Till Life Do Us Part

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, Jo does.

Thank you, LilyLunaPotter, for leaving a review for each chapter.

A. N. This series of stories was started before Deathly Hallows came out, so I gave Fleur's mother a name of my own.

Chapter 4

A few months later...

The wizarding society in Paris was still celebrating the fall of Voldemort. Everyone was happy and immensely relieved that it was all over, that they had made it, that their children would grow up without fear. Almost every day there was some festivity - a party, someone's birthday, celebrated with unusual mirth, all kind of society functions. And since the Montresorre family was well-connected, they received invitations for almost all of them. At the beginning, they had tried to attend them, but then they had to realize that it did not help - they had suffered a great loss and all festivities in the world could not lessen the pain, so they stopped visiting them. All they could do was waiting for the time to heal them, but it was such a slow process...

"Good morning," Alain said wearily, when he entered the kitchen and saw his brother already making their coffee.

"Good morning," Michel answered mechanically. Just looking at him, Alain could say that his brother's night had been no better than his own. He had almost reached the point of dreading to fall asleep, because his dreams were full of everyone that he had loved and lost: his brothers, his late friends... and Angela. Silently, he cursed Black again. Not because of his betrayal of his friends - oh yes, Alain knew about that, he had his connections. No, the whole Secret Keeper business was out of his concern and James and Lily Potter had meant nothing to him. If Black hadn't done it, Angela would still be alive! But she was dead. Dead and buried. And it was all Black's fault. If she haven't chosen him... Yet, Alain knew that for Angela that had been the only choice possible.

"What are you going to do today?" he asked. Michel shrugged.

"Nothing special. Just having a walk, I think."

Alain sighed. His brother's apathy was something that he had become used to during the last few months and that he did not like one bit. Of course, the same thing could be said about his own unwillingness to do anything at all.

They sat and drank their coffee. No one said anything, but they did not need to - every conversation somehow ended with the dead or the living who reminded them of the dead. They were just glad to be together and nowadays they were barely seen apart from each other. It was normal - there had been five Montresorre brothers at the beginning of the war. Now, it was only Alain and Michel.

"Dad!" A small child with silver hair and big blue eyes came running into the kitchen and jumped on the free chair, immediately reaching for the biscuits.

Alain and Michel both laughed at this, then their smiles faded, when they thought that Madeleine would have taken their heads for feeding her son biscuits so early in the morning.

"Hello, Charles," Michel said. "What do you want to do today?"

The boy attacked his biscuit. "Aunt Isabelle said she'd take me home to play with Fleur," he explained.

The two brothers shared a look: that was one thing less to think of. When Charles was at their sister's place, he was always happy and content.

"You like playing with Fleur, don't you?" Michel asked.

"She isn't sad," Charles answered. "Everyone else is."

Michel and Alain exchanged another look. Children notice more than we give them credit for, they both thought. No matter how hard they were trying to pretend that everything was all right, the little ones could feel that it was not.

Isabelle arrived a few minutes earlier - as beautiful and cheerful as ever. Suddenly, Alain felt a surge of contempt and hatred towards her - her silver hair was shining ever so brightly, her blue eyes were dull of mirth, her make-up was carefully applied and she looked like she did not have a single care in the world. Doesn't she care? Doesn't she care that our brothers are dead and our sister is at St. Lazarre's with an awful diagnosis?

"Hi, guys," she said, smiling at them. "Charles, you ready?"

"Yes, Aunt," he answered eagerly. "I packed my things."

She raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Are you sure you've taken everything you need?"

"I am."

"Did you take your toothbrush?" she inquired and his face fell. "I thought so. Go on and put it in your luggage."

He unhappily went to his room. Isabelle watched him with a smile, but then looked at Alain, obviously feeling that he was looking at her with a bad feeling. "What's wrong with you?" she asked.

"Do you need to ask?"

Her lips pursed. "Alain, I am not the Seer here, you are. Will you tell me why you are looking at me like I've just killed someone?"

Bad choice of words, little sister. "No, you haven't killed anyone. You are, in fact, the happiest person alive, judging by your looks."

Ah, so that was it. The young woman was surprised that she had not guessed earlier. "I am not ashamed to admit that yes, I am happier and calmer now. You should be too, Alain, and the same goes for you, Michel. You can't keep living with the past. You have to go on."

"Easier said than done," Michel snapped. "Do you have any idea how I feel each time when Charles calls me 'dad'? I feel like an impostor, that's how I feel! Cristian should be the one to take care of his son - he and Madeleine."

There was nothing that Isabelle could say to that. Ever since Michel and Alain had returned from the battle, where their brothers Axel and Cristian - Michel's twin - had lost their lives, Charles had started calling Michel 'Dad' and no one had been able to make him understand that it was not his father. The situation had not been eased by the fact that due to the shock of becoming a widow Charles' mother, who had been expecting a second child, had had a premature birth of a stillborn and had died during it. That was how Michel - who had never had interest in starting a family - had found himself responsible for an excitable three years-old, whose intuition was developed far more than Michel would like.

Isabelle's face softened. "I know," she said quietly, sadly. "But that's how it's going to be from now on, Michel. Cris isn't coming back. Neither of them is. And the sooner you two get used to it, the better."

"Oh yes," Alain drawled sarcastically. "Well, forgive us for still caring about the fact that we lost three brothers when neither of them was older than twenty-two."

Isabelle's eyes turned fiery. "That's not what I mean and you know it!" she hissed.

Alain sat back in his chair. "Actually, I don't know," he said. "Let me ask you a question, Isabelle. How long did it take you to forget about Axel and Cristian? Because I haven't forgotten about them! I was there when they were slaughtered. When did you turn into such a traitor?"

Isabelle's hand flew in the air and Alain caught it just in time, before it could land on his face. "Don't you dare, little sister," he said softly, fiercely. "Don't you dare."

She struggled to release her hand, but Alain was stronger than her. For an awfully long moment, they kept staring at each other, their faces contorted by hatred.

Then, as if an Imperius Curse had been lifted, they moved at the same moment. Alain released her hand and Isabelle raised it to her face.

"I'm sorry, Isabelle," Alain said.

"No, I should be the one who is sorry."

They looked at each other helplessly and then his arms slowly encircled her. "What's going on with us, Isabelle?" he asked.

"I don't know..."

They stood like that for a few moments and then she stepped aside. "Elise has a premiere tonight," she said. "You two coming?"

Like everyone who had Veela blood in their veins, their youngest sister was an excellent dancer. Her love for dancing was so strong that years ago, she had decided that it would be her profession. Only two years after graduating from Beauxbatons, she was already a preferred ballerina for almost every role she wanted. Her talent was without rivals in her ensemble.

Alain and Michel looked at each other. Why not? They had no desire for entertainment, but then, they had nothing to do either. And they would make their baby sister happy.

"See you there."

Isabelle smiled. "Good. Now, I'm going to check whether Charles has managed to 'lose' his toothbrush again."

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In the evening...

"You want to go to bed?" The eyelashes of the young woman flitted innocently.

The young, dark man laughed so softly that she was the only one who heard him. He was still holding her in his arms under the shower of flowers that was hailing on them.

"Whoever gave you that idea?"

She pretended to think very hard. "Let me see... Wasn't it you, earlier today?"

Of course it had been him - when they became groggy with rehearsals, he always repeated that once the premiere was over, he would crash into bed and sleep for at least two days.

"Your memory is too good for my liking," he muttered, while they were both bowing deeply to the audience. They were breathing heavily and they were all in a sweat. Fortunately, the distance from the stage made it impossible for the audience to see that.

Elise Montresorre smiled widely and bowed again, while Nicolas Lacee was taking one of the roses that had been thrown on the stage, presenting her with it and kissing her hand gently.

"Go to the devil, Lacee," she whispered, smiling sweetly to the shouts of 'Bravo!'

"Right now, I have no time to go to him," he objected. "We have a celebratory dinner tonight and tomorrow we have a new performance," he reminded her and turned to the audience for the next bow.

Elise and Nicolas took eight curtain calls, but that was not the end of it - their maker-ups were full of people. With disappointment, Elise noticed that the person who she wanted most to come and see her was not there. Anyway, she was happy to see that her brothers were so happy and proud of her, almost as they had looked before all those events that would torment their family forever. The success of the ballet had turned her blue eyes almost grey and shining and her cheeks were burning. And yet, it would have been even better if he had come.

Hearing the sudden knock of the door after everyone had left, she looked up hopefully, but it wasn't him. She was not disappointed, though, at the sight of the young woman who entered the room.

"Tamara!"

Her old friend smiled at her. "You were magnificent this evening, Elise," she said. "I am telling you that you were, and you know that I know what is what in dancing."

Elise hugged her, still intoxicated with her success. For a moment, their faces appeared into the mirror next to one another - two faces with the same creamy, flawless complexion, with the same delicate features, surrounded by waves of silver hair. There was a certain resemblance between those who carried Veela blood and Elise and Tamara made no exception: everyone could take them for sisters.

"Thanks for inviting me," Tamara said, her light green eyes shining. "That was something that I won't forget... although I am sure you've heard it by everyone who came here this evening."

"Oh, I could never hear it too often," laughed Elise, while she was removing her make-up. "Merlin, I want champagne. Rivers of champagne. I think I could swim in champagne this night."

"We'll see what we can do," Tamara promised. "Do you often swear in Merlin in front of Muggles?" she asked.

Elise gave her a sharp look and the cleaner, who was already started removing the boxes of flowers and presents, looked at them curiously. Tamara only smiled at him. "Mugs," she said. 'We were talking about mugs and make-up."

The man blinked. He was looking at her as if she had hypnotized him. "I understand," he said and left the room, stopping from time to time to throw a fascinated look at Tamara.

"That was not fair, Tamara," Elise scolded her, when they were alone, although her face was amused.

The other woman just shrugged. "Well, I admit that it was not very nice of me," she said. "I never said that I was an angel, though. And the world is no heaven. It really isn't my fault that I am a beautiful woman, after all."

Elise shook her head. "You are asking for trouble," she said. "I don't know how and when, but I feel that you're doing just that."

Tamara laughed. She could not help being flirtatious - after all, she was almost a full-blooded Veela, unlike Elise, who had only half-Veela genes. Really, what trouble could a little innocent flirting cause?

"If you were asking for such trouble, you wouldn't have worried about getting the man," she said.

Elise looked at her with a make-up pad in her hand. "What do you mean?" she asked suspiciously.

"I mean that man, Remus or whatever his name was. I know you fancy him. I saw you looking at him during the whole performance." Tamara suddenly smiled in a conspiratorial manner. "Mind you, I can see your point. He is really sweet, although he isn't my type."

"Thank Bendida for that," Elise muttered. "Who told you about Remus?" she demanded.

"I have my ways of knowing about this and that. You are not my only friend... fortunately," Tamara added. "You wouldn't have told me, Elise, admit it."

"I want to know who..." Elise started, while she was changing from her stage costume into a long green dress.

'I won't tell you," Tamara interrupted her. "So, let's talk about something else - about..."

But what Tamara wanted to talk about remained unknown, because there was a knock on the door and when Elise said 'come in', Nicolas entered the room. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes, just a moment."

Nicolas looked at Tamara with great interest. "And who is this beautiful lady?" he asked.

"This is Tamara Petrova," Elise explained and started combing her hair. "One of my oldest friends."

"Don't tell me - you've brought her for me, haven't you?" His face was excited. "To give me a present for being such a brilliant partner."

Elise rolled her eyes. "Only in your dreams, Lacee. She has more taste than that."

Tamara looked at the lean dancer, who gently kissed her hand. "You were excellent this evening."

"Come on, don't stop talking!"

Tamara smiled. "You look just as happy as Elise."

He nodded. He was still smiling, but it was not a flirtatious smile anymore - it was full of the same exultation that filled Elise's heart.

"I am ready," Elise announced, and Nicolas led them outside, where there was a car waiting for them.

"Oh, Nick," Elise continued talking, "if I could keep forever just one moment, for all times, with everything that I feel, it would be this one. The premiere."

"That's what I would choose, too."

That was one of those moments, when Elise felt closest to the Muggles - when she and her Muggle dance partner shared something that was just as special as her connection with wizards in those moments that really mattered. They had done it together - they had rehearsed, they had suffered from stiff muscles and complete exhaustion, they had had furious quarrels about the way some part should be played, they had hated each other and supported each other and they had made it. That was their evening. Their triumph.

"You'll do it again tomorrow evening," Tamara said, "and it will be just as good. But it won't be the same."

Nicolas looked surprised. "Not only beautiful, but smart," he said and led them through the big glass door into the foyer of the hotel. Here, Tamara discreetly fell behind to let the pair have their glorious moment.

The banquet hall was shining brightly and was already full of people. The moment when Nicolas and Elise entered, the cameras started working. They were met by storms of applause.

"Ma cherie!" Pauline Angers, the head of the dance group, hurried to them. While she was hugging them and praising their dancing this evening, Elise could see only one thing: he had come. He had not visited her in her maker-up, but he was here now. As soon as Pauline let her go and Nick led her to the big table, where there were at least twenty seats, she sat on the chair next to his and smiled at him. It was amusing to look at him trying to decide whether he should be friendly or politely ignore her, from fear that she would get the impression that he liked her... Well, that would be the right impression anyway! When the next camera flashed next to her, she took his hand and smiled widely at the photographer, who did not miss the chance to have a shot which would show that the Ice Queen Elise Montresorre was human, after all, and capable of simple human feelings, like fancying young men... Just wait, Remus Lupin! One day, I'll marry you!

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An hour later...

A big glazed door was leading to the terrace that surrounded the banquet hall. Tamara opened it and stepped outside. She leaned on the balcony railings and looked outside. The night was clear, the moon and the stars were turning Paris silver. She looked at it with unseeing eyes.

How can everything be so normal, she wondered. Laugh, and champagne, and ballet. How can the world still look the same? Of course, almost everyone in the hall was a Muggle, so maybe that could explain it. She still couldn't believe that the world was now Voldemort-free. It would take a great deal of effort to get accustomed to these new circumstances.

After all those years, Tamara thought. She covered her eyes with her palm, hearing her own screams in the night when the Death Eaters had attacked their house. Her beautiful Veela mother, her half-Veela father, a few loyal house-elves - all dead. She herself had been barely saved by the Healers. After all those years he's gone and we are here - wizards, witches, Muggles, Veelas, - enjoying such a simple thing as a ballet performance. It seemed so surreal. How on earth are we going to get used to freedom?

A hand touched her shoulder and she turned, startled her and she turned sharply, only to find herself face to face with Alain. He was looking at her with calm eyes, full of understanding. She took his hand and held it without saying anything. He was silent, too. They had known each other since their childhood, they had played together, they had teased each other and they had lost their virginity to one another, when they had been sixteen. Tamara knew that he understood her - he obviously had trouble adapting to normal, Voldemort-free life, too. They did not need to talk.

"Do you think it will ever be normal?" Tamara finally asked.

"It has to."

"But are you sure? Aren't we going to stay forever the way we are now - strange, deformed, not the way we should be?"

He drew her closer to him and Tamara stood on tiptoe to press her cheek against his. "No," he said, "we won't."

But he did not sound as he himself was convinced and Tamara felt it. "Just look at us," she said. "Veelas aren't supposed to feel this way. We should be charming and careless, and happy, and - "

He laughed. "Have you ever thought of writing a manual of being a Veela?" he asked very seriously.

"That's a good idea," she answered with equal seriousness.

"Come on, let's go back inside," he said. "Magda will kill me, if I let you catch a cold."

"Magda will kill me," she corrected him, only half-jokingly. The truth was that they were both a little afraid of the Veela who knew everything about herbs and healing.

They had barely made a step, when Tamara barely contained a shriek - two big hands suddenly landed on her neck from behind. Before she could react, a wet kiss, reeling of alcohol, was planted on her cheek.

"What, Veela? Not pleased, are you? There was a time when you loved my kisses." Another kiss moistened her ear.

"Take your hands back!" Alain's voice was flat and severe. He went behind the newcomer.

Tamara stood like paralyzed. The way the drunken man was holding her, he could break her neck any moment, without even realizing what he was doing. He was desperately grasping the smooth skin of her neck, trying to thrust his hands under her dress.

"So beautiful. Remember when I told you that? I always told you I've never seen such beauty. Is he your newest lover, bitch?" he suddenly shouted.

Alain was trying to pull him aside without risking Tamara's neck breaking. She was trying to repel the drunkard's face, but without success. He kissed her eyes. His wet mouth, reeking of alcohol, reached hers. She hit him as strongly as she could, but that did not disturb him. Suddenly, he pushed her aside and jumped back faster than could be expected by a man in such state. The moonlight fell on the wand that had appeared in his hand.

Alain made a quick step forward, reached for him and the wand fell on the floor. Alain took it, looked aside to make sure that there was no one nearby, and pointed the wand at its owner. "Imperio!" he said, then went to him and tucked the wand back in his pocket. "Come on," he told Tamara. 'He won't even look at you at least until tomorrow. Let's go back inside."

She shook her head, wiping her mouth. During the fight, her hair-slide had fallen and her hair was falling in wild disarray. She smoothed it over. "I am really not in the mood," she said. "Go on. I think I'll go to my hotel."

"Where are you staying at?" he asked.

"Sheraton."

Of course. Only the best is good enough for our Tamara, Alain thought. "I'll see you to your Sheraton."

'There is no need. I can hail a cab."

"Good. I haven't traveled the Muggle way for ages."

Tamara rolled her eyes, but she was secretly glad that she would not have to go alone.

They left the hotel, but instead of hailing a cab, they made a long walk through night-time Paris. By some unspoken agreement, they spoke of nice things only, not mentioning about the war or the losses at all. It was not until they had stopped on the St-Michel bridge and Alain was looking at the waves under their feet, when he said without looking at her, "My brother Axel always loved rivers and the sea."

She glanced at him with astute eyes. "And you do not."

"I don't trust them. Oh yes, they seem a pleasant sight in the summer, but they wear a different face, and a face that I don't like during December."

She nodded. "Yes," she said, "there is no sight so sad as rivers and sea in winter, because what they tell us is that we are truly at the ending of the year, and all its days are over and the things that they carried would never come again." She turned to look at him and smiled. "But that's the way seasons turn, and they must turn, because that's how nature has planned it. Or Bendida, if you prefer. The fields must fall to fallow and the birds must stop singing for a while, and all things growing must die and lie in peace under snow, just as winter rivers and seas must wear their face of grey and death - the face that you so hate. That's how it should be. 'This is the way of things', my grandmother always used to say, 'and when you have grow older, girl, as I have, you may even come to welcome it.'"

Alain smiled, remembering the woman that Tamara was referring to. Such words seemed strange for one of the fiercest Veelas that he had ever known. "To welcome winter?"

"Yes." Tamara was still looking at the water and her voice seemed to bring comfort not only to him, but to her own troubled mind. "Because, if there was no winter, we could never hope for spring. That's why you and I could never spend our life in the Veela mountains - because there are no seasons and no desperation, but there is no hope either." Her eyes had darkened to almost-black. "The spring will come. The growing things will heal." She paused. "And so will we."

"We must."

They continued their walk.

No one of them was sure how they ended in Alain's flat - they had not planned it. It was dark, obviously Michel had not come back yet. Alain lit the lamps - he had chosen to live at a Muggle block for a reason; he had never seen a reason not to use the nice inventions of the Muggles. Ever since his Muggleborn classmate Francis had invited him to his home... but no, he would not think of that now. I won't, I won't! Francis was dead. Killed by the monster that called itself Lord Voldemort. And Alain wouldn't think of him right now.

"Coffee?" he asked and when Tamara nodded, he went to the kitchen to prepare it, leaving her to look around with curiosity that she did not even try to hide. When he came back, she was looking at a picture of Elise as Giselle.

"She's magnificent," she said.

"Who was he? The man who attacked you earlier?"

Tamara shrugged a shoulder, trying to look like she didn't care. "An old acquaintance."

"He is in love with you."

She shrugged again, defensively. "I am sorry. I warned him not to fall in love with me. I never promised him anything."

"But you had an affair?"

Tamara looked suddenly angry. "That is no concern of yours."

Alain took a sip of his coffee, trying to form his thought into words. He had some bad feeling about this, but he could not explain that to her - she would not understand. Tamara lived like a typical Veela - falling in love and out of love as easily as she breathed... And, of course, she had never been in love, not truly, so she could not understand how far such a feeling could push someone. "You're asking for trouble," he said.

Her eyes turned into green ice. "Do you and your sister learn from one another?" she asked angrily.

Looking at her, Alain was suddenly reminded of an old poem... He said the verse aloud,

"In this tower black lived Tamara,

A lovely and evil Queen.

With angelic beauty endowed,

With soul demonic and mean."

Tamara looked at him, taken aback. She knew the Muggle poem, of course she knew it, but to hear this verse right now... And then she burst out laughing. "Oh Alain, you'll never stop surprising me!"

He was laughing, too. "What do you want me to do, Majesty?" he asked, bowing formally.

She pretended to think very seriously. "Bring me champagne, oh abject subject of mine."

He obeyed and they drank for Elise's success. "She'll be very successful. And happy. We'll all be."

Alain nodded and smiled. It was worth it, he thought. It was worth fighting and giving the fight everything we had.

But then he looked at the bookcase and saw the pictures that always stood there - photos of relatives and friends. His eyes were attracted by the faces of his killed brothers Axel and Cristian and then he couldn't help it: he took a quick breath and whispered, "If this is finally over, it was you guys who did it. Merlin, what a price!"

Tamara followed his look and realized what he must be thinking about. Her eyes fell on the photo that showed Cristian Montresorre with his girlfriend, Madeleine, and she felt sorry for the loss of the young man whom she had known.

The dark hair of the girl, however, kept her attention. Next to Cristian's blond head, it seemed shockingly vital, almost as a living thing, while Madeleine was tossing her head back in the picture. It reminded Tamara something that she had heard only a few days ago. "Were you in love with her, Alain?" she suddenly asked.

He looked at her incredulously. "With Madeleine? Don't be ridiculous."

"No, not Madeleine. The other one. The married English woman. Angela."

He looked away from the photos. "Isabelle talks too much," he said, irritated.

"Isabelle worries about you," Tamara corrected him. "Both of you - you yourself and Michel. And judging by the way you looked tonight, I dare say that your sister is right in that."

"And what should that mean?" he challenged.

She made a tired gesture. "All right, let's not argue. I just wanted to know... Were you in love with her?"

"Yes."

"And what about her?"

He smiled bitterly. "She died the way she lived - as Sirius Black's wife."

"You mean she felt nothing for you?!" The disbelief in Tamara's voice was clear. "Was she mad or something?"

Alain smiled again - a smile of genuine amusement. "You have very good effect on my pride."

Tamara grinned. "No, I just have sharp eyes. Really, if you were in the second place in her list..." She looked at him with a good deal of female appreciation, "then her husband must have been really deiform..."

"He is a bastard and a traitor," Alain said shortly, "he's going to lose his life in prison and I can't say he doesn't deserve it. He is the one to blame for her death and the situation in which his children are now."

Tamara looked at him, confused. "It was not a happy love, their story," Alain continued. "And yet, I admired the strength of her feeling. A great love that, despite everything he put her through, refused to die."

Tamara slowly nodded. "Yes, I've heard some things," she said. "Gideon and Fabian Prewett," she said, answering to his unspoken question. "They helped me once... when the Death Eaters had decided to lessen the number of Veelas in the world."

He heard the part that she had not spoken. "Did you know Gideon Prewett well?"

"I wanted to. If he were alive... I would have gone to England with him."

Again, they fell silent. Their eyes were drawn for a second time this evening to the photos on the shelf; to the photos of the dead. Despite all their efforts to keep the conversation easy, they always returned to the war and everything that would have been. That should have been.

And then, suddenly, Tamara found herself locked in his embrace. His lips found hers. She felt the desperate plea, the words that Alain wouldn't or couldn't say.

Tamara, help me forget.

Their kiss was so familiar and yet unknown, the taste of champagne, the unostentatious touch, then the flame that started burning... It was as if since their last kiss had passed only a few hours.

Or remember.

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The next morning, Tamara and Alain woke up together in the mess of tangled sheets and coverings. It was almost nine. The clock next to the lamp with blue shade had already rang, but it had not been able to overpower their sleepiness due both to the almost sleepless night and the amount of champagne that they had consumed. Alain turned to Tamara, who was still reluctant to open her eyes, and kissed her. She opened a green eye and then closed it again. Alain whispered, "And then he kissed her and indeed, the Princess opened her eyes and said..."

"How dare you wake me without bringing me a hot coffee for a morning gift?"

"Please excuse me," Alain answered officiously, "your coffee will be brought to you in a minute."

He knew what she would do, of course - they had known each other long enough for him to know what she thought of the coffee he made. As his father always said, "you must try to kill horses with this thing, Alain. It'll certainly work."

He was not disappointed - her eyes snapped open and she bolted out of bed, before she could realize that he had not moved at all. "You liar," she said, pulled her dress over her head and headed for the kitchen to prevent a disaster - who knew, he might decide to fulfill his threat and really make coffee! She did not want to be poisoned.

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Eighteen months later...

"What are you going to name him?"

In the first moment, Alain's mind did not register that Magda was talking to him. His eyes did not leave the pale form on the bed, the white-blond hair, the face that was completely bloodless, the nasty long cut of dagger strike, from where the life had left the young body. They had barely managed to pull the baby out, before it could suffocate in his dead mother's womb.

He had never believed in the whole 'till death do us part' nonsense. He had thought that it would be life which would separate them, when they lost interest in one another. That was how Veelas took their relationships; that was what Alain himself had told her - "I will give you your freedom to seek for your happiness elsewhere, when love leaves my heart" and yet, he had not been ready to give up on her yet. Now, looking at her, he realized for a first time what "till death do us part" really meant. Truly, death had parted him from Angela, too, but for the whole love that had felt for her, she had never been truly his. With Tamara, it had been different - for him, and for her too. They had been in love - a mutual feeling without any doubts and hesitations, they had planned a future together and now all that was left of it was a tiny white bundle that was looking at Alain with unblinking green eyes. Her eyes, Alain thought.

It had happened only two days ago. The man - the same man who had attacked her in the night of Elise's performance - had entered the house, overcoming the protections without any difficulties. And then he had killed her - Alain's mother, Vivienne, had seen him running outside, where he could Apparate away, but she had done nothing to stop him - she had been too busy trying to stop Tamara from bleeding to death.

Well, she had not bled to death. But she was dead. All efforts that the Healers and Magda put in restoring her health had gone in vain. Her whole strength had gone to the child, who, in the last month of her pregnancy, was too big and draining her too much. No amount of magic could replace the strength that was needed of her body to fight the torn lung.

"Give him to me."

Alain barely heard what Elise was saying and almost missed the fact that the baby in his arms was crying. Poor Tamara, he thought. Poor, stupid, dear Tamara, who had refused to accept the wards that he had set for their security. The war is over, she had always said. True, she had accepted that the not-so-shiny work that he had done for the French Ministry of Magic required some security measures, but she had never paid too much attention to it and had not bothered to keep the wards, when he wasn't home.

And that was the result of her carelessness. She was dead. Forever gone.

"Alain, give him to me," Elise repeated and he placed the baby in her arms. She started rocking it back and forth.

"What name do you intend to give him?" his father asked again.

"Lucien..."

It was only fitting to give his son the name of the brother who he had loved. Who he had killed, to save him from his agony.

She never knew how far she could push people, Alain thought again. True, she had been well acquainted with the power that beauty exercised in this world and she had enjoyed the privileges of her own stunning looks, the way men had fallen for her, but she had never really understood how deeply her love - and later its lack - could affect them. She had always assumed that they would forget her as easily as she forgot them.

What a cruel way to know that she has been wrong.

Again, the Muggle poem came to his mind and this time the meaning that he read in it was an entirely different one.

'So tenderly this voice was parting.

Such kindness and such love it held.

As if it did not promise doom, no,

But caress and passion instead."

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Five years later...

The splashing in the bathroom stopped and Margo Saint Claire entered the room, wrapped in an enormous towel, her hair dripping. He looked at her and then his eyes moved to the Algerian desert that was spread in front of their window. It seems so strange, he thought, that in the night we carry out assassinations for the French Ministry of Magic and in the morning, we look like every other couple. It had been merely hours since they had arranged an 'accident' for a known Dark Wizard who had succeeded to escape the legal justice, and now they were having breakfast, before Margo returned to her historical research of some branches of Eastern magic. As it happened from time to time, the memories came back to him - Lucien's face, contorted in agony, before he fell down, killed by Alain's own wand, Angela and the desperation in her eyes when she thought about her quickly ruining relationship with Sirius Black, Angela kissing him, the wedding of Margo and their classmate Francis, the attack right after the ceremony and Margo's wedding gown, bespattered with the blood of the dead people, surrounding her, Axel, falling under the Killing curse and the hopeless expression that appeared on Michel's face each time when he looked in the mirror and saw Cristian's face - in fact, his own face - staring at him. He saw Angela dead and Tamara trying to repel her drunk attacker. Then Tamara, lying dead on her bed, while their baby was crying in need of her breast that was no longer an option.

"Alain? What's wrong?"

He chased the memories away and smiled at Margo. "Nothing. Are you ready to face your day?"

She gave him a sly look. "Maybe if you recharge me..."

"I'll think about that," he promised. He still wasn't sure what type of relationship they had, but there was one thing that he knew for certain: that relationship would end when they decide to separate. Not before. No more ' till death do us part'-s. This time, it would be 'till life do us part'. He would make it sure.

"Orange or lemon juice?" he asked.

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A. N. If you think the verses are mine, you are sadly mistaken. That is just my poor attempt to translate a part of one of the most fascinating Russian poems - Tamara, by Lermontov. I'm sure that there are much better translations on the internet, so I recommend the poem to everybody. By the way, Queen Tamara was real! She was a Queen of Georgia, and a great one at that. Don't ask me what made Lermontov turn her into a vampire. I have no idea.

P.P. If there is a Russian among you, my dear readers, maybe he's going to tell me?

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