A.N.: Rod/Bella is honestly my Harry Potter OTP. Our dear Rodolphus seems to get the "short end of the stick" quite often so I figured I should do something about it. I ended up with this.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine; it belongs to J.K. Rowling.

He knew a lost cause when he saw one.

He'd seen her, watched her, speak sweetly, crooning almost, to the Dark Lord, as if he were a lover. He watched her, and sank further into despair. He was but a stick-in-the-mud compared to the Dark Lord.

He'd forced himself to laugh with her, as destruction spread across the country like wildfire, as they spread destruction, all those years ago. He'd forced himself to at least pretend to enjoy "working" beside her, he'd forced himself to pretend to be gleeful when the Longbottoms lost their minds years ago. He forced himself, only, because he knew she did all of it for the Dark Lord's sake, not giving a care in the world about him, about being at his side. It pained him a "little". Still, he would not fantasize, wish, or daydream of the possibility she really would fully acknowledge his presence, or even live her life how she was living it for his sake. He would not fantasize of being able to sweep her into his arms, nor would he fantasize of her whispering, while encased in his arms, that she loved him to. (Love was a weakness, according to their lord, whom she was infatuated with.) He would not, for fear of truly losing his mind; there was no use in entering a false dreamland, where everything would disappear into nothingness when he awoke, nor was there any use in being delusional, when she would spite him more for obscene actions he himself wasn't even aware he'd done.

She ignored him, she snapped at him, she put the blame on him, and ordered him around almost like he was common trash, but he would not protest. She could even torture him, her own husband, put him on the receiving end of something excruciatingly painful, even really destroy him, kill him (he was already dead anyway), and he still would not struggle, nor utter any word of protest.

There was a point in time when he considered exactly what the point was of him simply existing, his soul (half-) dead already, and exactly what the point was of staying beside his Bellatrix, when she would not even look his way. He had been neither delighted nor morose at the time of the Azkaban breakout. Returning to life right before they'd been thrown into said wizarding prison seemed now no different than staying trapped in those walls until the end.

Rodolphus glanced at the wedding ring on the ring finger of his hand. He gazed at their initials engraved onto the thin silver band. There had not been a day of his life with her that he had not worn it. He ran a finger around its smooth surface.

How foolish had they been, had he been, for believing their young love would be eternal; she'd given herself up to another soon after, and he failed to foresee it.

He tore the band off his finger and raised his arm to dispose of it. He caught himself.

Thought it was certainly a lost cause, what would he gain from casting it away?

She'd watched him, once, from around the corner. He sat, his fingers gently plucking the petals from a nearly withered red rose, a somber expression on his face. They fell, rather, dropped down from the table without so much as a flutter or sound. She hadn't known why she' d insisted on placing this bouquet of red roses he'd given her for Valentine's Day that year, into a vase of water, shortly after she'd received it. They would eventually wither away and die anyway.

He would often stand by the window of their home, staring outside as the moonlight flashed and illuminated his joyless face. She observed him, today, once again; his fingers curled up into a fist and rose to the level of his chin slowly. The silver ring on his finger gleamed conspicuously. She could not remember a day in her life with him when he had not worn it…or, she merely had not noticed the days it was absent, having been so taken by the presence of…another.

His arm fell to his side limply, almost as if it were dead, gone, and the ring clattered onto the floor with the sudden motion. A moment later, when he moved away from the windowsill, his face was as wooden as before, as if he had not noticed it fall in the first place. Bellatrix knew differently; he turned to leave, but then bent down, replaced the ring onto his finger and shifted past her, unblinking.

He thought it was a lost cause. He thought wrong.

He walked the halls of their mansion, one evening, his footsteps echoing through the very empty space; his shoes clapped down onto the oak floor loudly but soft velvet carpeting soon muffled the noise. The halls were dimly lit by flickering chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, and the floor was modestly adorned by long red carpeting. He pushed a heavy well-varnished door out of his way.

She could very well leave their dwelling of her own volition; they were no restraining spells to keep her prisoner, keep her from escaping afterwards, that were triggered whenever Bellatrix Lestrange returned through the front doors of her own house. She knew he had put no such spells. He could leave her any day. She could leave him any day.

…

There was no need for anything now. The red roses he had given her should have been gone, should have withered, less than a day after they'd been received. The chandeliers should have flickered and gone out whenever he passed underneath them, leaving him in the darkness others might think he deserved, the darkness he did not fight against. The already red carpet should have already been stained by more red, blood, from his very own shattered and bleeding heart. The silver on his finger should have already rusted away…

All of this should have disappeared already. All of this "insignificance" should have disappeared long ago when the "path" began to slip downwards. All of this should have disappeared after faint traces became reality and when their "love" was lost—

…

Slender arms wrapped around his waist suddenly, from behind, and he nearly fell over in his surprise. He felt a face, her face, the delicate curve of her nose and the skin on her cheeks, along with her silky locks of black hair, press against the back of his neck.

His eyes wandered down towards her slender hands, which were gripping the front of his shirt as if her life depended on it. A wedding ring, the twin of his own, encircled the ring finger on her left hand. For nearly two decades now, he had seen it but a fleeting once.

She shifted her head so that it lay on his shoulder and leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

"I love you…too."

.

.

.

He whirled around and kissed her with as much passion as he could muster, pressing her against himself, as if in desperation to keep her, never lose her again. She might have in turn fallen over herself, if not for his arms that were now wrapped tightly around her. She kissed him back with as much fervour as he had kissed her with.

They pulled apart for oxygen, (unwillingly), nearly gasping for breath, cheeks slightly flushed red from the excitement itself.

"Bella. Oh Bella," he whispered, his voice quivering the slightest from just the happiness. His fingers reached out to stroke her chin.

"Do you need something, Rodolphus?" she teased lightly, her voice clearer than his. Her dark eyes were twinkling and she was smiling softly. Her own fingers reached out and closed around his wrist.

"Bella, I—" he started.

"I know."

A.N.: And so ends my first Harry Potter fic. I hope it was satisfying enough. I'm aware of how horrifyingly simple, cliché, and sappy it is…Erm. Sorry. But feel free to point out any mistakes I made.

Nonetheless, thank you for reading and please review,

Kazuki.