Other Lives

VII.

Astoria could still hear the words echoing in her eardrums: I never stopped loving her. I never stopped loving her. I never stopped loving her. I never stopped loving her.

Dizzy by the bright lights of St. Mungo's and the way two sets of Nott blue eyes dug into the emerald of her Greengrass gaze, Astoria believed she unearthed those words out of a fantasy hidden in the secluded, chained crevices of her mind. She could scarcely think them real when all she had known was the bitter aftertaste of Theodore Nott's restraint.

Yet he had said them. He had.

It was the only reason why he had taken her elbow and disapparated them from Darcy's hospital room. Her niece, with her cheeks still wet from her crying, had raised two thumbs up at their twisting, fading figures.

Astoria watched as Theodore withdrew his hold from her, slowly making his way into the drawing room of the Nott Estate. The sight of his back turned toward her was common for Astoria; every time she had stepped foot inside his home, he slithered into the shadows at every corner, locking his study's door behind him, or facing the hearth of every room, his eyes reflecting the flames he considered walking through to escape her.

Does he ever ask about me? Astoria had asked the last person she wanted to, both sat at a corner table of a tiny, new tea shop in Diagon Alley as a twelve year-old Scorpius met up with Al Potter just across the cobbled street.

I don't know who you're—

You know who.

Blaise Zabini had leaned closer to the table, those dark, green eyes of his trying to find a truth in the lines of Astoria's face she would never dare to speak out loud again. For a second, she had thought he would not give in, but with a sigh he said, What good would that do him if he did ask?

Is it better for him to pretend like I don't exist, then?

No, I wouldn't say better, Blaise had said, but it's the only way Theo can cope. He married your sister and you married his mate. The situation's fucked, Astoria. Can you blame him?

I know our situation. I'm in it, too. But I don't ignore him for the sake of forgetting.

There had been a moment of silence. The shop owner had walked over to their table, putting down the check with a flirty smile directed at Blaise. When they were alone again, Blaise added in a whisper, He's not trying to forget you, Astoria. He's trying to live with what he has.

There was a time when Astoria did believe Theodore despised her for being another victim of their pureblood traditions. There were dark, painful years when she thought the love he had felt for her had been replaced with the contempt he displayed. It was only after her brief, never-repeated conversation with Blaise Zabini that she did start to consider that she owed Theodore the right to deal with the cards they had been dealt as best as he could.

Even if that meant sacrificing him to Silence.

But that was then. Now, the echo of his I never stopped loving her rung inside her eardrums again, shattering the edges of their compromised desolation.

"You could have lied to her," Astoria said, watching her words ripple across the silence that stretched out across from them like a turbulent, unforgiving sea.

Theodore looked behind his shoulder, slowly turning to face her again. There was a bottle of vodka in his hands now, a glint in his gaze that looked like he was hoping he could find the courage to take a dive in the depth of those waters at the bottom of his bottle. "Darcy isn't daft, Tori. She saw the Pensieve."