Tenebris Part 1

The event of the century had finally arrived—or so Pansy proclaimed to anyone with the misfortune of possessing ears. After what felt like an eternity of anticipation, grand pronouncements, and an exhausting amount of meticulous planning, she had at last given birth to her daughter—a breathtakingly perfect, impossibly tiny bundle of joy. And, in true Pansy Parkinson fashion, the occasion wasn't merely celebrated; it was immortalized, orchestrated with the opulence of a royal coronation. Nothing less would suffice for the arrival of Seraphina Vesper Longbottom, a name so carefully curated that Pansy insisted it would one day be whispered in awe through the hallowed halls of wizarding history.

The official announcement was anything but understated. Sent via enchanted, pearlescent parchment that drifted into homes across the wizarding world like a celestial proclamation, the delicate script shimmered with a soft silver glow as it declared:

"Seraphina Vesper Longbottom has graced this world with her celestial presence. Mother and daughter are thriving, and Father is still catching his breath."

There was no escaping the news—not that anyone would dare to ignore it. The declaration was, as expected, equal parts poetic and theatrical, and by sundown, Pansy had received no fewer than fifty congratulatory howlers, two enchanted bouquets that attempted (and failed) to serenade her, and a charmed silver baby rattle from Narcissa Malfoy—one that, according to whispered accounts, had once belonged to a Russian duchess.

~~~~~~

The Raven Order had been dispatched again under the cover of dusk, summoned like wraiths from the edges of civilization to perform the kind of work that left no legacy except silence and the stench of blood drying in cold air. The assignment had come through in the usual way—a coded message delivered by flame, flickering on parchment that turned to ash before it could be read twice—and though the mission was stripped of all sentiment, all unnecessary detail, it carried a weight that tightened around Draco's ribs the moment he saw the names attached. He didn't flinch, didn't speak, didn't even blink when the orders were divided and the four of them split off in pairs, Theo and Blaise assigned to the surveillance perimeter while he and Titus moved toward the old industrial district on the outskirts of the city, toward the place where steel met rot and the ghosts of his past were waiting in the dark. 

To the others, it was just another clearing operation—track, identify, eliminate—but to Draco, this was a pilgrimage. A reckoning. A return.

They approached the warehouse just before nightfall, shadows stretching long across the concrete, the skeletal remains of the building rising like a tomb against the bruised horizon. The place was massive—rusted, ancient, half-forgotten—but Draco knew it instantly. Not from blueprints or intelligence briefings, but from the way his skin recoiled the moment he crossed its threshold. The air here was different. Stale. Heavy. Saturated with something too old to name. 

This was where they had brought him. Years ago. Chained and bleeding, his name stripped from his mouth, his identity torn from his body. It was this building, with its rotted rafters and broken skylights, where he had learned what it meant to be unmade.

And now he had come back.

He didn't speak as they entered. Titus moved beside him, scanning corners and marking threats, his presence solid and reliable, but Draco heard none of it. The pounding in his ears was louder. The pulse in his neck heavier. His breath dragged through his lungs like smoke. The warehouse was almost empty now, deserted save for the flicker of lanterns far at the back, dim glows casting long, warped shadows over exposed brick and cracked tile. Somewhere in that darkness, the last remnants of the faction that had dismantled his life were hiding. And they didn't know he was here.

He hadn't come for orders. He hadn't come for honor. He had come for them.

He moved through the space with lethal control, his boots silent on the broken floor, wand in hand but his magic thrumming so violently beneath his skin it felt like a second heartbeat. Every rusted pipe, every scorched wall, every metallic creak of old machinery pulled memories from his mind like fishhook after fishhook—his own screams echoing through the beams, the burn of hexes etched into his spine, the sound of laughter in the dark while his body bled out inch by inch. They had done more than torture him. They had tried to erase him. And they had almost succeeded.

But they hadn't.

He had crawled out. Dragged himself back through fire and ruin. Learned how to rebuild from ash. And now he stood in their temple of suffering not as a victim, but as executioner.

Mercy had no place here. He no longer remembered what it was to feel softness toward those who had weaponized cruelty into an artform. Empathy had been cauterized out of him in this very building, and all that remained now was vengeance in its purest, sharpest form. These men were not targets. They were not obstacles. They were debts. And tonight, he had come to collect.

He could feel the magic pulsing in his fingertips, wild and barely leashed, as Titus signaled their position and began moving to flank. But Draco didn't need backup. He didn't need strategy. He didn't need a clean shot or a tactical plan. All he needed was a doorway, a name, a face. All he needed was to look into the eyes of the men who had ruined him and watch the moment they realized he had come back. Not broken. 

Not silenced.

But furious. Alive. And unwilling to leave until every inch of this 

godforsaken place was painted in retribution.

And as the sound of muffled voices drifted from the far end of the warehouse, and the creak of movement betrayed the presence of those long hidden, Draco Malfoy stepped into the dark, a weapon made of vengeance and memory, and knew that before the hour was done, the floor would remember every drop of blood it had stolen from him—and drown in what it would return.

They had tracked the last surviving members of the cell through a tangle of dead ends and half-whispered leads, the kind of trail that felt deliberately left to decay, like breadcrumbs dropped not to lure but to test who was mad enough to follow. It ended here, in the bowels of a derelict warehouse crouched at the edge of Knockturn Alley, a structure long forgotten by city records and far too familiar to those who dealt in death. 

The place rose like a carcass against the brittle glow of moonlight, its bones cracked and sagging, windows shattered into jagged teeth that let in just enough silver to cast distorted shadows across the ruined floor. The building breathed rot—thick, cloying, metallic decay that stuck to the tongue and seeped into the pores—and the air inside was dense with the smell of mildew blooming unchecked across wet concrete, rusted beams creaking under the weight of long-silent screams. It was a place that had been soaked in violence for too long, and it knew what was coming.

The scene was already primed for carnage, though the men hiding inside—the last two, the ones who had run far and fast but never quite far enough—had no idea the reckoning crouched just beyond the threshold. They didn't know that the warehouse itself had chosen this moment, had curled in on itself like a living thing welcoming the slaughter it had been starved of for years. They didn't know that the storm had already arrived, not loud and explosive, but quiet and lethal, shaped in the form of two men moving through its corridors like death given form.

°°°

When Draco and Titus finally made it back to their rendezvous point, the cold weight of something intangible settled in the pit of Draco's stomach almost immediately—an instinctive, visceral sensation that something was off, as if the very air had warped in their absence. The designated base was as they had left it: hidden by a layered enchantment, shielded by terrain and spellwork, undisturbed in its tactical isolation. But there was a wrongness to it now—a gaping absence that filled the space like a wound. Blaise and Theo were nowhere to be found.

At first, they didn't panic. Both men were meticulous and methodical by nature, prone to misdirection and spontaneous rerouting when missions went sideways. It wasn't unlike them to regroup off-grid, to take the longer route home if it meant avoiding pursuit. They were a unit, always two shadows moving in tandem, their chemistry in combat honed sharp enough to bleed. So Draco and Titus gave it time, brushing away the tight pull of worry in their chests, telling themselves there was likely a rational explanation. Perhaps Theo had led them into the sewers to avoid a tail. Maybe Blaise had sensed a secondary threat and called for a delay. They were probably just lying low, waiting for the right window to return.

But as the minutes turned to hours and the sun sank lower in the sky, that initial thread of doubt began to tighten into something far more suffocating. The waiting, once filled with idle assumptions and half-formed theories, grew quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that spoke louder than any explosion, louder than any scream. By the time night fell and the shadows deepened into something cold and watching, both men had stopped speaking altogether, their thoughts too heavy, their instincts too loud.

Draco sat by the warded perimeter, his wand resting across his knees, eyes fixed on the dark horizon as if willing Blaise's silhouette to appear from it, bloody but grinning, cocky and alive. He kept listening—waiting—for the rustle of robes, the telltale snap of a twig, any sign of Theo's voice, that dry, cutting sarcasm that always preceded him like the trailing edge of a knife. But the woods offered only wind, only the ambient sounds of a night that didn't care if men lived or died. Every hour that passed eroded another layer of hope, grinding it down to something brittle and desperate.

"They should have come by now," Titus said finally, breaking the silence with a low, tense mutter as he paced near the edge of the camp. The firelight cast jagged shadows across his face, making the hard line of his jaw look even sharper, the muscle ticking as he ground his teeth in frustration.

Draco didn't answer at first. He only glanced at him, his grey eyes like winter steel, unreadable but burning. He could feel it—the same gnawing certainty Titus was trying to suppress, the same bitter knowing creeping into his bones. They had waited. Too long. And the silence was not strategic. It was not planned. It was not Blaise's doing. "We wait a little longer," he said at last, but the words were hollow even to him.

That "little longer" became another hour.

And then another.

By morning, the world looked paler somehow, drained of color by anxiety. The second sunrise should have brought clarity—but it only cast long, damning light across their unchanged surroundings. No footprints. No signal flares. No sound. Draco stood with his arms crossed, cloak pulled tight, his mouth a grim slash. He didn't sleep. Neither did Titus. They just sat in it—this quiet dread, this mounting truth that no one wanted to speak aloud.

By midday, Draco knew.

Hope had curdled into inevitability.

"We can't wait any longer," he said quietly, each word weighed down with something far heavier than resignation. His voice was clipped, but not cold. It carried something deeper—anger. Fear. Grief that hadn't yet found a place to land.

Titus turned toward him slowly, his face carved from stone. He didn't ask if Draco was sure. He only gave a curt nod, the kind of nod men give when they've run out of good options and must settle for the least unbearable one. "If they're not back by now," he said, his voice rough, "it means they've either been captured… or worse."

The silence that followed was like a closing door. Neither man wanted to give life to that final word, didn't want to let it bloom in the air between them like a wound. But it lingered all the same.

They moved quickly after that, packing what little gear they had, casting final sweeping scans with their wands, checking the perimeters one last time with desperate thoroughness that only confirmed what they already knew: no one had passed through here. No sign. No spell. No retreating footprints.

Draco's jaw was clenched so tight it ached. His thoughts were a whirlwind—fast, sharp, tearing through his mind. Every possibility played itself out in flashes: Blaise pinned to a wall, Theo lying still in a darkened cell, their magic drained, their throats bruised. He'd seen it before—he'd lived it before. Whatever had taken them had been fast. Intelligent. Planned. Because Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott didn't vanish. They didn't fail.

Not unless something was deliberately engineered to make them disappear.

Their journey back to the safehouse was made in silence, but it wasn't the same silence that had filled their base hours earlier. This silence was full of purpose. Of rage. Of resolve. Every step cracked through the underbrush like a declaration of war. The branches clawed at them as if trying to pull them back, as if the woods themselves wanted to keep the secret buried.

By the time the cottage came into view through the trees, Draco's face had hardened into something unrecognizable, the soft curve of humanity stripped away and replaced with a marble mask of fury. He didn't feel tired. He didn't feel hungry. He felt ready.

Whatever had happened—wherever they were—he would find them.

And if they were alive?

He would rip the world apart to bring them back.

~~~~~~

Draco Apparated into the living room with a thunderous crack, the force of his arrival jolting the quiet space like a physical blow. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, his chest rising and falling with the kind of urgency that had nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with what he'd just left behind. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting golden light across the worn rug, the walls, the worn spines of books that lined every shelf. It should have been peaceful—Hermione was curled up on the sofa, a blanket draped over her legs, a book half-forgotten in her lap—but to him, the serenity of the moment felt like a slap in the face.

He took one step forward, his boots echoing too loudly against the floorboards, and when she looked up, her expression still soft with the remnants of reading, something inside him clenched.

"Darling," he rasped, his voice low and rough, brittle at the edges from the pressure of holding himself together. "Something's happened." His eyes didn't stray from hers. "We need to find Ginevra. Now."

Her posture changed immediately. The book slid from her lap without a sound, her spine going rigid as she swung her legs off the couch. "What?" she asked, her tone sharp, all trace of leisure vanishing in an instant. "What's wrong?"

He hesitated—just for a second, just long enough to betray the crack forming beneath his composure. He dragged a hand through his hair, the platinum strands falling disheveled across his forehead, his eyes flicking toward the fire before snapping back to her face. "It's at work," he said at last, voice flat, stripped bare. "Something went wrong."

She stepped toward him. "Draco," she said, and now her voice carried steel beneath the worry, her gaze unwavering. "Don't you dare give me riddles right now. I need you to stop protecting me and tell me exactly what the fuck is going on. Where is Ginny? What the hell happened?"

He exhaled sharply, the sound harsh and tired and threaded with rage that wasn't for her but for everything else—the mission, the silence, the missing. "Theo and Blaise were sent out last night. They were together, stationed on the perimeter of the operation. They never returned to the base." He paused, the words heavier than anything he had spoken in days. "It's been over twenty-four hours. No contact. No trace. Not a single spell signature. It's like they vanished."

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide, stunned into silence as the weight of it landed on her chest like a stone. "Oh my god," she breathed, the words catching in her throat, barely more than a whisper. "Oh fuck."

"Indeed," Draco said grimly, every syllable wrapped in ice. His fists were clenched, his jaw tight with fury and fear wrapped so tightly around one another they had become indistinguishable. "We don't have time to wait around. We need Ginny, and you need to change. There are weapons in the drawer. Bring whatever you can carry."

For a moment, she stared at him like he had grown another head. "What?" she said flatly, disbelief thick in her voice. "Draco, did you just say guns ? As in firearms? You want me to grab guns?"

His gaze didn't flinch. "Yes," he said evenly, his voice a blade. "We're not walking into a negotiation. We're going into the field. And if Theo and Blaise have been taken, we might already be out of time."

Hermione shook her head slowly, still trying to process it. "I don't know how to shoot a bloody gun," she snapped, her voice rising with the first tremors of panic. "What the fuck do you expect me to do with one?"

He crossed the room in two strides, his hands closing gently—but firmly—around her arms. "I expect you to survive," he said, his voice low, steady, and more terrifying in its control than if he had screamed. "I expect you to point it and fire if someone tries to put you on your knees. I expect you to stop pretending you're not a part of this anymore."

Silence fell between them again, broken only by the rapid beating of both their hearts.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, not quite reaching his eyes, the expression more muscle memory than true amusement—but still, the ghost of his trademark arrogance flickered across his face like a match struck in the dark. "There's nothing the Golden Girl can't learn," he murmured, voice low and threaded with both irony and something steadier, more earnest beneath the teasing veneer. His eyes lingered on hers for a beat too long, as if daring her to argue, even as urgency pulled at the edges of his calm.

Hermione narrowed her gaze, unamused, but the tension in her jaw softened just enough to show she wasn't entirely immune to his charm. Her lips pressed into a hard line before she exhaled sharply and gave a tight nod. "Fine," she said, her tone clipped, but steady, each word infused with mounting resolve. "But if I'm going to walk into a warzone with a weapon I've never touched before, you better give me a crash course—and I mean one that doesn't end with me shooting myself in the foot."

"Trust me, love," he said, stepping forward until the distance between them was almost gone, his voice dipping into something softer, more intimate. He rested his hand lightly on her arm, his touch warm through the fabric, grounding. "You'll be a natural. You've always had better instincts than half the people I trained with." His voice dipped lower, more serious now. "But we need to move. Time isn't just running out—it's bleeding."

She didn't answer, only turned and disappeared up the stairs with sharp, determined steps, her fingers already yanking at the buttons of her cardigan as she moved.

Left alone in the living room, Draco resumed pacing, the rhythm of his footsteps a violent contrast to the silence. The fireplace crackled softly, casting flickers of light across the furniture, but it didn't touch the storm brewing behind his eyes. His mind spun, fast and brutal, cataloging every possible scenario—their last known location, the silence of the base, the absent magical signatures. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. Theo and Blaise weren't just missing; they were taken. And if they were taken, it was by someone smart enough to outmaneuver them both.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through gritted teeth, then glanced at the stairs, listening for the creak of her returning footsteps.

He needed her. And he needed to be stronger than the fear rising inside his chest.

Because if the worst had happened—if they were gone—then the blood that was going to be spilled before the end of this would make the last war look merciful.

~~~~~~

Ginny stalked back and forth across the living room, her bare feet soundless against the worn floorboards, but everything else about her radiated noise—restlessness, exhaustion, unraveling. Her hair was a mess of tangled red, shoved into a loose knot that had long since given up the fight, strands clinging to her cheeks damp with sweat and tears she refused to shed. Her face was drawn, pale beneath the freckles, frustration carved into every tense muscle. The wand jammed into the back pocket of her jeans bounced with every sharp, erratic turn, threatening to tumble free—but she didn't notice, or maybe she didn't care.

In her arms, Valerius screamed—not a sharp, angry cry, but that relentless, hiccuping wail of a baby overtired and overwhelmed. His tiny fists flailed, his cheeks flushed and wet, head turning stubbornly away from the spoon she kept trying to coax between his tight little lips.

"Please, Val," she whispered, her voice cracking beneath a paper-thin veneer of cheer. She tried to smile, but it faltered at the edges, brittle and half-formed. "Just a few bites, sweetheart. Just one for Mummy. Mummy's so bloody tired."

But Val wasn't having it.

With a sharp jerk of his hand, he knocked the spoon from her grip again. It hit the floor with a loud clatter, scattering flecks of mashed apple across the rug like a small, stupid explosion. Ginny froze—just for a second—then let out a ragged sound somewhere between a sob and a groan, a quiet kind of heartbreak that lodged itself in her throat.

Her shoulders trembled as she sank to her knees, pressing the heels of her palms hard against her eyes, willing herself not to cry. Not again. Not in front of him. But the tears burned hot anyway, threatening to break free.

She had no idea how it had come to this. Just her and her son and a bowl of uneaten breakfast and the kind of exhaustion that sank into her bones like rot. The meltdown. The sleepless night. The creeping, suffocating sense that something terrible was approaching—just outside the edges of her awareness. Something that had been building for days, maybe longer. Something she hadn't let herself name.

And now, it was closer. She could feel it. In her chest. In the air.

Something was wrong.

°°°

The sudden, unmistakable crunch of footsteps on the gravel path outside jolted Ginny upright. Her breath caught as her head snapped toward the door, every maternal instinct going taut in an instant. Valerius stilled in her arms, his sniffling quieting as if even he sensed the shift in the air.

Then the floo door opened, and a hush swept through the house like a cold draft.

Hermione stepped through first, her features pale and tight, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. Beside her was Draco Malfoy, a step behind but unmistakably leading in presence—his expression carved from ice, composed but strained, as though keeping something inside on a very short leash.

Behind them came Luna, her usual floaty energy replaced by a sharp-edged stillness, eyes scanning the room like they were expecting to find it on fire. Then Titus entered, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack, followed closely by Pansy, who swept in with her baby at her breast and a don't-fucking-touch-me aura that radiated like smoke. Neville brought up the rear, pale and visibly shaken, his wand twirling anxiously between his fingers.

Ginny blinked, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the people crowding her doorway. "What—did I forget something?" she asked, voice pitching higher with each word. "A lunch?"

No one answered.

Her eyes flicked from Hermione's drawn face to Draco's glacial stillness, then to Luna, who looked like she was vibrating beneath her skin.

Draco was the one to speak, his voice low but firm, like he was trying to pad a blow before it landed. "Sit down, Ginevra."

She stiffened. "What?"

"Please," Hermione added softly, stepping closer. "Just… just sit, yeah?"

The quiet urgency in their tone made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She moved to the sofa on unsteady legs, lowering herself slowly and adjusting Valerius against her chest. He gave a soft whimper, but she barely noticed. Her heart was starting to pound, wild and uneven, something feral waking inside her.

"What's going on?" she asked, voice trembling as she stroked her son's hair. She didn't want the answer. She already knew, somewhere deep and primal, that it was bad—worse than bad.

Draco hesitated, his eyes flickering to Hermione, who gave a small nod, a silent command. He drew in a breath—slow, deliberate, like someone steeling themselves before walking into fire.

"Blaise and Theo are missing," he said.

The words landed like a blow to the chest.

Silence crashed over the room. Heavy. Suffocating. The kind of silence that made your ears ring and your stomach drop. Ginny stared at him, wide-eyed, her mouth open slightly, like her brain hadn't quite processed the words.

"W-what do you mean missing?" she managed at last, her voice thin and fraying at the edges.

Titus stepped forward then, arms crossed over his chest like a shield. His usual arrogance was nowhere to be found—what remained was grim, controlled, and dangerous in its own right.

"We split up," he said. "Two teams. Malfoy and I were on one side. Blaise and Theo were on the other. We had a fallback point." He swallowed. "They didn't show."

Ginny didn't move.

The words echoed in her mind, over and over—They didn't show. They didn't return. Blaise is missing. The room tilted. Her fingers fumbled for the spoon she'd dropped earlier and picked it up without thinking, but the moment she tried to close her hand around it, her grip failed.

"They never returned," she repeated, barely breathing, her voice hollow. It wasn't a question. It wasn't even disbelief. It was the beginning of something else entirely—rage, maybe. Or panic. Or heartbreak.

Luna's hand slammed against the edge of the table with a crack loud enough to startle the room, knocking a wilting vase of flowers perilously close to the edge. Her eyes were wild, burning with a fury so uncharacteristic it silenced even the background noise of the children. "My husband," she hissed, her voice trembling with rage so sharp it was almost brittle. "If you two—any of you—let him die, if you let him leave me a widow…"

Her gaze swept across them with the intensity of a curse mid-casting, no longer the ethereal woman they knew but something fierce and feral, stripped of softness. "I will kill you both. Slowly. Miserably. Do you understand me?" she snarled at Draco and Titus, and there was no question she meant every syllable.

The air thickened.

Pansy, who sat cross-legged with Seraphina still nursing, met Luna's glare and gently reached out with her free hand, pressing it to her friend's trembling shoulder. "Love," she said softly, though her voice held a tight edge of nervous tension, "nothing is going to happen to them. They're too stubborn to die." But even she sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

"They're not going to die," Draco cut in, his voice crisp, eyes cool as he met Luna's rage head-on. "So calm—"

"Calm down, Ferret?" Ginny exploded, her voice rising into something raw and dangerous. She stood so quickly Valerius gave a startled yelp, and she immediately passed him to Neville, who caught the infant with wide, unprepared arms.

She took a single, measured step toward Draco, fists clenched at her sides. "You don't get to tell me to calm down. You're not my boss. You're not anybody to me," she spat. "You think just because you walk in here with your cold, polished tone and your fucking jawline you get to start barking orders? My husband is missing. And you dare speak to me like I'm the one being unreasonable?"

Draco didn't flinch, but his jaw flexed—once, tightly. Hermione moved to Ginny's side, reaching out with a gentle hand, but Ginny shrugged her off with a shake of her shoulder, never breaking her glare.

"We need to find them," Ginny said, voice trembling now—not with fear, but with the fury of helplessness. "I don't care about your protocole, or your bloody plans. Blaise is out there. He could be hurt. He could be dying, and you want me to sit here, sipping tea and knitting fucking baby booties, waiting for an owl?"

Hermione stepped forward, voice even but taut, slipping into the cadence that had once led armies. "We're not waiting, Gin. We're preparing. You know what happens when we don't. We go in blind, and we lose more."

She turned slightly, her gaze catching on Pansy, still calm, still tits out, utterly unapologetic with Seraphina tucked against her. "Everyone needs to be ready. Properly ready. We don't know what we're walking into."

Then, a pause.

"Pansy," Hermione added, hesitating. "Maybe… you should… cover up?"

The room tensed. Even the baby seemed to stop nursing for half a second.

Pansy arched a brow slowly, a wicked grin crawling across her mouth as she patted Seraphina's back. "Oh, come on, Granger. Is this really the time to be scandalized by tits? You lot act like you've never seen a pair that didn't belong in a textbook. Get over it."

Her tone was light, but her eyes glittered with provocation. "Honestly, I thought we were past the part where modesty mattered more than men being alive."

Hermione opened her mouth, but—

"Pansy."

Neville's voice cut through the room like a blade. It wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. But it was steel. Cold, calm, resolute in a way that froze everyone mid-breath.

She turned her head slowly, ready to retort, her smirk already half-formed—until she saw his expression. Not soft. Not teasing. Just firm. Just final.

With one fluid, no-nonsense motion, Pansy adjusted her robe, snapping the fabric shut with a sharp flick and fastening the buttons with precise, irritated flicks of her fingers. Her movements were brisk, but she handled Seraphina with the kind of careful efficiency that could only come from practice—a woman who'd trained herself to be both warrior and mother without dropping either role. She crossed the room and lowered her daughter gently into a makeshift bassinet nestled in the corner, a large wicker basket lined with soft blankets charmed to regulate warmth. Seraphina gave a soft sigh, already drifting back into sleep, unaware of the storm building around her.

The moment stretched, taut and electric. No one spoke. The weight of what they were preparing to do—what they might already be too late to stop—hung like smoke in the air.

Ginny let out a long breath, her hand raking through her tangled, sweat-dampened hair. Her eyes—fierce and bloodshot—flicked toward the hallway as she called, "Twinkle!" Her voice rang down the corridor like a flare shot into the sky.

A small pop echoed in reply, and a wide-eyed house-elf appeared, dressed in a pristine tea towel adorned with a stitched lightning bolt. He bowed so deeply his nose nearly skimmed the floorboards.

"Yes, Missus?"

"Please look after Seraphina—Mrs. Longbottom's baby girl—and the others." Ginny gestured toward the sleeping child in the basket and her own son, who was now curled beneath a soft blanket in a second bassinet, his tiny brow furrowed even in sleep. "Keep them warm. Keep them safe. Don't let anyone near them who doesn't belong here."

Twinkle straightened with a jolt of purpose, his ears twitching with fierce devotion. "Yes, Missus! Twinkle will guard them like a Hungarian Horntail, Missus! No harm will come to these little ones while Twinkle breathes, Missus!"

Ginny gave a tight nod, her voice rough with unspoken gratitude. "Good." She turned back to the others, sweeping her gaze over Luna, Hermione, and Pansy, her expression hardening with every second. "It's time. We need to be ready. Now."

And with a collective inhale, a silent agreement passed between them—there was no more time for tears, for chaos, for indecision. There was only action now.

As one, magic shimmered across their bodies in synchronized flashes of light and color, robes twisting and reshaping around them like living fabric.

Hermione's practical robes cinched and darkened into a streamlined tactical ensemble, sleek and durable, laced with hidden pockets designed for potions, healing salves, and enchanted tools. Silver embroidery flared briefly along the seams before fading—protective wards woven into every stitch.

Luna's robes, which had once been layers of whimsy and softness, rippled into something more functional. The pale blue collar remained—a small echo of her unshakable self—but the rest darkened into soft, armored fabric with enchanted flexibility, subtle sigils woven along her sleeves like constellations.

Pansy's already tailored ensemble morphed into high-collared black combat robes, the hem sharpening, the bodice reinforced with glinting protective spells that shimmered briefly under the light. Her boots restructured themselves, laced high and enchanted to silence every step.

And Ginny—Ginny wore war.

Her fraying jeans and loose jumper vanished in a rush of fire-magic, replaced by a leather vest etched with intricate runes that pulsed faintly with crimson light. Her black trousers flared slightly at the ankles for movement, while her belt cinched tight, holding twin daggers at her hips. Her wand slid into a newly conjured sheath strapped against her forearm, visible and ready.

The room had changed.

No longer a family space, no longer a nursery—it had become a war room. And the women in it? They weren't just mothers, wives, and friends anymore.

They were soldiers again.

°°°

Draco chose that moment to step into the hallway, his robes already shifting with fluid precision. They darkened and restructured around his frame, transforming into a sharply tailored military-style ensemble—black on black, with subtle silver stitching at the seams that gleamed faintly beneath the overhead light. Every detail was intentional, from the reinforced shoulders to the rune-lined cuffs that marked his preparedness not just for battle, but for command.

He surveyed the room like a tactician assessing a battlefield, his pale gaze gliding over the now-armored women, the children tucked away under protective wards, the sharp-edged silence hanging in the air.

"Ginevra," he said evenly, his tone neutral but steeped in authority. "Gather Blaise's weapons. Guns, enchanted blades, smoke runes. Everything in the top trunk and the drawer beneath the bed." He didn't wait for affirmation—just turned his gaze sharply toward Luna. "You—start collecting potions. Every last one you've brewed. Healing, offensive, anti-venom, sleep inhibitors. Prioritize speed. Time is not on our side."

Titus, who had been lurking too close to Luna's shoulder, stepped forward, bristling like a cornered dog. "Malfoy," he said, voice sharp and simmering, "you can't just order her around like she's your private house pet."

Draco's expression didn't change—if anything, it hardened further. He turned to face Titus fully, his gaze sliding over him with cold precision, every syllable of his reply dipped in venom.

"Nott," he said, his voice low and lethal, "you're already walking on thin ice. Say one more word, and I'll break it beneath you."

His lip curled faintly, eyes glittering with disdain. "They are my family. Every single person in this house has bled for the ones we're about to risk our lives to save. You, on the other hand?" He offered a shallow shrug, glacial and unbothered. "You're a footnote. A contingency at best. So unless you plan on making yourself useful, I suggest you shut the fuck up and step back."

The silence that followed was thick with heat and tension. For a long, pulsing moment, no one moved. No one breathed.

The crackle of magic in the air was nearly visible—charged like a storm waiting to break.

Neville, who had been lingering near the hearth with furrowed brows, seemed to sense that wands were seconds from being drawn. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he summoned a weathered parchment map from the bookshelf and floated it to the center table. It unfurled with a whisper of old magic, revealing layers of ancient topography and shifting ley lines.

"Everyone," Neville said, his voice louder than usual, steady despite the tremor of nerves behind his words. "Focus. This isn't about ego, it's about Blaise and Theo. Ginny. Luna. Use the bond. Try to find them."

Luna stepped forward first, silent and fluid, the ends of her transfigured robes whispering across the stone floor. Ginny followed, pushing aside a chair with a scrape that echoed like thunder in the room's stillness.

The two women stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the map, their fingers grazing the ancient parchment. Luna's hands were steady, her blue eyes glowing faintly with concentration, while Ginny's jaw was locked with tension, her breath catching in her throat as she laid a trembling hand along the edge.

Together, they began.

"Uruz," Ginny intoned, her voice firm but quaking beneath the weight of the moment. "Mother of manifestation, blood of memory and mirror of truth—show me where Theodore Atticus Nott and Blaise Orion Zabini are."

The words hung in the air, crisp and electric, reverberating like a spell cast in stone.

A faint shimmer flickered across the surface of the map, like water rippling beneath moonlight. The runes etched around its edges flared with soft blue light, one by one, responding to her invocation. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then—motion.

Lines began to shift, rearranging like puzzle pieces. Mountains flattened. Rivers disappeared. The parchment pulsed faintly beneath their hands.

But then… something stuttered.

The light dimmed.

The runes sputtered.

The magic faltered, like a signal lost halfway through transmission.

Ginny's heart slammed against her ribs. "No. No—come on, come on—Uruz, I'm asking you, please—"

But the glow faded to nothing.

Only silence remained.

Meanwhile, the runes on the map pulsed, but the glow began to fade. Ginny's expression clouded with concern. She drummed her fingertips against the table impatiently, eyes locked on the map. "Come on, Uruz," she whispered, voice carrying a desperate edge.

Luna rested a gentle hand on Ginny's arm, offering what comfort she could while still exuding her usual calm. "Give it a moment," she murmured. "Sometimes the bond takes time to focus, especially if they're far away or... obscured."

Neville shifted his weight, glancing anxiously at Draco. Titus, who had been quietly fuming since Draco's insult, hovered near Luna, crossing his arms in barely contained frustration. The entire group felt poised on a precarious balance, with alliances and animosities layered thick in the room.

Draco, meanwhile, stood slightly apart, his arms folded tightly across his chest. "This isn't a parlor trick," he said, breaking the tension in his own aloof way. "If Blaise and Theo are hidden by certain wards or dark magic, it could take more than a simple incantation to pinpoint them."

"Yes, I'm aware," Ginny snapped, not bothering to hide her irritation. She pushed a stray lock of hair from her face, her free hand clenched into a fist at her side. "But this is what we have, Malfoy. Unless you have a better idea? One that doesn't involve intimidation and snide remarks?"

He gave her a slow, measured look, not deigning to respond. Instead, he exhaled quietly and gestured for her to continue. This—his silence—was perhaps the first peace offering he'd made all day.

"Let's try again," Luna suggested in her soft, melodic voice, stepping closer to Ginny and resting her wand against the map. "Uruz, mother of manifestation," she repeated, "hear our call."

Ginny nodded, drawing in a slow breath and placing her free hand on Luna's wand, adding her magic to the incantation. A renewed spark of light shimmered across the parchment, lines crisscrossing rivers and mountains, searching... searching.

For a moment, it looked as though a tiny pinprick of light flickered in the far corner of the map. Ginny leaned in, heart pounding. "There," she breathed, excitement flaring in her eyes.

But as quickly as it had appeared, the spark vanished, leaving the map blank once again. Ginny let out a frustrated cry, her fists clenching at her sides before she slammed one down onto the table. The chairs rattled with the force, the sound reverberating through the tense silence of the room.

"I'm so close," she hissed through gritted teeth, her emerald eyes blazing with a mix of anger and desperation. "Why can't it just stay long enough to tell us where they are?"

The room felt suffocating, tension hanging thick in the air. Everyone exchanged uncertain glances, unwilling to speak and risk setting Ginny off further. They were out there, somewhere, and every second spent fumbling with incomplete leads felt like a dagger twisting deeper into her chest.

Draco, who had been pacing like a caged animal, suddenly stopped mid-stride. His grey eyes were sharp, calculating, as they swept over the cluttered table. "We need a bigger map," he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. His voice was calm, but there was an urgency behind it, like he was trying to suppress his own panic.

Without waiting for a response, he reached into the bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out a map that was much larger and more detailed than the one already on the table. With a flick of his wand, the furniture was pushed aside, and he spread the map out on the floor. It unfurled to reveal not just the immediate area but the entirety of England, Scotland, and even parts of Ireland.

Hermione knelt down beside him, her sharp eyes scanning the map. "Are you sure this will help?" she asked, though her hands were already smoothing out the parchment, her fingers trembling slightly.

"It's better than what we're working with now," Draco snapped, his nerves fraying as he crouched beside her. His tone softened slightly as he added, "This map is enchanted to detect magical imprints. If they're anywhere on these islands, it'll show us."

Ginny didn't need any further encouragement. She knelt beside them, her wand already out. She took a deep breath, steadying her shaking hands, and repeated the incantation. "Uruz, mother of manifestation, show me Theodore Atticus Nott and Blaise Orion Zabini."

For a moment, nothing happened. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the sound of Ginny's shallow breathing. Then, like a spark in the darkness, a faint glow appeared on the map. It flickered weakly, like a dying ember, but it was enough to send a collective gasp through the room.

"It's Scotland," Hermione whispered, her voice trembling with relief and dread. "They're in Scotland."

The glow steadied, and as the group leaned closer, they saw it pinpoint a location nestled deep within the Highlands. Ginny's breath hitched as her eyes locked onto the spot. It was remote, isolated—perfect for keeping captives hidden.

"Glencoe," Luna murmured, her usually serene voice tinged with unease. "That's Glencoe."

Pansy, who had been leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, straightened, her brows furrowing. "Glencoe? That place is cursed. The massacre, the old wards—people have been avoiding it for centuries."

"We don't have the luxury of superstition," Ginny snapped, her voice sharp as a blade. "They're there. That's all that matters."

Draco nodded, already standing. "She's right. Cursed or not, we're going. Grab what you need—this isn't going to be a simple retrieval."

Neville, who had been quietly observing the exchange, stepped forward. His usual calm demeanor was replaced with a steely determination. "I'll get the healing supplies. If they've been there for days, they're going to need more than just potions."

Luna gave him a grateful nod before turning to Ginny. "We'll find them," she said softly, her words carrying a quiet assurance that seemed to cut through the chaos in Ginny's mind.

But Ginny couldn't find it in herself to respond. Her focus was entirely on the map, her fingers tracing the glowing mark as if committing it to memory. The thought of Blaise and Theo out there, possibly hurt or worse, was a weight that threatened to crush her.

Draco's voice broke through her thoughts. "Ginny, you're coming with us, but you need to be focused. No distractions. Understood?"

She met his gaze, her eyes hard with determination. "I'm ready."

He didn't argue, recognizing the fire in her eyes. "Good. Then let's move."

As the group began gathering their supplies, Ginny's mind raced. Glencoe. The name alone sent chills down her spine. She'd read about the massacre that had taken place there, the blood that had seeped into the land, the whispers of vengeful spirits. But none of that mattered now. Blaise was out there, and she would walk through hell itself to bring him home.

The glow on the map dimmed slightly, but it remained, a beacon guiding them to the unyielding Scottish Highlands. Time was running out, and Ginny knew one thing for certain: she wouldn't stop until she found him, no matter what it took.

~~~~~~

They arrived beneath a blackened sky, the moon their only witness—a cold, watchful eye that pierced the canopy in fractured beams, casting pale, unnatural light across the forest floor. The trees loomed like skeletal sentinels, their twisted limbs clawing at the heavens, as if trying to snuff out what little light remained. The air was thick, stagnant, pressing against their lungs like something alive. No wind. No sound. Only the rhythmic crunch of dried leaves beneath cautious steps, each one impossibly loud in the suffocating silence.

Their wands glowed dimly, flickering like dying stars in a sea of shadow, and for all the light they offered, it felt as though the darkness was swallowing it whole, inch by inch. The path ahead was narrow and winding, the kind that twisted without logic—like the forest had rearranged itself to confuse and contain them.

Pansy's grip on Neville's hand had turned iron-tight, her nails cutting crescents into his skin. But he didn't flinch. He said nothing. The tremor that ran through her palm told him everything—this wasn't just fear. It was dread, deep and primal, the kind that blooms in the gut when something is profoundly wrong.

"Something's here," she breathed, her voice thinner than mist, barely audible above their footsteps. "Something bad."

Neville swallowed hard, the chill of her words settling into his bones like frost. But he'd already felt it too—the way the air clung too closely, the way the shadows pressed inward like they were listening. "I know," he whispered. His free hand hovered over his wand, twitching toward it like muscle memory. "It's like the forest is holding its breath."

At the front of the group, Luna walked without pause.

Her pale hair caught the moonlight in odd flickers, making her look half ghost, half goddess—an ethereal silhouette slipping silently through the trees. But there was nothing soft about her now. The dreaminess she once carried like a second skin was gone. Burned away. In its place was something harder. Something old. She moved with a purpose that teetered on the edge of desperation, her strides too quick, too sharp. It was as though she believed sheer force of will could rip back the veil between her and Theo.

She had become a specter of resolve—beautiful and terrifying.

And still, beneath her breath, she whispered.

A mantra. A hymn. A spell.

"I will send out an army to find you," she murmured, her voice thin but cutting through the thick air like a thread of silver. "In the middle of the darkest night, I will rescue you. I will never stop marching to reach you…"

Her words rippled out like ripples on a cursed pond, quiet yet heavy, drawing the others behind her as if bound by invisible thread. It was more than a promise. It was defiance. It was mourning dressed in armor.

Behind her, the others moved in silence, every breath shallow, every footstep deliberate. The deeper they went, the more it felt like the forest wasn't just watching—it was waiting.

And still Luna walked, whispering her vow to the shadows.

The haunting rhythm of her vow was the only sound that accompanied their tense journey, echoing in the hearts of those who followed her. Each word was a reminder of her unwavering love and her refusal to yield to despair. Luna Lovegood was no longer the gentle, whimsical woman they all knew; she was a force of nature, a beacon of relentless hope burning.

Ginny, who had been trailing just behind Luna, came to an abrupt halt mid-step. Her breath hitched. Her nose wrinkled sharply, and she lifted a hand to her face, eyes narrowing as the first tendrils of something wrong slithered into her senses.

She turned slowly, her voice tight and brittle as glass. "Do you smell that?" she asked, though the answer was already written across every face.

The question cut through the silence like a knife, and in its wake came nothing but stillness—thick and choking. The others had smelled it, too. They just hadn't dared speak it aloud.

It was metallic. Sharp. Wet.

Thick as blood, heavy as rust.

It curled low to the ground, clinging to the damp earth and rotting leaves, seeping into their clothes, their throats, their lungs. It wasn't just a smell—it was presence. Something saturated the forest around them.

A living thing had died here.

Many of them.

Ginny's hand went to her wand without thought, her fingers trembling as she tightened her grip.

Neville swallowed audibly.

The air was suddenly too still.

And then, all at once, the group answered—each voice hushed, unwilling to disturb the weight of it.

"Death."

The word hung there like a specter. A curse. A truth.

And death it was.

As they rounded the next bend, the trees thinned—and the sight that met them tore a gasp from their throats.

They froze.

The gallows rose before them like a grotesque monument to savagery, its skeletal frame assembled from jagged iron and rusted wood, each mismatched section fused together in a crude display of violence masquerading as structure. It was not just a place for execution—it was meant to haunt, to display suffering as spectacle. The ropes hung low, swinging gently in the stale breeze, their nooses coiled like vipers waiting to strike again. There was no pretense of mercy here, no illusion of formality; this was a place built for terror, and every inch of it reeked of cruelty.

The smell, thick and putrid, hit Hermione with the force of a curse, tearing through her senses with merciless precision. Her stomach turned violently, bile rising in her throat, her vision doubling as tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. The stench of blood, sweat, decay—it invaded her mouth, her skin, her mind. Her legs threatened to give out beneath her as the sight registered fully—bodies hanging limp, faces obscured, the grotesque sway of death moving in rhythm with the forest's stillness. Her fingers, clammy and trembling, found Draco's arm and clung to it with desperation, her nails digging into the fabric of his robes as she choked out a sound—half-formed words, half-sob.

"I—I can't…" she gasped, her voice barely audible over the roar in her ears. "Draco—"

Without hesitation, his hand moved to the small of her back, grounding her, holding her firm against the rising tide of horror that threatened to drown her. His voice cut through her panic, firm and focused, not harsh but unyielding in its steadiness. "Look at me," he said, his tone threaded with urgency and quiet strength, the sound of it like a tether pulling her back from the edge. "Breathe. Focus on me. Just me. Right here."

His eyes held hers, pale and unwavering, and she held on to him like a lifeline, her shaking breaths slowly—painfully—starting to steady, drawn in rhythm to the calming cadence of his voice, though her body still trembled as if it knew something her mind couldn't yet bear to accept.

But even as Hermione's breath began to even out, Neville's attention shifted sharply. His gaze moved past the gallows, past the row of silent corpses, and narrowed on a darker shape approaching along the far path—something moving, dragging, alive. He reacted instantly, turning toward Pansy without thought, his hands gripping her shoulders with an intensity that startled even her.

"Get down," he said, his voice low but fierce, not a request but a command forged from terror. "Lie flat on the ground. Don't argue. Don't look. Don't move until I come back for you."

She stared at him, startled and confused, but the look in his eyes—the sheer fear buried in the steel of his expression—left no room for protest.

And then her gaze followed his.

The moment her eyes registered the shapes emerging from the gloom, everything inside her shattered. Time collapsed into sound—raw, piercing, inescapable sound—as a scream tore from her throat, wild and unrestrained, ripped from a place deeper than fear, deeper than rage. It was a sound born of recognition—the kind of scream that only came when love and horror collided at full force.

Two figures, dragged mercilessly across the clearing, their bodies limp, bloodied, barely clinging to form. Their faces were swollen and broken, shadows concealing the worst of it, but not enough—not enough to mask who they were. Not enough to protect her from the truth.

Even battered and half-unconscious, even with their heads bowed and limbs trailing uselessly across the dirt, she knew them.

Her breath caught violently in her chest, and she fell to her knees without knowing she had moved, her hand pressed to her mouth, her other clawing into the ground as if anchoring herself to the earth might keep her from crumbling completely.

°°°

Ginny surged forward as if pulled by some invisible force, the ground beneath her feet blistering with heat—not metaphorical, but real, scorched and pulsing with a raw magic that seared through the soles of her boots and licked at her skin. Each step forward felt like walking through fire, the path before her alight with something ancient and furious, something that responded to the white-hot rage rising in her chest like a tide that refused to recede. The pain didn't slow her—it fueled her. Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out everything except the distant, labored groans of the men she loved being dragged toward death.

Draco and Titus exchanged a single, loaded glance—a look honed by war and blood and things they didn't speak of—and vanished together with twin cracks of displaced air, their Apparition muffled by decades of practiced silence. They reappeared in unison at the base of the towering metal structure, their movements smooth and precise, predators slipping into place. The gallows loomed above them like a beast made of steel and shadow, and yet it was the executioners—two masked figures tightening ropes around bruised throats—who seemed suddenly vulnerable.

There was no sound of warning. No shouted spell or dramatic flourish.

Draco moved with the cold efficiency that only someone forged in darkness could manage, his wand cutting the air with a brutal snap as he cast a curse that sent the first executioner hurtling backward. The man slammed into the metal beam behind him, his spine cracking audibly, his body crumpling to the ground in a heap of shattered bone and convulsing limbs. Draco didn't flinch. He didn't pause. He simply turned, already moving toward the next target as though nothing human had just broken at his feet.

Titus chose blood over magic, his wand forgotten in favor of a silver blade that gleamed like moonlight before it disappeared into the neck of the second man. He approached from behind, silent as death, and in one smooth, practiced motion, drew the blade clean across the throat. The man jerked once, a spray of red misting the air, and then collapsed forward, gurgling into silence. Titus let the body fall without ceremony. His eyes were fixed upward, already searching for the ropes that bound Theo and Blaise, already calculating how to get them down.

There was no attempt to be clean. No care for elegance. No mercy. The green light of the Killing Curse would've been too kind, and neither man was in the mood for kindness.

Before either could speak or catch their breath, another crack split the night—and this one did not creep in quietly. Luna appeared like an explosion, her magic roaring around her in waves that rippled through the air and trembled through the earth. Her hair whipped about her face in the sudden wind, eyes wide and wild, her wand raised not as a tool but as a weapon born of fury and desperation.

"GET THEM OFF!" she screamed, and the sound tore through the clearing like thunder, shaking leaves from branches, scattering birds from the trees. It was not the voice of the Luna they had known—the soft-spoken, gentle mystic who whispered to stars and walked like her feet barely touched the ground. This was something else entirely. This was elemental. This was grief transmuted into violence. This was the voice of a woman who had come to reclaim what was hers, no matter what it cost the world around her.

There was no beauty in her now, no quiet strangeness. There was only rage. A mother's rage. A wife's fury. A storm that would not pass until it had drowned every last enemy in its wake.

Without hesitation—without even a flicker of awareness for the eyes that might be watching her, for the horror pooling thickly in the air—Luna hurled herself toward the twisted heap of bodies lying motionless in the blood-streaked dirt. 

Her boots skidded across the wet earth as she dropped to her knees beside the corpse, her breath catching in broken gasps that tore through her throat like glass, her fingers trembling violently as they fumbled for the blade tucked beneath the edge of her uniform. 

The dagger came free with a sharp whisper of metal, its gleam catching the moonlight just long enough to become something sacred in her shaking hands, something ancient and final and meant to hurt. Her vision blurred, not just from the tears streaking her cheeks, but from the heat behind her eyes, the furious, boiling grief that narrowed the world to a single, pulsing point.

And then she moved.

The first stab landed with a sickening thud, the resistance of flesh collapsing beneath steel as the dagger sank into the dead man's chest. And then again, and again—each strike more violent, more erratic, more unhinged than the last. Her body shook with the effort, her cries broken and wordless as she drove the blade down over and over, the blood rising in splashes that painted her hands, her throat, the sharp ridge of her cheekbones. It mixed with the tears already falling freely down her face, turned her hair dark and heavy at the ends, and stained the air with copper. 

Her mouth opened in a scream that didn't even sound human, a sound pulled from some cavern inside her chest where grief had given way to something uncontainable. It wasn't about vengeance, not exactly—it was about the unbearable weight of almost, about how close she'd come to losing him, how fragile it had all been.

She didn't stop—couldn't, wouldn't, because to stop meant acknowledging the storm inside her chest that had been gathering for days, weeks, a lifetime. If she slowed, if she let the blade rest, even for a breath, she would have to feel the unbearable weight pressing down on her ribs, the terror that had calcified behind her eyes, the reality that had hovered just outside reach every moment Theo had been gone. 

To stop meant looking up, meant truly seeing what might have been—the rope, the bruises, the stillness in his limbs, the silence in his chest—and there was no part of her that could survive that image, no strength left for the risk of discovering a world where she had been too late. So she kept going, letting the motion carry her through the grief, letting the blood and the sound of impact drown out the thoughts that scraped like knives inside her skull. The violence was the only thing that made sense, the only thing louder than the fear.

It wasn't until arms closed tightly around her from behind—familiar, warm, shaking—that she stilled, breath catching in her throat like a scream that never fully escaped. Hermione's voice, thick with tears and panic, spoke right at her ear, desperate and hoarse, her hands locking over Luna's wrists as if her own heart would stop if she let go. "Luna, stop," she begged, her words cracked and frantic, body straining to hold Luna still even as she sobbed. "Please. They're safe. They're alive. You don't have to do this. Come back. Just—come back to me, come back."

Luna froze, a shudder tearing through her chest so violently she nearly fell forward, the dagger still clenched tight in her trembling hands. For a moment, it seemed she hadn't heard Hermione at all, that she would lunge again, that the grief had eaten her alive—but then the blade slipped from her fingers and dropped into the blood-soaked dirt with a soft, wet clink. 

Her hands dropped limply to her thighs, her fingers twitching uselessly, her breath rattling in and out like someone surfacing from drowning. She didn't speak. Couldn't. Her silver eyes—glassy, too wide, unfocused—lifted slowly, unsteadily, toward the gallows where Draco and Titus were now working furiously to cut the ropes, Theo's unconscious body already beginning to sag into Draco's arms, Blaise crumpling into Titus's grip like a man made of glass.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out—only a trembling exhale, a wordless prayer wrapped in disbelief.

And all she could do was watch. All she could do was feel.

Draco worked with brutal efficiency, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone, the muscles in his neck pulled taut with strain as he sliced cleanly through the rope coiled around Blaise's neck. The fibers snapped with a sickening tension, and Draco moved instinctively, catching his best friend's collapsing weight before it could strike the blood-soaked ground. Blaise's body was heavy in his arms, far too limp, far too silent. "I've got you, mate," he murmured, voice low and raw, more breath than sound, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile thread of life still clinging to the man in his arms. Blaise's head lolled against his shoulder, his skin the color of ash and streaked with grime and drying blood, but his chest—barely—rose and fell, each breath shallow and ghost-like. He was alive. For now.

Nearby, Titus mirrored his movements with grim precision, his hands slick with blood and rope fibers as he cradled Theo's body down from the gallows. Theo's weight sagged heavily against him, his head lolling at an unnatural angle, face swollen and nearly unrecognizable beneath layers of bruising and dried blood. His lips were tinged with blue, his pulse fluttering erratically beneath skin that felt too cold. He didn't flinch, didn't breathe. He lowered him gently onto the forest floor like he was something sacred, his fingers trembling as they brushed a matted curl from Theo's forehead. "Stay with me, Nott," he whispered, the words cracked and barely audible. "Don't make me bury you."

Then came the flash—sudden and searing—Ginny bursting through the line of trees, her wand blazing like a comet in the darkness. Her magic pulsed with such heat that the air shimmered around her, the ground beneath her boots smoldering with each step, her arrival less like a sprint and more like an eruption. She reached Blaise in seconds, collapsing to her knees beside him, her hands hovering, shaking, terrified to touch him and yet unable to stop. Her breath hitched, and her voice broke with it as she leaned close, brushing her fingers over his blood-matted curls. "Blaise," she breathed, barely more than a sob. "I'm here. I'm here, my love. Please…"

Neville appeared moments later, his arrival quiet but precise, the calm at the eye of the storm. He knelt beside Theo without a word, his wand already in motion, glowing with soft pulses of diagnostic enchantments that danced over both bodies. The eerie light flickered over their battered forms, casting shadows on the torn skin and sunken eyes, the jagged angles of pain etched into every limb. His brows furrowed deeper with each scan, lips moving in a steady stream of incantations and muttered calculations, his focus unshakable even as blood soaked into his knees.

"They're alive," he finally said, though there was no triumph in his tone—only grim urgency. "Barely. Theo's pulse is faint, and Blaise—" he paused, glancing toward Ginny, who was now clutching Blaise's limp hand with both of hers, her tears falling freely onto his skin—"he's losing blood fast. We have minutes. Maybe."

Ginny shook her head violently, as if denial could undo the damage. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails cutting deep crescents into her palms. She turned to Neville with a look of unfiltered desperation, her voice shaking and fierce all at once. "Then do something," she pleaded, her tone cracking with grief. "Please, Neville. You have to save him."

"I will," he replied without hesitation, his voice quiet but resolute as he placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "But not here. Not like this. We need to move now."

Draco, still holding Blaise against his chest, lifted his gaze. His voice was hard, clipped. "Luna. Hermione. Ginny. Get Pansy and the children out. Apparate back to the safehouse. We'll bring them separately—Theo and Blaise need stabilization before we risk transporting them."

But Ginny didn't move. Her eyes burned like coals as she tightened her grip on Blaise's hand, as though by sheer will she could force him to remain tethered to her. "No," she said, her voice flat and sharp as tempered steel. "I'm not leaving. Not him."

"Ginny—" Draco began, but the look she gave him was enough to stop the world.

"I said no," she snarled, the air around her flaring with magic, the leaves at her feet curling inward from the sudden rise in heat. "I am not leaving him."

There was a pause—brief but heavy—and then Draco nodded once, tight-lipped. "Fine. But you stay clear of Neville. Don't get in his way."

The group moved as one, a blur of motion and spellwork, their hands slick with blood and mud, their eyes hard with focus. Every movement was calculated, desperate, necessary. The forest still watched, silent and unblinking, the lingering echo of violence hanging in the branches above like smoke.

Behind them, the corpses of the executioners lay twisted and forgotten at the base of the gallows, their eyes staring into nothing, their limbs splayed at odd angles. The blood pooled thick and black beneath them, soaking into the roots of the trees like an offering. The forest would remember what had been done here—but the battle to pull Blaise and Theo back from death had only just begun.