He had always expected it might end up like this. Really, the only thing that surprised him was that after a lifetime of fearing the idea of Bellatrix, the reality of facing her didn't frighten him. Pain, as skilled as she might be with it, was temporary. And in the last moments, he didn't even see Bellatrix, he only saw Andromeda.

He saw her at eleven, the first time he met her- long hair in a ponytail tied with a green ribbon, a perfect knot in her green and silver tie, and he had no idea he was flouting centuries of social custom by speaking to her. She gave him that look, the one Blacks excelled at, of utter contempt and disgust. She did it convincingly, but not quite convincingly enough, because he wasn't convinced he didn't want to be friends with her.

He saw her at thirteen, knowing she shouldn't be friends with him, but sometimes unable to keep from smiling, to keep from responding to his comments. He'd go out of his way to make her laugh, because he liked the challenge. Even when he couldn't talk to her, when she was with her sisters or at the Slytherin table, he always saw her. And sometimes, he caught her looking at him.

He saw her in the wavering torchlight of the library. She stretched, trying to work the stiffness of hours bent over books from her shoulders, and his mouth went dry. The world seemed to stop for a second and he suddenly realized he no longer wanted to be friends with her. He just wanted her.

He saw her the first time she kissed him, saw the decision in her gray eyes and before he could ask what she had just decided she kissed him and it was terrifying and perfect and amazing and simple. Everything changed, even though it looked the same. He knew it would never be easy but he didn't say that then because he was afraid she'd see the sense in it, and he was sure by then that he could easily fall in love with her.

He saw her in the halls of Hogwarts when she knew he was watching, he could tell by the swing of her skirt and a coy look over her shoulder, a wink that Narcissa didn't see. During seemingly endless classes she would distract him with a look or a smile and he wouldn't be able to think about anything but getting her alone.

He saw her when they were alone, and she had no idea quite how perfect she was and he wanted to learn and memorize every inch of her skin. He was fascinated by her, and amazingly she seemed to feel the same. On long, languid summer afternoons he heard her voice, impatient and rushed, her breathless laugh that he wanted to hear again.

He saw her long hair tumbling over the pillow, lashes curled against her cheeks as she slept, her left hand lying on his chest, and the brand new, shining gold band on it. He knew their marriage was irrational and impulsive and irresponsible, everything everyone would tell them it was, but he also knew that he'd never been so happy.

He saw her in the moments that no one else did, he held her while she cried for a cousin she thought she knew and a sister she knew all too well. She couldn't always be as strong as she seemed and he couldn't take away the pain of what she'd left behind and what they'd done, but he promised he'd protect her, whether she needed it or not.

He saw his daughter's mother, saw her the first time she held that absolutely perfect, terrifyingly small person wrapped in a soft pink blanket. He thought she must have been frightened- he'd felt nothing but complete unadulterated fear for the nine months of her pregnancy- but Nymphadora waved little curled fists and yawned, and Andy laughed and kissed soft violet hair. She never thought she'd be a good mother, but he knew otherwise.

He saw her watching Nymphadora, a faint smile at the person their daughter was becoming. He saw her nervously fussing with Dora's uniform as they sent her off to her first year at Hogwarts. He saw her smile, trying to be genuine, when Dora said she wanted to be an Auror, and it was only later, to him, she admitted she hated it was so dangerous.

He saw how she hated herself when they learned about Sirius…hated herself for doubting him, even when everyone else in her family had taught her to doubt them. Her determination to do something more, to go to Dumbledore, to not sit out the second war, had started then. She knew the danger, especially when Bellatrix was free, but he saw she had something to prove.

He saw her the last time, the morning he left. He'd known what he was going to do, known that it would protect her, and even known she would hate him for it. He knew he was going to leave, and so he watched her every movement, trying to memorize her. That morning, half-asleep, she had curled into him, yawning, and he had tried to fix in his mind the smell of her perfume, the feel of her skin, that he'd taken for granted over twenty-five years. He hadn't known then it would be the last time he saw her, but he had guessed it. It was for the best, it kept her safe.

And so he thought of the things he would never see. He would never see her hold their first grandchild. He would never celebrate the end of this second war with her. He'd never see her grow old, because he thought she was still as beautiful as the day he married her. And the pain of knowing what he would miss was far worse than the pain of cruciatus.

It infuriated Bellatrix that he wasn't afraid, but he knew pain was temporary.

Ted Tonks believed in a heaven, and his heaven was Andromeda. He would wait for her.