Summary:
TW: Detailed desciption of a skull surgery
Chapter Text
Theo's desperation consumed him piece by piece. A full week had passed, and every attempt to reach her met the same brutal silence. He floo-called until his voice went hoarse, sent letter after letter with words that shook on the page, only to have them returned unopened.
He even apparated to the cottage, ignoring the sting of the wards as they forced him back, leaving him standing outside in the cold like a man already shut out of his own life, waiting for a door that would never open.
He was coming apart. Each day without her felt like suffocation drawn out slowly and without mercy. He barely ate.
Sleep abandoned him. The house felt hollow, stripped of its warmth, as though its heart had left with her. The bed was unbearably large. The silence pressed in from every wall.
He found himself listening for her laugh, reaching for the familiar scent she used to leave behind, and each time he was met with the sharp truth that she was gone.
He begged. He pleaded. Every message carried the same raw ache. Come home. I cannot do this without you. I need you. I love you. Please, Luna.
She never answered.
The absence cut deeper each day, a slow twist of pain that settled under his ribs. He knew why she left. He understood the damage he had done, the fear and betrayal he had planted with his silence. Understanding did nothing to ease the loss. It only made it heavier.
One night, exhaustion finally pinned him in place. He sat alone in the dark living room, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands. The fire had died hours ago, leaving the space cold and empty, mirroring the way he felt inside.
His voice broke as he spoke into the quiet. "Luna, please."
The words carried everything he could no longer hold back. Love. Regret. Fear. Hope worn thin to its last thread.
"I love you," he whispered, his throat burning with all the truths he had avoided for too long. "With everything I have. With everything I am. Please come back."
The room gave him nothing in return.
Only silence.
And that silence, the space where her presence used to be, terrified him more than anything he had ever faced.
~~~~~~
She appeared one morning like something pulled from a restless dream, standing in the doorway with the early light brushing her in soft gold. For a breathless second, Theo thought his mind had finally fractured, that grief had learned how to mimic her shape. Then she shifted her weight, solid and real, and his chest seized.
He moved instantly.
He crossed the room in a rush that stole the air from his lungs. "Luna." Her name left him like a prayer, thin and shaking.
His hands found hers, trembling with the terror of losing her again. He did not pause or steady himself. The fear was too close to the surface, the ache of her absence still burning. "Please," he rasped, words breaking apart as they came. "Please stay. Do not go. I cannot…"
His voice failed him. His heart slammed so hard it hurt. He clung to her hands, fingers tight as if she might vanish if he loosened his grip. "I am nothing without you," he said, the confession torn from somewhere raw and hollow. "You are the air I breathe. You pull me out of the dark. Power means nothing. Gold means nothing. None of it matters without you."
Then his knees gave way.
He sank down in front of her, pride and dignity long gone, crushed beneath the weight of love and fear and remorse. Tears slipped free as he bowed his head. "Please, Luna," he whispered. "I will not survive losing you. I will never forgive myself."
He pressed her hands to his chest, over his racing heart, as if she needed proof of how completely she still owned him. "I will change," he said, voice hoarse. "I will leave everything behind. I will walk away from that life. Just stay. You and Lysander are all I need. I have never loved anyone the way I love you."
He looked up at her then, stripped of every mask. There was nothing left to hide behind. "Please," he breathed. "Without you, I am nothing."
Luna did not answer right away. She stood there in silence, her expression heavy with something he could not name. It was not anger. It was not relief. Her breathing stayed slow and even, and the moment stretched until his chest ached from holding it.
Then she exhaled.
"Okay."
The word was quiet. Detached.
Theo stared up at her, stunned. "Okay?" he echoed, afraid to trust what he had heard.
She nodded once and turned toward the house, her movements calm and deliberate. "Okay," she said again.
Perhaps this was her Stockholm syndrome—the cruel trick of love binding her to a man who broke her, only to beg her to stay.
Perhaps she said okay not because she believed him, but because she no longer knew how to leave.
~~~~~~
He smiled softly and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. "My love, I am heading to the office. I have a meeting with Draco," he said. His voice was calm, and there was a sincerity in it that felt new, as if he was choosing his words with care.
She looked up at him and smiled back, warm and unguarded. "Okay," she said, the word slipping out easily, a small comfort they both seemed to understand. It felt lighter now, as if something heavy had finally been set down. He was being honest. That mattered.
His hand lingered against her cheek. "What is the plan for today?" he asked, affection threading through every syllable.
"We are staying inside and playing with the elves," she replied, her tone playful. Her eyes sparkled, and the peace in her expression felt real.
"That sounds perfect," he chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. "I will call you when I am finished."
She nodded and watched him leave, a quiet sense of calm settling in her chest.
The day unfolded like a gentle pause in the world. Laughter filled the rooms, light and unforced, and for a while the cracks in her heart felt smaller. She and Lysander spent the morning playing games with the elves. Kreely, the eldest among them, produced one strange game after another from his long years of service to ancient families. Some were so absurd they had Lysander laughing until he hiccupped.
Soon the living room was a mess of toys, magic, and delighted noise. At one point, Kreely conjured an enchanted bubble wand, sending shimmering spheres drifting through the air. Lysander chased them, popping each one with squeals of delight. Luna found herself laughing too, spinning slowly among the bubbles while the rest of the world faded into something distant and unimportant.
The day grew even brighter when a flash of brilliant color caught her eye outside. Fawkes had landed in the garden, his feathers glowing softly in the sunlight.
Lysander gasped. "Fawkey!" he squealed, running toward the window.
"Yes, my love," she said with a smile, lifting him into her arms. "Shall we go see him?"
Outside, Fawkes bowed his head, his keen eyes gentle and familiar. Luna settled Lysander carefully against the warm curve of his back and climbed up behind him. With a powerful sweep of wings, they lifted into the air.
They soared above the trees, the wind rushing past them as Lysander's laughter rang out, pure and unrestrained. From above, the world looked small and quiet. In that moment, the weight she carried loosened its grip. Peace settled over her, simple and steady, like a memory of who she had been before everything became so complicated.
After their time in the sky, the pull of home felt irresistible. The moment they stepped inside, the cottage seemed to close around them in a quiet, familiar way, warm and reassuring. The excitement of the day had softened into a gentle fatigue, and Luna noticed the heaviness in Lysander's blinking eyes as he yawned and rubbed at them with his small fists.
She lifted him without a word and carried him to the bedroom, his head settling easily against her shoulder. She laid him down on the bed, smoothing the curls that spilled across the pillow. He curled onto his side at once, clutching his stuffed Thestral as if it had always been waiting for him there.
Luna followed him onto the mattress, her own body finally giving in to the tiredness she had been holding at bay. The room was quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of the garden outside and the steady rhythm of Lysander's breathing. She drew the blankets up around them, tucking him close, and let her eyes fall shut.
Sleep came quickly, soft and deep, wrapping mother and son together in a calm that felt earned. For a while, nothing pressed in on them. There were no worries, no questions waiting to be answered. There was only warmth, shared breath, and the stillness that settles in after a day shaped by laughter and love.
~~~~~~
Her heart kicked hard against her ribs as his voice burst from the fireplace, jagged with panic, stripped of every trace of control. The flames flared and twisted around his face, and for a split second she saw him as he truly was in that moment. Terrified. Exposed. His hands shook in the firelight.
"Luna!" he shouted, his voice splintering. "Get the safehouse ready. Now. Please. My Moon, I love you endlessly."
She did not flinch. She never did. She stayed where she was, spine straight, breath steady, the calm center he always reached for when everything else collapsed.
"I'm on it, my Sun," she said evenly. "The safehouse will be ready. I love you beyond measure."
The flames died, leaving silence behind. Silence and urgency.
Yes. Definitely Stockholm syndrome.
She moved at once.
There was no wasted motion, no pause to sit with the fear tightening in her chest. Her hands knew what to do before her thoughts could catch up. Potions were gathered first.
Blood replenishing draughts. Calming elixirs. Pain suppressants. Bandages that sealed skin and bone. She packed them with practiced care, fingers precise, mind sharp.
Protective charms followed. Emergency portkeys slipped into her pocket. Wards were reinforced with a flick of her wand, layers stacking over doors and windows until the air itself hummed with magic. Each spell snapped into place with a quiet finality.
Her thoughts tried to crowd in. Who was coming. What he had done. Who he was bringing with him this time.
She shut it all down.
There was no space for questions. Only preparation.
She moved through the house like a shadow, weaving enchantments into the walls, checking sigils etched long ago for nights exactly like this. She had built these protections over years, refining them after every close call, every blood soaked return. The house responded to her magic as if it recognized the necessity.
The safe room came last.
She sealed it with care that bordered on reverence. Defensive spells layered so tightly they pressed against each other. Barriers tuned to repel force, magic, intent. Shelves stocked with food and water. Blankets folded. Space cleared for bodies that might arrive broken.
She stepped back and surveyed it all.
One breath. Slow. Controlled.
Everything was ready.
As she lowered her wand, her chest tightened with the truth she never allowed herself to speak aloud. With every spell cast, every door sealed, every contingency prepared, she repeated the same quiet mantra in her mind.
And then it happened. The calm of the safehouse shattered as two figures materialized with a deafening crack, the air displaced with an almost violent force. The stench of blood hit her first—thick, metallic, suffocating. Hermione was cradled in Draco's arms, her body limp, her face and head smeared with deep crimson, stark against her pale skin. The sheer amount of blood made Luna's breath catch—too much, too fast.
Her heart stuttered, a cold dread seizing her. "What happened?!" she demanded, her voice sharp, laced with fear she had no time to entertain.
Draco, his face a ghostly shade of white, laid Hermione down on the surgical table with the gentleness of a man terrified to break what was already shattered. "Luna," he gasped, barely able to get the words out. "Her skull—it's shattered. You need to save her. Please. You have to."
She barely heard him. Her mind had already snapped into focus, cataloging the damage, assessing the situation. The way Hermione's head lolled slightly to the side, the sluggish pulse of magic barely clinging to her body—this was beyond critical.
Luna's hands moved on instinct, vanishing Hermione's clothes, exposing the extent of the trauma, levitating her into a proper position on the surgical table. The crushing weight of what needed to be done pressed onto her shoulders, but hesitation was not an option.
"Draco, get out!" Her voice was sharp, unwavering, because she could feel his energy—erratic, frantic, wild with grief. He was too close, too raw, and she needed absolute control.
Draco's entire body stiffened, his face contorting with something desperate, something unhinged. "Luna, please," he choked out, his voice breaking, his hands shaking as he reached for Hermione as if he could tether her to life by sheer will alone. "I need—"
"NOW, DRACO!" The command cracked through the room, leaving no space for argument. There was no mercy in her voice. No softness. Just a demand—a necessity. Her hands were already moving, casting diagnostic charms in rapid succession, mapping the fractures, calculating the damage before she had even finished exhaling.
Draco didn't move, his feet rooted to the ground, his body trembling as if the air around him had turned razor-sharp. His lips parted, but no words came. A man who never begged was now nothing but a collection of whispered prayers and helpless pleas. "Luna, please save her. Please, just—just save her. I swear, I can't—Merlin, I can't—"
Luna forced herself to block him out, to shove down the knot in her throat. She couldn't afford distraction, not even for the agony in his voice. Her hands were steady, her wand gliding over Hermione's skull, her magic pouring into the fractures like liquid light. Time stretched, slowed, contracted. Every moment mattered. Every second stolen from death was another chance.
The room pulsed with magic, heavy with desperation, filled with the sound of Luna's murmured incantations and the soft, shallow breaths Hermione barely managed to take. The silence between the spells was suffocating, punctuated only by the occasional scrape of metal against wood as she reached for instruments, the hum of magic working against the odds, and Draco's quiet, shattered whispers from across the room.
Luna didn't look up. Didn't pause. She had to save Hermione.
Because failure was not an option.
Every action she took was a step toward preserving a fragile thread of hope amidst the chaos. As she worked tirelessly, her mind was consumed with the sole thought of pulling Hermione back from the brink, knowing that every second counted in this desperate fight for life.
The emergency room had transformed into a high-stakes operating theater, its sterile, clinical atmosphere a stark contrast to the emotional turmoil that gripped Luna. The lights above the surgical table cast a harsh, unforgiving glare on Hermione's pale, unconscious form, her skull fractured and battered from a brutal attack.
Her hands were steady but her heart raced with an intensity that matched the severity of the situation. The room was filled with a tense silence, punctuated only by the hum of medical equipment and the quiet, desperate pleas of Draco, who hovered just outside the door, unable to bear the sight of Hermione's condition.
Luna donned her surgical gloves and adjusted her mask, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Alright, let's get started," she said, her voice calm and authoritative.
She levitated Hermione's head into the correct position, her hands steady even as her heart pounded. The damage was extensive, brutal—fractures spiderwebbed across Hermione's skull, deep and severe. Internal bleeding pooled dangerously beneath the bone, and the swelling threatened irreversible damage. Every second was crucial.
With a sharp flick of her wand, Luna cast the diagnostic charm. Light bloomed in the air above Hermione's head, forming a slow, rotating projection of fractures, swelling, and internal bleeding. Luna's eyes tracked every detail. The picture was brutal. Too much damage. Too little time.
"Prepare for incision," she murmured, keeping her voice level through sheer force of will.
A sterile field shimmered into place around Hermione's head, sealing the space in a faintly glowing cocoon. The magic pulsed softly, clean and precise, isolating the area from the rest of the world. It cast an eerie light across Hermione's face. Her lips were parted, her breathing shallow but steady, her body utterly dependent on the spells holding her together.
Luna swallowed, pushing down the cold knot tightening in her stomach. This was not routine healing. This was invasive, delicate, unforgiving work. One error would cost everything.
Her hands hovered above Hermione's scalp, fingers tingling with focused magic. Control mattered as much as strength here. She had trained for this. She had studied for years. And even so, very few healers ever attempted a procedure like this alone.
"Focus," she whispered.
The sterile field hummed in response, amplifying her spellwork as she aligned her magic with the damage beneath the skin. The weight of the moment pressed in on her chest.
She made the first incision.
Magic sliced with flawless precision, opening the scalp cleanly. Luna worked slowly, lifting and folding the tissue back with practiced care until the shattered bone beneath was fully exposed. Fine cracks spread across Hermione's skull like broken porcelain. Luna felt resolve lock into place. This was happening. She would see it through.
Her gaze flicked to the tray beside her. Silver instruments gleamed beside enchanted crystals, potion vials, and her wand. Every tool had its purpose. Every step was already mapped in her mind.
She reached for a small vial and tipped a few drops onto the fractured bone. The potion soaked in instantly, hardening the surface just enough to give her time. The cracks dulled but did not disappear. Temporary support only.
"Fractura Reparo," Luna murmured.
Golden threads of magic spun from her wand, tracing the fractures and beginning the slow work of fusing bone to bone. She regulated the flow with careful restraint. Too much power would warp the structure. Too little would leave it unstable.
The jagged edges began to knit together, but Luna could see the limits of the spell. Deeper breaks remained. Structural reinforcement was necessary.
She picked up the enchanted drill. It hummed softly as she guided it to the first fracture point. Her hands did not shake. Each hole was placed with absolute precision, aligned exactly where it needed to be. Sweat gathered at her hairline, but she did not pause.
When the last hole was finished, she reached for the stabilizing rods. Long, slender, infused with restorative magic. One by one, she inserted them into place, adjusting their position until the bone settled correctly around them. They glowed faintly as they activated, reinforcing the skull from within.
"Good," she whispered, though the hardest part still lay ahead.
Beneath the repaired bone, the real danger waited.
Hermione's brain had suffered significant trauma. Healing it required restraint, finesse, and patience. Luna closed her eyes for a single breath, centering herself, then raised her wand once more. Her voice dropped, steady and controlled, as she began the deeper incantations.
Magic flowed inward, gentle and deliberate, working layer by layer through damaged tissue. Luna remained perfectly still, listening to the subtle feedback of the spell, adjusting with instinct and training rather than force.
Every second mattered. Every breath Hermione took was a fragile victory.
"Tessera Corpus," she intoned, her voice steady as she wove the spell meant to coax the brain into healing itself. A soft, luminous glow unfurled from her wand and seeped gently into Hermione's skull, spreading through damaged tissue with careful intent.
Luna felt the magic respond to her control, subtle and alive, guiding reconstruction rather than forcing it. This was the most delicate balance of all. Too much pressure would overwhelm fragile pathways. Too little would leave wounds unfinished.
She slowed her breathing and let instinct take over. Her wand traced precise, looping patterns, each movement deliberate, each adjustment measured. The light pulsed in a slow rhythm, matching the cadence of Hermione's heart.
Time stretched in strange ways. Minutes slipped by, heavy and charged, while the room hummed with restrained power and absolute focus.
At last, the resistance eased beneath her magic. The deeper trauma settled. The swelling receded. The fractures held firm beneath their stabilizers. Luna released a careful breath, relief threading through her chest, though she did not let her guard fall yet.
She turned her attention to the final task. With gentle hands, she guided the scalp back into place, smoothing the skin over newly mended bone.
A sealing charm followed, clean and exact. The incision vanished beneath her wand, the skin knitting together until there was no sign it had ever been opened.
Luna stepped back and studied Hermione's face. Her breathing remained even. Her features were calm. No tremor, no sign of distress. The magic had held.
Only then did the strain catch up with her. She lifted a hand to her forehead, brushing away damp strands of hair, and let herself sink into the nearby chair. Her hands shook now, the adrenaline fading, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
Hermione was alive. She was stable.
For the first time since they arrived, Luna allowed herself to rest, knowing she had pulled her back from the edge.
~~~~~~
The door creaked open and her pulse spiked, tension snapping through her exhausted body. She did not look up. Every ounce of her focus stayed locked on the fragile spellwork holding Hermione together. "Draco, get out," she snapped, urgency and fatigue sharpening every syllable.
"It's just me, my love."
Her head turned sharply. Breath caught in her throat as she took in Theo standing in the doorway, clothes stained dark with blood, face drawn and hollow with exhaustion. The sight of him sent another surge of strain crashing through her. "You are not sterile," she hissed, voice rough with panic. "You cannot be in here. Please, Theo, get out."
He hesitated, eyes searching her face, carrying too much in them. Concern. Regret. That relentless need to stay close. "I love you, my moon," he said softly, stepping forward despite her words.
Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms as the night pressed down on her shoulders, threatening to fracture what little composure she had left. His voice cracked something open in her chest. The tenderness of it hurt. "I love you too," she whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of it all.
There was no space for this. Not here. Not now.
She turned back to Hermione, forcing her hands steady, dragging her focus back where it belonged. The magic responded, tightening, holding. Her body stayed controlled, precise, unwavering.
Inside, everything ached with what remained unsaid.
~~~~~~
Six grueling hours later, she finally stepped out of the surgery room. Her body screamed with exhaustion, her scrubs stained in ways she refused to think about. The space beyond the door felt thick with waiting, the air so heavy it pressed against her lungs.
Every head turned the instant she appeared. Theo. Draco. Blaise. And Ginny, unexpectedly pale and rigid near the wall, her hands clasped together as if in prayer.
"She's alive," Luna said softly. The words barely carried, yet they were enough.
Relief crashed through the room in a single, shuddering wave.
Draco stopped pacing so abruptly it looked like he had forgotten how to move. He stared at her, frozen, as if the words needed time to become real. Then he crossed the room in two long strides and pulled her into his arms with a force born of pure desperation. His body shook against hers, breath breaking as tears slid freely down his face.
"Thank you," he choked, holding her like she had just returned his entire world to him. "Luna, thank you for saving my wife." His voice failed him. He swallowed hard, grip tightening. "I will never be able to repay you."
She let him hold her. She did not have the strength to do anything else. The weight of the night settled into her bones, heavy and final.
Nearby, Blaise released a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for days. He turned instinctively toward Ginny. She stepped into him without a word, pressing her face to his chest as her shoulders trembled. He wrapped himself around her, grounding her there, his lips brushing the crown of her head in a quiet gesture of relief he did not speak aloud.
Theo stayed where he was, watching her. He did not move closer. He did not interrupt the moment. Their eyes met across the room, and that was enough. She felt his pride, his love, his aching need to gather her into his arms and shield her from everything she had just endured.
There was still work to do.
"She's stable," Luna said, lifting her head, her voice steadier now as the healer in her took control again. "The next twenty four hours matter most. She needs complete rest. No disturbances." Her gaze returned to Draco. "She is going to need you."
His hands curled into fists at his sides, grounding himself. "I will not leave her," he said quietly.
She barely managed a nod before exhaustion claimed her, her weight folding into Theo's chest. His arms came around her at once, steady and sure, holding her upright as if instinct alone knew what she needed. He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head, lingering there, as though the simple contact might ease what she had carried through the night.
"Come, my love," he murmured, relief and fatigue braided through his voice. "Let me take care of you now."
He guided her down the corridor toward their bedroom, his hands never leaving her, afraid that if he loosened his grip she might simply slip away. The night clung to her bones, heavy and unyielding. She had saved Hermione, yes, but the aftermath still loomed. Healing was never a single moment. Still, wrapped in Theo's presence, in the quiet certainty of his care, she felt a thin thread of comfort hold.
Inside the room, he moved with gentle efficiency. He helped her out of her scrubs, unfastening buttons and easing the fabric from her shoulders with reverence. His touch stayed careful, almost devotional, his eyes fixed on her face as though watching for any sign she might fade. Steam curled from the bath he had prepared, lavender and chamomile softening the air, surrounding them with something close to peace.
"My moon," he said quietly as she sank into the warm water, kneeling beside the tub. His voice carried awe and something deeper, something raw. "What you did tonight… there are no words for it. You are extraordinary." His fingers brushed damp strands of hair from her cheek, his gaze searching hers. "Your magic, your mind, your hands. You saved her. You always save us."
She managed a faint smile before her head tipped back. "I'm going to fall asleep," she whispered, the words already blurring.
And she did. The moment the water closed around her, her body gave in. Her muscles softened, her breathing deepened, her head resting against the edge of the tub as sleep took her completely.
Theo let out a slow breath as he watched her, admiration and worry tightening together in his chest. He had seen her powerful before. Tonight had shown him something else entirely. And it had taken everything from her.
With painstaking care, he dipped a cloth into the water and began to clean her, his movements slow and deliberate. He wiped away dried blood and lingering traces of magic, starting with her hands. He traced each finger gently, the same fingers that had held life together only hours ago. His knuckles brushed her cheek, wonder flickering through him at how something so soft could carry such force.
When she was clean, he dried her carefully, then lifted her with quiet magic, cradling her against his chest. He carried her to the bed and laid her down as though placing something sacred where it belonged. He tucked the blankets around her, adjusting them until she was warm, sheltered, safe.
He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, lingering there. The faint echo of her magic still hummed beneath her skin. His lips followed to her forehead, the kiss slow and full of devotion.
"I love you," he whispered.
She slept on, peaceful at last, and he stayed beside her, watching over her in silence, keeping vigil the way she always had for them.
~~~~~~
Theo placed a steady hand on Draco's shoulder, firm enough to anchor him, calm enough to keep him from splintering. His voice stayed low and controlled, shaped to cut through the panic clawing at Draco's chest. "She's alive. That's what matters right now. You did what you had to do. Stay with that. Stay with her."
Draco dragged his hands over his face, fingers digging in as his breath hitched and broke. Tears slipped through despite his effort to contain them, his shoulders shaking as the weight finally crashed down. "It's my fault," he said hoarsely. "I never should have taken her to that meeting with Karkaroff. I knew it was a setup the second he and his wife started pointing fingers, accusing us of selling bad product. Us, Theo. Of all people." His voice fractured under the strain. "I should have seen it coming."
Theo lowered himself beside him, his expression hardening, his tone cutting clean and cold. "She's dead, Draco. And Karkaroff will be found. He will not disappear from this." The promise in his voice carried real intent, sharp and lethal. Then he eased back just enough to reach Draco where he was breaking. "Right now, Hermione is alive. That is the only thing that matters. She needs you present, not drowning in what you cannot undo."
Draco drew in a shaky breath and nodded, his hands dropping to his sides. "Ginny's already set up the bedroom," he murmured. "She's been strong. Stronger than I deserve."
Theo rose and held out his hand, hauling Draco to his feet with a solid pull. "Then let's get Hermione settled. She needs warmth. She needs comfort. She needs you there when she wakes."
They moved together without another word, the fury and vengeance pushed aside for later. For now, love took precedence.
Hermione lay still in the bed, her face calm in a way that felt almost unreal, her breathing slow and even. Ginny sat beside her, fingers curled gently around Hermione's hand, murmuring soft reassurances as if her voice alone might guide her back.
The room held its breath.
After a long stretch of silence, Ginny spoke, her words barely louder than a whisper. "Ferret, what have you done?"
Draco stopped at the foot of the bed, exhaling sharply as his jaw tightened. He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaustion weighing on him like lead. "Ginevra," he said quietly, "please. Not now. Go get some sleep."
He did not look away from Hermione.
His gaze stayed fixed on her face, raw and pleading, as if sheer will might pull her back to him. He waited for her eyes to open, for some sign that she was still with him, for anything that might lift the guilt crushing his chest.
The room remained silent.
~~~~~~
Pansy cradled Lysander against her chest, letting the gentle rhythm of his breathing soothe the jagged edges of her heart. His tiny body pressed against her as if he sensed her distress and wished, in his small and trusting way, to anchor her. His warmth seeped through her clothes, soft and steady, a fragile reminder that not every corner of the world had turned cruel.
Curled up protectively on the baby's chest, Crooks purred in slow, even waves. The low hum vibrated through her arms and ribs, creating a quiet cocoon of comfort around them both.
He rarely offered such closeness unless something was very wrong. Tonight, he lay over Lysander like a guardian, his golden eyes opening every so often to check that she was still there.
Lady nestled against her hip, pressing her small body with such earnest determination that tears stung behind Pansy's eyes. The little pug did not understand the complexity of grief or fear, but she understood when her family hurt. She understood that Pansy needed her.
With these two at her side and Lysander warm in her arms, the exhaustion finally broke through the adrenaline that had carried her this far. Her body sagged, her mind drifted, and the weight of everything that had happened pressed down until she could no longer resist sleep. She sank into the dark, grateful for the few moments of forgetfulness it offered.
She did not know how long she slept. Only that a soft murmur tugged her back to consciousness, gentle and quiet, like someone calling her name through a heavy fog.
Her eyes fluttered open.
The room was dim, lit only by the low flicker of the sconces along the wall. Shadows stretched long across the floor, bending and shifting with each movement of the fire.
Lysander remained asleep against her, his small fist tucked beneath his chin. Crooks rested protectively over him, his eyes half-open and alert. Lady had moved, pressing her head to Pansy's thigh as if sensing that she was needed again.
The murmured voices came into sharper focus, soft but intense, like people trying not to wake a child while discussing the end of the world.
She sat up slowly, her mind still foggy, and blinked toward the figures before her.
Theo stood only a few feet away, holding Lysander in his arms now. His posture was tense, every muscle pulled tight as if he were barely holding himself together.
The sight struck something deep in her chest. Theo was many things. Controlled. Calculated. Relentless. Tonight, he looked like a man fraying at the seams. His hair was disheveled, his breaths uneven, his shoulders bowing beneath a weight she could not even begin to imagine.
Neville stood opposite him, arms crossed but not in judgment. This was how he stood when bracing for bad news, when he needed to be steady for someone else. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed him. They were sharp with worry, sharp with grief, sharp with the knowledge that whatever Theo was about to say would carve its mark on all of them.
Theo's voice trembled when he finally spoke.
"She is alive. My Luna saved her."
The words hit Pansy like a blow to the chest. Relief and anguish collided so violently that her breath caught somewhere between a sob and a prayer.
Her eyes welled with tears that she had no strength to stop.
"Thank Merlin," she whispered, pressing a hand to her mouth. The words trembled, torn between gratitude and heartbreak. Hermione lived. She was still in this world. But something inside her warned that survival was not the same as safety, not the same as being whole.
Theo shifted slightly, and the dim light revealed what she had not noticed before.
His shirt was soaked. Dark. Thick. Full of blood.
Her own pulse stuttered. For a moment, she could not speak, could not breathe, could not do anything except stare at the terrible stain that clung to him like a shadow.
Theo's expression hardened as he followed her gaze.
"Jelena is dead," he said simply, his voice stripped of emotion. "She cannot hurt Hermione anymore."
Something ugly and sharp twisted inside Pansy. A dark satisfaction flared in her chest, brief and bitter, because she had wanted that woman dead too. But the satisfaction died just as quickly, drowning beneath the ache that had taken root in her since the moment Hermione disappeared.
"I hope she rots," Pansy murmured, her voice low and shaking with fury. "After everything she did, I hope she rots."
"She will," Theo replied, but his voice had lost its edge. His shoulders dropped slightly, and for the first time since he arrived, he looked tired. Truly tired. As if he were holding himself upright by force.
Then his next words tore another piece from her chest.
"Hermione is in a medical coma. Luna had to do skull surgery."
The world seemed to tilt.
The air around her thinned. Her lungs tightened. The room spun in slow, heavy circles.
Skull surgery.
Medical coma.
She let out a small, broken sound, something between a gasp and a cry, and pressed her hand to her forehead as her vision blurred. She had braced herself for pain, prepared herself for injury, but not this. Not a thought so stark, so cold, so close to loss.
She turned slightly toward Neville, needing something real to hold on to. His jaw was clenched, his throat working around words he could not force out. His fists were tight at his sides, and for a moment she thought he might break, right there in the quiet of their home.
But he held steady. For her. For Theo. For Hermione.
Theo continued after a moment, and his voice softened, gentler than she expected.
"Pansy. I need to be honest with you. You cannot visit her in your state."
The words struck her like a slap. Not because they were cruel, but because they were true.
She wanted to fight him. She wanted to scream that she needed to see Hermione with her own eyes, that she needed to be there as proof that her friend still existed in this world.
But she knew what she would do if she walked into that hospital room right now. She would collapse. She would break.
And Hermione would not be saved by her breaking.
A tight sob escaped her throat as she nodded.
"I understand," she whispered, even though the words burned all the way down.
Theo took a small breath and shifted Lysander in his arms, brushing a hand over the child's soft curls. The gesture was gentle, tender, almost reverent. When he spoke again, his voice cracked at the edges.
"I need the two of you to take care of him for now."
Neville stepped forward before she could respond, his voice steady, his expression unwavering.
"It is an honor," he said simply. No hesitation. No doubt. Only the full weight of his loyalty laid bare.
Theo closed his eyes briefly, gratitude flickering across his face in a way that made Pansy's chest tighten even more. He trusted them with his child. He trusted them with the most precious thing in his life while he stood on the edge of losing his wife.
Her gaze dropped to Lysander's peaceful face, his little fingers curled against Theo's shirt, unaware of the blood and grief staining the world around him. He deserved safety. He deserved love. And she would give him that. She and Neville both would.
"We will take care of him," she said, her voice steadier now, rising from some deeper place inside her. "We will do everything he needs."
Theo nodded, and for a brief moment, the fierce, unbreakable Nott façade cracked. He looked like a man who had spent every drop of strength he possessed and was running on something else now.
He turned to go, but she reached out.
"Theo," she said quietly. "Please keep us updated. On everything. We will be here for her. And for you. We are family."
His throat bobbed as he nodded. "I will, Pans."
He glanced at Neville, then at Lysander one last time, pressing a kiss to the top of the child's head before placing him carefully in Neville's arms.
Then he left, the sound of the door closing behind him far too soft for the weight it carried.
Silence filled the room once more.
Pansy looked down at Lysander, safe and warm in Neville's hold, and her chest tightened with a fierce and aching determination.
This was why they fought. This was why they survived the worst parts of the world.
She met Neville's gaze, and he nodded, understanding her without needing a single word.
They would protect him.