A crack had split in the floor—wherever he went, he knew his footsteps would lead him away from yours. Those same footsteps he heard hitting the ground as you chased each other, giggling, in the corridors of the second floor of Hogwarts a few months ago. But no longer. Those versions of you no longer existed.

A black, poisonous mark crawled up his forearm since that cold night when Theodore had to resign himself to becoming what his father wanted. After all, you had been wrong. Cornelius Nott always got what he wanted. Including Theo. You Theo, the sweet, somewhat angry boy you had fallen deeply in love with like any teenager. You believed he was real. He believed it too. But a sharp threat and a wand to his neck were stronger than the bond between you.

Now here you were, face to face in the rubble of the castle that had once been used for school. He, dressed in black, you in your tattered clothes. He with the Death Eaters, you with the Order of the Phoenix. No one talked louder than the Dread Lord, who was mocking poor Harry Potter, who lay dead in Hagrid's arms.

From across the battlefield, you noticed Theo's expression harden, then soften as your eyes fell on him. He looked tired, as if all he wanted behind that stiff pose was to curl up in your arms again.