Tonight was the night. He had to tell Luna.
The weight of that realization pressed down on him, more suffocating than any mission he had ever undertaken. He had faced danger countless times, had taken lives without hesitation, and had done things that most people could never imagine. But the thought of sitting her down and revealing the truth about himself—that was what terrified him. He was a killer. An assassin. A man who had taken lives in the dark, under orders, for a cause that he wasn't even sure he believed in anymore. He had compartmentalized that part of his life for so long, keeping it locked away, neatly hidden behind the mask he wore when he came home to her. But now, that mask was cracking, and he didn't know how to stop it from shattering completely.
What if she leaves? The thought gnawed at Theo's mind like a parasite, burrowing deeper with each passing moment. He could almost see it now—the way her face would fall, the way her blue eyes would darken with disbelief, with hurt, with betrayal. He'd seen her weather so many storms, seen her remain calm in the face of chaos, but this? This could break her. He knew it could.
He felt his heart lurch painfully in his chest as the familiar nausea twisted his stomach into knots. Luna, his Luna—so pure, so light, so full of goodness—how could she look at him the same way once she knew? She thought she married a man who had shadows in his past, yes, but not a man who lived in them. A man who had never really left the darkness. What would she say when she realized that the quiet, tender husband who held her at night was the same man who ended lives without hesitation? That the hands she held so gently were the same hands that had taken the breath from countless others?
What if she leaves? The question was like a drumbeat, pounding relentlessly in his mind.
He clenched his fists under the table, his knuckles white with tension. Could he even blame her? He wouldn't. If she turned away, if she packed her things and left Nott Manor without a word, he would understand. Who would want to stay with a killer? Who would want to build a life with someone who could slip away into the dead of night and return with blood on their hands? He thought of their home—the life they had built together, fragile as it now seemed. The way she smiled when she saw him, that soft, knowing smile that made him feel, if only for a moment, like he wasn't beyond redemption. How long before that smile disappeared, replaced by horror?
What if she breaks? What if telling her shatters the foundation they had so carefully constructed? She had an otherworldly strength, a resilience that he admired deeply, but there were limits to everyone's endurance. Theo had been witness to enough broken people to know that no one was immune to being shattered. What if this truth—the truth of who he was, of what he had done—was the thing that broke her? The thought of Luna's light fading, of her slipping into a darkness that he had caused, made Theo's blood run cold.
He could see it so clearly—her wide eyes, her pale face, the way her breath would quicken as realization dawned. She would try to rationalize it, of course, try to understand, because that's what she did. But eventually, the weight of it all would become too much. What if he was the one to push her over the edge? The idea of being the source of her pain, of causing her to spiral into a mental breakdown, filled him with a kind of dread that was almost unbearable.
He had seen the aftermath of broken minds before, had seen what people became when the weight of the world crushed them. He couldn't—no, he wouldn't let that happen to her. But how could he prevent it? How could he protect her from the truth when the truth was him? He couldn't erase what he had done, couldn't take back the years of violence, the death.
What if she takes Lysander? His son. His beautiful, innocent son. His throat tightened as a fresh wave of panic rolled through him. What if Luna decided that someone like him—someone who killed for a living—had no place in Lysander's life? What if she took him away? The thought of not being allowed to see his son, to hold him, to watch him grow—it was unbearable. Would Luna see him as a threat to their child? Would she think he was dangerous, not just to her, but to Lysander?
His mind raced, imagining all the ways this could go wrong. He knew that his moon loved him, but love had limits, didn't it? Love couldn't survive the kind of revelations he was about to make. Once the words were out, once she knew the full extent of what he was, everything would change. There would be no going back.
He could see the fear in her eyes, the way she would instinctively shield Lysander from him, pulling their son away as if he was something monstrous. Maybe that's what he was—a monster who had been foolish enough to believe he could lead a normal life. Could she trust him to be around their child, knowing what he was capable of? Could she ever look at him and see anything other than the assassin, the man who took lives without remorse?
His hands trembled as he thought about it. He had spent years keeping his work hidden from her, compartmentalizing his life, all to protect the family he so desperately wanted to keep. But now, the very secret he had tried to shield her from was threatening to destroy everything. If Luna walked away, he knew she would do it with Lysander in tow. She wouldn't let their son grow up in the shadow of a man like him.
He could feel the weight of his fear pressing down on him, a suffocating presence that made it hard to breathe. He was losing control, and that terrified him more than anything else. For so long, he had been the one in control—the one who made decisions, who acted with precision and detachment. But this…this was different. This was his life, his family, and it was slipping through his fingers, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.
His mind kept spiraling, the what-ifs multiplying with every passing second. What if she couldn't forgive him? What if she looked at him and saw a stranger? What if this was the beginning of the end?
He closed his eyes, trying to center himself, to push the panic back down where it belonged. But the fear remained, a constant, gnawing presence that wouldn't be silenced. How could he expect her to understand when he barely understood it himself? He had tried so hard to protect her from this, to keep her safe from the darkness that surrounded him. But maybe, in doing so, he had only made things worse. Maybe the lie had grown too big, too twisted to unravel without tearing everything apart.
The truth was inevitable. He couldn't run from it any longer, couldn't keep hiding behind half-truths and omissions. But the consequences—God, the consequences—they terrified him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the evening, a soft, golden glow bathed the Malfoy penthouse dining table, casting warm light over the polished marble surface, turning the long summer day into a cozy, intimate night. The chandelier above twinkled like a canopy of stars, illuminating a scene that felt surreal in its calmness, a snapshot of peace in a world that had been anything but.
Hermione, nestled comfortably in a plush armchair, propped up with pillows, surveyed the scene before her with a contented smile. She looked more at ease than anyone had seen her in months, the weight of the past year finally lifting. Beside her, perched in a regal highchair emblazoned with a crest of a snarling lion, Lysander was immersed in the kind of artistic chaos only a toddler could create.
His tiny fist, sticky with puréed pumpkin, gleamed under the light as he swung it through the air. The orange mess arced high, missing his plate entirely and splattering onto the floor below. But it wasn't lost—Lady Lemongrass, the ever-faithful besties, saw to that. With a delighted snort, she lapped up the offering without hesitation, her stout body wiggling with satisfaction.
The laughter that erupted around the table was infectious. It reverberated through the air, bouncing off the walls and lifting the spirits of everyone present. Ginny, seated beside Hermione, leaned forward to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her friend's ear. Their eyes met, and in that brief glance, they shared an unspoken understanding—a deep, mutual relief that Hermione was finally healing.
Across the table, Pansy and Draco engaged in a playful argument, their words lighthearted but filled with affection. Pansy, ever the diva, waved a napkin like a flag of triumph and declared that Lysander needed an immediate bath, though her tone suggested she was in no real hurry to interrupt the evening.
It was a picture of domesticity, a far cry from the chaos that had once consumed their lives. The laughter, the shared glances, the quiet comfort of simply being together—none of it had seemed possible just a year ago. They had been fractured, worn down by the burdens of war, politics, and dark secrets. And yet, here they were—a patchwork family stitched together by love, loyalty, and shared history.
Luna sat quietly, her usual ethereal calm wrapping around her like a cloak. She was doodling intricate patterns in the margins of a worn book, her eyes occasionally flicking up to watch Lysander with a soft, proud smile. There was a serenity to her that only deepened the longer she observed the scene, as though she had been waiting for this—waiting for their fractured world to find its balance again.
Theo, seated next to her, was less at ease. His stoic demeanor held, but Luna, always attuned to him, could see the subtle shifts. The way his fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, the slight furrow in his brow whenever his gaze drifted toward Lysander. But tonight, even Theo couldn't fully keep the shadows at bay. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes—a rare light that only his family could coax out of him.
This evening was perfect. Yet his thoughts, ever the quiet storm beneath his surface, were already elsewhere. Looming over him was a truth he had kept buried for too long, a truth that could shatter the peace of this moment. He had been advised—warned, really—that tonight, of all nights, he would have to tell Luna. The weight of his secrets—of his past, of his work—was growing too heavy to bear alone.
In the flickering candlelight of the Malfoy Manor dining room, long shadows danced on the walls, casting eerie shapes that twisted and curled like silent specters, mirroring the disquiet in Hermione's gut. The grandness of the room, with its dark, looming portraits and antique furniture, seemed to close in on her as the weight of unspoken truths pressed down like a heavy fog. Every crackle of the fire, every creak of the floorboards, seemed louder in the oppressive silence that had descended over the table.
Draco, standing at the head of the table, his face pale and drawn, raised his glass. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if each gesture cost him something. The golden liquid in his crystal goblet shimmered under the dim candlelight, but there was nothing warm or celebratory about his actions. Instead, there was an unsettling murmur in his voice, low and strained, as he began to speak.
"A toast," he said, the words heavy with meaning. "To honesty, to the laying bare of secrets. May the truths we speak tonight bind us closer, or..." His voice faltered for just a moment, and the crack was enough to send a chill down Hermione's spine. "Or reveal the cracks that have always threatened to split us wide open."
Hermione's heart clenched at the tension thickening in the room, her hands tightening around her own goblet. She met his gaze across the table. His usual icy composure was shattered, replaced by a simmering intensity that unnerved her more than she cared to admit. Those silver-grey eyes, always so unreadable, held something raw tonight—fear, perhaps, or an unspoken plea. It was a rare crack in his armor, and it set off every alarm in her mind.
The jovial atmosphere that had filled the room just moments ago—laughter, the clink of silverware, the comforting hum of conversation—had evaporated. It had been a façade, flimsy and fragile, like a curtain hiding a scene too dark to reveal. Now, it felt as if that curtain was about to be torn away, exposing everything they had fought so hard to keep buried.
Around the table, the shift was palpable. Faces once relaxed now reflected the same unease she felt in her bones. Pansy, who had been the life of the gathering just minutes ago with her quick wit and playful teasing, had gone silent. Her face was tight, her playful facade gone, replaced by something guarded and tense. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin, twisting and pulling in a nervous rhythm that betrayed her inner turmoil.
Theo seemed as still as ever on the surface. But Hermione had known him long enough now to catch the subtle signs—his fingers drummed rapidly against the polished wood of the table, and the muscle in his jaw clenched and unclenched in rapid succession. He was agitated, his usually impenetrable mask beginning to crack.
Across from them, Ginny sat beside Blaise, his hand gripping hers tightly, knuckles white with the force of her hold. The firelight caught in her vibrant red hair, giving her an almost otherworldly glow, as if her inner fire had manifested outwardly. His lips were set in a thin line, her eyes filled with fierce determination. Hermione knew that look. It was the same look Blaise had worn before every battle, before every confrontation—they had seen each other through the darkest times, and tonight would be no different.
"To honesty," Blaise echoed softly, though her voice was barely above a whisper. It lacked the casual strength it usually carried, and the tension coiled beneath her words was impossible to miss. Her eyes flicked around the table, meeting Hermione's for a brief, meaningful glance. They had shared enough battles, enough sleepless nights, to understand each other without speaking. His look told her all she needed to know: whatever truths were coming tonight, they would be devastating.
Blaise raised his glass without a word, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if calculating every possible outcome. The enigmatic man who usually wore his charm like a second skin now seemed cold, distant, as if bracing himself for a blow he had long expected. He, too, was no stranger to secrets, and it was clear that the night's unraveling revelations would not come as a surprise to him. But whether he was ready to face them—whether any of them were—remained uncertain.
The sound of the crystal glasses clinking together rang out through the cavernous room, echoing off the high ceilings and stone walls. The sound was too sharp, too loud, jarring against the heavy silence that followed. It felt less like a toast and more like the tolling of a death knell, an ominous chime that signaled the start of something dark and irreversible.
Draco lowered his glass, his gaze sweeping across the table, lingering on each of them in turn. His jaw was set, his face a mask of control, but the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes remained. "Tonight," he said, voice barely above a whisper now, "we lay it all bare. No more lies. No more hiding. Whatever comes next, we face it together."
But the question hung unspoken between them: could they truly face what was to come together? Or would the weight of their secrets be too much, fracturing the delicate bonds they had formed over years of shared pain and healing? The truths they had long kept hidden threatened to be too explosive, too damaging.
Hermione's pulse quickened as she tried to brace herself for what was about to unfold. She glanced at Theo, his fingers still drumming restlessly, his face stony but his eyes betraying the storm beneath. What had been left unsaid between them all? What secrets had they each buried, hoping they would never be unearthed?
The room seemed to grow colder as the weight of unspoken confessions settled over them like a shroud, suffocating and oppressive. The candle flames flickered, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mock the illusion of peace they had all tried so desperately to build. It was a fragile peace, Hermione realized—one that had been precariously balanced on a foundation of lies.
And tonight, that foundation would crumble.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Theo scooped up the giggling Lysander, his eyes meeting Luna's for a beat that stretched into a love song. A silent promise hung in the air, a whispered serenade only they could hear. With a flourish, he bowed deeply, his face alight with mock seriousness. "One lullaby for the maestro, coming right up!" he declared, punctuating his words with a playful kiss to Lysander's forehead.
"Alright, my little maestro," he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "time to conduct your dreams into reality. Tonight, shall we chase away the shadows with a tale of a brave knight and his loyal dragon? A knight who, despite the darkness he carries within, would slay any beast to protect his kingdom… his moonbeam, his everything."
Lysander, already half asleep, gurgled incoherently and nestled his head deeper into his shoulder.
He chuckled, the sound warm and rich, and carried Lysander off towards their room. As he walked, the soft melody of a lullaby drifted back, a gentle counterpoint to Lysander's contented sighs. The song, a playful ode to knights and dragons, faded into the distance, leaving a trail of warmth and love in its wake.
Once they were alone, the unspoken tension between them settled like a tangible force, thickening the air in the softly lit room. The playful warmth of earlier moments had vanished, replaced by a charged stillness that pressed down on them both. Theo reached for Luna's hand, but where their connection once held effortless warmth, his fingers now trembled faintly, betraying the turmoil beneath his calm exterior.
His touch barely grazed hers, light as a feather, yet it sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. The space between them seemed to hum with unsaid words, emotions swirling just beneath the surface like a gathering storm. Luna's hand tightened around his, her gentle squeeze both a reassurance and a silent question. Her eyes, usually steady and certain, now carried a flicker of worry—a subtle shadow over their usual serenity.
Their bond, usually so solid, felt fragile in the weighty silence. It was as if one wrong word could shatter whatever delicate thread held them together.
"My moonbeam," Theo began, his voice thick with emotion. Each word carried the weight of his love and the burden of what he was about to confess. It was a name he reserved for the most tender moments—a private language they shared, whispered under the stars in their quietest hours.
Luna turned to him fully, her luminous gaze searching his face. Her eyes, soft and calming as moonlight, reflected her quiet strength, but tonight they carried something more: concern. A flicker of uncertainty marred their usual tranquility, like a cloud drifting over a summer sky.
"My sun," she replied gently, her voice a balm to the ache in his chest. The endearment, a perfect counter to his, was imbued with tenderness and quiet understanding. "What shadow falls over your radiant face? What troubles your heart?"
Her question was a delicate nudge, but the weight of what Theo needed to say felt immovable. The silence stretched, dense and oppressive, as if the air itself conspired to hold back his confession. He took a deep breath, the flickering candlelight suddenly too warm, too close. His gaze flickered toward the door of Lysander's room, a silent prayer rising for the innocence sleeping just beyond it—a fragile reminder of all he wanted to protect.
"Draco…" he began, his voice faltering as if the name alone carried the weight of his guilt. He forced himself to look at her, even as his throat tightened around the words. "Draco mentioned something earlier. Something… about me. About the past."
The word "mafia" hovered unspoken, sharp and cutting, lodged in the back of his throat. How could he tell her? How could he expose the darkness that followed him to the one person whose light made him feel human? The thought of her seeing him differently—seeing the shadows he carried—twisted his stomach with dread.
Theo sighed, the tension in his shoulders building as he searched for the right words. "He was talking about… our wellspring of prosperity," he said finally, the phrase bitter on his tongue. It felt like a hollow attempt to soften the truth. His eyes searched hers, bracing for her reaction—for fear, anger, or, worst of all, disappointment. But Luna's gaze remained steady, though her brow furrowed slightly in quiet contemplation.
"Wellspring of prosperity?" she repeated, her voice tinged with confusion rather than judgment. The gentle bewilderment in her tone pierced him deeper than any outburst could have.
He winced at his clumsy phrasing, ashamed for dressing up the truth in riddles. "Yes, my moonbeam," he whispered, his voice low and tentative, as though they were sharing childhood secrets rather than confronting the fractures in their lives. "Draco… he wants to show you the grand tapestry. To reveal the clockwork behind everything—the mechanisms that keep our world moving."
Her eyes widened slightly, and he saw the flicker of understanding dawn across her face. But it wasn't a realization filled with clarity or relief. It was tinged with sadness, a weight settling over her like a cloud dimming her usual radiance. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, as though acknowledging something she had always sensed lingering in the shadows of their life.
"The grand tapestry," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper but heavy with unspoken questions. It wasn't accusatory or resentful. It was the voice of someone who had long suspected there was more to the story and was now piecing it together with quiet strength.
Theo tightened his grip on her hand, his desperation bleeding through the calm facade he struggled to maintain. He needed her to see beyond the veil of half-truths he had woven around them, to understand that everything he had kept from her had been meant to protect her. "There's a storm brewing, my love," he admitted, his voice raw with vulnerability. "A tempest we may need to face together. Draco wants you to be prepared—to understand the world I've tried so hard to shield you from."
Luna didn't flinch. Her steady gaze met his, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "You've carried so much on your own," she whispered, lifting her free hand to gently cup his cheek. Her touch was warm, grounding, and filled with an unwavering resolve. "You don't have to bear this storm alone, my sun. I'll stand with you, no matter how fierce the winds may blow. You are my light, just as I am yours."
He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, feeling the reassuring warmth of her palm against his skin. In that moment, the crushing weight of his worries eased ever so slightly. Under the soft glow of the candles, with the storm looming on the horizon, her presence gave him hope. She was his moonbeam, his guide through the darkness, and he knew with certainty that no matter what lay ahead, they would face it together.
Luna, ever the calm center in Theo's chaotic world, met his gaze with the unwavering strength of a lighthouse guiding a storm-tossed ship. "Theo," she began, her voice soft but resolute, "we've navigated treacherous waters before, haven't we? Remember the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks guarding the Wrackspurts' nest? All for Lysander's moonstone rattle?"
Her lips curved into a faint but genuine smile, a glimmer of humor shining through the storm clouds of their conversation. "We faced the unknown together then, and we emerged stronger. This darkness, whatever it may be, will be no different."
Her words were a lifeline, pulling him from the depths of his doubts. She leaned closer, her thumb gently brushing the worry lines carved into his brow. "I trust Draco. He wouldn't bring this to light unless it truly mattered. And most importantly, Theo," her voice softened to a whisper, "I trust you. With every fiber of my being."
Relief cascaded through him, warm and soothing, yet it couldn't fully extinguish the gnawing guilt coiled deep in his chest. She deserved more than gratitude; she deserved the truth, raw and unvarnished. He swallowed hard, summoning the courage to lay bare the darkness he had kept hidden.
"Luna," he began, his voice rough with emotion, "there's more. The tapestry Draco wants to show you… it's not woven with threads of sunshine and rainbows. It's… darker than I ever let you believe." He hesitated, the words thick in his throat, then continued, "I've kept secrets, tried to protect you from parts of this life that… might scare you away."
He searched her face, expecting fear, anger, or betrayal. Instead, Luna tilted her head slightly, her luminous eyes brimming with quiet understanding. "Theo," she said softly, "how could you think I wouldn't know? I've seen the shadows you carry. I've felt the weight you bear in silence."
Her insight pierced through his defenses, stripping him of the walls he'd so carefully built. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers brushing against the silver locket at his chest—a relic of his past, a reminder of both pain and strength. "It's not just shadows, Luna," he confessed, shame tightening his voice. "It's darkness that clings to me, darkness I was afraid would taint the light you brought into my life."
She reached for him, her touch as tender and grounding as always. Her fingers traced the lines of worry etched into his face, a quiet reassurance in every movement. "Theo," she said, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed soul, "love doesn't shy away from darkness. It offers a hand to hold, a light to guide the way. And trust me, my love, I've faced my share of shadows too."
Her words wrapped around him like a gentle embrace, her unwavering presence a reminder that even in the depths of his darkness, he was never truly alone. And as he looked into her eyes, he saw not fear or judgment, but the steadfast resolve of a woman who had chosen to stand by him, no matter what storms lay ahead.
He watched her, his heart pounding as he braced for the storm he thought inevitable—for fear, anger, or, perhaps worse, disappointment. But instead, she tilted her head, her eyes shimmering with a quiet understanding that seemed to echo centuries of wisdom.
"How… how did you know?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, caught between dread and awe.
Her lips curved into a sad smile, a single tear sliding down her cheek, glistening like a drop of captured moonlight. "Theo," she said softly, "you can't hide the moonlight from the moon itself. I may not know every detail, but I've seen the way you move, the way your eyes harden when danger is near. You carry something heavy, and I've known it wasn't just the scars of the war."
Her words pierced him, cutting through layers of guilt and fear, exposing the raw truth he had buried for so long. A wave of emotion crashed over him—relief, guilt, and a love so intense it felt as if the very stars in the sky might shatter under its weight. This woman, this ethereal being, truly saw him. She always had, flaws and all.
His breath hitched, the dam finally breaking. "You're right, my moon," he choked out, his voice thick with vulnerability. "It's... the family legacy. The heirloom no one wants but can never escape. I inherited it from my father—a web of darkness I've been trapped in, a shadow I've been trying to outrun ever since."
He ran a trembling hand through his hair, the weight of his confession settling over him like a leaden cloak. His fingers caught on the silver locket resting against his chest, a memento from his parents he had worn for as long as he could remember. "It's not sunshine and rainbows, love. It's... it's darkness that clings to me, that threatens to pull me under. I've kept it at bay because I was terrified of tainting the light you've brought into my life."
Shame gnawed at him, twisting in his gut like a serpent. "But you deserve the truth," he continued, his voice trembling. "All of it. Even the parts that might scare you away."
For a long, agonizing moment, he couldn't meet her gaze. But then, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the deep lines of worry etched into his forehead. Her touch, as always, was a balm to his soul, soothing the jagged edges of his fear.
"Theo," she said softly, her voice imbued with quiet, unshakable strength, "love doesn't run from darkness. It faces it, hand in hand, with a light to guide the way. And believe me, my love, I've walked through my own shadows. I've seen what hides in the corners of the world, and I've learned that true light isn't the absence of darkness. It's what shines in spite of it."
Her words hung in the air, as powerful as any spell, wrapping around him like a lifeline. Theo stared into her eyes, those moonlit orbs that held such calm, such certainty, even in the face of the unknown.
"You're not afraid?" he asked, his voice trembling with disbelief.
She smiled, soft and radiant, chasing away the last vestiges of his doubt. "Afraid?" she echoed, her fingers still tracing gentle patterns on his skin. "No, Theo. Not of you. Never of you. I know the man you are—the one who holds our son at night, who carries the weight of worlds on his shoulders just to keep us safe. Darkness may have touched you, but it hasn't claimed you. And as long as we face it together, it never will."
The finality of her words broke Theo completely. He pulled her into his arms, desperate, as though she were the only light in a world of shadows. His breath caught in his throat, and with a choked voice, he whispered into her hair, "I don't deserve you."
Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, though her gaze was steady, unwavering. "You're right," she said softly, her voice like a blade wrapped in silk. "You don't."
He stiffened, the weight of her words pressing down on him like the sky itself. "I know, my love," he whispered, his voice breaking as he sank to his knees before her, tears spilling from eyes that had seen too much. His trembling hands clung to hers as if they were his last tether to this world.
She watched him for a moment, a storm of emotions swirling behind her moonlit eyes. Her voice, when it came, was calm yet fierce, like the crash of waves against jagged cliffs. "So let's cut through the pretense, Theo. Let's stop pretending I'm some fragile flower you've been protecting. I've known for a long time. Since I was pregnant, in fact."
She watched him for a moment, her eyes like a stormy sea, turbulent yet unyielding. When she spoke, her voice was calm but carried an edge, like waves crashing against jagged cliffs. "Let's cut through the pretense, Theo. Stop pretending I'm some fragile flower you've been shielding. I've known for a long time. Since I was pregnant, in fact."
Her words struck like lightning, each one sharp and deliberate. He flinched as if physically hit, his head bowing lower under the weight of her revelation. Shame radiated off him in waves, but his lips stayed sealed.
"I snooped," she began, her tone steady and unyielding, like the calm before a storm. Her gaze didn't waver, even as his shoulders tensed and his breath hitched. "I went through your office, Theo. I found the hidden door. And behind it…" She paused, her voice faltering just slightly, though her resolve never cracked. "Behind it, I found everything you've worked so hard to keep from me."
Her words landed like blows, heavy and deliberate, and Theo's hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles white.
"The guns. The files. The… things you've hidden away," she continued, her voice rising slightly, an edge of pain bleeding through her calm façade. "I stood there for hours, staring at it all, trying to make sense of the life I wasn't allowed to see. The life you chose to lock away from me, as if keeping it in the dark would somehow protect me from it."
Theo's mouth opened, a protest trembling on his lips, but no sound came out.
Luna didn't stop. "And it wasn't just the door, Theo. I saw you." Her voice cracked now, though the steel in it remained. "Coming home late at night, your clothes stained with blood, your face battered and bruised. I watched you stumble through the door, trying to hide the limp in your step or the gash on your arm. I saw you wince when you thought no one was looking, gritting your teeth as you cleaned yourself up, as if the pain was yours to bear alone."
Her hands trembled slightly, but she clasped them together to still the shaking. "You think I live in some dreamland," she said, her voice softening but no less firm. "That I walk through life with my head in the clouds, oblivious to the darkness around me. But Theo…" Her eyes bore into his, bright and fierce, demanding his attention. "I'm not blind. I've never been blind."
He looked away, his jaw tightening, but she stepped closer, her voice unrelenting. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't see the toll it's taken on you? On us? I didn't say anything because I wanted to trust you, to let you tell me when you were ready. But I've waited, Theo. And I'm done waiting."
The silence that followed her words was deafening, the weight of her revelation pressing down on them both. She stood tall, her gaze steady, while Theo struggled to find his footing, the foundations of his carefully constructed world crumbling beneath him.
Her eyes, bright and fierce, locked onto his, unyielding in their intensity. They weren't accusing—they were demanding truth. Demanding he see her as his equal, not as something fragile to be kept in the dark.
Theo tried to speak, to summon the words to explain, to apologize, but his throat closed up, his voice failing him. Instead, he gripped her hands tightly, pressing his forehead against the cool, smooth skin of her fingers. The contact grounded him, even as silent, shuddering sobs tore through his chest.
Still, he couldn't ask for forgiveness—not yet. Not when he knew it wasn't that simple. Luna wasn't offering absolution; she was offering him a chance to face the truth together.
And somehow, that was more terrifying than anything else.
Her voice softened, the sharp edges of her fury easing into something more bittersweet, tinged with her own pain. "That's why I left, Theo," she said quietly. "Not because I was afraid of your darkness, but because I realized something I didn't want to admit—I'm no better than you." Her voice caught, just slightly, and she brushed away the tears that dampened his cheeks with a thumb that trembled only faintly. "We've both committed crimes—some visible, others hidden. And unfortunately for me," she added, her lips twisting into a wry, melancholy smile, "I happen to be madly, irrevocably in love with you. So much so that it frightens me. Because no matter what I tell myself, there's nothing that can change that."
Theo's breath hitched, his hands gripping hers like a man grasping for a lifeline. His voice was barely more than a whisper, raw and desperate. "Can you forgive me?"
She knelt before him then, the simple act drawing him back from the abyss. Her fingers lifted his chin until their eyes met. There was no pity in her gaze, no soft illusions or comforting lies. Only truth, as stark and unyielding as moonlight slicing through shadow.
"Forgive you?" she repeated, her voice a breath of wind over a battlefield. "Theo, forgiveness isn't mine to give—not for the things you've done to yourself, or for the choices you've made. That's something you have to wrestle with. Something you have to find within yourself. You have to face your demons, and you have to forgive the man staring back at you in the mirror."
She paused, and her eyes flicked toward the door that led to Lysander's room, where their son slept peacefully, unaware of the storm raging just beyond the walls. The air between them grew heavier, thick with unspoken fears and unrelenting truths.
"But understand this," she continued, her voice sharpening like a blade unsheathed. "If anything—anything—happens to our child… if the darkness you carry ever touches Lysander…" Her gaze, usually a soft beacon of compassion, now burned with a fire so fierce it felt like it might scorch him. "I won't need to forgive you, Theo. Because I will end you. Without hesitation, without regret."
Her words hung in the air like a curse, binding and final. Theo's breath stuttered, and for a moment, he looked as though he might crumble entirely. But then he nodded, the weight of her promise pressing into his chest. "I swear," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. "I swear to you, Luna, on everything I am—if anything ever threatens Lysander, you won't have to lift a finger. I'll destroy it myself, even if that means destroying me first."
Her gaze softened at his words, though the steel in her expression never fully left. Slowly, she reached out, her hand resting on the side of his face. Her thumb brushed away the remnants of his tears, her touch a strange, bittersweet comfort. "Then hold onto that, Theo. Hold onto the only things that matter—Lysander and me. Because without us, there's nothing left. No redemption. No hope. Just shadows."
His eyes fell shut as he leaned into her touch, the warmth of her palm grounding him, steadying the fragile threads of his resolve. "You and Lysander," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "You're all I have. All I need. Without you, my life means nothing."
Her hand lingered against his cheek for a moment longer, her thumb tracing a gentle arc across his skin. Then, slowly, she stood, pulling him to his feet with a quiet strength that belied her delicate frame. "Then fight for us," she said softly, her voice like the murmur of the tide at night, soothing yet relentless. "Fight the darkness that haunts you. And remember, my love, no matter how deep the shadows go, I'll be here. Always. Lighting the way."
Theo didn't hesitate. He pulled her into his arms, his embrace fierce and unyielding, as though she were the very heart of the universe itself, the one force keeping his broken world intact. She let herself be held, her head resting against his chest, where his heart thundered like a storm.
And in that moment, Theo knew—no matter how dark his path became, no matter how relentless the shadows, he would never walk it alone. With Luna by his side, there would always be light to guide him home.
Selective transparency is not honesty.
And may the fire of who you are burn you alive until you are capable of standing in the fucking truth of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A sudden, violent commotion shattered the fragile peace of the gathering, sending a shockwave through the manor. The sounds of crashing footsteps and raised voices echoed down the grand staircase, drawing all eyes to the source of the chaos. Couples rushed own the stairs, their faces a mix of confusion, fear, and disbelief. The once-celebratory atmosphere was now thick with tension, as if the very air had turned electric with impending doom.
Luna and Theo appeared at the landing, their fingers no longer interlaced, their previously calm and tender expressions replaced with shock. Their eyes locked onto the scene below, matching the wide-eyed disbelief on Neville and Pansy's faces. The air had turned heavy with the weight of the moment—one so raw and unexpected that it had yanked them all from their shared grief into a stunned silence.
The center of the storm was unmistakable.
In the middle of the drawing room, Ginny Weasley lay sprawled across the threadbare rug, her chest heaving with unspent fury. Her brilliant red hair fanned out wildly against the pale, worn floor, a vivid, fiery contrast to the dull surroundings. Her hands twitched, as if still itching to lash out, but she was immobilized, frozen by the aftermath of Hermione's stunning spell. Tears streamed down Ginny's face, raw and unchecked, mingling with the defiant rage burning in her eyes. She looked up at Hermione, who stood motionless beside Draco, her wand still trembling in her hand, the crimson hue of her spell fading but lingering like a scar across the room.
The silence hung heavy, each second stretching into an eternity.
"She was going to kill him," Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible yet sharp enough to cut through the suffocating tension. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath catching in her throat as she glanced from Ginny's prone form to Draco, who stood like a dark, looming figure beside her—his pale eyes wide with shock.
Draco stood in the center of the room, his jaw clenched tightly, a storm brewing behind his pale gray eyes. The silence was suffocating, each breath heavy with unspoken words and unyielding tension. When he finally spoke, his voice dripped with a bitter edge, slicing through the charged atmosphere like a dagger.
"Well," he drawled, his gaze shifting between Ginny's tear-streaked face and the stunned expressions of the others, "that was certainly a… productive way to handle things. Perhaps some of us could learn to keep our emotions in check."
His grip on Hermione's hand tightened, knuckles turning white against her soft skin. She could feel the pulse of his anger radiating from him, a low growl rumbling from deep within, devoid of his usual bravado. Each word he spoke was slow and deliberate, layered with a chilling purpose that sent a shiver down her spine.
"Tonight," he began, the very air around him crackling with intensity, "we don't seek justice. We seek vengeance." The declaration hung heavy in the air, all eyes locked onto him, the weight of his words pressing down like a physical force.
"Jelena Karkaroff," he continued, his voice low and dangerous, "the woman who dared to harm the one I love." A possessive glint flickered in his eyes, sharp and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the cold fury simmering just beneath the surface. The room felt smaller, the shadows deepening around them as if the walls themselves were drawing closer, eager to absorb the darkness of his intent.
"An eye for an eye," he stated, his voice hardening like forged steel. "That's the game we play now." The possessive grip around Hermione's hand tightened, a silent vow of protection that resonated in the tense silence, as though he were laying a claim not just to her but to the very night itself—a night that seemed to swell with the promise of retribution.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, echoing the turmoil within. The air felt charged, electric, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting for the inevitable storm. In that moment, it became clear: this was not merely a reaction; it was a reckoning.
"Her husband is in Romania, lurking in the shadows like the coward he is," Draco spat, the word laced with venom that could cut through steel. The very name seemed to burn his tongue as he spoke it. "We'll smoke him out." His voice resonated in the tense air, a battle cry that ignited a fierce resolve in the hearts of those gathered.
He scanned the room, his steely gaze meeting each pair of eyes, a silent challenge that dared anyone to hesitate. The flickering candlelight caught the fierce determination etched on his features, making him appear more like a warrior than a wizard. "Form groups," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Find Igor Karkaroff. This is not a request. This is my order, and we do not fail those we love." The finality in his tone echoed like a war drum, propelling them toward action.
The air crackled with dark energy, a chilling resolve emanating from Draco—a man driven by a love as fierce as his wrath, a force that could inspire both fear and loyalty. His words hung heavy, suffusing the room with an electric tension that was both exhilarating and terrifying.
Luna, usually an ethereal presence in any room, took on an unexpected edge of darkness as she began to devise a plan. Her mind raced, conjuring images of magical creatures that could be summoned to aid their search for Karkaroff. She turned her focus inward, summoning the creatures of the night, imagining how their unique abilities could guide them through the treacherous terrain of Romania.
Meanwhile, Pansy moved with meticulous precision, gathering her arsenal of poisons and vials, each one carefully selected for its potency. She worked with the confidence of a master alchemist, her sharp mind focused entirely on the task at hand. In her eyes, there was a dangerous gleam; she was ready to unleash chaos if it meant protecting those she loved.
Neville, no longer the shy boy he once was, felt the surge of Gryffindor bravery coursing through him. He strode toward his collection of weapons, his heart pounding with newfound determination. With a fierce resolve, he chose a gleaming sword, its blade catching the dim light like a beacon of hope. It was a symbol of his commitment to fight for Hermione and Pansy, a promise that he would face whatever dangers lay ahead without hesitation.
Theo and Blaise were deep in their armory, preparing their weapons with practiced precision. The clang of metal and the whir of magical enhancements filled the air, a symphony of readiness as they equipped themselves for the impending confrontation. There was a camaraderie that flowed between them, each man aware of the stakes, each man driven by a desire to protect those they held dear.
Amidst the bustle, Draco and Hermione stood together, their bodies close, exchanging tender glances that spoke volumes in the midst of the chaos. The warmth of their silent, lovesick gaze created an oasis amid the storm, a stark contrast to the tension surrounding them. In each fleeting moment, they found solace, knowing that their love was a shield against the darkness threatening to engulf them.
As the group readied themselves for what promised to be a bloodbath, the atmosphere grew thicker, heavy with anticipation. Neville, transformed into a fierce protector, stood with fire in his eyes, a warrior willing to use any means necessary to safeguard Hermione and his beloved wife. They were no longer mere friends caught in a whirlwind; they were united by a common purpose, prepared to face the abyss together.
As they prepared to step into the unknown, a shared understanding settled among them: they were bound not just by friendship, but by the unbreakable ties of loyalty and love. In that moment, they were more than just a group of fighters; they were a family forged in the crucible of adversity, ready to unleash their collective wrath upon the darkness that threatened to tear them apart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pansy remained by Luna and Hermione's side, intent on addressing the escalating situation with Ginny. The weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the urgency that propelled them into action.
After Draco and the others vanished through the portkey to Transylvania, the girls wasted no time in working together to help Ginny regain consciousness.
Hermione, her expression resolute amid the chaos swirling around them, knelt beside Ginny, determination etched into her features. "Ginny, wake up," she urged, her voice a soothing blend of gentleness and authority. Each word was a lifeline, pulling Ginny back from the depths of her unconsciousness.
Luna, her usual ethereal calm replaced by an intensity rarely seen, waved her wand over Ginny with a fluid grace, murmuring a soft incantation. "She'll come around soon," she said, her voice steady and unwavering, radiating a quiet confidence that calmed Pansy's racing heart.
Pansy stood nearby, her demeanor uncharacteristically serious as she crossed her arms, tension coiling within her. "When she does, we need to make sure she understands everything," Pansy said, her tone leaving no room for doubt. "We can't afford any more misunderstandings." The gravity of the situation loomed over them, and she knew that clarity was paramount if they were to navigate the storm brewing around them.
As they waited in the dim light, the girls formed a protective circle around Ginny, their bond fortified by shared purpose and silent determination. They were not merely friends; they were allies prepared to face the unknown together, ready to unravel the web of confusion that had ensnared Ginny and threatened to pull them all under.
Ginny stirred, a low moan escaping her lips as she gradually regained consciousness. The world around her was a haze, harsh light piercing through her eyelids, prompting her to blink against the brightness. Slowly, the shapes and colors began to solidify, and she caught sight of Hermione's worried face hovering above her. "Hermione?" she whispered, confusion clouding her gaze, each word a fragile thread pulling her from the depths of unconsciousness.
Hermione, who had been anxiously awaiting this moment, squeezed Ginny's hand reassuringly, a lifeline in the tumultuous sea of emotions. "It's okay, Ginny. You're safe," she said, her voice steady but tinged with concern.
Ginny's eyes flickered with recognition, but the moment was short-lived; an avalanche of anger replaced any semblance of relief. "Safe? You call this safe?" she spat, her voice thick with disbelief as she struggled to sit up, the effort pulling at the wounds of her heart. "My life is falling apart because of you! Everything is your fault, Hermione! Ever since the day I met you in school, everything is your fault!"
"Ginny, please," Hermione pleaded, her voice trembling as she tried to bridge the chasm opening between them.
"NO!" Ginny shouted, the raw intensity of her emotions breaking through, her voice quaking with fury. "Every bad thing that happened to Harry and Ron is your fault. Everything that happened during the war, and my Fred's death—it's all in your hands!" The accusation hung in the air like a thundercloud, charged and dangerous.
Hermione flinched, confusion clouding her brow. "It started with me?" she echoed, genuinely bewildered. "Ginny, I don't understand."
"Don't you dare play dumb!" Ginny spat, her rage bubbling over. "Remember first year? You waltzed into Hogwarts with your bushy hair and know-it-all attitude, stealing the attention like a siren. Suddenly, Harry's only interested in what Hermione Granger has to say, not Ginny Weasley!" Her voice cracked slightly, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the fortress of anger.
"That's not true," Hermione countered gently, desperation threading her words. "We were all just kids then, learning the ropes. Harry valued your friendship too."
Ginny scoffed, disbelief etched across her face. "Maybe. But then came the Triwizard Tournament. You were all for Harry entering that death trap! Didn't you care about the danger? What if he hadn't come back? What if I'd lost him too?" A choked sob escaped her lips, tears of frustration mingling with the memories of that harrowing year.
"We were worried sick about Harry," Hermione admitted, her voice softening as she remembered their collective fears. "But we never thought…"
"Then came the fight between Ron and Harry," Ginny interrupted, her voice gaining momentum as she spoke. "Fourth year, the Yule Ball, all that mess. You were supposed to be their friend, Hermione, but you let everything explode. Didn't you ever think about how it affected the rest of us?"
Hermione flinched again, a pang of guilt twisting in her gut. "Of course I did! But sometimes friendships go through rough patches. We all make mistakes."
"Maybe," Ginny conceded, the bitterness in her voice lingering. "But it always felt like there was this inner circle— you, Ron, and Harry. Planning, strategizing, keeping secrets. While the rest of us, me included, just… existed on the periphery." Her words dripped with resentment, a painful truth that cut deeper than any spell.
"That's not fair, Ginny," Hermione pleaded, desperation creeping into her tone. "We included you whenever we could. Remember the Chamber of Secrets? You were a target, possessed by that awful diary. If it wasn't for Harry…"
"Don't you see?" Ginny cut her off with a sharp shake of her head, her emotions spiraling. "All this danger, this war… it stole my childhood, Hermione. Stole Fred! Maybe if you hadn't been so focused on fighting the good fight, on following Dumbledore blindly, things would have been different!" Her voice rose, filled with anguish as memories of loss flashed before her.
Tears streamed down Ginny's face now, a raw torrent of long-suppressed emotions finally breaking free. "And now you! You dragged me into this mess with Malfoy, and look where it landed me. Blaise has changed, Hermione. There's darkness in him, a darkness you seem content to ignore because it fits your narrative."
Hermione stood there, tears silently sliding down her cheeks, unable to respond. The torrent of Ginny's anger and grief washed over her, leaving her feeling small and helpless. The weight of Ginny's accusations, a culmination of years of unspoken hurt, felt like a crushing blow, leaving her breathless and shaken.
Suddenly, Luna, who had been quietly absorbing the tumult, found her voice. It was a sound both soft and fierce, surprising them both. "That's enough, Ginny," she said, her eyes flashing with a newfound intensity. "We've all lost people we love. Blaming Hermione won't bring them back. It won't bring Fred and Ron back." Her words hung in the air, a counterbalance to Ginny's rage.
Ginny recoiled slightly at the mention of her brother, a flicker of pain momentarily eclipsing the fury in her eyes. But the anger quickly reignited, the fire burning hotter than before. "No, Luna!" she shouted, her voice rising with renewed fury. "My husband and all the men are gone, just to save Hermione's golden cunt! What's so fucking special about you, huh? Why does everyone bend over backwards for the brightest witch of our age?"
The venom in her voice hung heavy in the air, a bitter echo of her pain. Hermione's eyes widened, her face pale and stricken, unable to respond to the onslaught of accusations.
Before anyone could react, Ginny spun on her heel and apparated away, the crack of her departure leaving an oppressive silence in its wake. The room seemed to hold its breath, the absence of her presence amplifying the tension that lingered like a fog.
Luna sighed, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. "She's hurting," she whispered, her voice thick with empathy. "We all are."
Pansy, uncharacteristically subdued, crossed her arms tightly against her chest. "That doesn't excuse the outburst," she muttered, her gaze flickering to Hermione, who stood frozen, a tapestry of emotions swirling across her face.
Guilt gnawed at Hermione's insides, each of Ginny's words echoing in her mind, relentless and unforgiving. "Maybe it is too much," she choked out, a tear escaping her eye. "Maybe I am the reason they're all in danger."
"No, Hermione," she shook her head firmly, her voice steady and unyielding. "They're doing it because they care about you. Because you're part of the family."
Pansy nodded, her voice softer now, laced with understanding. "We need to stay strong, for them and for ourselves. Ginny will come around. She just needs time."
Hermione nodded, wiping away her tears as she drew a shaky breath. "We have to keep going. For all of us." Her voice was tinged with determination, the fire of her resolve flickering back to life.
As they stood together, the strength of their bond became their anchor, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos swirling around them. In that moment of shared vulnerability, the trio forged an unbreakable alliance, ready to face the trials ahead, their hearts intertwined in a tapestry of love, loss, and resilience. They were warriors in a battle not just against external foes but also the internal demons that threatened to tear them apart. The world outside may have been dark and perilous, but together, they could weather any storm that came their way.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The air crackled with a different kind of tension now. Luna and Lysander, thankfully, remained blissfully unaware, their rhythmic breathing a stark contrast to the scene that unfolded before Pansy and Hermione. The silence that followed the apparition was deafening, broken only by the soft clinking of a glass as she set it down with a trembling hand.
Their gazes fell upon Draco, their initial relief at his safe return morphing into horror as they took in the macabre spectacle. He stood there, an unsettling stillness radiating from him. Blood, a sickening crimson, soaked his clothes and dripped from his hands, one of which held a grisly trophy – Karkaroff's severed head , its eyes wide with a permanent, silent scream.
Hermione lurched forward, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. The image that met her eyes threatened to shatter her. This wasn't the determined Draco she thought she was fighting alongside. This was a monster, a chilling reflection of the very darkness they were trying to vanquish.
Her voice, when it came, was a mere whisper, laced with a tremor of fear. "Draco… what have you done?"
Pansy seemed to shrink under the weight of the moment. Her face, drained of color, mirrored the horror dawning on Hermione's. This wasn't vengeance; this was cold-blooded murder, and the implications sent a shiver down her spine.
Draco, however, remained unmoved. His gaze was distant, as if he were lost in a world only he could see. He raised the severed head, its lifeless eyes staring vacantly, and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion.
"Justice has been served," he said, the words echoing hollowly in the tense silence.
She practically leaped out of her chair. Her usual poise was replaced by a frantic desperation as she flew into her husband's arms.
"Nevie, my love, are you alright?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
He met her embrace with a measured calmness that surprised him. He held her close, a silent promise of protection in the face of the storm brewing around them.
Across the room, Draco stood like a statue, Karkaroff's head still dangling from his hand. His earlier detachment had given way to a chilling emptiness in his eyes.
"I should've brought you trophies as well, home sooner," Draco murmured, his voice barely a whisper. Was it a genuine apology or a twisted justification for his actions? It was impossible to tell.
The room hung on a knife's edge. She clung to him, her body shaking with silent sobs.
Theo, with a faint grimace, used a silent charm to levitate Luna and Lysander, their peaceful slumber undisturbed. They drifted upwards, glowing faintly in the moonlight filtering through the window, before Theo gently deposited them in the guest bedroom.
Blaise broke the silence. "Where's Ginny?" he asked, his voice laced with worry. His wife, usually calm and collected, wouldn't just disappear.
Pansy, drained from the emotional rollercoaster of the evening, sighed. "Ginny had a… meltdown," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Big one. Went Apparated out of here in a huff."
Blaise's face hardened. The news of Ginny's outburst clearly struck a chord. Without a word, he rose from his chair, his cloak billowing around him. A crack echoed in the room as he Disapparated, his destination likely.
The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, its warmth a stark contrast to the chilling scene before them. Hermione stood there, alone with Draco, the severed head of Karkaroff, a grotesque centerpiece on the table. The air crackled with unspoken words, the weight of the night pressing down on them.
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Hermione spoke. "The head," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Toss it in the fire. Get rid of it."
Draco turned towards her, his face an unreadable mask. He picked up the head by its hair, the lifeless eyes staring vacantly. For a moment, Hermione thought she saw a flicker of something akin to satisfaction in his gaze, a dark thrill that sent shivers down her spine.
"Thank you, sweetness," she said finally, the words catching in her throat. "For taking care of things."
A wry smile played on Draco's lips, a chilling counterpoint to the sincerity in her voice. "Anything for you, my love," he replied, his voice laced with a hint of something that could have been devotion or something far more dangerous.
He strode towards the fireplace, the head dangling from his hand like a macabre trophy. As he tossed it into the flames, a wave of heat rolled out, momentarily obscuring their faces. When the flames subsided, only ashes remained, a silent testament to the brutality that had transpired.
Hermione watched him, a storm of emotions brewing within her. Gratitude for his actions warred with unease at the darkness that seemed to simmer beneath the surface. They were bound together by this mission, a tangled web of loyalty and desperation.
Karkaroff, uneasy at the price they had paid. She took a deep breath, trying to quell the tremor in her hands. This wasn't the time to unravel, but the tension thrummed in the air, an electric current buzzing beneath her skin.
"Draco," she said, her voice barely a whisper. He turned, his gaze meeting hers across the room. It was a look that spoke volumes, a shared understanding of the darkness they had just walked through.
Hermione took a hesitant step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath her weight. She stopped a few feet away from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, far enough to maintain a sliver of distance.
She didn't need to finish the sentence. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air, a silent invitation laced with a desperate need for solace.