Bound By Blood.

ch.87~The way life goes.

"Its for the better. And it isn't a decision I took lightly. 

I think it may have taken a part of me with it. 

Its the only way we both get to live,

and get what we want."

Recovered Translated Correspondents from Order Member Alexandra Brooks, to Death Eater Mattheo Riddle, 2004.

The safe house, 2004.

Alexandra.

I strangely became a morning person. 

And by that, I mean I rose before the sun. When usually, that was just when I was closing my eyes. 

I started running, training with George and even walking the woods with Luna in search of magical entities that could "lead us." 

I needed to keep my mind busy, keep it occupied, keep it off of him.

Because the longer I thought of him, the worse the stories I made up in my mind became. 

So, I pushed myself harder, each stride a conscious effort to banish the phantom images of him. 

Each day, I ran further, pushing the boundaries of my endurance, desperate to outrun the memories, the longing, the ache.

I imagined him, the man I knew. 

The boy. 

The boy I loved. 

I tried to think of him as a monster, a villain, a threat. 

The headlines screamed it, the papers echoed it. 

But the image was incomplete, flawed.

It was wrong... for the most part.

 Because I knew, deep down, that what he did to Sirius... it was the only option. 

It didn't make the sting less painful, it didn't dull the edges of the wound.

I walked the winding paths, feeling the rough bark of the trees against my fingertips, trying to find a focus, anything other than his face. 

I knew the truth: there was no future where we could be together, no stolen evenings, no stolen moments. 

The world wouldn't allow it, and neither would the roles we were destined to play. 

I needed to separate the boy from the dorms from the dark lord's son. 

I needed to break them apart and make sure they were not associated.

I couldn't pick. And he couldn't either. 

It was just over.

I forced myself to recall the headlines, the newspaper articles, the whispers. I forced myself to see him as a monster, to believe in the darkness that surrounded him. I began to create a narrative, a story, a false reality where he was not just a casualty, but the architect of his own demise. 

I'd separated the boy from the dorms, separated him from the dark lord's son. 

He wasn't the boy who made me laugh. He was a weapon.

As was I. 

I reenforced my role, my job in this, into my brain over, and over again like my life depended on it.