The shadows of his past slipped in quietly, settling into the corners of his mind as if they had always been waiting for the right moment.
As a teenager, Theo had chased escape with a kind of reckless determination that scared him now when he looked back on it.
He had learned how to disappear into the Muggle world, blending into crowded streets where no one knew his name or cared where he came from. Cocaine had been the fastest way out of his own head.
Sharp. Dangerous. Effective, for a while. The highs burned bright and fast, lifting him above everything he could not bear to feel. The lows were brutal, dragging him down into places he never wanted to revisit, places that hollowed him out and left him scraping at the walls just to breathe.
He had told himself those years were over. He had buried them under discipline and control, under routines and rules he followed with ruthless precision. Tonight, standing alone in the quiet of his home, those memories rose anyway, vivid and unwelcome.
The urge crept in with them, subtle and familiar. The desire to mute the noise, to press a switch and feel nothing at all, tugged at him with unsettling force. He remembered the rush clearly, the way everything fell silent for a brief, intoxicating stretch before the crash came crashing back in.
Hermione's situation weighed heavily on him, dragging those thoughts closer to the surface. Watching someone unravel, watching the ground give way beneath them, hit too close to home. He knew that edge intimately. He knew how thin the line was between holding yourself together and falling apart.
He had fought his way out of that life through sheer stubbornness. He had rebuilt himself piece by piece, forcing stability where chaos once lived. He had done it for Luna. For Lysander. For the family he had never believed would be his. Even so, the ache remained. A quiet reminder that the darkness had never fully left, only learned how to wait.
Theo lowered himself onto the sofa and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. Weariness settled deep in his bones. He had survived his own worst years, yet seeing someone he cared about standing at the edge of theirs unsettled him in a way he could not ignore. It reminded him how fragile balance really was, how quickly everything could tilt.
The room stayed silent around him as he let the melancholy pass through instead of pushing it away. He acknowledged the memories without letting them take root. The past lingered, always ready to resurface, but it no longer held the same power over him.
When he finally straightened, his resolve felt steadier. He would not give in. He would stay present. He would be strong for the people who depended on him, and for himself. The darkness was part of his history, woven into who he had been, but it did not get to decide who he was now
~~~~~~
The distance between Luna and Theo had become impossible to ignore. It settled into the house like a heavy fog, cold and persistent, pressing in on him from every side. He felt it in the way she moved through the rooms with careful intention, always leaving space where there used to be closeness. He heard it in her voice, measured and restrained, as if every word was weighed before it was allowed to leave her mouth. He felt it most sharply in her silence, in the way she had slowly folded inward, leaving him stranded in the hollow space she no longer shared with him.
At first, he told himself it was temporary. Everyone had quiet spells. Everyone pulled back sometimes. But days stretched into weeks, and the warmth that once lived between them thinned into something brittle. Her laughter no longer came easily. When it did, it sounded practiced, like a performance meant to reassure rather than express joy. And her touch, once instinctive and grounding, became rare. Brief. Almost cautious. Each missed moment lodged in his chest like a quiet ache he could not dislodge.
He could survive danger. He could endure fear. What he could not bear was this uncertainty, this sense that she was slipping away while standing right in front of him. He could not stand the way she avoided his eyes, as if holding his gaze for too long might break something she was desperately trying to keep intact.
One evening, with the fire crackling low in the sitting room and shadows stretching along the walls, something in him finally gave way. He could not sit through another night pretending he did not feel her absence, pretending he did not see the way she subtly recoiled when he reached for her.
So he did the one thing he had never imagined himself doing.
He dropped to his knees.
His hands trembled as he reached for her, fingers clutching at the fabric of her dress like a man drowning, like someone afraid he was about to lose the only thing keeping him afloat. "My love," he whispered, his voice rough and unsteady. His forehead pressed against her stomach as if grounding himself there might keep her from disappearing altogether. "Please tell me what is wrong. Tell me how to fix this. Tell me how to bring you back to me."
She did not move.
His heart thundered as he waited, expecting her to soothe him, to laugh softly and tell him he was imagining things, to run her fingers through his hair and promise that everything was alright.
She did none of it.
Instead, she stepped back, slow and deliberate, and his hands slipped away from her as easily as water through his fingers. The loss of contact hit him hard, stealing the air from his lungs.
"There is nothing wrong," she said, her voice calm to the point of detachment. "I just do not feel comfortable lately."
The words landed like a blow. He lifted his head and rose unsteadily to his feet, searching her face for something that would make sense of the growing distance between them. "Luna," he said quietly, desperation threading through his voice. "That is not an answer. Please talk to me."
She turned slightly away, folding her arms across her chest as if shielding herself, and the gesture made something cold twist in his gut.
A thought crept in, ugly and unwanted, but once it formed he could not stop it from escaping his mouth. "Are you cheating on me?"
Regret followed instantly.
Her head snapped up, silver eyes flashing with something sharp and wounded. "I would never," she said, her voice shaking with hurt rather than guilt. "Do not ever say that again."
Shame flooded him, hot and immediate. He stepped toward her, hands open, but she stepped back, and the rejection cut deeper than anything he had ever faced.
"I am sorry," he said quickly, his voice breaking despite his effort to steady it. "I did not mean that. I just do not understand what is happening between us. I can feel you pulling away, and it is tearing me apart." He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. "Please tell me what I am doing wrong. Tell me how to make this right."
For a moment, he thought she might finally speak the truth. She drew in a slow breath, and hope flared painfully in his chest.
Then she said, quietly and firmly, "Just give me space, Theodore."
His heart dropped.
There was no opening in her tone. No invitation to argue. No room for him to stay where he was. The finality of it settled over him, heavy and suffocating.
He stood there as she turned away and walked toward their bedroom, each step widening the distance between them. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to respect her words even as everything in him rebelled against them.
When the door closed behind her without a backward glance, he remained where he was, staring at the space she had left behind.
And the fear that settled into his chest told him he might not know how to bridge it.
~~~~~~
There they were—another boring Sunday brunch with their friends. Except this time, it wasn't boring at all.
Ron had brought Lavender.
Pansy spotted them as they strolled in, and instantly, her eyes narrowed in disbelief. Of all the days to show up looking like that. She wasn't exactly Lavender's biggest fan, but today? Today, she was practically offended. Lavender's outfit was a complete disaster, a crime against brunch fashion if Pansy had ever seen one.
"Honestly, what is she wearing?" She muttered to herself, leaning over to whisper to Neville, her voice dripping with disdain. "That outfit looks like it came straight from a 90's charity shop. And not in a chic, vintage way—more like the clearance bin."
Neville gave her a soft, noncommittal hum, but Pansy wasn't done. Oh no, she was just getting started.
"Who shows up to brunch in that shade of mustard yellow? Is she trying to look like an overcooked egg yolk or what?" Pansy continued, her eyes following Lavender as she flounced toward their table. "I mean, it's one thing to wear an ugly outfit, but it's a whole other thing to look like she lost a fight with a bargain bin. What, did she just close her eyes and grab the first thing she touched?"
Ginny, sitting across the table, caught Pansy's eye and smirked. She was clearly enjoying the commentary. "Go easy on her, Pans. Maybe she's going for a 'retro mess' vibe."
Pansy raised an eyebrow, shooting Ginny a sideways glance. "Please, if that's retro, then I'm a Muggle. And don't get me started on those shoes. Merlin's beard, are those...clogs?" She practically gasped. "Clogs, Red! In public!"
He choked on his drink, trying and failing to suppress his laughter. "Sassy," he said, half-amused, half-begging her to behave, "be nice."
Luna, sitting next to Ginny, couldn't help but smile as she watched Pansy roast Lavender. She found Pansy's commentary hilarious, and she was amused by Lavender's obliviousness.
"I think Lavender's outfit is quite unique," she said, her voice soft. "It's very expressive, don't you think?"
Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Unique? More like a fashion disaster," she replied.
She shook her head. "I think it's beautiful. It shows that Lavender is not afraid to be herself. She's not afraid to stand out from the crowd."
Ginny giggled. "You're too kind, Luna. I think Pansy has a point."
She shrugged. "Maybe so. But I think Lavender looks lovely. And that's what matters most."
But she wasn't done. Oh no. This was a battlefield, and Lavender was walking right into her line of fire.
"I swear, Ron must be blind," Pansy went on, now fully committed to the roast. "He's a Gryffindor, so that explains some of it, but this? This is just tragic. Someone needs to send her a howler. A fashion howler."
Lavender, blissfully unaware of Pansy's ongoing critique, smiled brightly as she approached the table, her mustard monstrosity of a dress swaying awkwardly with each step. Her eyes flicked to Ron, who looked utterly clueless, as if he hadn't noticed the atrocity standing next to him. Of course, he hadn't. Typical.
"Morning, everyone!" Lavender chirped, taking her seat beside Ron, who grinned sheepishly at the group.
Pansy returned her smile with one of her own—a thin, tight-lipped smile that spoke volumes. "Morning, Lav. Love the outfit," she said sweetly, batting her lashes. "So...bold."
Ginny had to bite down on her napkin to keep from laughing out loud. Draco, who had been quietly sipping his tea, smirked into his cup, knowing better than to get involved.
"Thanks, Pansy!" Lavender replied, beaming. "It's vintage!"
"Ah, yes," she said, her voice as smooth as silk. "I could tell. Very...timeless." She took a sip of her mimosa, pausing for dramatic effect. "I mean, it's practically prehistoric."
Neville elbowed her lightly under the table, but it was too late. Ginny had dissolved into barely concealed giggles, and even Ron was starting to look suspiciously at Lavender's dress, as if he was only now realizing her thinly veiled insults.
"Well," Lavender said, oblivious to the shade being thrown her way, "I just thought it would be fun to wear something a little different."
"Different? Absolutely," she agreed, nodding slowly. "No one else would dare."
Draco finally chimed in, his tone lazy but amused. "Bold choice, Lavender. It's not every day you see someone pull off... clogs."
Lavender blinked, glancing down at her shoes as if only now realizing they were the subject of scrutiny. "Oh, these? They're super comfortable."
Her smile was razor-sharp. "I'm sure they are, darling. Comfort over style—always a choice."
Ron, clearly sensing the tension but unsure of how to fix it, awkwardly cleared his throat and reached for a scone. "So, uh... how's everyone been?"
"Oh, just fabulous," she said, her tone dripping with saccharine sweetness. "This brunch just gets more...interesting...every week."
As the conversation shifted, Pansy leaned back in her chair, sipping her drink with a satisfied smirk. Sure, it was just another Sunday brunch with friends, but with Lavender here, it was turning into something far more entertaining.
And really, she thought, glancing at Lavender's outfit one last time, wasn't that what Sundays were for?
If Draco Malfoy was an enigma, a puzzle wrapped in icy coolness and centuries of pureblood mystery, then Lavender Brown was a straight-up bitch—bold, loud, and an absolute conundrum. Trying to make sense of her was like attempting to solve an equation with missing variables, all while she prattled on about the latest trends or some meaningless gossip.
Sitting next to her at brunch felt like pure, unadulterated misery for Hermione. Every high-pitched giggle from Lavender made Hermione's skin crawl. She would honestly rather be Alan Turing, cracking impossible codes for the rest of her life, than endure another minute of this superficial torture. At least cracking codes had a point—sitting next to Lavender felt like slowly losing brain cells to a never-ending stream of inane chatter.
Trapped at the brunch table with Lavender Brown, Hermione could feel a familiar wave of irritation rising like a storm. Draco, for all his cold stares and cryptic remarks, at least had depth—a challenge worth unravelling. But Lavender? She was nothing more than a walking tabloid, spilling gossip and self-importance with every exaggerated flick of her hair. Hermione would have preferred deciphering ancient runes off a troll's backside—at least that would've been intellectually stimulating.
Her eyes drifted to her china cup, feigning interest in the delicate patterns as Lavender droned on. The truth was, she'd rather be interrogating a Death Eater, wands drawn and tension high, than sitting through this mind-numbing drivel. Anything would be better than listening to Lavender's endless stream of superficial nonsense.
Lavender Brown, a human incarnation of a spoiled perfume sample, poked at her lukewarm breakfast. Every saccharine word felt dripping with condescension, a poorly veiled jab at Hermione's perceived social climb. It was a game of one-upmanship, a battle of appearances, and Hermione was growing weary of the charade.
"Alright Granger," Lavender drawled, her perfectly manicured nails tapping a staccato rhythm on the tablecloth. "Fancy seeing you here. Still slumming it with Ministry wages, or have you Malfoy coughing up enough Galleons for caviar these days? I hear the new Auror uniforms are rather...plebeian." Her voice was laced with venom, her eyes scanning Hermione with a predatory gleam.
Hermione, ever the picture of politeness, offered a tightly controlled smile. "It has its adjustments, Lavender. Though renovations can be quite rewarding when you get to personalise the space." Her voice held a hint of sugar, sweet enough to curdle milk, but laced with a pointed barb about Lavender's lack of interior design knowledge.
Lavender's eyes sparkled with a hint of malice. "I bet. It must be so... thrilling to live in such a modern place. All that luxury and, of course, the Malfoy legacy."
The insinuation in Lavender's words was clear. Hermione clenched her jaw, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "Every place has its charm. It's the people who live there now that matter."
Lavender's eyes narrowed, her voice dripping with venom. "Oh, please, Granger. Don't pretend you're some sort of martyr. You married up, plain and simple. And don't think I haven't noticed the way you've been clinging to Malfoy like a barnacle. It's almost pathetic."
Pansy was seething, every nerve on edge as Lavender's grating voice continued to claw at her patience. The woman was insufferable, her presence alone enough to irritate Pansy to no end. Her hands itched to throw a snide comment or two, but before she could open her mouth, Neville's firm grip tightened around her waist, pulling her closer in a silent plea.
"Please, love," he murmured softly into her ear, his voice low and soothing. "Behave."
Pansy shot him a sideways glance, her eyes flashing with defiance. "No promises," she whispered back, her tone sharp as a blade.
She could feel the tension bubbling under her skin, desperate to erupt. Keeping quiet around Lavender was like trying to bottle a storm. But Neville's presence, solid and reassuring, kept her just on the edge of restraint. For now.
Hermione's patience was wearing thin. She could feel her face growing hot. "Lavender, I appreciate your concern for my happiness, but perhaps we should change the subject. This conversation seems to be going nowhere productive." Her voice was firm, but she tried to maintain a polite tone.
Draco's patience, too, was wearing thin. "Lavender," he interjected, his voice low and dangerous, "I believe this conversation has reached its conclusion."
Lavender smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Just curious, Draco. We're all friends here, aren't we?"
"Friends," Hermione thought bitterly. If this was friendship, she'd rather be alone.
"I would advise your husband to be more respectful and keep his eyes to himself during the meal," Draco said icily, his gaze locked with Ronald's. The atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically, the once hushed conversation turning into a tense silence. Hermione's hand tightened around Draco's, a silent plea for calm.
"Perhaps you should consider keeping your own eyes on your plate, rather than lingering over what doesn't belong to you. Because if I catch that intrusive gaze directed at my wife once more," he continued, a glint of steel flashing in his eyes, "well, let's just say this breakfast might end a bit more abruptly than you'd like." Draco's eyes narrowed. "Admire from afar, Weasley. Or better yet, don't admire at all."
Draco's hand, pale and elegant, closed around the silver knife. Its weight shifted in his palm, a familiar balance. His eyes, icy and predatory, locked onto Ron, a cold, calculating gleam in them. The clatter of cutlery and hushed conversations faded into a distant hum. The world narrowed to two men, a silent promise hanging heavy in the air.
The knife spun lazily in his fingers, catching the light in a deadly dance. Each rotation was a silent threat, a promise of violence should the need arise. Ron's face, once flushed with anger, turned a sickly shade of green. His eyes darted around, searching for an escape, a way out of this suffocating tension. But there was no escape. Only Draco, and the promise of pain that gleamed in his hand.
Ron cleared his throat nervously before responding, "Look, Malfoy, I wasn't—"
Draco cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Save it, Weasley. I know how you used to look at her, and old habits die hard.
"No need for explanations, Weasley," Draco drawled, his voice laced with a silky menace. "We all have a past, don't we? Some are more regrettable than others, of course." He tilted his head slightly, a predator toying with his prey. "Isn't that right? After all, a leopard can't change its spots, can it?"
Hermione placed a calming hand on Draco's arm. "Draco."
Draco's expression softened slightly as he turned to Hermione. "I'm just making sure our boundaries are clear."
Ron nodded, still a bit flustered. "Yeah, I get it. Sorry, 'Mione."
Draco narrowed his eyes, his voice low. "Do not talk to her directly, Ronald. She is mine. She is mine to look at, to talk to. She means nothing to you now and forever. I'm the only one who knows how the golden cunt tastes. Get over her, and get back to that whore of a woman, that you call a wife."
Hermione stood from the table and without a warning apparated them back to their home.
The tension in the room shattered in an instant.
Pansy, without a second thought, lunged across the table, knocking over glasses and sending a wave of mimosa splashing right into Lavender's stunned face.
"HOW DARE YOU!" Pansy shouted, her voice echoing through the room like a crack of thunder, her eyes blazing with fury.
Luna, always calm but not one to tolerate such behaviour, stood as well, her expression one of disappointment. "This is absolutely disgusting," she said quietly, but the weight of her words hung heavily in the now-silent room.
Ron, looking completely out of his depth, sat there frozen, his face flushed and confused, like a child caught in the middle of a grown-up fight, utterly useless.
Ginny, however, was livid. Her fiery temper, always ready to ignite, flared in an instant. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, rounding on Ron, grabbing his arm, and yanking him to his feet with a force that surprised even him.
Without waiting for a response, she dragged him from the table, her expression stormy as they disappeared into the next room, leaving an uncomfortable silence in their wake.
Pansy's voice dripped with venom as she leaned in, eyes narrowed, her gaze fixed on Lavender. "You have no right to talk about Hermione like that. What's the problem, Lavender? Can't handle being a sloppy second? Can't stand the fact that she's always been better than you? And guess what? She'll always be better."
Lavender's face paled, but before she could respond, Luna gracefully stepped forward, her usual serenity replaced with quiet intensity. "You're not even a sloppy second, Lavender," she said, her voice calm but cutting. "You were never more than an afterthought. How can you be jealous of someone as kind and brilliant as Hermione? She's a wonderful person—her goodness radiates."
Neville, who had been silently clenching his jaw, finally spoke, his voice calm but filled with quiet authority. "And an incredible friend. She's everything you'll never grasp."
Before the tension could escalate further, Blaise rose from his seat with a cold, controlled demeanour. His gaze flickered to Lavender, and his voice was low, dripping with disdain. "Brown," he said, his words sharp as a blade, "it's time for you to leave. And if you leave so much as a single champagne stain on my rug, you'll regret it." His eyes narrowed as he added with a biting edge, "Fucking bitch."
Luna and Pansy were seething, their anger palpable. Luna had a rare storm brewing behind her blue eyes. "How could she ruin a perfectly good breakfast?" She said, her voice unusually sharp, her usual tranquillity nowhere in sight.
Pansy, on the other hand, was pacing, fists clenched and muttering under her breath. "That woman has some nerve. I swear, I'm about to go beat that bitch up." She turned toward the door, fully intending to chase Lavender down.
Neville, sensing the danger, quickly rushed over, wrapping his arms around her waist before she could storm out of the room. "Sassy, darling," he whispered soothingly, though he was clearly trying not to laugh at the sight of his furious wife, "let's just go home, okay?"
Pansy, still glaring in the direction Lavender had disappeared, grumbled, "No! I want to hit her!"
Neville, ever the peacekeeper, pressed a kiss to her temple, his tone gentle but firm. "Alright, love. You can hit the plant when we get home."
Pansy huffed, crossing her arms in defeat. "Fine. But it better be a big one"
~~~~~~
Theo had lost himself in the work for weeks, disappearing into long hours hunched over ancient texts and scorched parchments, his focus narrowed to a single, dangerous goal. He wanted to recreate the force of Fiendfyre without ever summoning it directly. Not the spectacle. Not the chaos. Just the ruin it left behind.
His study lived in a constant state of twilight. Candles burned low, their wax pooled thick around the bases, while the air carried the sharp scent of rare ingredients and old magic. Parchment covered every surface. Notes overlapped notes, equations circled and crossed out, diagrams annotated until the ink bled through the page. Nothing here was accidental. Every choice had been weighed, tested, rejected, then refined again.
His hands moved with steady certainty as he worked, grinding, measuring, murmuring incantations under his breath. The mixture in the basin shimmered with slow, unsettling colour, light folding into itself as though it were alive. The magic thrummed against his skin, a quiet pressure that warned him this thing wanted to be unleashed.
Theo ignored it.
He had learned long ago how to work alongside danger without flinching. His mind tracked possibilities, failures, safeguards. He calculated consequences the way other people counted breaths. This was not obsession born of curiosity. This was necessity. The larger plan demanded something precise, something final, and he refused to leave it to chance.
Days blurred together. He slept little. Ate when he remembered. The weight of what he was building sat heavy in his chest, yet he never hesitated. When the final containment seal snapped into place and the casing locked shut, he stood back and studied it in silence. Smooth black metal. Unremarkable to the eye. Inside, devastation waited patiently.
It was done.
Near midnight, the house settled into its familiar hush. Theo moved through it quietly, every step deliberate. The floorboards creaked like they always had, though tonight each sound seemed louder, sharper, harder to ignore. He gathered what he needed, erased traces of his work, left nothing behind that could raise questions.
He paused at the bedroom door.
Luna slept curled on her side, Lysander tucked close, one small hand fisted in the fabric of her shirt. Theo stood there longer than he meant to, memorizing the rise and fall of their breathing, the softness of the moment he was about to step away from. His chest tightened, a familiar ache settling deep beneath his ribs.
He did not wake them.
Outside, the night air was cold against his skin as he reached the hidden compartment where his vehicle waited. The engine turned over with a low growl, and he pulled away beneath a pale wash of moonlight, the road stretching dark and empty ahead.
As the house disappeared behind him, something inside his chest hollowed. He knew the risks. He had always known. This life demanded distance, silence, choices that could never be explained without breaking something precious.
Still, he drove on.
The road twisted through shadow, leading him toward whatever waited at the end of it. Theo's hands tightened on the wheel, his eyes fixed forward. Fear had no place here. He had prepared for this for years, shaped himself into the man who could see it through.
And he would.
No matter the cost.
~~~~~~
The night folded around them, heavy and close, swallowing sound and movement alike. Whatever they were about to do would change the shape of things forever. That truth sat between them as they gathered in the dim room, Theo, Draco, and Blaise standing shoulder to shoulder while a single lamp guttered near the ceiling. Its weak light threw long shadows across their faces, sharp and unforgiving.
Draco stood at the center, spine straight, jaw locked. When he spoke, his voice was steady, stripped of anything soft.
"We have gone over this," he said, eyes cutting from one of them to the other. "This is not another job. This is for Hermione. Ronald Weasley crossed a line that ends here. He laid hands on my wife. He has done the same to his own. That alone seals it."
The room seemed to tighten around them.
"There are things we do not allow," Draco continued, his voice turning colder with every word. "We protect our own. We do not look away. We do not excuse it. We are not our fathers, and we do not hide behind old blood excuses. What we built stands on loyalty. On protection. And anyone who threatens that learns what it costs."
No one interrupted him. They did not need to.
"To our family," Blaise said quietly.
Theo echoed it without hesitation. Draco followed, the words carrying the weight of something sworn in blood rather than sound.
"To our family."
The vow hung there, dense and unyielding. This was not vengeance dressed up as justice. This was a boundary. Cross it, and there would be no return.
Theo stood slightly apart, the device heavy in his hand. It pulsed faintly, contained violence pressing against its limits. His voice was low when he spoke.
"The area is clear. Timing is set. There is no escape window."
Blaise's fingers tapped once against the chair arm before stilling. His face was composed, though something tight lived behind his eyes. "Then it ends tonight. Clean. Nothing left behind."
"No mistakes," Draco said. "We do this once."
They moved without further discussion.
The Weasley house rose out of the dark, quiet and unsuspecting. No lights. No movement. Wind brushed through the trees, whispering against the walls like a warning that would never be heard.
Theo watched the window for a long moment, breath slow, measured. Then he stepped forward. His hand did not shake.
The device left his palm in a smooth arc, disappearing through the glass.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the air screamed.
Fiendfyre burst outward in a violent surge, blackened flame twisting into monstrous shapes as it devoured the room from the inside. It was not fire as the world understood it. It hunted. It chose. It fed. The blaze tore through walls and ceilings with merciless hunger, its roar swallowing the night.
They remained in the shadows, watching the inferno claim everything that had once stood there. Heat rolled across their faces, sharp and relentless, yet none of them moved. This was familiar territory. Fire. Consequence. Finality.
As the structure began to sag and split beneath the Fiendfyre's hunger, Blaise spoke, his voice low and almost lost to the roar. "There's no undoing this."
Draco did not look away. His expression stayed carved from ice, eyes fixed on the collapse. "There never was."
Theo shifted his weight, the glow of the flames catching along the line of his jaw. When he spoke, it was quieter, edged with something reflective rather than cruel. "He was warned. Every rule was clear. This was always where it ended."
The roof caved in with a thunderous crack, sparks spiraling upward as the last of the house gave way. What remained burned down to its bones, the fire devouring name, history, and memory alike. There would be nothing left to mourn, nothing left to reclaim.
They turned as one.
Their steps were steady as they walked back into the dark, the night closing around them as if nothing had happened at all. Behind them, the flames continued their work, reducing everything to ash.
Their message was clear: In their world, there was no forgiveness for those who harmed their own.
~~~~~~
When the time comes, when Theodore is finally called to stand before his creator and meet the gaze of eternity, he knows there will be no clever phrasing sharp enough to save him. No silver tongue, no practiced calm. Every choice he ever made presses down on him then, each whispered lie and quiet decision stacking into a weight he has carried for years. His sins are no longer a private tally he keeps tucked away in his mind. They are etched into him, written into the marrow of his soul, stretched across twenty eight pages that exist whether he admits them or not.
Twenty eight pages. Each one heavy with intent, consequence, and regret. He told himself every act had been necessary. He told himself there had been no other way. Yet the list kept growing, and with it came the slow corrosion of whatever innocence he once believed he had.
The first page is crowded with small betrayals, the kind that feel harmless when they are committed. A lie spoken to smooth a path. A promise bent until it broke. Those choices seemed manageable at the time, almost forgettable. They never stayed that way. By the second page, deception had sharpened into something deliberate. Friendships were steered, loyalties nudged and twisted until they served his needs. Faces lingered in the margins of his thoughts, people he had wronged without ever letting himself look too closely at the damage.
By the tenth page, the weight had become constant. It followed him everywhere, a presence that never left. He kept going anyway. Power has a way of convincing a man that stopping is impossible, and control can feel like justification all on its own. Every sin came with a reason, every line written with steady certainty. As the pages filled, the space inside him for absolution grew smaller.
By the fifteenth page, blood had entered the ledger. Sometimes in metaphor, sometimes in truth. Lives taken, ended by his hand or by decisions he set in motion. He remembered every name. He remembered the faces. He had learned how to keep moving without letting that knowledge slow him down, even as it followed him into the quiet.
By the twenty first page, the damage had reached deeper places. These were not professional calculations or distant consequences. These were wounds carved into relationships that mattered. Love had been bent into something unrecognizable. Trust had been cracked and left to splinter. There were no explanations left that could soften it. He had hurt people who loved him, and he had done it knowingly.
The twenty eighth page waits. The ink there is uneven, written with reluctance and denial. These are the sins he tried hardest to ignore, the ones he buried so deep he almost convinced himself they did not exist. Looking at them requires admitting the truth he avoided for years. He became the thing he once swore he would never be. He crossed the line he promised himself would hold.
When the reckoning comes, he will have to confess all of it. Every misstep, every betrayal, every act that shaped the man he became. There will be no hiding then, no shadows left to disappear into. His soul will be laid bare, stripped of excuses and intention alike.
He wonders sometimes how a man begins to atone for a list like that. How he explains the choices that led him away from the light when it was close enough to touch. Mercy, if it exists for him at all, will not come cheaply. Forgiveness would take more than words and more than time. His decisions rippled outward into lives he will never fully understand. Futures altered. Paths broken. Damage done that cannot be undone.
Night is when these thoughts find him most often. In the early hours, when sleep refuses to come and the house is quiet, he lies awake and listens to his own breathing. He thinks about the people he failed. The promises he shattered. The darkness that claimed him piece by piece.
Perhaps there will be no fire waiting for him in the end. Perhaps it will be silence instead. A vast, unbearable stillness where nothing speaks back. A place where he is left alone with his confessions, turning each page slowly, forced to read every line aloud.
And when the final page is reached, when there is nothing left to admit, he does not know what remains. He does not know if there is anything left to save.
He only knows that when the time comes, he will stand there and face it. That, too, is part of the cost he accepted long ago.
The cost of his sins. The cost of his choices. The cost of a soul that may yet be lost, or found again in the telling.