He stumbled into the house, his shirt clinging to his body, soaked through with blood. Some of it was his, some of it belonged to someone else, and the distinction barely registered. His lips were swollen and split, the sting of fresh wounds dulled by the deeper ache settling into his bones. A dark bruise was already blooming beneath his eye, spreading like spilled ink under his skin. Every breath scraped against his ribs, shallow and painful, yet even that could not compete with the dread tightening in his stomach. He did not want to wake her.
His hand fumbled for the door, exhaustion making his movements clumsy. His knuckles struck the frame with a dull thud, louder than he meant it to be. A curse slipped from his mouth, low and useless. It was already too late.
From the bedroom, Luna stirred. Sleep clung to her thoughts as she blinked in the dim light, trying to make sense of the sound. Instinct rose faster than reason. Her fingers closed around her wand as she sat up, heart pounding. Moonlight stretched the shadows along the walls, shifting them into unfamiliar shapes. Then she heard it. His breathing, uneven and rough, the sound of someone fighting to stay upright.
Her chest tightened. "Theo?"
She did not wait for an answer. The blankets fell away as she swung her legs over the bed and crossed the room, bare feet silent against the floor. The hallway swallowed her whole for a breath, and then she saw him.
Blood everywhere. His white shirt was stained deep red, his face marked by cuts and bruises that made her stomach drop. He leaned against the wall, using it as a crutch, as though it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.
"Merlin," she breathed, her voice breaking as she reached for him. "Theo, what happened?"
He barely lifted his head. "It's nothing," he said, hoarse and strained. "Nothing you need to worry about."
She froze, hands trembling as anger flared hot and fast. She had heard those words too many times. Every time he came home like this, battered and bleeding, he offered the same hollow reassurance and expected her to accept it.
She would not.
"Stop." Her voice cut through the space between them, sharp and shaking. "I have had enough of this, Theo."
He tried to wave her off, his arm sluggish. "Luna—"
"No." The word cracked as she stepped closer, breath unsteady. "No more excuses. No more half truths. No more pretending this is normal." Her chest rose and fell, fury and heartbreak tightening together. "You come home like this again and again, and I am supposed to act as though everything is fine. As though I'm fucking blind." She shook her head, the weight pressing down until her vision blurred. "I cannot even look at you."
He flinched. The words struck deeper than any blow he had taken that night. Pain was familiar to him. He knew how to endure it. This felt different. This felt like sinking.
"Luna, please," he said, desperation threading through his voice, but she did not let him finish.
"Who was it?" Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her whole body trembling. "Who did this to you. Or did you do it to yourself."
Silence stretched between them.
His jaw tightened, guilt flashing through his eyes.
She let out a short, bitter laugh that held no humor. "Of course," she said quietly. "You cannot even tell me. You will not give me that much."
He wanted to speak. He wanted to tell her everything, to drop to his knees and confess every violent thing he had done in the name of keeping them safe. The words crowded his throat and refused to move. How could he look at her, at the love and disappointment tangled in her gaze, and tell her the truth. How could he admit that this world, this blood and pain, was still his. That no matter how much she hoped, this part of him had never truly let go.
She drew a shaky breath and turned her face away. "Go," she whispered, her voice heavy with something that sounded too much like surrender. "Go to another bedroom. I cannot do this tonight."
His stomach twisted hard. Every instinct urged him to reach for her, to beg her to let him stay, to promise that he would change, that he would fix whatever was broken. The look in her eyes stopped him. It was too raw, too close to shattering.
He swallowed and nodded once.
Without another word, he turned and walked down the hallway. His body felt heavy, his injuries distant and unimportant compared to the ache settling in his chest.
He stood in front of the mirror, gripping the edges of the sink as water dripped from his face and blurred his reflection. The fluorescent light overhead was unforgiving, casting a stark glare over battered skin and swollen bruises, over every cut that told the story he refused to speak out loud. His hands shook as he splashed more cold water over his split lip, the sharp sting pulling a breath from his chest. He had lost count of how many times he had stood here like this, how many nights ended with him trying to scrub away blood and guilt as if water could undo the choices that brought him home broken.
This time, he was not alone.
He felt her before he heard her. The air shifted, heavy with her presence, pressing into the quiet of the room. She made no sound, yet he knew she was there, standing just behind him, and his stomach twisted tight with shame. His eyes squeezed shut.
"We'll talk about this tomorrow, Luna," he said, his voice rough and worn down to the bone. "Just let me clean up."
He could not look at her. He could not face her reflection beside his own, could not see whatever was written across her face. The hurt. The disappointment. The cost of him coming home like this again.
She did not answer. She did not leave.
"Please go," he whispered, barely audible, fingers curling harder around the porcelain. If she stayed, if she truly saw him like this, stripped bare and bleeding, he did not know if he could endure it.
Instead, she stepped closer.
He heard the soft brush of her feet against the tile, felt the warmth of her body behind him before her hand came to rest on his shoulder. The contact grounded him instantly, pulling a sharp breath from his chest. Before he could protest, she turned him gently to face her.
The moment their eyes met, he unraveled.
Her palm cupped his cheek, warm and steady, impossibly tender. His breath caught. He had not realized how cold he felt until her skin touched his. He leaned into her without thinking, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat as he let himself sink into the quiet safety of her presence.
Her expression held too much to name. Anger sat there. So did grief. Love threaded through it all, stubborn and aching. He did not know which hurt more. All he knew was that she was still here, still touching him as if he had not fractured something precious between them.
She lifted her free hand, magic blooming softly between her fingers. Warmth flowed through him as the split in his lip sealed, the sting fading into nothing. He flinched on instinct, then stilled as the pain vanished. Her magic always felt different from his. Gentle. Careful. Alive with something he could never define.
He swallowed, about to speak, about to thank her, when she leaned in.
Her lips brushed his, slow and intentional, warmth against warmth. The metallic taste of blood lingered between them, sharp and real, and neither of them pulled away. Her fingers traced his face, following bruises and swollen skin, mapping regret with a touch so light it burned. Then she stepped back.
She raised her wand. A diagnostic spell bloomed in the air, soft lines of light tracing his injuries.
Her jaw tightened.
A fractured rib. A broken nose. Gods, Theo.
"Sit," she said, calm and firm. There was no room for refusal.
He obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on her. She moved with quiet precision, all focus and control. The fury from earlier was gone. No shouting. No accusations. This was the Luna who always remained when everything else fell apart. The Luna who gathered his pieces without asking how they broke.
"I'm going to heal you now," she said softly, rolling up the sleeves of her nightgown, wand steady in her hand. "It will hurt."
He nodded and gripped the sheets.
The spell struck his nose first. Bone snapped back into place with a sharp crack that tore a sound from his chest. Pain flared white and blinding, his vision swimming. Then his rib. A deep, sickening jolt as the fracture knit itself whole. His body locked, fingers digging into the mattress until his knuckles burned, yet he stayed silent.
Seconds passed. The pain ebbed, leaving an ache that clung stubbornly to his ribs. He breathed through it, slow and controlled.
When he looked up, she was already stepping away, wand lowering. Something had shifted in her posture, something heavier. He had expected anger. Demands. The reckoning he deserved. He was ready for it.
She turned away instead.
He watched her walk to the door, every step measured and distant. She paused only once, casting a warming charm with a flick of her wrist. Heat spread through the room in soft waves.
"Good night," she said quietly.
Her voice held steady, yet it carried a finality that settled deep in his chest. The door closed behind her with a gentle click, leaving him alone in the silence.
He stared at the empty space where she had been, a hollow ache settling deep in his chest. He had expected her anger and almost hoped for it. Anger was something he understood.
Anger could be fought, endured, survived. This quiet withdrawal cut far deeper. The absence of her voice, the calm way she had walked away, felt like the sound of something cracking between them. Something fragile. Something he had no idea how to repair.
The stillness pressed in on him from every side. The walls felt closer than before, the air heavy enough to choke on. He forced himself to stand and made his way toward their bedroom, each step dragging as if the floor itself resisted him. When he opened the door, the sight of her nearly broke him.
She was awake.
Her body lay still beneath the covers, breathing slow and careful, but the moonlight caught the faint shine of tears along her cheeks. She did not turn when he entered. She did not acknowledge him. Still, he knew she felt him there.
He swallowed and moved closer, then slipped into bed beside her with careful restraint. He paused, waiting for rejection that never came. She stayed where she was, silent, facing away from him, her grief a tangible presence between them.
Without thinking, he whispered, his voice raw, barely audible, "I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife. Please, offer me that deathless death."
She did not answer. The silence weighed more than any injury, more than the bruises blooming across his skin, more than the truths pressing against his chest, begging to be spoken. Then, slowly, her fingers reached back, searching in the dark until they found his.
Her voice came out thin and trembling, barely louder than a breath, and every word cut straight through him. "This is never going to happen again, right?" The fragile hope in her tone was unmistakable. "You will never make me cry like this again, right?" Her breath caught as doubt crept in. "You will not let me see you like that again, yes?"
She was asking for more than reassurance. She was asking for safety. For a future that did not include nights like this. For freedom from the fear of seeing him broken and unreachable.
Something inside him fractured completely. He wanted to promise her everything she needed. He wanted to swear that this pain would never touch her again. He could not do that honestly. The life he lived and the choices he carried would always demand something in return. She knew it. That knowledge lived between them.
So he did the only thing left to him. He drew her close, holding her as if his arms could protect her from the damage he had already done. His voice came out rough and unsteady as he whispered into the dark, "I would never allow myself to see you cry because of me."
Liar.
The word echoed in the quiet, heavy and undeniable. It settled between them like a truth neither of them dared to speak aloud. He could feel it in the way her body rested against his, in the careful rhythm of her breathing, in the fragile stillness she held onto as if it were the only thing keeping her from breaking apart.
There was an apology caught in his throat, aching to be said. He did not let it out. He could not. An apology would have asked for forgiveness he had no right to expect, and it would have carried promises he knew he could never keep. He could not swear that the violence would stay away forever. He could not vow that blood and bruises would never find their way back into their lives. The world they lived in did not allow such clean endings. His past did not loosen its grip that easily.
She knew that. He knew she knew. That understanding pressed down on him harder than any wound.
They lay together in the dark, her breaths warm against his chest, steady and quiet, each one a small act of courage. The room felt crowded with everything they were not saying, with fears held carefully in place and tears that never quite fell. His arm remained wrapped around her, protective and helpless all at once, while her fingers curled into his shirt as if anchoring herself to something solid.
For now, that was all they had. The closeness. The shared warmth. The fragile hope that holding on might be enough to carry them through whatever waited beyond the night.
The days passed wrapped in a quiet that felt thick enough to choke on. They moved through the house like strangers who knew each other too well, careful with their footsteps, careful with their glances, circling the truth that sat between them like a live wire. He did not have the courage to speak first. She did not ask. The silence settled into his chest and stayed there, gnawing at him the way guilt always did, slow and relentless.
He could not decide which shame cut deeper. The memory of her seeing him soaked in blood, standing in their home like something dragged in from a nightmare, or the fact that he still could not tell her who he truly was now. What he had been doing. What he had become. He knew questions must have formed in her mind. Suspicions too. How could they not have? Yet how could he ever say it out loud. That the fight he had mentioned had never been a fight at all. That he had killed someone. That it had not been an isolated moment of violence, but something repeated, patterned, almost routine in a way that made his skin crawl when he thought about it.
He had never pictured this version of himself. A man who ended lives with practiced ease. A man who crossed lines he once believed were permanent. Now he lived surrounded by lies and invisible stains, and every time she looked at him, every time her eyes lingered a second too long, he felt himself slipping further into something he no longer knew how to escape.
She was not foolish. She never had been. She saw too much, understood too much. Even when she chose not to push, there was something in her gaze that told him she was waiting. A quiet awareness. She had seen the injuries, the blood, the way his eyes sometimes went distant and hollow. She had put the pieces together, even if she had not named them. She was giving him space to speak. To confess. And that mercy only made it harder.
How could he tell her that the man she believed him to be no longer existed. That he was no longer hiding behind the idea of business or necessity. That he was something darker, something he could barely face in the mirror without feeling sick. He had told himself it was required, that it was survival, that it was the cost of protecting what mattered. Yet with every life taken, the emptiness inside him grew wider, colder.
The guilt festered, raw and unhealed. Each time he considered telling her the truth, the words turned bitter in his mouth. He could not say them. He was not ready to lose her. At the same time, he could feel the lie stretching thin, feel the strain of holding it together begin to crack. He did not know how much longer he could keep living this way.
The nightmares came soon after. Heavy dreams filled with blood, hands slick and shaking, faces he could not forget. He woke drenched in sweat, heart pounding, the weight of his actions crushing down on him until it felt hard to breathe. Luna would stir beside him, half awake, murmuring soft words meant to calm him, her hand warm against his skin. Her presence helped him surface, but it never chased the dreams away. They followed him into waking life, into daylight, into every quiet moment.
Still, neither of them spoke.
~~~~~~
That week had been a nightmare, an undercurrent of unease that never left him alone. He had two great fears in this life. Luna getting hurt, and his children getting hurt. That morning turned one of those fears into something real, something that would live under his skin long after the day ended.
The morning itself had been quiet in a way that felt almost generous. Lysander had gone down for his nap without protest, his small body curled into the blankets of his crib, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. Theo had lingered in the doorway for a moment longer than usual, watching his chest rise and fall, committing the sight to memory like he always did. When he finally made his way downstairs and sank into the couch, his muscles began to loosen for the first time in days.
Then the scream came.
It was nothing like the soft complaints of a tired child or the brief cries of frustration when a toy rolled out of reach. This sound tore through the house, sharp and raw, filled with pain that did not belong in a one year old's body. It went straight through him, cold and merciless.
For a heartbeat, everything froze. Then his heart slammed hard against his ribs, breath tearing out of his lungs as panic took hold. Thought vanished. Instinct took over.
He was moving before he realized it, feet pounding toward the stairs. Luna was beside him, just as fast, just as frantic. They took the steps two at a time, wood creaking beneath their weight. Theo reached the nursery first. Fear wrapped tight around his chest, leaving no room for hesitation. He shoved the door open with a force that sent it slamming into the wall.
The sound inside the room swallowed everything else.
Lysander lay in his crib, his small body shaking with sobs, fists clenched tight around his moonstone rattle as though it were the only solid thing left in the world. His cries were broken and desperate, the kind that came from somewhere deep and primal. But it was not only the crying that made Theo's blood run cold.
The air above the crib was alive.
Shimmering, translucent shapes darted and spiraled in frantic loops, their forms half seen and constantly shifting. They moved in erratic patterns, drawn again and again toward the rattle in Lysander's hands.
Crumple Horned Snorkacks.
Theo had heard Luna speak of them with fond amusement, describing them as gentle, curious creatures that drifted through spaces unnoticed. They had never been a threat. Until now. Something had driven them into a frenzy, their attention locked onto the object Lysander held.
Luna reacted instantly. Her wand snapped up, her movement precise and sure despite the fear written across her face. With a sharp flick, the creatures vanished, their presence dissolving as if they had never been there. The air went still again, heavy with the aftermath.
She was at the crib in seconds, lifting Lysander into her arms, pressing him close. Her hands trembled as she held him, rocking gently, murmuring soft reassurances against his hair.
"It's alright, my love," she whispered. "Mummy's here."
Lysander's sobs hitched, but they did not stop. His face was blotchy and wet, eyes wide and glassy with distress. He squirmed slightly, then lifted one small arm, fingers trembling as he showed them what had hurt him.
Theo saw the mark immediately.
A small bite, red and angry against delicate skin.
Something inside him locked into place. His body went rigid, hands curling into fists as a dark, unfamiliar fury rose in his chest, sharp and absolute.
Luna's breath caught as she cradled Lysander's arm, her touch impossibly gentle as she pressed soft kisses to the reddened skin. "Oh, my sweet boy," she murmured, voice thick with feeling. "It's a little bite. Just a tiny one. Mummy will kiss it better and it will be gone, I promise."
Lysander sniffled, still shaken, still unsure. His lashes clung together with tears as he looked at her, then his gaze shifted, hesitant, before he stretched his arm toward Theo.
Theo dropped to his knees beside them, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. He swallowed and forced his voice into steadiness. "Come here, little one," he said softly, taking Lysander's chubby arm in his hands.
He pressed exaggerated kisses along the tender skin, slow and careful, each one carrying more than comfort. "See," he murmured, voice thick, gentle. "All better. Dada kissed it away."
Lysander studied him with serious concentration, brows knitting as if weighing the promise. He sniffed once more, then let out a small hiccup that turned into a tiny laugh.
The sound broke something open in Theo. His shoulders sagged as relief flooded through him, and he wrapped his arms around both of them, pulling them close. His hand shook as it moved in slow circles against Lysander's back, grounding himself in the warmth of them, in the fact that his son was here, breathing, safe.
"I thought…" His voice faltered, the words catching painfully. He swallowed hard. "I thought I lost him."
Luna shifted, still holding Lysander, her gaze lifting to Theo with a softness that did not erase the fear, only acknowledged it.
"If something happened to him," Theo continued, barely louder than a breath, "nothing would matter again."
She did not answer right away. Instead, her fingers brushed along his jaw, easing the tightness there, reminding him without words that Lysander was alive, that this moment had passed.
"He's okay," she said quietly.
She rocked their son, pressing a kiss to his curls. "It's a small bite. A scrape. He will be fine." Her eyes flicked to Lysander, who had already begun to tug at her hair, interest fully returned. "Last week he fell off the swing and broke his arm. That scared me."
Theo went still. "He what?" His voice sharpened instantly, panic flaring. "He broke his arm. When?"
"It healed," she replied calmly. "There is nothing to worry about."
"When did it happen?" he demanded. "Where was I?"
Her eyes met his, something bitter flickering there. "You were off fighting, probably," she said, voice edged and tired. "Or doing whatever it is you never talk about."
"Luna," he began, his chest sinking.
Her words landed harder than any blow he had ever taken. He could only stand there as Luna turned away, their son held tight against her shoulder, her body a shield he was no longer allowed behind. The door closed with a soft, final sound that rang through the room far louder than a shout ever could.
He sank down where he was, hands tangling in his hair, her voice looping endlessly in his head.
He is safe with me. Only with me.
"Luna, wait," he tried, the plea barely forming, thin and useless in the air. She was already gone. The quiet click of the door sealed it, a full stop at the end of everything he had failed to say.
His chest drew tight, breath coming shallow as the fear caught up to him all at once. Lysander's scream.
The image of his small body shaking in the crib. The knowledge that for even a moment, something could have taken his son from him. And then the other truth, sharp and unbearable.
His baby had broken his arm.
Broken his arm.
And he had not even known.
He stared at the crib, its blankets still rumpled, the rattle lying where it had been dropped. The room felt small, unfamiliar, as if he no longer belonged inside it.
This house, this life, once anchored by Luna's quiet certainty and Lysander's laughter, was slipping through his hands.
I did not know, he thought, the guilt burning hot and constant. While I was out there. Fighting. Killing. Becoming everything she fears.
He pressed his palms hard against his eyes, but the shame refused to fade. How many nights had he left her alone, telling himself it was for them. How many times had he come back stained with blood, lying straight to the face of the woman who trusted him most. Now her words sat inside him, cold and precise, cutting deeper with every breath.
One day I will be tired of your lies, Theodore.
His stomach twisted. He did not need to guess which day that would be. He could feel it drawing closer.
"I am losing her," he whispered to the empty room, the admission breaking out of him at last. The space where she had stood moments ago felt impossibly far away. The distance between them was widening, grain by grain, and he could feel it slipping beyond his reach.
Theo lingered in the doorway, his fingers curled tight against the frame as he took in the scene before him. The playroom lay quiet under the thin wash of moonlight, shadows stretching gently across the scattered toys on the floor. Small wooden figures. A toppled stack of blocks. Evidence of a world still soft and untouched, a world he feared he had already stained just by existing inside it.
Luna sat by the window, the silver light tracing the line of her cheek and the fall of her hair, though her face was turned away from him. Lysander slept curled in her lap, his small body rising and falling in slow, even breaths. One of her hands moved through his golden curls in an absent, steady rhythm, soothing in a way that felt instinctive, almost reflexive. Theo could not tell whether the motion was meant for their son or for herself.
He stepped forward, hesitating halfway across the room, uncertain whether his presence was welcome or merely tolerated. The silence pressed against his ribs until he spoke just to break it.
"Where did you learn to heal like that?" His voice stayed low, careful. This was not curiosity for its own sake. The way she had worked through his injuries earlier, the certainty in her movements, the calm focus, it had unsettled him. Bone, flesh, pain. She had known exactly what to do.
For a moment, she did not answer. Her hand kept moving through Lysander's hair, slow and steady, as if she were deciding whether he deserved the truth at all. Then she breathed out.
"During the war," she said quietly. "I found peace in it." Her fingers stilled for a second before resuming their path. "Healing felt different. It was the only thing I could do that did not take something away."
Theo swallowed.
"Afterwards, I could not stop," she continued, still not looking at him. "I needed something that did not end in ashes. So I went to Egypt. I studied there. With people who understood magic before it was bent into weapons. Magic that listens. That repairs what is broken instead of pretending it never was."
Egypt.
The word settled between them. He had known she had changed after the war. Everyone had. He just had not realized how far she had gone without him noticing.
He rubbed his thumb against his palm, a dull ache spreading behind his sternum. "You know everything," he said, the admiration slipping out before he could soften it. "About medicine. About magic. About how to survive."
She finally turned her head.
When her eyes met his, the lack of heat was worse than anger ever could have been. No fire. No sharpness. Just a tired clarity that made his chest tighten.
"About medicine, yes," she said.
Her voice was even. Controlled. "About you, Theo… I am not sure anymore."
The words struck clean and deep.
She turned back toward the window, her arm curling more securely around Lysander, her body angling away from him without quite meaning to. It was a small movement. Protective. Final in a way that frightened him more than shouting ever could.
Theo stood there with nothing to offer. No explanation that would not sound hollow. No confession that would not tear something open he could not repair.
Because in that moment, he understood what she was really saying.
She was not waiting for answers.
She was deciding whether she still wanted to ask
~~~~~~
The room lay wrapped in soft shadow, moonlight slipping through the curtains and pooling across the floor. He moved the way he always did when he left her behind, careful and quiet, a practiced absence. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, a familiar ghost of a kiss, and murmured the words he never failed to say.
"I love you."
A lie. Or perhaps it had once been true. Perhaps some small part of it still was. Now it lived only as habit, a phrase polished smooth by repetition, meant to soothe and distract and dull the sharp edge of her questions. He did not notice the way her body went rigid beneath the sheets. He did not see her fingers curl tight under the covers. He never did.
The crack of Apparition split the air, sudden and final. Then he was gone.
She opened her eyes at once.
The ceiling stared back at her, unchanged. The house remained still, exactly as it had been every night before. Yet something inside her had shifted beyond repair. The exhaustion weighing on her was deeper than lost sleep. It was the pressure of every lie stacked carefully on top of the last, every excuse delivered with a soft voice, every promise hollowed out by repetition.
She had known for months.
She had known he was drifting further into a life he refused to let her see. He believed his secrets were hidden behind tired smiles and lingering touches, behind whispered apologies and things left unsaid. He believed that as long as he told her he loved her before vanishing into the dark, she would stay.
He was wrong.
The decision had taken root slowly, winding its way through her chest until there was no space left for hope. Tonight, it finally settled into certainty.
She sat up, movements calm and precise, her hands steady despite the storm inside her. There was no hesitation. No doubt.
"Pack my things," she said softly, and her voice carried more authority than shouting ever could. "And Lysander's. We are leaving."
The house-elves appeared at once, eyes wide with questions they did not ask. They worked quickly, silently, gathering what mattered and removing every trace of her presence from the rooms she had once filled.
She moved more slowly.
Her fingers brushed the edge of Lysander's crib, her chest tightening as she tucked his favorite stuffed moon into her bag. She walked through the home they had built together, each room echoing with what had once been love and now felt like memory turned hollow.
She had given him everything. Trust. Patience. Her whole heart. She had waited longer than she should have, hoping he would choose honesty over silence.
No longer.
When the last of their things were gone, she placed a single note on his pillow, written in her neat, deliberate hand.
Leave us alone.
She didn't even look back again.
And then she was gone.
~~~~~~
The moment she stepped inside her childhood home, the air pressed in around her, colder than memory had promised. Without her father's presence, the cottage no longer felt like refuge. It felt like an echo. She held Lysander close to her chest, his small weight steady and real, anchoring her as she moved through rooms she knew by heart. Every corner carried a memory. Every shadow whispered of a time when this place had felt safe.
Her father's laughter lingered in the quiet. Her mother's voice seemed woven into the walls. Those sounds lived on in absence now, traces of a life that had once been whole. She stood alone with her child, the truth of it settling deep in her bones.
In the living room, her fingers brushed the worn edge of the old bookshelf. She remembered her father sitting there with her, reading from The Tales of Beedle the Bard, his voice calm and sure, magic carried in every word. For a brief moment she could almost hear him again, feel the warmth of being held and protected. When she blinked, the room stayed empty, and the ache in her chest answered back.
She knew she could not remain here forever. The cottage was too small, too isolated, too tangled in the past. It had been built for dreams and family, for a future that had already slipped away. She needed more than memories and ghosts to survive.
For now, though, it was shelter.
She needed time to breathe and to think, to understand what came next. What she knew with clarity was that she could not continue living as she had. A life shaped by silence and deception had hollowed her out, and she would not raise her son inside it.
For months she had tried to convince herself she was wrong. She told herself the blood on his clothes had explanations, that exhaustion and fear were twisting her thoughts. She clung to any version of reality that spared her the truth. It never held. She saw too much. She felt too much.
She knew exactly what Theo was.
The words formed in her mind with brutal precision, each one turning her stomach.
Assassin. Killer. Monster.
It did not matter how carefully he wrapped those truths in tailored suits and gentle hands, how softly he spoke love into the dark like a prayer meant to absolve him. The reality seeped through regardless. She felt it in the chill of his skin when he thought she slept. She saw it in his eyes when he came home before dawn, carrying something he refused to name.
What shattered her was not the violence alone. It was the refusal to speak. The way he chose silence again and again, expecting her to live without answers while he disappeared into shadow. He treated her trust like something endless, something he could erode without consequence.
She wondered what it would take for him to finally tell the truth.
She imagined screaming, shaking him until the lies fell apart, until confession spilled free. Even in that fantasy, she knew the ending. He had made his choice long ago, and it did not include honesty.
So she made hers.
She breathed out slowly and pressed a gentle kiss to Lysander's head as he sighed in his sleep. He was everything now. Her son. Her responsibility. Her future.
The cottage settled around them, wind murmuring at the windows, night stretching wide and uncertain ahead. She did not know where she would go next, but she knew where she would not return. A life built on secrets was no longer an option.
For this night, the quiet, the stillness, and the steady rise and fall of her child's breath against her chest were enough to keep her standing.