The Claustrophobic Love of Luna Lovegood-Nott

A week had passed, and in that time, the balance of their relationship had shifted in ways Theo had never anticipated, in ways he wasn't sure he fully understood. It wasn't obvious at first, just a subtle difference in the air between them, something he could feel rather than see, something easily dismissed as a byproduct of his recovery, of the weight still lingering in his bones from everything that had happened.

Normally, he was the possessive one—the one who couldn't stand to have distance between them, the one whose touch lingered too long, whose gaze followed her like a devoted shadow, like a predator ensuring its mate was always within reach. It had always been him who needed the reassurance, him who kept his hands on her whenever he could, him who kissed her in the quiet moments just to remind himself that she was real, that she was his. Because despite the darkness curling around his soul, despite the parts of him that had been carved out and rebuilt from ruin, she still chose him. Every day. Without hesitation. And he thrived on that certainty, on the knowledge that her love was unwavering, that no matter how many sins stained his hands, she would still look at him as if he was worth something.

But now?

Now, Luna was the one who couldn't let go.

It was there in the way her fingers lingered a second too long when she touched him, trailing over his skin as though memorizing him all over again. In the way she stayed close, pressing her body against his whenever they lay in bed, her arms wrapped around him with a desperation she had never allowed herself to show before. 

She followed him through the house, a silent presence in the corner of his vision, her eyes tracking him with something raw, something fragile beneath the surface. 

And at night, when she thought he was asleep, he could feel her watching him, feel her hands ghosting over his skin, as if she needed the reassurance that he was still here, still breathing, still hers.

But now? Now, Luna was the one who couldn't let go.

It started subtly, so small that Theo barely noticed at first. Her fingers lingered on his skin, barely-there touches that sent shivers down his spine, brushing over his knuckles as if by accident, trailing absently over his jaw when she thought he wasn't paying attention. If he shifted, she shifted with him, an unconscious pull, as though some invisible thread bound them together. She stayed close—not just in the way lovers did, but in a way that felt different, urgent, like something inside her was demanding she remain within reach. Always close enough that if he so much as twitched his fingers, she could catch them, lace them through hers, hold him in place like she was afraid he might slip through her grasp.

Then, it escalated.

Luna watched him. Really watched him. Not in the way a wife admired her husband, nor in the way she usually observed the world, her gaze filled with that distant, dreamlike curiosity. No, this was something else entirely. This was intense. Quiet and calculating. It was the look of a woman memorizing something precious, committing every angle of his face to memory, as if she feared that one day she might wake up and he'd be gone. Her gaze followed him no matter where he went—silent and unwavering, tracking his every move as though his mere presence was the only thing tethering her to reality.

If he stirred in bed, she was awake instantly. No matter how deep her sleep had been, no matter how soft the movement, she would reach for him blindly, fingers seeking his in the dark, squeezing tight as though the steady rhythm of his breathing alone wasn't enough proof that he was still there. If he left the room, she followed. If he so much as stood to get a glass of water in the middle of the night, suddenly, she was thirsty too. If he sat in the library, she curled up beside him, pressing against his side, practically molding herself to him as if she could absorb him into her very being. 

And if she couldn't be near him, her eyes would darken with something heavy, something dangerous, something close to panic.

He should have found it annoying. He should have teased her for it. Should have pointed out how the tables had turned, how now she was the one obsessed, she was the one with the compulsive need to keep him close. He should have taken the opportunity to smirk at her, to gloat about her sudden inability to function unless she was practically on top of him.

But, Merlin fucking help him, he loved it.

Luna Lovegood had anchored herself to him. And the thrill of it, the sheer possessive satisfaction of it, made something primal and wicked coil in his chest.

It was intoxicating, the way she clung to him. The way she whispered his name in the dark, like a spell, like a prayer. The way she sighed his name against his lips, curled into him so tightly that he doubted there was even an inch of space left between them. And maybe—maybe—that made him a sick bastard, but if getting injured was what it took for Luna to need him like this, to want him like this, to keep reaching for him with that desperate, helpless sort of longing, then maybe he should get hurt more often.

The thought should have disturbed him. Should have sent a sliver of unease down his spine, should have made him realize how utterly fucked he was.

But instead, he smirked.

His arm tightened around her waist, securing her even closer as she practically sat in his lap, her fingers absentmindedly tracing circles over his chest, the book in her hands entirely forgotten. She wasn't reading it. Not really. He doubted she even remembered what page she was on. But she liked the feeling of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. He knew she did.

His voice was low, teasing, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "You're attached to me, love."

Luna didn't even look up. Didn't flinch. Didn't deny it.

"Yes," she answered simply.

No excuses. No hesitation. Just acceptance.

His smirk deepened, predatory satisfaction curling through him as he buried his face in her hair, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the soft curve of her shoulder. Fuck, he had it bad.

And Merlin fucking help him if he even thought about leaving the house.

The moment Theo so much as twitched toward the door, Luna's voice cut through the air, sharp and absolute. "No."

It wasn't a request. It wasn't a suggestion. It wasn't even up for discussion. It was a command—one spoken with the kind of quiet, unshakable authority that left no room for argument.

Theo, who had spent his entire life being the dominant one, the one who decided, who possessed, who controlled with nothing more than a look, felt something slow and dangerous curl through him as he turned toward her. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, amusement flickering in his storm-grey eyes as he arched a brow.

"No?" he echoed, dragging the syllable out like it was adorable that someone, thought they could deny him something.

Luna remained unmoved. Arms folded. Expression unreadable. But her eyes were different. There was nothing dreamy or soft about them now. No trace of the usual faraway whimsy that lived inside her. Instead, there was something unyielding beneath the glow of her silver-blue gaze, something ancient and feral that sent a shiver straight down his spine.

"No." Her voice was silk wrapped in steel, soft and final, a blade hidden beneath a velvet glove. "You almost died, Theodore. You are not stepping outside until I say so."

There was no waver, no hesitation, no space for him to argue.

She meant it.

A week ago, he might have fought her on this. A week ago, he would have laughed, kissed her until she forgot what she was mad about, and then walked out the door anyway—just to prove that he could.

But this?

This was something different.

Because his Luna was looking at him the way he had always looked at her. With that raw, desperate, consuming need. The kind that devoured. The kind that obsessed.

And fuck, he loved it.

It was intoxicating. Addicting. Like the finest wine, the rarest drug.

She didn't even realize what she was doing to him. Didn't notice how every time she curled into his side, clung to him in the dead of night, traced her fingers over his skin like she was trying to memorize him, she was feeding something dark inside him. Something twisted. Something starved.

For years, his obsession had burned like an eternal fire—raging, insatiable, relentless. But now? Now, it was Luna who was gripping his wrist just a little too tightly. Now, it was Luna shadowing his every move, watching him like she was terrified he'd disappear. Now, it was Luna who refused to let him stray too far, who needed to know he was still there.

And he delighted in it.

The thought should have concerned him. Should have made him feel guilty.

But instead, a cruel, indulgent idea slithered through his mind, sinking its claws into his soul.

He should get injured more often.

His smirk widened, sharp and knowing, as he slowly closed the distance between them. He felt the moment her breath hitched, saw the way her throat bobbed when he lifted his hand to brush his fingers over her cheek. Good. Let her tremble. Let her feel the weight of her own obsession.

Tilting her chin up with his thumb, he forced her to meet his gaze, drinking in the storm brewing behind her silver-blue eyes.

"My love," he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement, thick with satisfaction, "I adore this side of you."

Luna huffed, unimpressed, but she didn't pull away. Didn't fight him. Didn't even deny it. "Don't get used to it."

Oh, but he would.

He would thrive in it.

With a slow, knowing smirk, he leaned in, brushing his lips against hers, reveling in the way her breath stuttered, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like she needed to anchor herself to him.

"Sick fucking bastard," he murmured to himself, before finally capturing her lips in a kiss that promised her one thing.

He would never let her go.

Theo quickly realized that Luna's version of possessiveness was an entirely different beast than his own, and Merlin fucking help him, it might have been even worse.

His brand of obsession had always been suffocating, intense, all-consuming, a love so deep it bordered on madness. He was a man who had never done anything halfway, and when it came to Luna, that truth became law. 

She was his only sanctuary, his only salvation, the one thing tethering him to something real, something human. He was territorial, insatiable in his need to have her, to know she was his in every possible way. He had never once been ashamed of the way he loved her—possessively, desperately, almost violently in the way his instincts demanded blood if someone so much as looked at her the wrong way. His devotion was written in the way he lingered, the way he hovered, the way his fingers tightened whenever she strayed too far.

But Luna? Luna's possessiveness was quiet.

It wasn't about threats. It wasn't about jealous outbursts or violent displays of devotion. It wasn't about locking him in unbreakable wards or snapping at anyone who dared get too close.

It was softer.

But somehow, infinitely worse.

Because she watched him.

Constantly.

Luna had always been observant, always attuned to the things others didn't see, but now her gaze never left him. She tracked his every move with the kind of focus that made his skin prickle, her silver-blue eyes trained on him as though if she blinked, if she so much as looked away for a second too long, he might just disappear.

At first, it had been adorable. He had teased her mercilessly for it, smirked whenever he caught her staring, kissed her senseless just to watch her breath hitch in that way he loved. But now? Now, he was starting to think he had actually lost his autonomy.

If he so much as winced—barely flinched—her brows would knit together in concern. If he reached for something too fast, she would abandon whatever she was doing to press her hands to his chest, check for injuries that weren't even there. If he sighed too deeply, she would tilt her head in that knowing way, her fingers reaching for his wrist, searching for his pulse, confirming that he was, in fact, still breathing.

It was constant.

It was endless.

And it was beginning to drive him insane.

"Love," he murmured one evening, sprawled across the couch, his head resting in her lap while she absentmindedly ran her fingers through his curls. "You do realize I survived, yes?"

Luna hummed, and Merlin's balls, he could feel the way her fingers tightened just slightly, their once gentle caress turning into something possessive.

"Of course," she said, her voice as light as air, as if she hadn't just squeezed the ever-loving hell out of his scalp. "That doesn't mean you're allowed to do anything reckless, though."

He sighed, the kind of dramatic exhale designed specifically to test her patience, tilting his head up just enough to catch the unimpressed expression on her face.

"Luna," he drawled, smirking. "I am a grown man."

"You almost weren't."

"That's not fair," he argued, pouting slightly, though the effect was ruined by the way she wasn't even fucking wrong.

Luna merely smiled, that soft, infuriating, knowing expression that always told him she had already won this conversation before it even started. Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss to his forehead—sweet, gentle, deceptive—before whispering against his skin, "Neither is dying on me."

…Well. Fuck.

She had a point.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

Instead, he did what any self-respecting man would do when faced with an argument he knew he had no way of winning—he cheated.

With a speed that shouldn't have been possible given his supposed injuries, Theo flipped them both, gripping her waist with an ease that made her gasp as he rolled her beneath him, pressing her into the cushions of the sofa. His smirk was wicked when she glared up at him, all breathless outrage and golden hair splayed against the fabric, the perfect combination of his favorite things.

"Theodore!" she huffed, lips parting as if to scold him further.

"See?" he murmured, deliberately pressing himself closer, his weight settling between her thighs in a way that he knew would leave her breath hitching. "Strong as ever."

Her hands curled around his forearms, her fingers pressing into his skin, and just as he was about to make some obnoxiously smug comment about how clearly he was fine—he noticed something.

She wasn't smiling.

Not really.

Not in the way he expected.

Because despite the laughter, despite the soft gasp of surprise, despite the way she was looking at him like she always did—like he was her entire world—there was something beneath the surface.

Something that wasn't amusement.

Something that hurt.

She swallowed, just slightly, and when she finally spoke, her voice was softer.

"Promise me," she whispered, barely audible over the crackling fire in the hearth, "that you won't make me go through that again."

His amusement vanished.

Her fingers tightened, pressing into his skin just enough for him to feel the desperation laced within her words.

Theo had never been good at promises.

He had broken too many in his lifetime, had betrayed too many vows, had been a disappointment to too many people.

But for her? For her, he would burn the world down before breaking his word.

Exhaling slowly, he tilted his head, brushing his lips over her forehead, lingering there just long enough to feel the way she melted into him.

"I promise," he murmured, his voice raw, honest in a way he rarely let himself be.

And whatever tension had been holding her together finally snapped.

Her arms wrapped around him then, clutching him against her, her breath shuddering as she buried her face against his neck, holding him tighter than she ever had before.

And for once?

For once, Theo didn't mind being the one held.

Because finally, that was a promise he would keep.

Forever.

He kissed her deeply, pouring everything he couldn't put into words into the press of his lips—the silent apologies, the unspoken promises, the raw devotion that had settled into his bones, unshakable and eternal. He kissed her with reverence, with possession, with that quiet desperation that had always been reserved for her alone. But Luna? Luna had other ideas.

Before he could even think, her fingers curled into his shirt, gripping the fabric with enough force to make his breath hitch. And then—rip.

The tearing sound echoed in the room.

He barely had time to react before his chest was bared, the remnants of his once-intact shirt hanging uselessly off his shoulders.

"LUNA!" he barked, caught between amusement and exasperation.

She arched a delicate brow, her lips curving into something entirely too pleased with herself as she trailed her fingers down his exposed skin, nails scraping just enough to make his stomach clench. "Theodore," she murmured, voice a slow, sultry drawl that made his blood boil. "You have no idea what you do to me."

He swallowed hard, watching her through hooded eyes, his pulse hammering against his ribs. "Oh?" His voice was rough, laced with amusement, with something darker, something entirely too eager. "Enlighten me."

Her hands slid lower, her touch featherlight but torturous, and she smirked, tilting her head as if considering him, taunting him, like she hadn't just ripped off his fucking clothes like a woman possessed.

"You made me sickly in love again," she confessed, her voice dripping with something dangerous, something entirely Luna. "It's disturbing."

Before he could respond, his control snapped. He surged forward, capturing her mouth with his once more, groaning at the way she moaned into him, at the way her hands clutched at his shoulders like she needed him closer, like she would pull him under and never let him go. He trailed kisses down her throat, slow and deliberate, his lips pressing over every inch of skin he could reach, lingering at the delicate dip of her collarbone, savoring the soft sighs that spilled from her lips.

With a flick of his wand, her dress vanished, leaving her bare beneath him, her skin glowing in the dim light, and Merlin fucking help him,he couldn't breathe.

She was perfect.

His gaze dropped lower, and something in him shattered.

Having a small child had, apparently, come with some unexpected blessings—because Luna's breasts were huge.

Theo was obsessed.

He reached out, cupping one reverently, groaning when he realized it didn't even fit in his palm anymore, that there was more of her to worship, to claim, to devour.

Luna smirked, tilting her chin as if reading his mind, her voice wicked when she murmured, "Like what you see?"

His fingers tightened, his lips curling into something feral.

"Oh, Moonbeam," he purred, his voice thick with reverence, with hunger, as he dipped his head lower, brushing his lips over the swell of her breast before flicking his tongue over the hardened peak. A sharp gasp tore from her throat, her back arching beneath him as if she had no control over her own body, as if he had just rewired every nerve inside of her to respond to him and him alone.

"I love it," he murmured, his voice barely more than a groan, his hands tightening around her waist as he took her nipple into his mouth, sucking, flicking, teasing—drawing those beautiful, desperate little sounds from her lips that made him ache.

Luna was so sensitive like this, so needy, her body thrumming with pleasure at even the smallest touch. He could feel her trembling beneath him, feel the way her fingers dug into his shoulders, the way her thighs squeezed around his waist like she couldn't bear to be apart from him for even a moment.

And Theo? Theo was drunk on her.

He kissed lower, worshiping his way down her body, trailing his tongue along her ribs, her stomach, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over every inch of her skin like he was memorizing her all over again. And then, finally, he reached where he wanted to be.

He pressed his lips against her cunt, groaning at the way she gasped, at the way her hips jerked up to meet his mouth.

Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.

His tongue traced over her, slow, deliberate, savoring the heat, the wetness, the way she whimpered when he sucked her clit between his lips. Oh, gods, he was living for that sound.

The way she writhed, the way her fingers tangled in his hair and pulled—as if she needed him closer, as if she needed more, more of him, more of everything. He licked her like she was his last fucking meal on this earth, like he had been starving for her, like she was the only thing that could ever satisfy him.

She was his favorite fucking dessert.

"T-Theo—" she gasped, her voice breathy, trembling.

He hummed against her, sending vibrations rippling through her body, relishing the way she shuddered beneath him. "What is it, love?" he asked, his voice dripping with amusement, with wicked delight.

She squirmed, her thighs trembling around his head. "Put it in."

Theo chuckled, dark and indulgent, his grip tightening on her hips as he kissed the inside of her thigh, deliberately ignoring the way she squirmed. "Demanding little princess," he murmured, lips ghosting over her skin, his voice teasing.

But who was he kidding?

With a flick of his wrist, his clothes vanished, disappearing into thin air as he rose over her, his body covering hers, his weight pressing her into the mattress in the most delicious way. He positioned himself at her entrance, taking his time, running the thick head of his cock through her slick folds, teasing her, making her wait.

Because fuck, he loved seeing her like this. Loved seeing her wrecked beneath him.

Loved knowing that he was the only man on this earth who would ever get to have her like this.

And when he finally slid inside, slow, deliberate, deep—he swore he saw stars.

He sank into her inch by inch, dragging out the moment, savoring the way her walls stretched around him, the way her body clenched, greedy and so fucking tight, taking him in like she was made for him. And maybe she was, maybe the gods had carved her from the same fabric as him, entwining their fates long before either of them had ever drawn breath.

Luna let out a shattered moan, her hands scrambling against his back, nails digging in, her head tilting back as if she were surrendering entirely to him. "Theo—"

He groaned, a low, deep sound, his forehead pressing against hers, sweat beading at his temple, his breath shaky as he forced himself to go slow, to relish the way she enveloped him, warm and wet and fucking perfect.

"Fuck, love," he rasped, voice thick with restraint, with desperation. "You—" His words cut off into a strangled groan as she clenched around him, her hips lifting, trying to force him deeper.

She was impatient. Needy.

And fuck, that did something to him.

He pulled out just slightly before thrusting back in, slow, torturous, reveling in the way she sobbed his name, the way her thighs tightened around his waist like she was trapping him there.

"You're fucking insatiable," he murmured against her lips, kissing her deeply, swallowing her gasps. "I swear, you were made for me, weren't you?"

His grip tightened, fingers digging into the soft curves of her hips as he drove into her with a force that bordered on desperation, dragging a keening cry from her lips. The sofa creaked beneath them, the rhythm of their bodies an intoxicating symphony of skin against skin, breathless moans tangled between fevered kisses.

Theo buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her, his lips grazing her racing pulse before his teeth sank in, marking her, branding her, staking his claim in the most primal way he knew how. 

She shattered beneath him, a strangled moan escaping her throat as her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper, until he was buried to the hilt, until he was so deep inside her that he swore he could feel her heartbeat against his cock.

"Fuck, love—" His voice was wrecked, strangled, his rhythm faltering as she clenched around him, her body trembling, milking him, pulling him under with her. "You—you're squeezing me so fucking tight—"

Luna gasped, nails raking down his back, dragging red lines in her wake as her body convulsed, her climax crashing into her with the force of a tidal wave. "Theo—" His name was a broken prayer on her lips, her hands scrambling for purchase against the sheets, her body arching, writhing, as if she couldn't bear the pleasure, as if she might crumble beneath the weight of it.

His chest heaved, sweat slicking his skin, his mind clouded with nothing but her—the way she felt beneath him, the way she trembled, the way she moaned for him. He was losing himself, unraveling at the seams, drowning in the unbearable bliss of her. "Look at me," he rasped, his voice rough, demanding, a plea and a command wrapped into one.

She forced her heavy-lidded eyes open, silver-blue irises glazed with pleasure, her lips parted, swollen from his kisses, her cheeks flushed, glowing with the aftermath of her release. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and she was his.

His rhythm stuttered, his breath hitching as his own climax coiled tight in his spine, building, pushing him closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. "Say it again," he growled, his fingers tightening in her hair as he slammed into her, hitting that spot that had her gasping, her body jerking in response. "Tell me who you belong to."

"You," she sobbed, her hands flying up to cup his face, her lips brushing against his in a breathless whisper. "I belong to you."

And that was it. That was all it took.

His control snapped entirely, his body tensing as he spilled into her, groaning against her mouth, his entire world narrowing to the feel of her, the way she held him so tight it was as if she never wanted to let go. He rocked into her through the aftershocks, pressing soft kisses to her damp forehead, murmuring her name like a prayer, like a vow.

They stayed like that for a moment, tangled together in a mess of limbs and sweat and love, their hearts pounding in synchrony. She exhaled a slow, satisfied sigh, her fingers tracing absentminded patterns across his back, her legs still wrapped loosely around his waist.

Theo let out a breathless chuckle, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple. "You're going to kill me one day," he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion and adoration, his hands smoothing over the curves of her hips. "And I'll die a happy man."

She hummed in response, a soft, lazy smile curving her lips. "You'll survive. You always do."

And fuck, if she wasn't right.

~~~~~~

If Theodore was obsessed with Luna, then Seline was something else entirely.

With Luna, his love was unhinged, raw, consuming—the kind of love that took root in his very bones and refused to let go. She was the moon that pulled his tides, the force that had reshaped him from the inside out.

But Seline?

Seline was the entire universe wrapped in golden curls and mischievous giggles.

He had spent years convinced that nothing—nothing—could ever hold his heart the way Luna did. But then she had come into the world, impossibly tiny, blinking up at him with those same silvery-blue eyes, and in that moment, he had ceased to exist as anything other than her father.

He had no choice in the matter. No say. The second he held her, his fate had been sealed.

He was ruined.

If there had been some kind of instruction manual on how to be a father, Theo hadn't read it. Hadn't even considered looking for it. He had spent his entire life knowing how to be ruthless, how to destroy, how to take—but the moment Seline had curled her tiny fingers around his own, something inside him had snapped.

Something ancient.

Something primal.

Now?

Now, he existed for her.

His entire world sat in front of him, a whirlwind of golden curls and endless laughter, shrieking with delight as she tried—and failed—to cover his eyes with her tiny, chubby hands. Her giggles were bright, uninhibited, the kind of laughter that came from deep within her little belly, shaking her entire body with pure, unfiltered joy.

"Dadda no look!" Seline ordered, her tiny frame wriggling with excitement as she scrambled onto his lap, her determined little hands pressing against his eyes with all the strength she could muster.

Theo chuckled, leaning back against the couch, letting her have her way, though his lips twitched in amusement. He could feel the warmth of her palms, the way her fingers barely stretched across his face, and he wondered, not for the first time, how something so small could take up so much space inside his heart. "No looking?" he asked, feigning confusion. "But what if I need to see my little princess?"

Seline gasped, scandalized, her entire body vibrating with indignation. "No, Dadda!" she scolded, her voice high and certain, as if he had just committed the greatest crime imaginable. "HIDE, Dadda!"

Theo barely held back his smirk, playing along with a dramatic sigh. "Hide? Oh no! Where did Seline go?" He blinked in exaggerated confusion, turning his head side to side, even though she was very much still sitting in his lap.

And then, suddenly, she was gone—well, gone as much as a giggling, wriggling toddler could be when she all but dove under the coffee table, her curls bouncing wildly as she scrambled into position.

A tiny, unmistakable giggle escaped from beneath the wood.

Theo bit his lip, shaking his head. It had started a few weeks ago—her sudden love for hide-and-seek, even though she had yet to grasp the concept that giggling like a madwoman was the worst possible way to remain hidden. But it didn't matter. He lived for these moments. For the pure joy radiating from her, for the way her entire face lit up when she thought she had outsmarted him, for the way her little heart beat so fiercely with excitement that he could practically feel it in the air.

And so, being the utterly pathetic excuse for a father that he was, Theo played along.

"Oh dear," he sighed dramatically, standing up with an exaggerated frown. "Seline has vanished! My poor baby girl is gone! Whatever shall I do?" He placed a hand over his heart, staggering back a step as if he might collapse from the devastation.

Another giggle.

Theo tapped his chin, pretending to think. "Maybe she flew away! Perhaps she's turned into a tiny fairy and disappeared into the garden!"

From under the table, an excited squeal.

He bit back his grin, stepping closer, crouching down just enough to see the golden ringlets peeking out from beneath the wood. "Or…" he mused, drawing out the word, "perhaps she's under this very table!"

A dramatic gasp, as if she hadn't been giggling the entire time.

"NOOO!" Seline shrieked, scrambling backward, her little legs kicking as she tried to escape.

Theo lunged.

She squealed, flailing wildly as he scooped her up with ease, spinning her around as her shrieks of laughter rang through the room. "I got you!" he declared, holding her close, pressing his nose to her cheek as she writhed in delight. "My little fairy princess is mine again!"

Seline, breathless and red-faced from giggling, clung to his shirt, her tiny fingers gripping onto the fabric as she gasped out, "Daddy win!"

Theo smirked, tapping her nose with his own. "Dadda always wins, love."

But Seline, being her mother's daughter, narrowed her eyes in suspicion, pursing her lips before poking his cheek. "But Dadda lose when Mama say so."

Theo froze.

His baby girl was too smart.

"Excuse me?" he asked, feigning offense.

Seline grinned, her arms wrapping around his neck as she declared, with all the confidence in the world, "Mama win! Always win!"

Theo groaned dramatically, falling backward onto the couch, still clutching her against his chest. "Betrayed! In my own home!"

Seline, now straddling his chest, clapped her hands gleefully, her little face bright with amusement. "Mama best!"

Theo sighed, lips twitching despite himself. "I see how it is. My own daughter, turning against me."

Seline placed her tiny hands on either side of his face, tilting her head in exaggerated thought. She furrowed her brows, considering something very, very important.

"Hmmm…" she hummed, squinting at him as if trying to decipher some grand secret of the universe.

Then, finally, after a long, dramatic pause, she broke into a mischievous grin.

"Dadda best too!" she announced, nodding as if she had just come to the most profound conclusion.

Theo, who had not been expecting that, felt something warm and dangerous explode in his chest.

He swallowed hard, blinking up at her, his hands tightening just slightly around her tiny frame, as if holding on would keep this moment from slipping away.

"Say it again," he murmured, his voice softer, almost reverent.

Seline giggled, poking his nose this time. "Dadda best!"

Something in Theo broke.

His arms wrapped around her tightly, almost protectively, as if the words themselves had unraveled something deep inside him. He pressed his lips to her curls, breathing in the soft scent of baby powder, warmth, and the unshakable love of his little girl.

"You have no idea what you do to me, my little love," he whispered, rocking her gently. "No idea at all."

Seline, completely unaware of the storm she had just stirred in her father's heart, nuzzled into his neck, her breath already slowing, already settling into the rhythm of sleep.

"Daddy win," she mumbled sleepily.

Theo closed his eyes, feeling something fragile and dangerous settle inside his chest, something so vast and overwhelming he wasn't sure he could contain it.

"No, princess," he murmured, holding her just a little tighter, pressing another kiss to her soft hair.

"You win. Always."

He was done for.

Absolutely fucking ruined.

"Oh, love," he murmured, the words spilling from his lips like a prayer, low and reverent, as he pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of her head, breathing in the scent that had become something sacred—lavender and baby powder and something uniquely Seline, something impossibly soft and warm and safe. "You're going to be the death of me," he whispered into her curls, though there was no fear in his voice, no dread—only awe, only a devotion so deep it scraped at the marrow of his bones. Because if this was how he went out, then he would count himself a blessed man.

He didn't want to let go. Not ever. He could have stayed like that forever, with her curled against him, her tiny breaths warm against his collarbone, her fingers still tangled in the collar of his shirt like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go. And maybe, in some small way, she was right. Because Theo didn't exist without his family anymore—not really.

But the peace didn't last.

Because just then, a familiar voice drifted through the doorway with that unmistakable, lilting cadence he knew by heart—half whimsical, half amused, entirely Luna.

"Mummy heard her name," she announced as she stepped into the room, her voice teasing, filled with affection and mischief and that quiet sort of light she always carried with her like a second skin. "So we came to investigate."

Her presence was sunlight and magic wrapped into the shape of a woman, and she stood there in the soft afternoon glow with one hand clasped gently around Lysander's—a boy who looked as though he had barely been able to contain himself, bouncing in place with barely restrained excitement before he broke free like a storm.

"SELIIIEEE!" he cried, his little legs pumping beneath him as he darted across the room, his curls a chaotic halo around his face. Without hesitation, he flung himself forward with all the enthusiasm and zero of the coordination of a four-year-old on a mission of pure love.

Theo barely had time to brace himself as Lysander collided with him, then immediately launched himself toward his sister, pressing an exaggerated, smacking kiss to her cheek with all the reverence of a knight pledging loyalty to a tiny queen.

"Good boy," Luna praised, her tone full of amused pride as she crossed the room at a more reasonable pace, her eyes warm as she watched the exchange unfold. "Now go on, little knight. Your train set is waiting for a commander. But play carefully, alright?"

Lysander didn't even wait to answer. He nodded so hard his curls bounced like springs and immediately reached for Seline's hand, dragging his sister away like she had been summoned on an urgent quest. "Come on, Seli," he said with the gravity of a boy on a mission. "We have to build the biggest track in the world."

Theo watched them go, his heart clenching almost painfully at the sight of their tiny hands tangled together, their giggles fading into the background like a lullaby.

Luna slipped into his lap without a word, her movements fluid and instinctive, as though she belonged there,because she did, and always had. The weight of her settled perfectly against him, her body folding into his like a final puzzle piece clicking into place. She didn't hesitate, didn't wait for permission or an invitation, just leaned in and kissed him—deeply, sweetly, a press of lips that said more than any morning greeting could ever manage.

Theo's hands found her waist automatically, anchoring her there as though some part of him still couldn't quite believe she was real. "Good morning, love," he murmured into the kiss, his voice sleep-rough and low, the kind of voice he reserved for early hours and unguarded moments. His thumb brushed slow, languid circles along her hip, savoring the warmth of her in his arms.

She smiled against his mouth, her fingers sliding up the back of his neck and into his hair, tugging just slightly as she pulled back enough to look at him. Her silver-blue eyes sparkled, softened by morning light and something far deeper—affection, admiration, that ever-present sense of wonder she carried like a second soul. "I love seeing you with them," she said softly, the words catching a little in her throat as if they came from someplace buried deep. "You're so good to them. So gentle. It makes my heart feel too full sometimes."

His brow furrowed at that, just a little, like the sheer intensity of her praise almost hurt to hold. He lowered his eyes briefly, then leaned in, pressing his lips to the curve of her jaw, then lower—his mouth trailing along her skin until he reached the hollow of her neck, where he kissed her slowly, reverently, as though giving thanks to something sacred.

"Thank you for them," he whispered against her throat, each syllable laced with something raw and unfiltered, something he didn't know how to name except as love. "For giving them to me. For trusting me with this… this life."

She exhaled, her breath catching, her hands settling over his heart. She felt it pounding steadily beneath her palms, steady and strong, a rhythm she knew better than her own.

He kissed her again, slower this time, softer, his lips lingering at the base of her neck like he could speak through touch. Like he could make her feel everything he didn't have words for. His voice, when it came again, was barely more than breath. "I don't deserve this," he admitted, so quietly that she almost missed it. "But I swear to you, Luna, I'll spend my whole life trying to earn it."

Lysander gasped dramatically, looking to Seline for emotional support. "Seline, no!" he cried, grabbing his baby sister's hand like they were about to evacuate the premises. "We must escape! Mummy and Dadda are being gross!" 

Seline, clutching her stuffed unicorn, blinked at her brother in confusion. Then, with a bright, delighted smile, she clapped her tiny hands together. "Dadda kiss Mama!" she announced cheerfully. 

Theo smirked triumphantly. "See? Seline understands romance." 

"Seli, NOOOO!" Lysander wailed, dragging his sister behind the couch like it was a bunker meant to protect them from witnessing any further atrocities. "We must never speak of this again!" 

Luna, laughing, laced her fingers through Theo's and pulled him down onto the couch with her, settling herself onto his lap as if she belonged there. 

She always would. No matter what, no matter when—Luna would always fold herself into him like she was meant to be there, like she had been sculpted from the same stars that had forged him, like the universe itself had built them to fit. 

She sighed against him, her forehead pressing lightly to his, her breath warm, steady, comforting. He let his eyes flutter shut for a moment, savoring the weight of her in his lap, the delicate way her fingers traced over his shoulder. But something wasn't right.

The shift in her body was subtle, so subtle that anyone else might have missed it. But not Theo. Never Theo. He knew her too well, had studied every nuance of her breath, every rhythm of her presence. 

The way her laughter faded not gradually but abruptly, the way her posture stiffened even as she remained curled against him, the way her fingers gripped his arm—not for warmth or affection, but in restraint, as if she was holding something back. As if she was anchoring herself to him before the tide dragged her under.

His hands, once idle and slow in their affection, froze against her hips, his touch firming with quiet alarm. His chest rose and fell with a new stillness, breath lodged somewhere between calm and dread.

"What is it, love?" The words were gentle but edged in steel, low and deliberate, shaped by a kind of authority he rarely had to wield with her—because they never needed it. Not until now.

She didn't answer right away. Just a breath. A pause. But to Theo, it felt like a lifetime—a still, loaded silence heavy with things neither of them wanted to name.

Then, her voice dropped low. Too low. And just like that, the room went cold.

"It's about Titus."

The air in Theo's lungs vanished.

Titus.

The name alone was enough to ignite something primitive in him. His entire body snapped tight, his spine going ramrod straight, hands going rigid against Luna's sides. The warmth in his chest, the lingering sweetness of their children's laughter, of Luna's lips still fresh on his own, was gone—stripped from him in a heartbeat. What replaced it was sharp and silent and deadly.

His jaw clenched so violently it ached, the muscles in his arms twitching with a familiar, dangerous tension.

Titus. His blood. A man he had already warned—no, threatened—with the kind of violence most people didn't live to remember. A man Theo had always suspected was wrong, twisted in ways he couldn't quite name but always, always sensed.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His fury came wrapped in a whisper.

"He's not allowed to talk to you." Each word was deliberate, final, a knife laid flat against a table, waiting to be picked up.

But Luna didn't flinch.

She didn't look at him with softness or fear, only with the same cold fire she'd shown when protecting those she loved. Her eyes, normally pools of gentle light, had darkened to something ancient, something feral.

"He didn't talk to me," she said, her voice like the edge of a broken star. A beat passed, barely a second, but Theo already felt the floor cracking beneath him.

His stomach twisted violently. "Then what—"

Her hand shot up, gripping his wrist with a strength that belied her size, her gentleness. Her fingers were cold. Unsteady. But her gaze was unwavering, her voice a blade honed to a whisper.

"He looked at Seline, Theo."

Silence exploded between them.

He couldn't breathe.

"He looked at my baby girl. With those eyes."

Time fractured. The world narrowed to a single, jagged line between life before that sentence and life after.

Theo didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't speak. He simply stilled—utterly, terribly, completely. A coiled thing. A dormant weapon remembering what it was built to do. His blood roared in his ears, louder than the crack of any spell, and behind his eyes bloomed a darkness that had not surfaced in years.

His lips parted, but no sound came. Because there were no words, no language, no spell strong enough to contain the fire now surging through his chest.

Titus had looked at his daughter.

And Theo knew what that meant. He had grown up with that man. Had watched the way Titus had always lingered too long, smiled too wide, said the wrong things in too careful a tone. Had written off the gut feeling for years, buried it beneath blood ties and the desperate need to pretend his family wasn't cursed.

The playful warmth from earlier had evaporated, burned away by something darker, something ancient, something that had been buried inside Theo for years, waiting for an excuse to surface. His entire demeanor changed, his normally sharp but relaxed expression shifting into something unreadable, something dangerous.

Luna saw it and felt it, the moment the air shifted around them, the tension thickening into something suffocating. She had always known how deep the darkness inside him ran, had always known what he was capable of, what he had done, what he would always be willing to do. And right now? Right now, she didn't care.

Her breath remained even, controlled, almost unnaturally so, but her hands were trembling against his skin. Not out of fear, not out of uncertainty, but with the kind of quiet fury that made Theo's blood run cold. The kind of rage that could only come from someone who had tasted something too bitter, too vile, to ever forgive.

"I want you to kill him."

She said it plainly, without inflection, without drama, without the slightest hint of tremor in her voice. No pleading. No desperation. Just absolute clarity. Just truth.

Theo didn't flinch. He didn't move. Didn't blink. He simply stared at her, at the woman he had shared his life with, the woman who had brought him back from the brink more times than he could count, who had carried his children, shared his name, his bed, his world. And in that moment, he saw a version of her he had only glimpsed in rare flashes—a version carved from steel and storm and unbearable love.

This wasn't a request.

Her lips didn't quiver. Her eyes didn't soften. She wasn't waiting for his approval—she already knew what she wanted. What had to be done.

And Theo, who had spilled blood for far less, who had killed men for far smaller transgressions, felt something ancient stir inside him. Something cold and brutal and impossibly still.

"Luna." His voice was low, even, almost reverent. Like he was trying not to shatter something holy between them. "Are you sure—"

Her gaze snapped to his like a curse taking aim, her silver-blue eyes burning with a fury that made his breath catch.

"If you don't do it," she interrupted, her tone quieter now, but deadlier. A whisper made of broken glass. "I will."

No room for argument. No doubt. No hesitation. Just a promise, dark and simple and absolute.

Theo exhaled, a slow, measured breath through his nose, though his chest burned with the effort of keeping it steady. For a moment, his jaw clenched, like he was chewing on the weight of the moment, the unspoken consequences, the brutal future already taking shape in his mind. He should've been the one to talk her down, to offer logic, peace, anything to ease the storm in her.

But he couldn't.

Because she was right.

And he had always known this day would come.

"Consider it done."

The second the words left his mouth, Luna exhaled, a low, exhausted sound that came from somewhere deep in her chest. Her body sagged against him—not with weakness, but with relief, with release, with the knowledge that she didn't have to carry this alone. Her head dropped to his shoulder, and her hands slowly relaxed their grip, the sharp tremble fading into a quiet, simmering calm.

"Thank you, love," she murmured, and though her voice was soft, it cut through him like a sacred vow.

Theo's arm tightened around her instinctively, protectively, his fingers running through her hair in slow, rhythmic strokes that belied the violent storm already taking shape behind his eyes. Because he wasn't thinking about mercy. He wasn't thinking about justice. He was thinking about Titus. About Seline. About what he had seen in Luna's eyes.

And how good it was going to feel when he carved that look off his cousin's fucking face.

Anything for them. Anything.

~~~~~~

Theodore Nott was many things—an efficient killer, a silent blade in the dark, a ghost in the alleys of war-torn cities who dealt in finalities, not threats. He was a man forged by violence, tempered by survival, a creature honed to precision with every drop of blood he had spilled in the name of vengeance or necessity. But above all those brutal truths, he was Luna's husband, bound not by law but by choice, by love, by obsession. And he was Seline's father, a title that eclipsed all the rest, that transformed the sharp, merciless edge of him into something far more dangerous—a man willing to destroy the world without blinking if it meant keeping his family safe.

And tonight? Tonight, he wasn't just one of those things. He was all of them, sharpened to a singular point, honed like a dagger drawn across a whetstone.

The cold bit into him with every breath, the wind sharp enough to sting exposed skin, but it may as well have been warm spring air for all he noticed. The fire coursing through him burned hotter than the chill could touch. Each step he took was soundless, deliberate, the weight of his fury tethered to his movements with the restraint of a master predator. The snow beneath his boots didn't even crunch—because death did not announce itself. Not when it was this personal. Not when it was righteous.

He didn't need to remind himself why he was here. He didn't need to conjure the memory of Luna's trembling voice or the exact wording of what she'd said. It had been carved into him the moment her lips had formed the words. He looked at Seline. That was all it had taken. A look. A glance. A filth-slick moment of attention from a man who had already been warned, already been spared once.

The weight in Theo's coat wasn't from the cold. It was the blade strapped to his hip, the wand tucked into the sheath on his forearm, the quiet arsenal of a man who never left anything to chance. He didn't walk like a man heading into battle. He walked like a man heading home. Because this wasn't war, it wasn't strategy, it wasn't mission. This was a conclusion. This was inevitability. His muscles moved with a coiled precision, his breath steady, controlled, the kind of calm that came just before the detonation of something unstoppable.

He wasn't shaking with rage. He wasn't pacing, wasn't shouting, wasn't giving himself away to the emotion of it all. No. Theo didn't rage. He simmered. He burned slow. And when the fire reached the surface, it consumed everything.

Titus's house stood before him like a lie wrapped in ivy and stone, a quaint, unassuming cottage nestled on the sleepy outskirts of London, hidden behind a maze of enchantments designed to keep the world at bay. It was the kind of place that pretended innocence, all warm lights and quiet charm, the perfect mask for a monster. The perfect sanctuary for someone who believed themselves untouchable. A nest for filth. A hiding place for something vile. But no spell, no lock, no illusion could keep Theo Nott out. Not tonight. Not now. Not after what he'd heard. He wasn't a trespasser. He wasn't an intruder. He was the fucking reckoning.

There was no hesitation. No pause to breathe, to plan, to reconsider. Luna had spoken, and that alone was enough. Her voice was the only law he obeyed now, and her fury had summoned him here like a blade drawn across the dark. She had told him what Titus did—what Titus dared to look at—and there was no room left for mercy. Not when Seline had been involved. Not when those eyes had wandered. Not when those thoughts had even existed.

The door didn't open, it detonated, shattering beneath the force of Theo's boot, the wooden frame splintering outward in a shriek of resistance as jagged shards burst into the room like shrapnel, slicing through the thick, perfumed air that clung to every surface like sweat on skin, and the silence that followed was not silence at all, but a ringing absence, a breath held by the house itself, as if the walls had sensed the wrath crossing their threshold, as if the very foundation flinched at the fury carried in on the soles of Theo's boots.

The wind that followed him swept in like a vengeful spirit, howling through the corridors, extinguishing candle flames, sending gauzy curtains billowing like ghosts in mourning, toppling vases and perfume bottles with delicate clinks that would've been beautiful, if not for the reek now settling into his nostrils—liquor long gone flat, sweat steeped into silk, something curdled and festering beneath the surface, something sour and spoiled, indulgence turned to rot, opulence gone septic, the scent of sin worn like cologne, of silk sheets hiding bruises, of pleasure extracted like a tax and never paid for—he could taste it on the back of his tongue, and it made his stomach curl.

The room itself looked like it had never seen a consequence—lavish, overdone, mirrors everywhere, velvet draped in soft curves to mask the sharpness beneath, but it was all theatre, all disguise, and the scene sprawled across the oversized bed was nothing short of grotesque, a portrait of unrepentant filth masquerading as desire, with Titus Nott slouched over a too-young girl, his hands on her waist, his back slick with sweat, and that rhythm, that despicable, mechanical rhythm, only just halting when the door blew apart like judgment come to call.

The girl's scream hadn't yet reached her throat, still caught between disbelief and horror, her limbs flailing, tangled in sheets and panic and youth she would never get back, her curls messy, her painted face frozen in a mask that was meant to be alluring and now looked like a child playing dress-up, her wide blue eyes locked on Theo, pleading with a man she didn't even know to be the thing that stopped this, ended this, shattered this nightmare into pieces—though he barely saw her, not truly, not yet, because his eyes had already found the rot at the center of the room.

Titus didn't speak, didn't shout, didn't rise to defend himself or plead or beg or run—he froze, that was all, as if trying to pause time, as if there were still space for denial in the air thick with Theo's wrath, and in that one brief, catastrophic moment, their gazes locked, and Titus knew, he knew, the way you know when a storm is about to hit, when the sky splits open and the lightning strikes and you realize too late that you've already been standing in water with your arms raised like a fool; there was no confusion, no stammering innocence, no weak protests. 

Not this time, not when the man in the doorway had been born of war, sculpted by blood, tempered by the fire of things he'd had to survive, and now stood with a stillness so violent it felt like a held breath before a scream, a blade just before it breaks the skin.

There was no explanation that could be offered, no defense that would've mattered, no excuse he would entertain, and still Theo's voice, when it came, was low and almost soft, the way a lullaby is soft before the final note drops off into silence, the kind of softness that promises something far more terrifying than rage, that masks the edge of a blade that's already been raised, already been sharpened, already been named.

"Tell me," he said, tilting his head with something close to curiosity, something obscene in how calm it sounded, how quiet it was against the roar of blood in the walls, "were you imagining my wife… or my daughter?"

And that was when the girl let out a sob, curling in on herself like something small and shattered, covering her chest, her face, her soul, anything she could still salvage from this ruin, as Titus's mouth opened and closed like a fish pulled too violently from water, no sound, no breath, only the pathetic flickering of a man who had lived too long thinking no one would ever come for him.

But someone had.

Theo didn't wait for an answer, didn't need one, because his hand was already moving, wand gripped in fingers that had once held his daughter's tiny palm, fingers that had touched Luna's hair just hours before, still smelling faintly of rosemary and smoke and home, and now they clenched with the certainty of justice served cold and final, the spell leaving his lips without ceremony, without flourish, only necessity, green light flooding the room like a final curtain call, burning away the shadows and leaving only silence in its wake—the real kind this time, not syrupy, not staged, not perfumed.

Just the end.

And Theo didn't look at the body, didn't watch it crumple, didn't glance again at the girl still crying quietly into the sheets, because it was done—what needed doing had been done—and the man who turned and walked out into the waiting dark wasn't looking for forgiveness, wasn't looking for absolution, only air.

Only her. Only them.

Titus was dead before the nerves in his spine had a chance to catch up with the reality of it, before the primal terror etched across his face could fade, before the last desperate surge of instinct even had the chance to twitch his limbs into flight—his death was instant and total, a cessation of being so absolute that his body betrayed him by continuing to move, twitching with residual spasms as though it hadn't yet been informed that it was no longer alive, collapsing forward with a grotesque lack of ceremony.

His limbs sprawling gracelessly across the silken sheets he'd once considered his kingdom, his mouth falling open as if to release some final protest that never came, some pathetic echo of entitlement and power that had been so easily stripped from him in a single breath, a single curse, a single blink of unflinching judgment; his chest struck the bed first, limbs folding under him, body turning into a tangle of sweat-slick skin and tangled sheets, one arm bent at a sickening angle beneath him, the other draped over the girl like a grotesque parody of intimacy—except for the stillness, that awful, undeniable stillness that followed death like a shadow, cold and certain and absolute, turning the room into a mausoleum.

Theo didn't blink.

He watched, still and precise, as if waiting for something—an argument, a sign, a twitch of conscience that never came—only the silence growing thicker around him, only the sound of a single breath catching like a fishbone in someone's throat, and then—

She gasped.

The girl—the child, really—let out a sound so broken it barely qualified as human, a strangled, high-pitched sob choked by disbelief, her eyes wide and glassy with terror, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the color of her irises as she scrambled backward, skin sliding against satin, curls sticking to her flushed cheeks, knees knocking into the headboard with a muted thud as she shrank away from the thing that had just entered her world and shattered it in two.

Her chest heaved, her breaths short and panicked and sharp, the kind of breathing that made your ribs ache and your throat burn, and her hands—Merlin, her hands—they trembled like leaves in a storm, reaching out blindly, instinctively, maybe to push him away, maybe to shield herself, maybe to cast a spell if she could remember one, if she could remember how to speak, how to breathe, but she never got the chance to try, because Theo was already looking at her.

And he wasn't seeing her, not really.

He was seeing what she'd seen. His face. His wand. His mercy, or lack thereof.

She was a witness.

And that was inconvenient.

His gaze drifted lazily down the length of her trembling form, cataloging the way her arms curled protectively over her chest, the raw panic in her gaze, the way her lips parted to form the beginnings of a plea, maybe a name, maybe please, maybe don't.

But it didn't matter, because her survival was never truly a question, not here, not now, not after what she'd been part of, not after what she'd seen; the weight of it settled into his spine like a cold hand, the clarity of it wrapping around him like armor, and for a moment—just a breath—there was something like pity in his eyes, something like regret, not for the death itself, but for the fact that she'd been in the room at all, that her life, whatever it had been, had intersected with this one final line in the sand.

"Sorry, darling," he murmured, his voice low and smooth and steady, the kind of voice used to soothe nightmares even as it made them real, his expression unreadable, something between apology and indifference, "can't leave any witnesses."

She screamed but the sound was caught in her throat, never reaching the walls, never finding purchase in the thick, perfumed air, because the flash of green that followed was faster, brighter, final, flooding the room with a second wave of death that cracked against the silence like thunder after lightning.

Then nothing.

Not a breath. Not a sob. Not a heartbeat.

Just the crackling silence that followed, sharp and electric, as though the air itself was still recoiling from what it had just witnessed, as if the room, drenched in candle wax and sin and the lingering echo of violence, was holding its breath, waiting to be purged; the acrid scent of ozone still hung in the air, sharp and biting, mingling with the nauseating sweetness of expensive perfume that clung to the dead woman's skin like a final, mocking echo of seduction, now soured by death.

Theo rolled his shoulders, slow and deliberate, the tightness in his muscles easing slightly as the adrenaline drained and something colder took its place, something practiced, something that had no room for hesitation. He adjusted his grip on his wand, the smooth wood familiar against his palm, and let his gaze sweep the room one final time, taking in every shattered detail, every unmade bed corner, every echo of what had happened here, committing it all to memory not out of guilt, but precision, because this wasn't chaos.

This was a conclusion.

A necessary evil. A promised end. A reckoning measured and exact, dealt in the currency of blood and silence.

And now, it was done.

He let out a slow exhale, his chest rising and falling in an even, practiced rhythm. There was no hesitation. No regret. No flicker of doubt. If anything, there was relief—a cold, quiet satisfaction curling deep in his chest at the knowledge that the filth who had dared to look at his daughter, his baby girl, was nothing more than a corpse now.

With a fluid, practiced flick of his wrist, Theodore Nott conjured his Patronus, the magic spilling from his wand like molten silver before crystallizing mid-air into the form of a panther—sleek, silent, and predatory, its every movement laced with elegance sharpened into lethality. The beast didn't pause, didn't glance back, only surged forward into the night with purposeful grace, its glowing body slicing through the darkness like a blade through velvet, carrying a single, uncompromising message across the city to the only soul who mattered—' Come alone' .

And she did.

Not minutes later, not with caution or questions or preamble, but with the eerie stillness of someone who already knew what she'd find. Luna stepped through the shattered threshold like a woman summoned by blood, not message, her presence folding into the room with a gravity that felt older than language, older than mercy. She moved without hesitation, without uncertainty, without a flicker of fear, as if the carnage had been calling her by name, as if the shadows themselves had parted for her arrival. 

The air was leaden with death, thick and choking, heavy with magic and the sickly perfume of finality, clinging to the broken furniture, to the blood-streaked bedsheets, to the two still-warm corpses twisted in a mockery of intimacy. The scent of ozone still lingered like a warning. But she didn't flinch. Not once. Not even when her eyes met his.

Her eyes, luminous and sharp as moonlight slicing through a fog-drenched moor, moved slowly across the wreckage, tracing every splintered edge and blood-dark shadow with a precision that was neither frantic nor shocked, but cool, clinical, unhurried. They swept over the shattered remnants of the door, the scorched imprint of curse-burnt ozone still hanging in the air like a ghost, the silk sheets stained and tangled around the cooling bodies, and finally settled on him—on the man standing at the heart of it all like a storm's eye. Theo stood with the calm tension of someone who had already made peace with the violence he'd wrought, wand still raised though loose in his grip, his shoulders relaxed but coiled, ready, his breathing level, his expression carved from stone.

She took her time.

Every second of her silence was deliberate, heavy with meaning. She wasn't startled. She wasn't shaken. She was assessing—each breath, each crack in the floorboard, each subtle shift in the air. She was absorbing it all, calculating something in the stillness that followed violence. There was no rush. No panic. Only the quiet authority of a woman who knew exactly what death looked like and wasn't impressed by its performance.

And when she was done she finally looked at him.

Theo's eyes didn't waver as he met her stare, watching her the way you watch the tide to see whether it's rising or receding, but when he spoke, his voice was calm, steady, like glass that hadn't yet cracked under the pressure. "I told you it was done."

He didn't offer an apology. He didn't give her an excuse. He didn't try to explain the blood or the bodies or the magic still thick in the air. It wasn't a confession. It wasn't even a defense. It was a truth, clean and blunt as a blade.

Luna didn't blink.

Her lips curved, not into a smile exactly, but into something deeper, darker, older. A knowing curl of satisfaction pulled at the edge of her mouth, a glint of something feral and ancient sparking in the silver-blue of her eyes, like a wolf recognizing its mate by scent alone. She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, each click of her boots against the ruined floor echoing like punctuation marks in a spell already cast. She passed the corpses without sparing them a glance, treating them as one might treat a toppled inkpot or a broken quill—regrettable, perhaps, but unimportant in the greater scheme of things. A mess. A necessary inconvenience.

She reached for him, her fingers feather-light as they brushed along the sharp line of his jaw, her touch more command than comfort, her gaze never leaving his. With a slight tilt of her hand, she lifted his chin—not with force, but with certainty.

"Good boy," she said, low and rich and wicked.

Theo exhaled like he'd been waiting for those words all his life. Something dangerous stirred low in his spine, something wild and sharp and deeply satisfied. A smirk ghosted across his lips, slow and feral, the kind of smile a man wears only after blood has been spilled and the one person who matters has looked him in the eye and said: Yes. That was right.

Then, almost absently, Luna's gaze shifted, flickering toward the girl—blonde, blue-eyed, caught forever in that final, frozen instant of terror, her face still twisted in the shape of a scream that never left her throat, limbs tangled gracelessly in satin sheets and regret, her youth laid bare in the pale curve of her shoulder, in the painted innocence smeared across her cheeks, in the soft edges of someone who'd made one wrong decision too many and wouldn't live to make another. Her death clung to the air like perfume, but Luna didn't blink, didn't soften.

"Who's the girl?" she asked, voice so flat and disinterested it could have been mistaken for a question about the weather, or the state of the moon, or the color of the sky at dawn—casual, detached, like the corpse in question was already beneath her notice.

Theo didn't look directly at the body. His eyes flicked to it with a kind of bland indifference, a dismissive shrug already rolling off his shoulders, his voice light, almost bored. "Either you or—"

But he never finished.

Before the second half of the sentence could land, Luna's wand moved—quick, precise, brutal.

A sharp twist of her wrist. A flick that might've been mistaken for elegance.

And then Titus's body jerked violently.

His corpse, already slack with death, convulsed with unnatural force as a deep, ragged gash ripped itself open across his throat, flesh splitting like wet paper beneath an invisible blade, the edges of the wound jagged and furious, as though she'd carved it herself with something crude and personal. Blood erupted in a thick, arterial spray, painting the already-soaked sheets with fresh ruin, spilling over the edge of the bed in lazy rivulets, the air filling with the sickly scent of iron and inevitability. The wet, obscene sound of flesh parting echoed through the room like a promise. A message. A punishment delivered too late but with perfect aim.

Theo blinked once.

Well. That was… unexpected.

Brutal. Efficient. Impressively savage.

But Luna didn't so much as flinch. She exhaled, slow and controlled, like she was finally letting go of a breath that had been trapped beneath her ribs for years, twirling her wand between her fingers with idle grace as she turned away from the carnage without so much as another glance, as if the corpse—both corpses—had already dissolved into irrelevance.

"I don't even want to know," she murmured, her voice low and faintly amused, the barest hint of disgust laced behind the disinterest, shaking her head in that subtle, lilting way of hers, like the entire thing was too mundane to bother naming.

And then, without another word, without a pause to acknowledge the chaos, the blood, or the slaughter, she turned back to him.

It was jarring, the shift.

One moment she was death incarnate, all silent judgment and surgical violence, and the next she was closing the space between them with a kind of hushed intimacy that felt at odds with everything that surrounded them—the bed soaked in blood, the air still humming with residual magic, the scent of ozone and death clinging to the curtains like a shroud—and yet she made it feel natural, inevitable, like she was exactly where she was meant to be. Her fingers reached up, slow and deliberate, tracing the sharp planes of his jaw, brushing lightly down the tense line of his throat, a touch that was not possessive or urgent but reverent, knowing, like she was memorizing him with her fingertips in case the world ended tomorrow.

"Thank you, love," she whispered, and this time her voice was something else entirely—gentle, quiet, stripped bare of irony or sharpness or command. A whisper meant only for him. And in that breath, in that moment carved between ruin and stillness, it wasn't the blood that mattered. Not the bodies. Not even the spell.

Just this.

Just them.