voice faltering. "I want you to know that I never meant for this to be so painful. I only wanted to protect you."

  Rosalie's eyes met his, a flicker of understanding in their depths. "I know," she said softly. "And I know that it was not an easy decision for you. When you tried to kill me. But the cost of that decision has been... immense."

  Rosalie felt she should be mad at him now she was feeling emotions other than sorrow, but in some way she could understand Dumbledore. She had once been on his side as well. He believed that her death would be best for the world, that Tom's death was too. There was nothing she could do to avenge him, to make anything better.

  All she could do was accept his death and go on loving the child they made together. It might've been the only thing that could've saved her in that moment from plunging into darkness.

  Dumbledore nodded, his eyes filled with regret. "I wish I could have done things differently."Rosalie's gaze softened, and she looked back down at Tommy, who was now peacefully asleep in her arms. "I know," she said quietly. "And I hope that one day, Tommy will understand why things happened the way they did."

  With a heavy heart, Dumbledore took one last look at the mother and child before turning to leave. He knew that his presence was a reminder of the lies he had told, of the pain he had caused. As he walked away, the echoes of Rosalie's soft lullabies followed him, a melody of love and loss.

  He had done what he thought was right, but the cost had been far greater than he had ever imagined. The shadows of his past and the weight of his secrets would forever linger, a constant reminder of the decisions he had made and the lives they had forever altered.

  As he disappeared into the morning light, the echoes of Rosalie's voice and the sight of Tommy's innocent face were etched into his memory, a reminder of the price of deception and the enduring ache of a truth that could never be fully revealed.

A/N

So, lowkey feel like this chapter is kind of ass. I don't know there is something about it I don't like? Maybe I skipped over Rosalie's depression too much but its kinda hard to just write an entire chapter about depression. Also I don't know how to feel about albus and rosalie making up but i hope it makes sense that now toms quite literally cut out of her life there is a weight off her chest and she's more like how she was in the beginning, more eager to be in the light and accepting that she can't be with tom anymore but she has this baby that she has to worry about now ig motherly instincts kicked in.... also its so fucking hard to write sober I wanted to take a drink about every 5 minutes trying to write this but that whole hospital thing was a bit of a wakeup call and now im 8 days sober 💪 but yeah sorry if its shit, idk atleast its long. I'm going to the gym now goodbye.

ps anyone noticing anything with the titles yet hehe...

(ALSO THIS IS LIKE A MAJORLY UNEDITED CHAPTER SORRY I COULDNT BE BOTHERED ITS ALMOST 8000 WORDS)