A Lifeline of Devotion 

The first week dissolved into a blur of sleepless nights, whispered reassurances, and the constant, rhythmic rocking of their son's crib. The once grand and imposing Zabini estate—so vast, so empty—now revolved entirely around one small room where Valerius slept, or more often, refused to. The flickering glow of enchanted nightlights cast soft shadows over his tiny features as Ginny paced the nursery for what felt like the hundredth time that night, exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin.

Blaise had adapted to fatherhood with an intensity that surprised her. He, the man who once approached life with an effortless, detached arrogance, now stood alert at every whimper. Gone were the pristine suits, the calculated indifference; in their place, rumpled shirts rolled to his elbows, dark circles under his eyes, and the constant presence of his wand in easy reach. He handled late-night feeds and diaper changes with military precision, his movements efficient, almost mechanical—but there was something else, something beneath the surface. A tension in him that never quite left, even as he held Valerius close with a gentleness she hadn't known he was capable of.

One night, as they stood side by side over the crib, watching their son finally settle, she glanced at him through heavy lids. "You're not sleeping."

"Neither are you," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the baby.

She sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder for a brief moment, allowing herself to take comfort in his warmth. "This isn't sustainable, Blaise. You can't keep carrying the world on your back and expect to survive it."

He didn't answer immediately. His fingers skimmed over his tiny hand, his expression unreadable. Finally, his voice came, low and firm. "It's not the world I'm worried about. It's him."

By the second week, the cracks began to show.

Valerius was colicky, his cries sharp and unrelenting, fracturing the fragile silence of the night. She felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her like an unrelenting tide, fraying her patience, turning even the simplest moments into battlefields. It didn't take much for the tension between them to ignite—sharp words exchanged in hushed voices, arguments that flared and faded just as quickly, neither of them willing to admit just how much this new reality had shaken them.

"You're hovering," she snapped one afternoon as he loomed over her shoulder, his sharp gaze scrutinizing her every move while she tried to soothe their son.

"I'm making sure you're doing it right," he bit back, his voice tight.

She whirled on him, her exhaustion fueling the heat behind her words. "Doing it right? I've been doing this all day while you've been locked away in that bloody study, playing lord of the manor!"

His jaw clenched, but he didn't take the bait. Instead, he extended his arms. "Give him to me."

She hesitated, her arms tightening instinctively around Valerius. Her son. Hers. But her exhaustion won out, her muscles screaming for reprieve, and with a reluctant exhale, she handed him over. Blaise cradled him effortlessly, his hands steady despite the tension still radiating from his body. The baby's cries softened almost immediately, his small form curling into his chest as though he belonged there.

She slumped into the nearest chair, pressing the heels of her hands into her tired eyes. "He likes you better."

He looked down at her, and to her surprise, his expression had softened. "He doesn't like me better," he said simply. "He just knows when you're at your limit."

She let out a shuddering breath, not sure if she wanted to argue or let the warmth of his words sink in. The truth was, she was at her limit. But admitting it? That was another battle entirely.

Blaise rocked Valerius slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. "We're in this together, baby."

For the first time that day, she let herself believe it.

The third week brought an endless stream of visitors—family, friends, people who meant well but had no idea how suffocating their presence felt. They came with gifts, cooing over Valerius, offering their congratulations, and drowning Ginny in a flood of unsolicited advice. You should swaddle him tighter. Let him cry it out. Don't let him sleep in your arms too much, he'll get spoiled. She gritted her teeth, nodded politely, and bit back the urge to scream.

Blaise played his part flawlessly, slipping into his charming facade with practiced ease. He poured drinks, smirked at the right moments, and nodded in all the right places. But she saw the cracks beneath the surface. The way his jaw clenched when someone brought up his 'responsibilities,' the way his hand would tighten into a fist whenever Val's cries pierced the air. He wasn't fine—not even close.

By the time the last guest left, she felt like she could finally breathe again. But Blaise? He stood in the kitchen, his back to her, shoulders tense like a man expecting a fight.

"You're hiding something," she said, her voice quiet but firm.

He didn't turn, didn't even flinch. Just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his head tilted slightly as if considering whether or not to lie.

"Some things are better left unsaid," he murmured, his voice smooth, cold—a blade meant to deflect rather than cut.

"Not when it comes to our son." Her tone was sharper now, slicing through his detachment with ease. "Not when it comes to our family."

That word—family—landed between them like a stone dropped in water, sending ripples of tension through the room. His jaw tightened, the muscle twitching just beneath his skin. He still wouldn't look at her.

For a moment, she thought he would retreat into his usual silence, into the dark corners of his mind where he kept his demons locked away. But then, to her surprise, he exhaled—a long, shuddering breath that made his whole body seem to deflate. His arms uncrossed, his head finally lifting to meet her gaze.

"I'm trying to protect you," he admitted, his voice quieter now, raw in a way she wasn't used to. "Both of you."

She crossed her arms, standing her ground. "Protect us from what? Your enemies? Your past? Yourself ?"

His lips parted like he wanted to answer, but no words came. Instead, he turned away, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. His fingers raked through his curls, tugging hard enough to make her wince.

"You don't get it," he growled, his frustration boiling over. "You don't see what I see. The world isn't safe, Ginny—not for people like us. Not for him."

A chill ran down her spine. "Blaise, what are you talking about?"

He spun around, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that made her breath catch. "Valerius," he said, his voice shaking with conviction, "is too pure for this world. Too fragile. And he's going to be hunted. Scrutinized. Used. People will see him as a weakness—something to exploit just to get to me. To get to us."

She stared at him, stunned by the sheer force of his words. "You're being paranoid."

"Am I?" he barked out a hollow, bitter laugh. "Do you know how many people would kill just to hurt me? How many would use my son as leverage?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to something lower, more dangerous. "I won't let them."

She swallowed, trying to push down the creeping unease clawing at her chest. "And what exactly are you planning to do?"

He hesitated—just for a second. But then he said it.

"I'm going to put him under a bubble."

She blinked. "A… what?"

"A bubble," he repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "A magical ward so strong, no one will ever be able to touch him. No one will see him. No one will hurt him."

Her stomach twisted. "Blaise," she said carefully, "you can't—"

"Why not?" His voice rose in defiance, eyes wild with conviction. "It's perfect! He'll be safe. Untouchable. He won't have to live with any of this—" he gestured vaguely, frustration seeping into

The fourth week settled into something resembling a rhythm—not seamless, not easy, but enough to keep them from unraveling. The long nights blurred together, exhaustion pressing heavily on both of them, but they adapted. He learned the way she hummed under her breath while rocking their son, a sound so soft it barely registered but seemed to soothe the baby nonetheless. She learned the way he moved through the house, silent as a shadow, always watching, always protecting.

It was during one of those restless nights, with the baby cradled in his arms, that she sat beside him on the nursery floor. The dim glow of the enchanted mobile cast soft patterns across the ceiling, the only source of light in the quiet space. Her eyes lingered on the gentle way he held their son, the way his large hands seemed impossibly delicate as he ran a fingertip over tiny fingers.

"We're going to figure this out," she murmured, reaching out to cover his free hand with hers.

His dark eyes flickered to hers, something unreadable passing through them. There was so much weight behind his gaze—so much history, so much pain, but also, for the first time in a long time, something that looked dangerously close to hope.

"I hope so," he admitted, his voice quieter than she had ever heard it. "For his sake."

The words settled between them, heavy yet comforting. No declarations, no promises—just an understanding. This was their life now, messy and uncertain, but they were in it together.

As the baby's soft breaths filled the room, she leaned her head against his shoulder. He didn't pull away. Instead, he exhaled, long and slow, letting his tension unravel just enough for her to feel the truth of it—he was afraid. He was terrified of losing control, of failing, of not being enough. But she was there, and so was their son.

The weight of everything still pressed down on them, but for once, it didn't break them. In that moment, amidst the shadows and the quiet, they found a fragile kind of peace. And maybe—just maybe—a reason to keep fighting for something better.

She stood in front of the mirror, her fingers tracing the unfamiliar curves of her body. The soft glow of the enchanted sconces illuminated every change—her fuller hips, the curve of her stomach, the faint marks that trailed along her skin, mapping out the transformation of the last few months. She was naked, vulnerable, and she barely recognized herself.

A quiet shuffle behind her made her heart jump. His presence was unmistakable—the slow, measured footsteps, the way the air shifted with his warmth as he stepped into the space behind her. She didn't need to turn to know it was him.

"Don't look," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He didn't stop. He stood just close enough for her to feel his body heat at her back, his breath warm against the shell of her ear.

"Why shouldn't I?" he asked, his tone soft but firm.

Her hands instinctively came up, covering her stomach. "Because... just look at me," she said, voice laced with frustration. "It's terrible."

His hands gently found her arms, coaxing them away from where she tried to shield herself. His gaze locked onto hers through the mirror. "It looks beautiful," he murmured.

"Don't lie to me."

"I promised, remember?" His voice dropped lower, smoother. "I swore I'd never lie to you again. Almost three years of it was enough."

She swallowed hard, unable to argue.

Slowly, he leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her bare shoulder. Her grip on the sink tightened.

"Please stop," she whispered, but there was no real conviction behind her words.

"Why would I?" His hands traced a slow path down her arms, teasing, exploring. "My baby girl is needy."

"I'm… I'm not—" her breath hitched as his hands found her breasts, cupping them with a reverence that made her knees weak. The moment his thumb brushed over her nipple, a soft, reluctant moan escaped her lips.

His grip tightened just slightly, his fingers kneading her sensitive flesh.

"Sensitive," she breathed out, almost in shock at how quickly her body responded to him.

His smirk was evident in the mirror as his lips ghosted over her neck. "I can hear that." His voice was pure satisfaction. "You've been depriving me, amore." He nipped at her earlobe, his breath hot against her skin. "Let me enjoy you."

His touch remained slow, teasing. He rolled her nipple between his fingers, pulling soft, delicious sounds from her lips. She shuddered in his grasp, torn between resisting and surrendering.

"Blaise," she gasped, her body betraying her.

"Yes, baby?" He was all arrogance now, reveling in her unraveling. "Please, make music for me. I need to put it in my Pensieve."

Her thighs clenched involuntarily, but it was already too late. He could see everything—the way the evidence of her arousal glistened along her skin, the way her body reacted to him despite the insecurities she tried to hold onto.

His grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent promise in his touch. "Mia cara," he murmured, voice thick with reverence and need. "You've never been more beautiful to me than you are right now."

Before she could protest, he lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to their bed. She tensed in his arms, turning her face into his shoulder as warmth flooded her cheeks.

"No," she whispered. "It's embarrassing."

"It is not," he countered, voice dripping with conviction as he laid her down against the silk sheets. His eyes darkened as they roamed over her body, taking in every curve, every inch of flushed skin. "You're dripping for me, love. And all I want—" he trailed his fingers down her stomach, stopping just before where she ached for him most, "—is to taste you."

She shivered, her breath hitching. "No, please, we can't—"

He caught her chin, tilting her face toward him, his gaze unreadable but intense. "There will be no 'we,'" he corrected smoothly. "You will come on my face. Do you understand me?"

Her lips parted, her pulse hammering beneath her skin. She knew resistance was futile.

"Yes," she breathed.

His brow lifted. A warning. A command.

"Yes, sir," she whispered, her voice trembling with anticipation.

A slow, predatory smirk spread across his lips. "That's my good girl."

He kissed down her body, worshipping her with every touch. "You gave me an heir," he murmured, dragging his lips lower. "And now, you're in my bed, making a mess because you haven't been touched in too long." He exhaled, pressing a reverent kiss to her inner thigh. "I'm so in love with you, Ginny, I swear it's going to kill me."

"Please, Blaise," she whimpered, arching toward him. "Please."

He hummed against her skin, teasing her with the warmth of his breath before finally parting her thighs, spreading her open just so he could take in the sight of her.

Pink, glistening, utterly divine.

His tongue swept across his lower lip. "Mio Dio, amore," he murmured, reverence dripping from his tone. "You're perfection."

He had every intention of torturing her—drawing this out until she was shaking, breathless, mindless beneath him. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to her inner thighs, dragging his lips across her heated skin, teasing, waiting, savoring her trembling anticipation.

And then, finally, he gave in.

The first flick of his tongue against her sent a shudder through her entire body, her fingers fisting the sheets. He took his time, licking, tasting, mapping out every inch of her like he was committing her to memory. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her in place as he worshipped her.

The sounds she made—those strangled moans, the way she whimpered his name—only spurred him on. He licked, sucked, devoured her, pushing her closer and closer to the edge until she was gasping, trembling, incoherent.

And then, when she was teetering on the brink, he sucked her clit into his mouth, hard.

Her scream echoed through the room as she came apart for him. But then—oh, then—he felt it.

A sudden rush of wetness, hot and uncontrollable.

She only had done this a few times, but now, with his name a desperate cry on her lips, she was drenching him, coming undone in a way neither of them had expected.

He groaned, gripping her thighs as he rode out her pleasure, his tongue still teasing her as she convulsed beneath him.

And when she finally came back down, dazed and breathless, her chest heaving, she whimpered, "Blaise—oh, gods—I'm so sorry…"

He chuckled darkly, wiping his chin with the back of his hand before gripping her thighs once more. "Oh, baby girl," he purred, his voice thick with wicked satisfaction. "You have no idea what you've just done."

And before she could catch her breath, before she could even think, he slid two fingers inside her—slow, deep, perfect.

Dragging her toward her second undoing.

~~~~~~

Draco's attacker had remained a mystery for an agonizing month, and it was driving him to madness. The constant sleepless nights, his mind plagued by visions of the ambush, gnawed at him like an unhealed wound. Every moment spent remembering the attack—a shadow lurking in the dark, the sudden pain, the betrayal of being caught off guard—was an acidic burn in his chest. The thought that someone had slipped past his defenses, hurt him, and vanished into the shadows was like an open wound he couldn't bring himself to treat. 

The injustice of it ate at him, eating away at the carefully built walls around his emotions. Until the person responsible was found, there would be no peace, no reprieve. And Draco didn't just want them dealt with—he wanted them obliterated, erased from existence, in a way that would leave no room for retaliation, no trace to hunt down.

"We've got a mission," Blaise said, his voice unshaken, as usual, but there was a flicker of urgency in his eyes. He tossed a folder onto the table in front of Draco, its edges crisp and clean, the weight of it a reminder that duty never ceased.

Draco didn't even look at the folder, his gaze instead sharpening in irritation. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, anger fueling the fire that already burned within him. "I don't have time for this," Draco spat, his words clipped and cold.

Blaise crossed his arms, leaning casually against the doorframe, but the tension in his posture told a different story. "You don't have a choice," he replied, his voice unwavering. "Orders from the top. We need to move on this, and we need to move now."

Draco's frustration flared, his lip curling into something between a sneer and a grimace. "Do they have any idea what's at stake here, Blaise? Someone attacked me. Me. And you expect me to drop everything—my plans, my revenge—and go halfway across the world for some damn trinket?" His voice shook with barely contained fury, each word carrying the weight of months spent planning his retribution.

He didn't flinch, his gaze steady and unwavering. "It's not just a trinket, Draco, and you know that." His tone remained calm, though there was an edge to it now, one that matched the tension in the room. "The artifact is tied to a map—one that, in the wrong hands, could put all of us in jeopardy. It could unravel everything we've fought for, and we can't afford to let that happen."

Draco clenched his fists, the sharp pain in his palms grounding him for just a moment. His mind screamed at him to reject the mission, to push Blaise and Theo aside and focus solely on the hunt, but he knew the truth in Blaise's words. He hated it, but he knew it. The mission was too important to ignore. As much as he wanted to dive headfirst into his personal vendetta, this was bigger than him. The fate of their entire cause was at stake. For now, revenge would have to wait.

His jaw tightened, frustration still bubbling beneath the surface, but he took a deep breath, forcing his anger down. "When do we leave?" he asked, his voice cold and clipped, each word deliberate.

"Tomorrow," Blaise replied, his tone as direct as ever. "Luna's already preparing the supplies. We'll be ready to go at first light."

Draco exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling the weight of his decision settle on his shoulders. He didn't like it—he hated it, in fact—but there was no turning back now. He had a role to play, and right now, that role was to follow orders. "Fine," he muttered, his voice thick with reluctant resignation. "We leave tomorrow."

~~~~~~

The door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the windows, the reverberation echoing through the vast halls of the estate. Upstairs, she winced, tightening her grip around the tiny bundle in her arms. His footsteps were heavy, purposeful, each stride up the stairs sending a shiver of anticipation down her spine.

"Where are you, love?" His voice, deep and smooth as always, carried that familiar mix of urgency and affection—a dangerous combination that she had never quite been able to resist.

"In the bedroom," she called back, keeping her tone deliberately flat.

Moments later, he appeared in the doorway, and for the briefest of seconds, the storm in his dark eyes softened. His gaze immediately locked onto Valerius, who stirred slightly in her arms, tiny fingers curling into a loose fist. Without hesitation, he crossed the room in long, confident strides, leaning down to press a featherlight kiss against the baby's soft head.

"Hello, little love," he murmured, the uncharacteristic tenderness in his voice sending a pang through her chest. And then, his lips found hers—slow, lingering, reverent. "And hello to the love of my life."

She arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "When are you leaving this time?"

His shoulders stiffened, the tension barely perceptible to anyone but her. But that mask—the cool, unreadable facade he wore so well—never faltered. "Is it that obvious?"

She scoffed. "You overcompensate when you're about to leave. It's like clockwork." Shifting Valerius in her arms, she exhaled sharply. "What is it this time?"

He hesitated, running a hand through his thick curls, his expression betraying the weight of whatever mission he had been assigned. "Draco, Theo, and his cousin are heading to Afghanistan. We've got a high-paying mission, and it's... important."

Her expression hardened, disappointment rolling off her in waves.

"I can't apologize," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "It wouldn't be truthful."

She let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "Why do you even need the money? You're a billionaire, Blaise. You don't have to keep doing this."

He leaned against the bedpost, crossing his arms with that insufferable smirk of his. "I need to fund your hobbies," he quipped. "And, well, I happen to enjoy killing bad people."

She shot him a withering glare. "Bad people and hobbies? I don't even have hobbies."

"Oh, really?" His smirk deepened. "How about that notice-me-not charm you put on your ever-growing shoe collection? Or those horrendous modern art pieces you insist on buying—seriously, they look like actual shit. Or the sweaters you started knitting a year and a half ago and never finished?"

She turned to face him fully, her glare turning lethal. "Can I have a single fucking secret? A single shred of privacy? Do I get to have any part of my life that isn't meticulously cataloged by your insane brain? Or do you also track what time I take a shit and the exact moment I last had my period?"

His smirk was maddening. "Every morning at 10:37," he said smoothly. "And your last period was approximately 296 days ago."

Her nostrils flared. "You disgust me."

"I'm aware," he replied easily, completely unfazed. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. "And I love you more than the universe itself."

She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like Unfortunately, me too, but refused to meet his gaze as her cheeks tinged pink.

He chuckled, reaching out to trail his fingers along the bare skin of her arm. "What time are you leaving?" she asked, still avoiding his gaze.

"Tomorrow morning," he said, stepping even closer, his fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns against her skin. "Which is why I want tonight to be just us."

She eyed him warily. "Romantic?" She glanced down at herself, then at him, still dressed in his mission-worn clothes. "You're covered in dirt, and I'm running on two hours of sleep because your child—"

"Our child," he corrected smoothly, amusement flickering in his eyes as he glanced at Valerius, who remained blissfully unaware of their bickering. "And I'll handle everything tonight. Just let me take care of you."

She folded her arms, clearly unconvinced. "You're not exactly the romantic type."

His grin widened, a glint of mischief sparking behind his dark eyes. "Then let me surprise you."

Before she could react, he had already swept her off the bed—Valerius still cradled safely in her arms—his strength effortless as he carried them both.

She gasped, half-laughing, half-protesting. "Put me down, you lunatic!"

"Not a chance," he murmured against her hair, pressing a kiss to the side of her head as he carried her through the room with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

She sighed dramatically, resting her head against his chest, but her lips betrayed her as they curled into a small, reluctant smile. "I hate you."

He smirked, his grip tightening ever so slightly around her. "I know."

And as he carried her through the dimly lit hallways, the weight of his departure still looming over them, she allowed herself—for just a moment—to believe that maybe, just maybe, tonight could be enough.

~~~~~~

The sun blazed high above, an unyielding fire that seared the endless expanse of sand stretching out in all directions. Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Titus stood as silent sentinels against the vast emptiness, their shadows long and sharp in the blinding light. The air shimmered, heavy with heat and foreboding, and each man was swathed in protective armor, their wands clenched tightly. A fine layer of dust coated them, mingling with sweat and grit, but none of them paid it any mind. They had long ago learned to ignore discomfort in the face of duty.

This mission was unlike any they had encountered before. They'd been pulled from their usual assignments, dropped into the arid heat of the Middle East without their usual intel or support. Their instructions were stark and absolute: leave no witnesses. The weight of this directive pressed on each of them, a silent reminder of the moral murkiness they were venturing into. It wasn't a mission they could walk away from without leaving parts of themselves behind.

"The Raven Order," as they were notoriously known among their enemies, had carved a reputation on the darkest edges of society. They were mercenaries with a finely honed skill for carnage, precision, and unwavering loyalty to their cause. Yet, despite their notoriety and experience in high-stakes missions, something about this assignment felt different.

The mission briefing had been surprisingly sparse, leaving them with little more than vague coordinates and the chillingly simple directive: "eliminate the target, no questions asked." Typically, their assignments included dossiers filled with everything from the target's background to security measures, which allowed them to anticipate every move. This time, the silence around the mission details gnawed at them, stirring an uneasy curiosity. But curiosity, they had been trained to remember, was a weakness.

They exchanged tense glances, each member harboring unspoken questions. For a group accustomed to executing plans with ruthless precision, this assignment's shadowy vagueness pressed on their instincts like a warning. But in their line of work, loyalty came before comfort, and they each knew that when their boss issued orders, it wasn't their job to ask why. Their boss, after all, was a figure cloaked in infamy—someone who had taken them all in, molded them into who they were now, someone who demanded, above all, loyalty beyond reason. And loyalty, they each knew, had a price.

Draco looked to his friends, each one a seasoned warrior in their own right. Blaise's calm exterior masked a mind that was always calculating, always planning the next move. Theo's eyes, usually filled with mischief, were now cold and focused, his wand gripped tightly in his hand. Titus, the newest but most intimidating member of their group, stood tall, his presence casting a long shadow over the others. His face was a mask of stoic indifference, unreadable to even his closest comrades. Despite—or perhaps because of—his terrifying reputation, there was something oddly reassuring about having him on their side. His mere presence was enough to silence any lingering doubts, a constant reminder that they had a weapon of pure, unyielding force among them..

"We've faced worse," Draco muttered, more to himself than to the others, though they all heard him.

"Still doesn't mean I like this," Theo replied, his voice low. "We don't even know what we're dealing with."

"Doesn't matter," Blaise said, his tone as steady as ever. "We follow orders, get in, and get out. Simple as that."

Draco nodded, though his mind was racing with possibilities. They all knew the drill—stick to the plan, trust each other, and leave no loose ends. But something about this mission felt off, a nagging sense of dread that they couldn't quite shake.

"Let's move," Draco said finally, taking the first step forward.

As they began their trek across the desert, the weight of their task pressed down on them, a heavy burden that they carried without complaint. They were soldiers, after all—soldiers who had seen the darkest corners of the world and had become shadows themselves.

As they passed through the remnants of a village that had clearly been bombed, Draco felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The destruction was unlike anything he had ever seen, even in the darkest days of the Wizarding War. The sight of the crumbled buildings and the eerie silence of what was once a lively community was a harsh reminder of the cruelty Muggles could inflict upon each other. 

He exchanged a glance with Blaise, both of them shaken but determined to press on. They moved cautiously, their senses heightened as they sought out a safe place to regroup. Eventually, they found shelter in a well-covered house, its walls still standing despite the devastation outside. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the remnants of a life that had been violently interrupted.

Titus stood at the doorway, his expression hard, as he scanned the horizon for any sign of movement. "We set up here," he said in a low, commanding tone. His voice, as cold and unwavering as the steel in his hand, left no room for argument.

Draco nodded, still trying to process the reality of what they were walking into. This mission was unlike anything they had done before, and the horrors they were witnessing only added to the weight of what was to come.

Gathered around the dusty table in the dimly lit room, Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Titus studied the map of the surrounding area. The map was old, worn at the edges, and had clearly seen its share of conflict, just like the land it depicted. The red ink marking potential threats and targets stood out starkly against the yellowed parchment.

Theo, always one to have a trick up his sleeve, released a tracker fairy that Luna had given him for situations exactly like this. The tiny, shimmering creature flitted around the room for a moment, getting its bearings before darting out through a crack in the wall.

They waited in tense silence, each of them mentally preparing for what might come next. The fairy returned after what felt like an eternity but was likely only minutes. It hovered in front of Theo, its wings fluttering rapidly as it relayed its findings.

"No human or magical presence in the area," Theo announced, his voice barely above a whisper.

Draco and Blaise exchanged a glance, the tension in the room easing slightly but not disappearing entirely. "Good," Blaise said, his voice steady but his eyes hard. "It means we have the advantage for now."

Draco felt a chill run down his spine at Titus's words. The mission was about to begin, and despite the emptiness of the surrounding area, he knew they were far from safe.

After hours of intense strategizing, the group decided it was time to rest. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls as they rolled up the map and tucked away their gear. The exhaustion was beginning to set in, but none of them would admit it. They each had their own way of coping with the looming threat of the mission ahead.

He found a spot near the back of the room, where the walls felt sturdy, and the air was slightly cooler. He lay down on the hard floor, using his pack as a pillow, his mind still racing with thoughts of the mission and the dangers they would face.

Blaise settled in a corner, his back against the wall, his wand close at hand. He closed his eyes but remained alert, his instincts honed from years of dealing with the unpredictable.

Theo, always the last to settle, made sure the tracker fairy was safely tucked away before finding a spot near the door. He muttered a quick spell, ensuring they'd be alerted if anything—or anyone—tried to approach during the night.

Titus was the last to lie down. He stretched out on the floor, his massive frame taking up more space than the others. His eyes remained open for a while, scanning the room, making sure everyone was settled before finally closing them. Even in sleep, his presence was intimidating, a reminder of the strength he brought to the group.

As the night wore on, the room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of clothing or a deep breath. Despite the uncertainty of the mission ahead, sleep eventually claimed them, one by one. They would need every ounce of rest they could get for what awaited them at dawn.

~~~~~~

And there, in the dead of night, they made a rookie mistake—one that could cost them everything. Exhaustion had taken its toll, and in their need for rest, no one had thought to stand guard. 

At precisely 4:16 a.m., Draco was jolted awake by the sudden, cold pressure of a hand clamped over his mouth. His eyes shot open, but before he could react, before he could even register what was happening, a wave of darkness crashed over him. It wasn't just the absence of light—it was an all-consuming void, pulling him down into nothingness.

The last thing Draco felt was his heart pounding wildly in his chest, a surge of panic rushing through his veins. Then, there was nothing. Just silence and darkness.

~~~~~~

Hermione bolted upright in bed, her scream tearing through the silence of the dim room, her body drenched in sweat. 

The jarring intensity of it left her clutching her chest, as if holding her own heartbeat steady could somehow restore the calm that had vanished in an instant. 

The feeling was too visceral, too real—the soul bond she shared with Draco had flared to life in a way it never had before, flooding her with an overwhelming terror. Something had happened to him, something unthinkably dark.

Her hands shook as she pressed them against her heart, trying to steady herself. But the dread, sharp as a knife, lingered. The bond had been a gift in their relationship, a way of keeping them close even when they were apart. 

Tonight, though, it felt like a curse, a cruel reminder of the unimaginable danger he was in. 

She forced herself to breathe, even as every exhale came out in ragged, uneven bursts. Images she couldn't quite remember, fragments of fear and pain, filled her mind, threatening to break her completely.

Her voice wavered as she whispered a Patronus incantation, sending an otter streaking through the room. 

"Pansy!" she called out through her Patronus, the urgency thick in her voice. Moments later, she burst through the fireplace, her face creased with worry as she rushed to her side.

"Darling, breathe," she said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Tell me what's wrong. What happened?"

Hermione tried to steady herself, but her body betrayed her as sobs escaped her lips. "It's Draco," she choked out, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Something... through the bond. It was like a flood of terror. I felt it, Pans—he's in terrible danger. I know it." 

Her voice broke, fresh tears streaking down her face. "I don't know where he is, I just know he's suffering, and I can't reach him."

Her eyes narrowed with fierce determination. "We'll find him, Sweetheart. We'll find him." Without a second's hesitation, she conjured a Patronus of her own, sending it out with an urgent call to Luna.

The fireplace flared to life, and Luna's face appeared, her blue eyes filled with worry. "What's happening?" she asked, taking in the panic on both their faces.

"Draco's in danger," Pansy replied. "Hermione felt something terrible. Can you come? We need all the help we can get."

Within moments, Luna was at their side. She took in the scene with silent alarm, her gaze moving between Hermione's tear-streaked face and Pansy's fierce determination. 

She knelt beside Hermione, her hand gentle on her back, helping her to breathe through the panic that had taken hold. "Mimi, we'll find him. I promise," she said softly, her voice a steadying presence.

Pansy moved to the closet, quickly pulling on dark, fitted clothes that would allow her freedom of movement. She glanced at Hermione, noticing how pale she'd become, her body nearly convulsing with fear. 

When Hermione's nausea overtook her, she leaned forward, retching onto the carpet as fresh waves of distress wracked her frame.

"Shh, it's okay, you're okay," she murmured, kneeling beside her and gently undoing Hermione's sweat-drenched clothes. She helped her change into something dry, her hands steady and soothing as she worked. 

She wiped Hermione's face clean, brushing a loose curl away from her forehead. "We're going to get him back," she said with a fierce certainty that held Hermione together, even if only barely.

"Luna," Pansy asked, her voice tense, "any idea where they might have gone?"

She shook her head, her face mirroring Hermione's desperation. "I don't know. He didn't tell anyone where they was going, did he?"

When Luna returned from home, she found Pansy already dressed in sleek black, her face set with an intensity that made her look almost like a warrior preparing for battle. 

Hermione, on the other hand, was pale, trembling uncontrollably. She was bent over, vomiting onto the carpet, her whole body betraying the shock and fear that had taken hold of her. Pansy was at her side, carefully supporting her, hands gentle as she undressed Hermione, wiping her face and shoulders with a cool cloth. 

Her touch was steady and soft, an unspoken promise of comfort, even as her own heart raced with dread.

Hermione, barely able to lift her head, whispered hoarsely, "Please ask Ginny... she might know where they are."

Pansy didn't hesitate; with a quick flick of her wand, she conjured her Patronus, sending the silvery fox dashing through the air, her urgent message relayed through clenched teeth. "Please, hurry," she muttered as she watched the light fade.

Moments later, Ginny Apparated into the room, her eyes filled with alarm as she took in the scene. She went straight to Hermione, who looked up at her with tear-filled eyes.

"Something's wrong with Draco," Hermione gasped, her voice thick with panic. "Not just Draco… I think it's all of them. They're in terrible danger."

Pansy's gaze shifted to Ginny, her tone biting yet desperate. "Red, where's Blaise? Do you have any idea where they are?"

Ginny's voice was low, tense. "Last I knew... Afghanistan. They went on a mission—Draco, Theo, and Blaise." Her words sent a chill through the room, the weight of them pressing down on everyone.

Hermione began to cry, the realization sinking in deeper. "Oh, gods. They're trapped out there, somewhere dangerous, and we can't even reach them."

Ginny dropped to her knees beside her, pulling her into a tight embrace. "We'll find them," she murmured, determination flaring in her eyes. 

She glanced over at Luna. "Luna, can Kippy watch Valerius for us?"

As Hermione regained her composure, she moved swiftly toward Draco's study, her mind racing. Every shelf, every drawer, every hidden compartment in the room was combed through in a frenzy. At last, her fingers closed around a small bear-shaped portkey, one of Draco's most reliable means of travel. Relief and fear warred in her chest as she clutched it to her heart.

She hurried back to the others, her face now set in grim determination. The four women stood together, clad in dark protective robes, a formidable and resolute sight. They were ready—prepared to confront whatever awaited them, bound by love and fierce loyalty to the men they cherished.

Grasping the white bear-shaped portkey tightly, they felt the familiar pull of Apparition. In an instant, the surroundings shifted, and they found themselves standing in the arid expanse of the Registan Desert. The harsh sunlight and the vast, desolate landscape greeted them as they prepared for the daunting mission ahead.

~~~~~~

The sun blazed mercilessly overhead, casting jagged, unforgiving shadows across the endless expanse of sand as the four women stood at the edge of the Registan. The heat pressed down like an iron weight, sweat slicking their skin, breaths coming heavy—not just from the journey but from the suffocating grip of fear tightening around their chests. Miles of nothingness stretched before them, an unrelenting desert with no signs of life, no clear direction, only the deafening silence of the unknown.

Ginny's pulse hammered in her ears, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides as her sharp gaze swept the barren horizon. As if, by sheer will alone, she could force reality to bend, to conjure him from the emptiness. Every second that passed without a sign of him felt like a slow, torturous unraveling, panic clawing its way up her throat.

Draco was missing. Which meant he was in danger too.

And that thought alone was enough to turn her blood to ice.

"Blaise!" She screamed into the vast emptiness, her voice breaking under the weight of desperation. The desert swallowed the sound, stretching it into the endless horizon, offering nothing in return but silence. Her chest heaved, panic clawing at her ribs, her heart hammering against her sternum. The sun burned overhead, merciless and unrelenting, but the fear twisting inside her was colder than ice.

And then—like a mirage solidifying into reality—he was there.

A figure emerged through the shimmering heat, his dark silhouette stark against the pale sands. His steps were slow, unsteady, exhaustion weighing down his every movement. But his eyes—his sharp, assessing gaze—locked onto her, and for the briefest moment, something in them cracked. Relief. Disbelief. And something deeper, something raw.

He reached for her without hesitation, his hands finding hers, fingers lacing together with a desperate, grounding pressure.

"My love," he breathed, his voice thick with exhaustion, his grip tightening as if reassuring himself that she was real. His eyes, dark and searching, swept over her, lingering on her disheveled hair, the sand clinging to her skin, the worry carved into her features. "What are you doing here? You shouldn't have come—please, go home. Are you alright?"

She barely registered his concern. Her fingers curled around his, holding on as if letting go would shatter her. Her voice, hoarse and trembling, barely made it past her lips. "We had no choice," she whispered. "Hermione felt something… something terrible. Blaise—where is he?"

Her breath hitched, her heart stalling as she searched his face for answers. And in the way his jaw clenched, the flicker of something dark crossing his expression, she knew.

She knew something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

His expression darkened, the tenderness replaced by a hard edge as he glanced at the girls, each of them watching him with equal intensity. He took a steadying breath before replying, his voice laced with regret and frustration.

"Granger," he said, his voice low and heavy with guilt as he met Hermione's eyes. "Malfoy… he was taken." 

He paused, struggling to steady himself. "It happened in the dead of night, while we were sleeping. We didn't hear a thing—no warning, no signs. When I woke, his bedroll was empty, and the wards were broken. They took him. Right from under our noses. I have no idea where they've taken him."

Hermione's face drained of color, and for a moment, she swayed as if she might collapse. 

Pansy quickly reached for her, steadying her by the shoulder, and Hermione gripped her friend's hand tightly, drawing strength from the touch.

"WHO?" Hermione asked, her voice barely a whisper, raw with anguish and fear. "Who has him, Blaise?"

"I'm not entirely sure. But they knew exactly what they were doing. They targeted Draco specifically; they were after him," he replied, his jaw clenching. The air around them felt heavy, almost suffocating. Every word out of his mouth seemed to weigh them down further.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken dread. Hermione closed her eyes, grappling with the fear that threatened to consume her. She could feel the bond between her and Draco pulsing faintly, but it was distant and faint, like a candle barely flickering in the darkness. The thought of him suffering, of him alone and vulnerable in an unknown location, sent a shudder through her.

"We can't just stand here," she said, her voice fierce, cutting through the silence. "We have to do something. We have to find him, Blaise. Can you track them?"

Blaise's face hardened as he considered her words. "I can try, but it won't be easy. They were prepared, and they knew the terrain better than us. But I won't stop until we bring him back."

Luna stepped forward, her gaze focused and uncharacteristically intense. "Then let's not waste time," she said. Her soft voice had a steely determination that resonated with each of them. "We've come this far; we'll do whatever it takes."

~~~~~~

They returned to the hideout, the place where Draco had been taken. The tension in the air was suffocating, and every step Hermione took felt heavier with the weight of her fear and rage.

Inside, a flickering magical map was projected onto the wall, its glowing contours casting eerie shadows across the room. Theo and another man stood over it, their faces grim, deep in conversation.

As they entered, Theo looked up sharply. His expression shifted to one of alarm when his eyes landed on Luna.

"Theodore Atticus Nott!" Luna snapped, cutting off his attempt to speak.

"Luna, my life—" he began, stepping toward her, his tone urgent and pleading. "You shouldn't be here! Please, go home. This isn't your fight!"

Her expression hardened, her usual dreamy demeanor replaced by steely resolve. "If any of us is out there, it is my fight. I'm not leaving until we bring him back."

Hermione, her arms crossed, let her gaze fall on the unfamiliar man standing beside Theo. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Who's this?" she demanded, motioning toward the stranger.

The man stepped forward, offering a tight, almost mocking smile. "Titus Nott. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Malfoy," he said smoothly. "I've always admired your work—"

"Save it," she interrupted sharply. Her tone cut through the room like a blade. Her gaze was unrelenting. "So, you're the butcher."

The air in the room grew even more tense. Pansy, standing beside Hermione, glared at Titus like he was a stain that refused to be scrubbed clean. Her lip curled in disgust.

Titus didn't flinch. His voice remained even, but his smirk faltered. "Yes," he admitted, his tone clipped. "I am

"Good," she said coldly, her voice laced with contempt. "We're going to need every weapon we can get to find my husband. And if you can't deliver, you're dead weight."

Titus's smirk returned, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "This job isn't for the ladies," he said, almost casually.

Before he could blink, every woman in the room snapped in unison, "SHUT THE FUCK UP."

Titus held up his hands in mock surrender. "Yes, ma'ams," he muttered.

Ginny stepped forward, her fiery hair and even fiercer expression adding weight to her words. "Besides murdering people, do you have any actual skills? Because if you're just here to look dangerous, we don't need you."

"Enough!" Hermione barked, her voice ringing through the room. "When this is over, you can kill him for all I care. Right now, I want to know where the nearest hideout is!"

Theo stepped forward cautiously, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Hermione, please, calm down. He's my cousin."

"Like we give a fuck," Pansy said, her voice dripping with disdain. She tilted her head, her gaze sweeping Titus up and down. "Though, at least you're nice to look at. That's something."

Titus gave her a wry smile. "Thank you, ma'am," he replied, his tone deliberately smooth.

Blaise, leaning against the wall, cut through the tension with his calm, measured voice. "The nearest hideout is kilometers away. But there's a run-down residential property nearby. It could be worth checking."

"Finally, a useful conversation," Luna muttered, her tone laced with exasperation.

The group fell into a tense silence, the weight of the mission ahead pressing down on them. They exchanged glances, the unspoken promise between them clear: whatever it took, they would find Draco.

~~~~~~

Just as Draco's world seemed to collapse into an endless cycle of pain and despair, when every breath felt like it was dragging him deeper into the abyss, a sound shattered the oppressive silence—a deep, gut-wrenching explosion that sent shockwaves through the very foundation of the building. The walls trembled violently, dust and debris cascading from the ceiling like the first warning signs of an earthquake. Then, before he could even process what was happening, the door was obliterated in a deafening blast, the force of it sending splinters of wood and shrapnel through the air like deadly confetti. Smoke curled into the room in thick, choking tendrils, swallowing everything in a suffocating haze, turning shadows into specters, blurring the line between salvation and damnation.

Through the blinding cloud of dust and destruction, figures emerged—swift, methodical, a force of nature tearing through the chaos like they were born in it. The metallic glint of weapons, the sharp bark of commands, the relentless momentum of bodies moving with precision—it was war in its purest form. He could barely make out the shapes, the people who had just stormed in, but instinct screamed at him to brace himself. His already battered body tensed, his mind clawing through the exhaustion and pain, forcing himself upright even as his vision wavered. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out all logic.

He was prepared to meet thy God.

Because this was it, wasn't it? The moment where all debts were paid in blood. Whether salvation or judgment awaited him, he couldn't be sure. His past sins, his regrets, his triumphs, his mistakes—everything balanced on a knife's edge. Would the next second bring rescue or reckoning? Was this the moment he was finally put down like a wounded animal, or had some foolish, reckless soul decided he was worth saving?

His lips curled into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace, bitter amusement tugging at the edges of his exhaustion. If this was his end, he'd meet it standing. But if by some cruel twist of fate, this was his reprieve—then may whatever poor soul dared to come for him be ready for the storm he was about to unleash.

But not until God willed it—and, as fate would have it, she did not.

And in this universe, God went by the name Hermione Granger-Malfoy .

Standing in the center of the chaos, her breath steady, her grip unshakable, Hermione raised her wand with the kind of finality that only came from absolute conviction. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. With a single, fierce incantation, she cast the Killing Curse. A jet of sickly green light split through the darkness, striking Cormac McLaggen square in the chest. His body seized for the briefest of moments, his expression frozen in surprise—then he crumpled, lifeless, his existence snuffed out in an instant. He had been a threat. Now, he was nothing.

The room erupted into chaos. Shadowy figures lunged at one another, spells colliding mid-air in dazzling bursts of energy, while gunfire cracked through the pandemonium, the scent of smoke and blood thickening the air. Light and darkness clashed in a brutal symphony—curses flew like streaks of lightning, bullets shattered the air like thunder. The walls bore scorch marks from spellfire, debris scattered underfoot as bodies dropped, groaning and gasping, or not rising at all.

Hermione moved with deadly precision, weaving between attacks with the agility of a seasoned warrior, her wand an extension of her fury. Every movement was controlled, every spell cast with unrelenting accuracy. She wasn't just fighting—she was dominating. Every flick of her wrist sent an opponent sprawling, every step forward carved a path through the carnage. She had fought in wars before, had carved her name into history with grit and resilience. And tonight, she would do it again.

At the center of it all, Draco remained bound, his vision swimming, his body barely holding onto consciousness. The fight blurred at the edges, the sound distorting as though he were submerged underwater. His pulse pounded sluggishly, his body battered and broken. He barely registered the hands clawing at his restraints, the violent tremors of the room as spells collided with walls.

Then—his bonds loosened.

A sudden, suffocating pull yanked him into oblivion. The pain, the noise, the blood—everything faded into nothingness. A cold void enveloped him, a weightless abyss that should have been terrifying but instead felt… almost peaceful. His body no longer ached. The wounds no longer burned. The war no longer mattered.

And then—her voice.

"I'm here, my love."

Soft. Steady. The anchor he had always clung to in the darkest of times.

It was impossibly soothing, that voice. It wrapped around him like warmth in the bitter cold, a tether to reality even as the darkness threatened to consume him. He wasn't sure if he was dying or simply dreaming, wasn't sure if this was heaven or some cruel trick of the mind. But he knew, without question, that it was her.

And in that moment, with her voice guiding him through the void, Draco Malfoy felt peace. This was afterlife.

~~~~~~

Draco remained in a coma for an entire year, and in that time, their lives fractured around him, the damage slow and insidious. His absence wasn't just a wound—it was a gaping chasm, swallowing them all in different ways. The man who had once been their leader, who had endured so much and always clawed his way back to his feet, now lay motionless, his body a mere shell of the force he had once been.

For Hermione, it was a living nightmare.

She, who had once been the pillar of reason, the one who could find logic in chaos, unraveled before their eyes. Grief clung to her like a second skin, hollowing her out, turning her into someone unrecognizable. The fire that had once burned so brightly behind her eyes dimmed, flickering weakly as though it might be snuffed out entirely.

Her friends tried, in their own ways, to help her, to offer support. But it was like trying to reach someone behind unbreakable glass—Hermione saw them, heard them, but she never truly let them in. She floated through the days, going through the motions, existing but not living.

Ginny, who had her own complicated history with Malfoy, tried as well. She wasn't doing it for him—Merlin knew she wouldn't have lifted a finger if it were just about him—but Hermione was her best friend, and she couldn't stand seeing her like this. So she did what she knew how to do: she barged in, forced her way into Hermione's space, and left little offerings in the form of warm biscuits, the kind she used to love.

Hermione never said thank you. Sometimes, she barely even acknowledged them. But Ginny kept baking them anyway, because it was something, and she was determined to give Hermione something when the world had already taken so much.

Blaise, on the other hand, never needed an excuse to linger by Draco's side. He visited every day, without fail, no matter what else was happening in his life. Rain, shine, blood on his hands—nothing deterred him.

Ginny hated it.

She understood it, but she hated it.

It was one thing to be loyal. It was another to let that loyalty consume you.

"You're a bloody idiot, you know," he would mutter to the unconscious man, arms crossed as he leaned back in that awful hospital chair. "Leaving Granger to clean up your mess? That's low, even for you. But don't worry, I'm here to remind her every day that you're still the biggest prat in the room—even if you're comatose."

He spoke to Draco like the bastard could hear him, filling the silence with updates about missions, about Valerius, about anything that came to mind. Sarcasm, exasperation, reluctant affection—it was all there, woven into his words like a thread he refused to cut.

And then he would come home, exhausted, retreating into the nursery to watch Valerius sleep, as if their son was the only thing anchoring him back to reality.

Ginny saw it all, and it infuriated her.

She never said anything—what was the point? It wouldn't change a damn thing. But every time she watched him disappear into that room, every time he spent hours at Draco's bedside instead of with them, that ugly little voice in the back of her mind whispered: What about us? What about your family?

Their friends felt the strain, too. Theo all but vanished from group gatherings, unwilling to steep himself in the unrelenting gloom that had settled over them.

Pansy, for all her sharp edges, had tried. She had gone to see Hermione, made an effort to reach her. But even she was reaching her limit.

"I don't know what to say to her anymore," she admitted to Ginny one afternoon over tea. "She barely even sees me. I feel like I'm talking to a ghost."

Ginny nodded, because Merlin, did she understand that feeling.

Days blurred into weeks. Weeks bled into months. The world kept spinning, even when it felt like theirs had stopped. Blaise kept his vigil, Hermione kept wasting away, and Ginny—despite everything—kept making those damn biscuits, because what else could she do?

And then, after a year of waiting, of suffering, of drowning in the silence Draco had left behind—

He woke up.