TW: Detailed discription of a skull surgery.
Theo's desperation had swallowed him whole. A week had passed, yet every attempt to reach her had been met with the same cruel, deafening silence. He had floo-called until his throat was raw, sent letter after letter—pleas scrawled in his unsteady handwriting—only to have them returned unopened. He had even apparated to the cottage, ignoring the sharp sting of the wards that rejected him, standing outside in the cold like a man abandoned, waiting for a door that would never open.
He was unraveling. Every day without her was a slow, torturous suffocation. He couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't function. The house was empty, stripped of warmth, as if its very soul had walked out the door with her. The bed felt too big, the silence too loud. He caught himself waiting for the soft sound of her laughter, for the scent of her hair on his pillow, only to be met with nothing but the cruel reminder of what he had lost.
He begged. Pleaded. Each message he sent carried the same desperate words, the same unfiltered agony. Please come home. I can't do this without you. I need you. I love you. Please, Luna.
But she didn't answer.
And it was killing him.
Every rejection twisted deeper, a dagger to the ribs. He was drowning, and she was the only one who could save him, yet she remained distant—unyielding. He didn't blame her. He knew why she left. He knew he had given her every reason to go. But gods, that didn't make it hurt any less.
One night, with exhaustion pressing down on him like a heavy fog, he sat in the darkened living room, his head in his hands, feeling the weight of his own failures suffocating him. The fire had long since burned out, leaving the room cold and hollow—just like him.
His voice cracked as he whispered into the silence, "Luna, please…"
It wasn't just a plea. It was a confession. A prayer. A broken man grasping at whatever hope remained.
"I love you," he murmured, his voice hoarse, raw from all the things he had left unsaid. "With everything I have. With everything I am. Please come back to me."
But there was no response.
Only silence.
And it was that silence—the unbearable void where her love had once been—that terrified him the most.
~~~~~~
She appeared one morning like an apparition from a fevered dream, standing in the doorway with an unreadable expression, the early light casting her in soft gold. For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating, that his mind had finally betrayed him, conjuring her from the depths of his desperation. But she was real. She was here.
Theo didn't think. He moved.
He crossed the room in a heartbeat, his breath catching in his throat as though it had been knocked from his chest. "Luna." Her name tore from his lips, a whisper and a prayer all at once.
His hands reached for her, trembling with the sheer terror of losing her again. He didn't hesitate, didn't stop to collect himself. The fear was too great, the agony of her absence still too raw. "Please," he rasped, his voice shaking with emotion, "please stay. Don't go. I can't—"
His voice broke. He was breaking. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely breathe. He clutched at her hands, his fingers desperate as they intertwined with hers. "I am nothing without you!" The words came out strangled, torn from somewhere deep within him, from a place that had been hollow and aching since the day she left. "You are the air I breathe, the light that pulls me out of the darkness. I don't care about anything else—power, gold, nothing means anything without you."
Then, suddenly, he dropped to his knees before her, the weight of his love, his remorse, his sheer devastation pressing him down. He was past pride, past dignity. "Please, Luna," he whispered, his tears slipping freely now, "I will die without you. I will never forgive myself if I lose you."
His grip tightened as he brought her hands to his chest, pressing them against his racing heart, as if willing her to feel how much she still owned him. "I'll change," he vowed, his voice hoarse with desperation. "I'll leave everything behind. I'll walk away from that life. Just stay. Please, my love, I swear to you—you and Lysander are all I need. I've never loved anyone the way I love you. Never."
He lifted his face to hers, his expression raw, open, unguarded. She had always been able to see straight through him, past the masks, past the armor. And now there was nothing left but a man stripped bare, vulnerable in a way he had never allowed himself to be. "Please," he whispered, his breath ragged, "without you, I am nothing."
Luna didn't speak right away. She simply stood there, silent, her gaze heavy with something unreadable. It wasn't anger, nor was it relief. It was something else entirely—something deeper, something that made the air feel thick between them. Her chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, and he swore the moment stretched into eternity.
Then, finally, she sighed, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet. Detached.
"Okay."
Theo froze, blinking up at her in disbelief, his mind struggling to process the simplicity of her answer. "Okay?" he echoed, almost afraid to believe it.
She nodded once, then turned toward the house, her movement smooth, deliberate. "Okay," she repeated.
It wasn't an embrace. It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't even a promise.
But it was something.
And for now, it was enough.
Perhaps this was her Stockholm syndrome—the cruel trick of love binding her to a man who broke her, only to beg her to stay.
Perhaps she said okay not because she believed him, but because she no longer knew how to leave.
~~~~~~
He smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "My love, I'm heading to the office. I have a meeting with Draco," he said, his tone calm, but there was a new sincerity in his voice, an honesty he hadn't shown before.
She looked up at him, her smile genuine and warm. "Okay," she replied, the nickname slipping from her lips like a small, private comfort. It felt different now, lighter, as if the weight of unspoken truths had finally lifted. At least he was being honest. That was a start.
His hand lingered on her cheek for a moment longer. "What's the plan for today?" he asked, his voice filled with affection.
"We're staying inside and playing with the elves," she said with a playful lilt in her voice. Her eyes sparkled, and for the first time in a while, there was peace in her demeanor.
"That sounds like fun," he chuckled, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "I'll call you when I'm finished, okay?"
She nodded, watching him with quiet contentment as he prepared to leave.
The day was a peaceful reprieve, filled with laughter and lighthearted moments that seemed to mend the cracks in she heart, if only for a while. She and Lysander spent the morning playing silly games with the elves. Kreely, the eldest elf, had an endless supply of odd and amusing games from his days serving in ancient wizarding families, some of which even made Lysander giggle uncontrollably. The living room became a chaotic blend of toys, magic, and infectious laughter.
At one point, Kreely conjured an enchanted bubble-blowing wand, filling the room with iridescent spheres that floated in every direction. Lysander chased after them, his little hands reaching and popping them with bursts of giggles. Even Luna found herself caught up in the simple joy of the moment, twirling amidst the bubbles, the world outside their cottage feeling like a distant memory.
But the highlight of the day came when the majestic Fawkes appeared in the backyard. His shimmering feathers gleamed in the sunlight as he landed gracefully in the garden.
His eyes widened with excitement. "Fawkey!" he squealed, rushing toward the window.
"Yes, love," she smiled, leading him outside. "Shall we give him a ride?"
He clapped his hands in delight. Fawkes bowed low, his keen amber eyes watching Luna with the familiarity of a trusted friend. She helped him onto the Hippogriff's back, settling him in before climbing up herself.
They soared through the sky, the wind rushing past them as Lysander's laughter echoed in Luna's ears. From above, the world looked so small, and for that moment, all her worries seemed insignificant. As they glided over the treetops, she felt a deep sense of peace wash over her—a reminder of simpler times, when the weight of their reality didn't press so heavily on her shoulders.
After their adventure in the sky, the warmth of home beckoned them. As soon as they stepped inside, the coziness of the cottage seemed to wrap around them like a soft embrace. The exhilaration of the day had left them both delightfully exhausted, and Luna could see the sleepiness in Lysander's eyes as he yawned, rubbing at them with his tiny fists.
Without saying a word, she scooped him up and carried him to their shared bedroom, his little head resting against her shoulder. She gently laid him down on the bed, his curls spilling across the pillow as he immediately curled up, hugging his stuffed Thestral close.
Luna, equally drained but content, climbed in beside him. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves outside and the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. With a tired smile, she pulled the blankets over them both, the weight of the day's play and joy tugging at her eyelids.
It wasn't long before sleep overtook them, a peaceful nap enveloping mother and son in the kind of deep, restful slumber that only comes after a day filled with love and laughter. For that little while, the world was perfectly still, and all their worries faded into the background.
~~~~~~
Her heart pounded as his voice erupted from the fireplace, raw with panic, every syllable soaked in desperation. His hands trembled in the flickering flames, his usual composure shattered.
"Luna!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Get the safehouse ready, now! Please, my Moon—I love you endlessly."
Despite the storm in his words, she remained steady, the eye of the hurricane he always ran to. "I'm on it, my Sun. The safehouse will be ready. I love you beyond measure."
Yes. Definitely Stockholm syndrome.
The flames died, leaving behind only silence and urgency. She wasted no time, moving with precision, her hands swift and sure as she gathered what they would need. Potions, medical kits, protective charms, emergency portkeys—each item tucked away with a methodical efficiency that masked the chaos in her chest.
She reinforced the wards, layering them thick over doors and windows, her magic crackling in the air as she secured every possible weak point. Her mind raced through the possibilities—who was coming? What had Theo done? Who was he bringing with him this time? It didn't matter. She couldn't afford to hesitate.
She moved through the house like a ghost, weaving magic into the walls, double-checking the layers of enchantments she had built over the years. Each protection spell had been crafted for nights like this—nights when Theo's world threatened to bleed into hers. She didn't need details to understand the gravity of the situation. His voice had told her enough.
The safe room had to be perfect. Impenetrable. She fortified it with a complex web of defensive spells, layering them so thick that even the most determined intruder wouldn't make it past the first barrier. She stocked the shelves with food and water, ensured there was enough space for all of them, then stepped back to inspect her work.
A deep breath. One last check.
Everything was in place.
With every flick of her wand, every whispered incantation, she reminded herself: This is love. This is loyalty.
This is survival.
And then it happened. The calm of the house shattered as two figures materialized with a deafening crack, the air displaced with an almost violent force. The stench of blood hit her first—thick, metallic, suffocating. Hermione was cradled in Draco's arms, her body limp, her face and head smeared with deep crimson, stark against her pale skin. The sheer amount of blood made Luna's breath catch—too much, too fast.
Her heart stuttered, a cold dread seizing her. "What happened?!" she demanded, her voice sharp, laced with fear she had no time to entertain.
Draco, his face a ghostly shade of white, laid Hermione down on the surgical table with the gentleness of a man terrified to break what was already shattered. "Luna," he gasped, barely able to get the words out. "Her skull—it's shattered. You need to save her. Please. You have to."
She barely heard him. Her mind had already snapped into focus, cataloging the damage, assessing the situation. The way Hermione's head lolled slightly to the side, the sluggish pulse of magic barely clinging to her body—this was beyond critical.
Luna's hands moved on instinct, vanishing Hermione's clothes, exposing the extent of the trauma, levitating her into a proper position on the surgical table. The crushing weight of what needed to be done pressed onto her shoulders, but hesitation was not an option.
"Draco, get out!" Her voice was sharp, unwavering, because she could feel his energy—erratic, frantic, wild with grief. He was too close, too raw, and she needed absolute control.
Draco's entire body stiffened, his face contorting with something desperate, something unhinged. "Luna, please," he choked out, his voice breaking, his hands shaking as he reached for Hermione as if he could tether her to life by sheer will alone. "I need—"
"NOW, DRACO!" The command cracked through the room, leaving no space for argument. There was no mercy in her voice. No softness. Just a demand—a necessity. Her hands were already moving, casting diagnostic charms in rapid succession, mapping the fractures, calculating the damage before she had even finished exhaling.
Draco didn't move, his feet rooted to the ground, his body trembling as if the air around him had turned razor-sharp. His lips parted, but no words came. A man who never begged was now nothing but a collection of whispered prayers and helpless pleas. "Luna, please save her. Please, just—just save her. I swear, I can't—Merlin, I can't—"
Luna forced herself to block him out, to shove down the knot in her throat. She couldn't afford distraction, not even for the agony in his voice. Her hands were steady, her wand gliding over Hermione's skull, her magic pouring into the fractures like liquid light. Time stretched, slowed, contracted. Every moment mattered. Every second stolen from death was another chance.
The room pulsed with magic, heavy with desperation, filled with the sound of Luna's murmured incantations and the soft, shallow breaths Hermione barely managed to take. The silence between the spells was suffocating, punctuated only by the occasional scrape of metal against wood as she reached for instruments, the hum of magic working against the odds, and Draco's quiet, shattered whispers from across the room.
Luna didn't look up. Didn't pause. She had to save Hermione.
Because failure was not an option.
Every action she took was a step toward preserving a fragile thread of hope amidst the chaos. As she worked tirelessly, her mind was consumed with the sole thought of pulling Hermione back from the brink, knowing that every second counted in this desperate fight for life.
The emergency room had transformed into a high-stakes operating theater, its sterile, clinical atmosphere a stark contrast to the emotional turmoil that gripped Luna. The lights above the surgical table cast a harsh, unforgiving glare on Hermione's pale, unconscious form, her skull fractured and battered from a brutal attack.
Her hands were steady but her heart raced with an intensity that matched the severity of the situation. The room was filled with a tense silence, punctuated only by the hum of medical equipment and the quiet, desperate pleas of Draco, who hovered just outside the door, unable to bear the sight of Hermione's condition.
Luna donned her surgical gloves and adjusted her mask, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Alright, let's get started," she said, her voice calm and authoritative.
She levitated Hermione's head into the correct position, her hands steady even as her heart pounded. The damage was extensive, brutal—fractures spiderwebbed across Hermione's skull, deep and severe. Internal bleeding pooled dangerously beneath the bone, and the swelling threatened irreversible damage. Every second was crucial.
With a sharp flick of her wand, she cast a diagnostic charm, her eyes scanning the glowing, rotating projection of Hermione's injuries. The results made her stomach tighten. Too much damage, too little time.
"Prepare for the incision," she murmured to herself, forcing her voice to remain steady.
A shimmering, sterile barrier flickered to life around Hermione's head, sealing the area in a protective glow. The magic pulsed faintly, ensuring absolute cleanliness, forming an invisible cocoon of safety. It cast an eerie light over Hermione's pale face, her lips parted slightly, her breath shallow but steady. Her chest rose and fell in slow, fragile movements, her body entirely at the mercy of the magic surrounding her.
She swallowed hard, pushing away the cold fear curling in her gut. This wasn't just healing—this was skull surgery. There was no room for error.
Her hands hovered inches above Hermione's skin, fingers tingling with raw, focused magic. A delicate balance had to be struck—precision and power, control and intuition. This wasn't something most healers dared attempt, let alone one working alone, with no backup, no second set of hands. But she had studied. She had prepared. And most of all, she had no choice.
"Focus," she whispered, her breath barely disturbing the air. The sterile field hummed in quiet harmony with her magic, amplifying the spellwork she wove around Hermione's injuries.
One mistake could mean death.
And she refused to let Hermione die.
Steeling herself, she made the first delicate incision, her magic cutting with the precision of the sharpest scalpel. The procedure had begun.
Luna glanced over to the array of tools on the tray beside her—both magical and mundane. Silver surgical instruments gleamed beside enchanted crystals, potion vials, and her wand. She would need all of them to mend the damage beneath the surface. Her mind flashed through the steps, reviewing every detail of what needed to be done.
First, the incision. Luna took another steadying breath, her grip tightening on her wand as she focused. With a gentle flick, she cast the initial spell, making a precise cut along Hermione's scalp. The skin parted cleanly, revealing the layers beneath. Luna moved slowly, carefully peeling back the scalp, exposing the cracked and damaged bone. The sight of the fractured skull sent a fresh wave of determination through her. She could do this. She had to.
Hermione had suffered a brutal attack, leaving her skull shattered in places. While the damage had been contained with temporary spells by the healers at St. Mungo's, it was up to Luna now to perform the more permanent repairs. Any misstep could cause irreparable damage, potentially affecting Hermione's brain.
With the scalp pulled back, her next task was to stabilize the bone. Her hand reached for a small potion vial—a powerful concoction designed to temporarily harden and reinforce the bone structure while she worked. Gently, she poured a few drops onto the damaged skull, watching as the liquid absorbed into the bone, creating a temporary support. The shimmering layer hardened, making the cracks less pronounced but still visible.
"Fractura Reparo," she murmured, carefully directing her wand along the length of the fractures. The spell was meant to begin the magical mending process, fusing the bone fragments together. Delicate golden threads of light appeared, slowly knitting the skull back into one solid piece. The task required extreme focus—too much energy, and she could cause the bones to fuse unevenly; too little, and the repairs wouldn't hold.
The light threads began to merge the jagged edges of Hermione's skull, but it wasn't enough. There were deeper fractures that needed attention, and she knew she would need to employ both magic and mundane techniques to address them. She picked up a small, enchanted surgical drill, designed to create tiny, precise holes at the edges of the fractures. This would allow her to insert pins—magical constructs—that would provide further stability.
The drill hummed softly as she worked, her hands steady despite the pressure. She carefully drilled at each fracture point, ensuring the holes were perfectly aligned. The task was painstaking, each movement deliberate. Sweat beaded on her forehead, but she didn't dare pause.
Once the holes were in place, she reached for the next tool—long, thin rods infused with healing magic. These rods would act as stabilizers, anchoring the bone while the deeper magic worked to fuse the fractures. With delicate hands, she inserted each rod into the drilled holes, adjusting their position with precision. They glowed faintly as they settled into place, their magical properties beginning to strengthen the bones around them.
"Perfect," she whispered, though there was still much to be done.
Next came the most critical part of the procedure: addressing the internal damage. Beneath the fractures, Hermione's brain had suffered trauma, and Luna needed to heal the injured tissue without causing further harm. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment, centering herself. Her wand hovered above Hermione's head as she whispered a series of complex healing incantations, her voice soft but commanding.
"Tessera Corpus," she intoned, weaving a spell designed to gently stimulate the brain's natural healing processes. As the spell took hold, a soft, soothing light spread from her wand, sinking into Hermione's skull and bathing her brain in healing magic. She could feel the energy coursing through her, guiding the delicate reconstruction of the damaged tissues. This was the trickiest part—too much force, and she could overwhelm the brain; too little, and the healing would be incomplete.
She worked slowly, meticulously, her wand tracing intricate patterns in the air as she directed the spell. The healing light pulsed rhythmically, syncing with the steady beat of Hermione's heart. Minutes passed, though to Luna, it felt like hours. The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with magic and purpose.
Finally, the deep repairs were complete. The internal trauma had been addressed, and the skull fractures were mending, held in place by the magical rods. Luna exhaled slowly, a wave of relief washing over her, but she knew the procedure wasn't over yet.
The final step was closing the scalp. Luna carefully folded the skin back over the repaired bone, smoothing it into place. With another flick of her wand, she cast a spell to seal the incision, leaving no trace of the cut behind. The skin fused seamlessly, as though it had never been touched.
She stepped back, her eyes scanning Hermione's face for any signs of discomfort or distress. There were none—Hermione lay still, her breathing steady, her body relaxed. The surgery had been a success.
Luna wiped the sweat from her brow, her hands trembling now that the procedure was over. She sank into a chair, her legs weak from the tension. It was done. Hermione was safe.
~~~~~~
The door creaked open, and her pulse spiked, tension snapping through her exhausted body. She didn't look up, her focus razor-sharp on the delicate spellwork still binding Hermione's fragile form. "Draco, get out!" she snapped, her voice laced with urgency, frustration, and sheer exhaustion.
But the voice that answered wasn't Draco's. "It's just me, my love."
She turned sharply, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the sight of Theo standing there—his clothes stained with blood, his face drawn and weary. The sight of him sent a fresh wave of stress crashing over her. "You're not sterile," she hissed, her voice raw with desperation. "You can't be in here! Please, Theo, get out."
He didn't move immediately, his eyes searching hers with something unspoken—concern, regret, an unyielding need to be near her. "I love you, my moon," he murmured, stepping forward despite her resistance.
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, the weight of the night pressing down on her, threatening to crack the fragile composure she had held onto for hours. Her heart twisted at his words, at the quiet devotion in his voice. "And I love you too," she whispered, her voice cracking under the strain. But there was no time for this—not now. She turned back to her patient, her hands steady, her mind forcing itself back into focus, though her soul ached under the weight of everything unsaid.
~~~~~~
Six grueling hours later, she finally stepped out of the surgery room, her body screaming with exhaustion, her scrubs stained in a way she didn't care to acknowledge. The room beyond was thick with tension, the air so heavy with waiting that it nearly suffocated her.
All eyes snapped to her the moment she appeared.
"She's alive," she murmured, barely more than a whisper, but it was enough.
The collective exhale of relief rippled through the room like a crashing wave.
Draco, who had been pacing relentlessly, stopped dead in his tracks. For a moment, he simply stared at her, as if trying to convince himself that she had truly spoken those words. Then, before she could react, he was there, closing the distance in two long strides, wrapping his arms around her with a desperation that nearly sent them both to the ground. His body trembled against hers, his breath shuddering as tears slipped silently down his face.
"Thank you," he choked out, holding onto her as if she had just handed him back his entire world. "Luna, thank you for saving my wife. I—" He broke off, shaking his head, his grip tightening. "I can never, ever thank you enough."
She let him hold her for a moment, too drained to do anything but stand there as the weight of it all settled over her.
Nearby, Blaise released a breath he had been holding for far too long, turning instinctively to Ginny. Without a word, she fell into his arms, burying her face against his chest, her shoulders shaking as silent relief coursed through her. He held her close, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of her head, his own expression tight with unspoken emotion.
Theo was there too, standing at a distance, watching her with that same quiet reverence he always carried for her. Their eyes met, and though no words passed between them, she felt it—his love, his pride, his need to hold her just as tightly as Draco had, to take away even an ounce of the burden she carried.
But there was no time for rest. Not yet.
"She's stable," she said at last, her voice stronger now, her healer's mask slipping back into place. "But the next twenty-four hours will be critical. She needs complete rest, no magic interference, no disturbances. And Draco—" she turned to him, her gaze steady, "she's going to need you."
His hands clenched into fists, as if anchoring himself. "I won't leave her side."
She barely managed a nod before exhaustion overtook her, her body sagging against Theo's chest. His arms wrapped around her instinctively, steady and warm, his grip both protective and grounding. He held her close, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, as if the simple act could somehow ease the burden she had carried tonight.
"Come, my love," he murmured, his voice thick with relief and fatigue. "Let's get you cleaned up."
He guided her toward their bedroom, his hands never leaving her, as if afraid she might slip away. The weight of the night pressed heavily upon her, settling into her bones like lead. Though she had saved Hermione, the battle was far from over. Recovery was uncertain, and the road ahead would be long. Still, in Theo's presence—in the quiet strength of his love—she felt a flicker of solace beneath the crushing exhaustion.
Once inside, Theo moved with careful efficiency, unbuttoning her scrubs and sliding them from her shoulders with reverence. His touch was tender, almost worshipful, as he helped her step out of them. The concern in his eyes never wavered, not even as he led her toward the bath he had drawn, the scent of lavender and chamomile curling in the steam, wrapping around them like a gentle embrace.
"My moon," he said softly, kneeling beside her as she eased into the warm water, his voice filled with both awe and something deeper—something almost sacred. "What you did today… I can't even find the words. You are… you're otherworldly." His fingers traced the damp strands of hair that clung to her face, his eyes searching hers. "Your magic, your hands, your mind… you saved her, Luna. You always save us."
She barely managed a tired smile before she whispered, her voice slurred with exhaustion, "I'm going to pass out."
And she did. The moment her body sank into the water, the tension in her muscles melted away, and sleep overtook her instantly. Her head rested against the edge of the tub, her breathing soft and even.
Theo exhaled, shaking his head as he watched her, equal parts admiration and worry tightening in his chest. He had seen her powerful before—formidable, brilliant, untouchable in her mastery of magic. But tonight, she had been something more. Something divine. And yet, it had drained her completely.
With infinite care, he reached for a washcloth, soaking it in the warm water before gently running it over her skin. His movements were slow and deliberate, reverent in their tenderness. He cleaned the remnants of blood and magic from her hands, tracing over each delicate finger—the same hands that had saved a life only hours ago. He brushed his knuckles across her cheek, marveling at how something so soft could hold so much power.
Once he had finished, he dried her with gentle hands, then levitated her effortlessly, cradling her as he carried her to their bed. He placed her down with the care of a man laying down something sacred, tucking the blankets around her, ensuring she was warm, protected, safe.
Then, with a quiet sigh, he took her hand in his and pressed a lingering kiss to her palm. He could still feel the hum of residual magic beneath her skin, the echoes of the spells she had wielded tonight.
His lips traveled to her forehead, the kiss slow, reverent. He wished he could kiss her mind, the brilliant, untamed force that made her who she was, the mind that had held the fragile balance of life and death in its grasp and won.
"I love you," he whispered against her skin, his voice filled with quiet devotion.
And as she slept, peaceful at last, he remained by her side, watching over her the way she had always watched over them.
~~~~~~
Theo placed a firm hand on Draco's shoulder, grounding him with a steady presence. His voice was low, measured, meant to pull Draco from the spiral threatening to consume him. "Mate, she's alive. That's what matters right now. You did what you had to. Focus on her."
Draco's hands trembled as they covered his face, his ragged breaths punctuated by the quiet sound of tears slipping through his fingers. "Theo, it's my fault. I never should've taken her to that meeting with Karkaroff. I fucking knew it was a setup the moment he and his whore of a wife started pointing fingers. Accusing us. Us, Theo! Of selling bad product? Of all people?" His voice cracked, anger and guilt clashing violently inside him. "I should have seen it coming."
Theo knelt beside him, his tone shifting, sharp as steel. "That bitch is dead, Draco. And Karkaroff? We will find him. He won't escape this, I swear it." His eyes darkened, the promise of vengeance simmering beneath his words. But then, his voice softened just slightly, just enough to pull Draco from the edge. "Right now, the only thing that matters is Hermione. She's alive. She needs you."
Draco exhaled shakily, his shoulders still tense, but he nodded. "Ginny's already set up our bedroom for her," he murmured. "She's been… strong through all of this."
Theo stood and offered his hand, pulling Draco to his feet. "Then let's get her settled. She needs to be warm, she needs to be comfortable. She needs you to be there when she wakes up."
Draco swallowed hard, steeling himself. Together, they moved with quiet determination, setting aside guilt and bloodlust—at least for now. Because right now, love came first.
Hermione lay motionless in bed, her face eerily serene, her chest rising and falling in steady breaths. Beside her, Ginny sat with quiet devotion, her fingers trailing gently over Hermione's hand, whispering soft reassurances as if willing her to wake.
A heavy silence filled the room, thick with tension, until Ginny finally spoke, her voice barely above a murmur. "Ferret, what have you done?"
Draco, standing at the foot of the bed, let out a sharp breath, his jaw tightening. His hands raked through his hair, exhaustion pressing down on him like a physical weight. "Ginerva, not now," he muttered, his voice rough and weary. "Go to sleep."
But he didn't turn away. His gaze remained locked on Hermione, his expression raw and pleading, silently begging her to wake up, to open her eyes, to tell him it wasn't his fault. But the room remained still, offering no absolution.