A Thousand Flames

I should never have touched you.
I should have burned in hellfire a thousand days before I laid a single finger on your perfect skin.
You were so young then, barely even sixteen. A Weasley, all red hair and freckles and soft young smiles. Far too young to understand the implications and repercussions of our illicit actions.
Far too young for me to touch.
Had I been any kind of decent human being, I would have died before touching you. Had I been a halfway decent human being I would have given my life to Him before I surrendered you.
But I have very rarely succeeded in fooling myself that I am a halfway decent anything at all.
I am a monster.
Yes.
A monster, and weak.
How could I resist you when you came to me, bloody from yet another night in the company of death, and asked that I make you whole?
I am weak, after all.
Didn't I just say so?
But how could I deny you this one thing that you asked, you who had given so much more than has ever been asked of me?
I was asked to betray my master - I had betrayed so many masters in my time, one more would hardly make a difference.
You betrayed your lover.
Your husband.
Your one true friend.
And would I have been worthy of your friendship if I had refused you this? Am I worthy of your friendship now, knowing that I have betrayed every trust I've ever been given? That I have done that which no teacher could ever be forgiven for doing? But I think perhaps I can forgive myself, even if no-one else can.
You needed what I could give you, and if the last shreds of my humanity was what was necessary to assure you that you were still innocent, then what right had I to refuse?
Oh, sweet child, would that I could bear this burden for you too. Would that I could absolve you from this your guilt.
But I can only watch as you clutch in desperate futility at the ashes of his mortal remains, and scream your agony to the high heavens. And I can hold you until the first great spasms of grief have passed, and grieve for your grief if not for him.
And I can keep them away from you, those idiots who would tear you from what remains of your love, those who could not understand this if I drew them a sodding diagram.
And then, later, I'll take you away to Rome where he should have but never did, and my body will bend awkwardly over the bulge of his child in your belly, and I'll save you.
And when I die I think I shall laugh at the delicious irony when the only truly good thing I have ever done is the very one that finally damns me.
But for now, my sweet darling girl, I'll keep you safe from everything out there, everything that would hurt you.
And not wonder who is to keep you safe from me.