Sins of Omission

The day arrived with a suffocating weight in the air. It was the kind of day where the sky loomed darker than it should, where the wind held its breath, and the very atmosphere carried an eerie stillness, as if the world itself was bracing for something catastrophic. Pansy had sensed it long before the Floo call came—a gnawing, inescapable feeling in her chest that whispered of something terrible approaching.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared her for the news.

The fireplace roared to life, emerald flames twisting violently, and then—Luna's frantic voice shattered the stillness.

"Pansy! RON'S DEAD! OH GODS, PANSY—HE AND LAVENDER ARE DEAD!"

Everything stopped.

The world tilted, the air vanished from her lungs, and for a moment, she felt as though reality itself had fractured around her.

Dead?

Her hand gripped the armrest of her chair so tightly her knuckles turned white. The words didn't register, didn't make sense. They echoed in her mind, distorted, unreal—like a bad dream she couldn't wake from.

"Oh, Merlin…" The words tumbled from her lips in a whisper, barely audible over the deafening sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Through the flames, Luna's face flickered—her usual dreamy, otherworldly composure completely shattered. Her features were tight with panic, her voice raw, breathless, and laced with a grief so palpable it sent a chill straight to Pansy's bones.

"It's—it's unfathomable… I can't—I don't know how this could happen, Pansy! They were both… both killed!"

Killed.

A sharp inhale. A sudden, cold certainty settling deep within her.

Her mind reeled, trying to piece together something coherent, but all she could see were flashes of memories—Lavender's ever-present smirk, Ron's ridiculous, unmissable presence. Loud, messy, flawed, human. People who had once been woven into the fabric of their world, irritating and insufferable at times, but alive. Real. And now…

Gone. Just like that.

Her throat tightened, words catching like thorns. "It's… truly…" But she couldn't finish the sentence. There was nothing to say. Nothing that could make sense of this.

The Floo call didn't last long. Luna was too frantic, too shattered to speak for much longer, and Pansy—Pansy could barely manage a response. Could barely string together words of comfort, could barely breathe around the weight pressing against her ribs.

The flames flickered out, and the silence came crashing down around her like an avalanche, thick and suffocating. It wasn't just silence—it was an absence, a void where reality had once existed. The weight of it pressed against her chest, making it impossible to breathe. The world was spinning, but it wasn't the deaths that had sent her mind reeling. It was the truth that settled deep in her bones, cold and unrelenting.

Because she knew.

She had known before Luna had even finished speaking, before the words had fully settled in the space between them. The moment Ron and Lavender's names left Luna's trembling lips, she had known exactly why this had happened, exactly whose hands had orchestrated it, and exactly what it meant. The truth clawed at her insides like a rabid beast, desperate to be set free, to be spoken into existence, to be acknowledged. For a brief, blinding moment, she wanted to scream—to run to Luna, fall at her feet, and tear the veil from her eyes. She wanted to shatter the ignorance, rip open the wounds before they could fester, force Luna to see the world for what it was.

"Do you know, Luna? Do you? Your husband—your precious Theo—he and his ruthless, cold-blooded friends did this. They killed them. They're the reason Ron and Lavender are dead."

The words burned in her throat, searing and relentless, clawing their way up, begging to be released. But she couldn't.

She couldn't.

How could she be the one to destroy Luna's world? How could she be the one to turn that unwavering, ethereal light in her eyes into something fractured, something irreparable? Luna, who had never harbored cruelty in her heart, who still believed in the inherent goodness of the world, who had built a life around Theo without ever questioning the shadows that lurked behind him. If Pansy spoke now, if she let the truth slip from her lips, she wouldn't just be breaking Luna's heart—she would be razing it to the ground.

She could already see it, playing out in her mind like a slow-motion tragedy. The devastation, the pain, the betrayal that would carve itself into Luna's delicate features. The way she would look at Theo, the way her fingers would tremble as she reached for Lysander, as if trying to anchor herself to something—anything—that hadn't been tainted by the darkness. Pansy could already hear the shatter of everything Luna had built, and it was unbearable.

So she swallowed it.

The truth, the fury, the unbearable weight of it all. She swallowed it whole, forcing it deep into the darkest parts of herself, burying it alongside every other thing she had never dared to voice.

And the silence became a noose.

It wrapped around her throat, coiling tighter and tighter, squeezing until she thought she might choke on it. The guilt was unbearable, pressing down on her with an unrelenting force. She wanted to claw at her own skin, to rip the feeling from her chest, to tear down everything in her path just to feel something other than this suffocating, all-consuming dread. But she didn't. Instead, she clenched her jaw, forced her spine straight, and did what she had always done.

She endured it.

She had been raised to carry secrets like weapons, to wear silence like armor. She had spent a lifetime mastering the art of burying things—her pain, her past, the sharp edges of herself that never quite fit the way they were supposed to. But this was different. This wasn't just about her. This wasn't just about surviving.

This was about Luna.

Luna, whose laughter still rang in the quiet corners of her mind. Luna, who had stood beside her on her wedding day with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair. Luna, who had never hesitated to choose her, over and over, when no one else had.

Luna, who deserved the truth more than anyone.

But Pansy had made her choice.

She stood abruptly, her movements sharp and restless, her mind spiraling in a million different directions. She didn't know what to do, didn't know how to exist under the crushing weight of this knowledge. The image of Luna's tear-streaked face burned behind her eyes, a constant, inescapable reminder of the lie she had chosen to live.

She didn't want to be complicit in this. She didn't want to be a part of this world anymore.

But the truth was, she already was.

She had been since the beginning.

Pansy stared at her reflection in the darkened window, at the sharp lines of her face, the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands trembled at her sides. She had always wondered if she was doomed to become her mother, if the weight of her family's sins would be passed down like an heirloom. And now, standing there, suffocating under the burden of a secret too heavy to bear, she finally had her answer.

She wasn't her mother.

She was something much, much worse.

Because at least her mother had never lied to the people she loved.

And yet, as much as she wanted to believe she had a choice, she knew the truth.

There was no choice. There had never been a choice.

Because if protecting Luna meant damning herself?

She would do it every time.

Selective transparency is not honesty.

And may the fire of who you are burn you alive until you are capable of standing in the fucking truth of it.

Theodore. The name tasted bitter on her tongue, like the ghost of a promise long since broken. She spoke it softly, almost reverently, yet there was nothing soft in the way it hung between them, thick and weighted with the unspoken truth that neither of them dared to voice. He stood before her, silent, unrepentant, and for a moment, she wished he would at least pretend to be sorry. Pretend to carry the weight of what he had done. Pretend that the blood on his hands wasn't so thick, so permanent, so damning. But he didn't. He simply stood there, as if waiting for her to deliver a verdict she had no authority to give.

"When the devil finally comes for you," she murmured, voice steady but laced with something raw, something dangerously close to mourning, "you'll have more sins to confess than even Hell can hold. And I—I pray your secrets remain buried. Not for you, Theo. Never for you. But for Luna's sake. For Lysander's. For the family that still loves you, even when they don't know what they're loving."

The words left her like lead, heavy and immovable, settling into the air between them like the final nail in a coffin. She hadn't realized she was shaking until she exhaled, and the tremor in her breath betrayed the storm raging within her. Pansy Parkinson had never been one for faith. She had never found solace in whispered prayers or unseen deities, never believed in divine justice or cosmic mercy. The war had burned any illusion of a benevolent higher power out of her long ago, had taught her that survival came not from grace but from grit, from sharp tongues and sharper knives, from making choices that others were too afraid to make. If gods existed, they had never spared their kind. Not from the war. Not from their pasts. Not from the sins that clung to their skin like an unshakable curse.

And yet, as she stood there, staring at Theo—Theo, who had done the unspeakable and still slept beneath the same roof as the woman who would weep for him, who would cradle his son and whisper bedtime stories with love in her voice, never knowing the monster she lay beside—she felt something shift inside her. A desperate, aching need for something beyond herself, beyond this world of careful lies and calculated betrayals. If Muggles could believe in God, could hold onto their faith through war and suffering, then why couldn't she? Why couldn't she believe in something, anything, that might keep Luna safe? The thought echoed inside her, relentless, a plea without shape, without name, only raw desperation clawing at the edges of her sanity.

But she did not pray for herself. She did not ask for forgiveness, because she knew she did not deserve it. She did not pray for Theo, because he had chosen his fate long before this moment, and she would not waste her breath mourning a man who did not mourn himself. She prayed for Luna. For the light in her eyes to remain untainted. For the warmth in her laughter to never be stolen by the weight of betrayal. For the love she had built—so pure, so untouched by the rot that festered beneath it—to remain whole, even if it meant living a lie.

Pansy had never been the kind of woman who protected others. She had never been selfless, had never been soft, had never been the kind of person who shielded anyone but herself. She had been built for survival, not salvation. Her love had always been edged in iron, her loyalty sharp enough to wound, her care hidden beneath layers of biting sarcasm and ruthless pragmatism. And yet, standing there with the weight of Theo's sins pressing against her, she felt something unfamiliar bloom in her chest. A guardian. A shield. A liar, maybe. A protector, definitely. Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms as she made a silent vow.

She would keep Luna safe. Even if it meant swallowing the truth whole. Even if it meant letting the weight of Theo's crimes settle on her own shoulders. Even if it meant condemning herself to silence. Even if it meant asking for a redemption she wasn't sure she believed in.

And so, for the first time in her life, Pansy Parkinson prayed. Not to be saved. But to be strong enough to bear the weight of the sins that weren't hers to confess.

Who was she kidding? When the devil finally came for her, when the scales of justice—if such a thing even existed in their world—were finally balanced, she would have more sins to confess than she could ever hope to atone for. The weight of her choices pressed against her ribs like iron shackles, heavy and unrelenting, a burden she had carried for so long that she had almost forgotten what it was like to live without it. Being born into the dark side of the Sacred 28 wasn't just an inheritance—it was a sentence, a binding contract signed in blood before she had ever taken her first breath. It was a legacy that didn't just cling to her name, but to the very marrow of her bones, inescapable and absolute.

She had been raised in the dim glow of candlelit parlors and the low murmurs of carefully coded conversations, in drawing rooms filled with the scent of aged firewhiskey and the acrid sting of burnt parchment, where power was bartered like currency, and secrets held more weight than gold. She had learned young that silence was survival, that the world belonged to those who knew how to wield knowledge like a blade. She had learned to smile with lips painted in deception, to pour tea with one hand while sealing someone's fate with the other. The war had changed many things, but it hadn't erased the truths she had been born into. It hadn't erased the way her family, her friends, the entire web of high society she belonged to, operated in the shadows.

She had grown up surrounded by darkness, had breathed it in until it filled her lungs, until it became a part of her. She had seen too much, known too much, carried too much in silence. Every favor owed, every debt collected, every whispered deal made in the dead of night—it all clung to her like a second skin, suffocating and inescapable. She had learned to navigate it, to thrive within it even, but now? Now, it gnawed at her, an insatiable beast lurking beneath her skin, clawing at her conscience with every passing second.

Her gaze drifted down to her hands—elegant, steady hands that had once traced letters on the finest parchment, hands that had signed contracts worth more than some families' entire fortunes, hands that had once only known luxury and decadence. But these were the same hands that had stirred poisons in the still silence of her ancestors' estate, that had measured out death in precise, deliberate doses, that had crafted concoctions capable of silencing a heartbeat in a single breath. There had been a time when she had thought of it as nothing more than a skill, a talent honed over years of meticulous practice. She had prided herself on her precision, her expertise, on the way she could create something so lethal with such delicate, calculated care.

But now, the weight of that talent bore down on her. Because making poison wasn't just an act—it was a choice. A conscious decision, over and over again, to be the dealer of fate. Every vial she had ever brewed had been a quiet agreement with the darkness, a pact she had signed with her own steady hands. It had been so easy to distance herself from it before, to justify it as a necessity, a form of control in a world where control was the only thing that kept them from being devoured whole. She had never considered herself a monster, not like some of the others.

At least she didn't kill for sport, like some of her so-called friends. They were different—colder, more ruthless, their eyes void of anything resembling hesitation. They killed for power, for profit, for the sheer principle of it. And in their world, there was no sin greater than betraying blood. Loyalty was a law more binding than any written contract, and love was measured in sacrifice, in what you were willing to burn for the ones you called family.

That was what unsettled her the most—the unrelenting, unquestioning brutality of it all. Theo would kill for Luna. Draco would kill for Hermione. There was no hesitation in that truth, no doubt in their convictions. It was a language she had always understood, even if she had never spoken it herself.

But Ron?

What the hell had Ron Weasley done to warrant death?

The thought sent an icy shiver down her spine, an unease she couldn't shake. She had never particularly liked Weasley—had spent years sneering at his name, rolling her eyes at his temper, scoffing at the very idea that someone like him had managed to entangle himself with their world. But murder? That was something different. That was something final. That was something Draco would never do lightly, no matter how much he hated the man. For Draco to be willing to kill him meant something had happened—something unforgivable, something beyond jealousy or schoolboy rivalries.

Something vile.

Something that deserved vengeance.

But what if it didn't?

What if she had spent her entire life justifying the sins of the people she loved? What if she had convinced herself that everything they did was necessary, that every line they crossed was just part of the world they lived in? What if, in protecting them, in choosing silence, she had been complicit all along?

She exhaled sharply, shoving herself to her feet, pacing the length of the room as her thoughts twisted into something sharp and suffocating. She needed to confront this. She needed answers. Not just for herself, but for Luna, for Neville, for whatever fragile illusion of peace they had built after the war.

The darkness around her felt heavier than it ever had before, pressing in like a vice. She had spent her entire life walking the fine line between survival and damnation, between the person she was and the person she wanted to be. But this? This was different. This was something that threatened to tip the scales entirely.

If she stayed silent, she would always be tied to their bloodshed. Just another shadow among many, just another ghost lurking behind the scenes of their carefully curated lives.

But if she spoke? If she confronted the truth?

She could lose everything.

Her friends. Her safety. The life she had built brick by careful brick, clawing her way out of the wreckage of her past.

It was a dangerous game, one with no easy answers, one with no guarantee of survival. But as she stood there, her breath coming too fast, her hands curling into fists at her sides, she knew one thing for certain—

She had spent her entire life running from the consequences of her past.

And if she wasn't careful, she was going to keep running until there was nothing left of her at all.

~~~~~~

She stood in the living room, her pulse hammering against her ribs as she heard the familiar crack of apparition just beyond the door, followed by the unmistakable sound of him stepping into their home. Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, his usually upright posture slightly slumped, his shoulders weighed down by the burdens of the day. She could see it in the way he moved, slow and deliberate, as if each step was an effort, in the way he rubbed at his temple absently, in the way his fingers flexed, seeking the familiar comfort of routine. He was expecting the usual—an evening where they could unwind together, where the weight of the world could be temporarily cast aside in favor of warmth, quiet laughter, maybe a meal shared in comfortable silence. But tonight, peace was a luxury she couldn't give him.

The truth sat heavy in her chest, pressing against her ribs like a vice, suffocating, immovable. It had been clawing at her all day, growing heavier with each passing hour, and though she had rehearsed this moment over and over in her mind, she still wasn't ready to say the words. But there was no time for hesitation, no space for doubt, because once she spoke, there would be no taking it back.

He barely had time to set his things down before she forced herself to break the silence, her voice steady despite the way her stomach twisted. "Neville, my love," she said, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze with as much strength as she could muster. "Please, sit down. I need to tell you something important."

His brow furrowed instantly, a flicker of concern passing through his green eyes, their warmth dimming as tension settled into his expression. His exhaustion was momentarily forgotten, replaced by the sharp edge of apprehension, like the first gust of wind before a brewing storm. "Oh Merlin, what is it?" he asked, his voice low, wary.

She took a slow breath, steadying herself, knowing there was no way to soften the blow. "Ron and Lavender are dead."

The words fell between them like stones dropped into deep water, rippling outward, shifting the very air between them. He didn't react immediately, didn't move, didn't even breathe. His entire body stilled, the world around them seeming to shrink into this singular moment, the air growing thick with unspoken grief, with disbelief, with the weight of what she had just said. She could see the way his mind raced, the way he searched for some explanation, some logical reason, as if he could will it into being. His eyes flickered toward the table, staring blankly at the polished wood as though the answer might be hidden in its grain.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured, reaching out, her fingers ghosting over his in silent reassurance, a small offering in the face of something so incomprehensible.

But he didn't respond. Didn't flinch. Didn't move. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unbearable, pressing against her skin like the weight of an unseen hand. Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, he blinked, his voice coming out quiet, almost fragile. "What happened?"

She hesitated, her throat tightening around the truth like a fist. She had carried it for hours, letting it simmer beneath her skin, burning her from the inside out. But saying it aloud—making it real—felt like stepping off a ledge with no hope of landing safely.

"It was… it was Fiendfyre," she forced out, each syllable sharp and jagged, cutting into her like shards of glass.

His breath hitched, horror blooming across his features like a spreading bruise. His shoulders tensed, and she could see the way his fingers curled slightly, his grip tightening on nothing. "Pansy, that is cursed magic," he said, his voice low, but edged with something that sent a shiver through her.

"I'm aware, darling," she replied softly, watching the way he struggled to absorb the information, the way he shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear it, to make sense of something that refused to be understood. "But it happened."

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face, his palm lingering over his mouth for a moment as if he was trying to hold back whatever emotion threatened to spill over. "That's absolutely horrible," he muttered, shaking his head, his voice distant. "How?"

She hesitated again, her mind racing, grasping for the right words. She had rehearsed this, had prepared for this moment, but nothing could have truly prepared her for the way he was looking at her now. "I don't know," she lied, forcing herself to keep her voice smooth, even as guilt curdled in her stomach. "People are saying it was some kind of accident, but… it doesn't feel right to me."

His fingers curled into a fist on the table, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. He was staring down at the wood again, his jaw clenched so tight she could see the tension in his neck. "Ron… he wasn't perfect, but he didn't deserve this."

Her chest ached, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a heavy stone. "No one deserves to die like that," she agreed, her voice barely more than a whisper. "But you have to understand… things get messy, and not everyone plays fair."

His gaze snapped to hers, sharp and searching, suspicion coiling in the depths of his green eyes. "What do you mean?"

She took a slow breath, choosing her words with surgical precision, treading the fine line between truth and deception. "You know how things are. The Weasleys have been involved in… things. Ron wasn't just some innocent victim. He was part of a world that didn't care about right or wrong."

His frown deepened, his mind clearly trying to piece together fragments of a puzzle he hadn't even known existed. "You're talking about the darker side of our world, aren't you?" His voice was careful now, measured, as if he was testing the waters before diving in.

She held his gaze, knowing that one wrong step could unravel everything. "I'm saying there's more to this than meets the eye. And sometimes… sometimes people's pasts catch up with them."

He studied her for a long moment, his silence carrying the weight of something unspoken, something neither of them were ready to voice. She knew he could feel it—that there was something she wasn't saying, something bigger lurking just beneath the surface of her carefully chosen words. But he didn't push. Not yet. Instead, he let out a slow breath, his fingers finally loosening from the tight fist they had been clenched in.

"I don't like this," he admitted finally, shaking his head, the unease evident in his voice. "Something about this feels… wrong."

She reached for him again, this time fully taking his hand in hers, squeezing gently. "I know," she said, her voice softer now, filled with a quiet sorrow. "Me too."

And in that moment, as they sat there, the silence stretching between them like an unspoken promise, she let herself believe—just for a second—that maybe, just maybe, she could keep him safe from the truth.

He leaned back, his arms crossing tightly over his chest, the tension in his shoulders coiling like a spring ready to snap. His voice, when it finally came, was thick with disbelief and something else—something raw. "That's not fair. He was Hermione's friend. And Lavender… they were people, Pansy. They didn't deserve to be burned alive."

She exhaled, a slow, deliberate breath, as she averted her gaze. The flickering candlelight caught the sharp angles of her face, casting shadows that felt heavier than they should. "Randomness is a luxury," she murmured, her voice nearly lost beneath the weight of her own thoughts. "People like us? We get caught in wars we didn't choose."

A bitter scoff left his lips, his jaw tightening as he sat forward, his fingers pressing into the grain of the table as though grounding himself. "But what can we do?" he demanded, his voice edged with frustration, with the helplessness that neither of them wanted to admit. "We can't just stand by while this happens."

She met his gaze then, her eyes steady, dark, filled with an unspoken truth that lingered between them like smoke. He didn't understand. He wasn't supposed to. That was the point. That was why she was still breathing, why their world still held together at the seams. "We have to be careful," she said at last, her voice softer, not an argument, not a deflection—but a plea. "We can't make enemies of the wrong people. Or we'll end up like Ron and Lavender."

His jaw clenched, his entire body rigid with a quiet fury she had seen before—when he had stood in the rubble of Hogwarts, when he had refused to back down against those who had tried to break him, when he had chosen courage even when all odds were stacked against him. "We would never end up like that, Parky. You know that, right?"

She forced a small, wavering smile, the unease curling deep in her gut like something alive, something festering. "I know, love," she said, but the words felt like paper-thin armor. She swallowed hard, her throat tight. "It's just hard to imagine dying that way. It feels so… senseless."

And for the first time in a long time, she feared they were both standing too close to the fire.

He leaned forward, his hands reaching for hers, the warmth of his touch grounding her for a moment, pulling her from the endless spiral of her thoughts. His voice, softer now but no less certain, cut through the tension. "Pansy, listen to me. We're not in that world anymore. We've built a life together—a safe one. I have countless protection charms around the manor."

Her heart fluttered at the reassurance, yet the weight in her chest refused to lift, the foreboding pressing against her ribs like iron bars. "I know, my love," she murmured, her lips twitching in a weak attempt at a smile. "I reinforced even more after we got married. Why did you do it?"

A faint blush colored his cheeks, the kind of boyish sincerity that made her chest ache. "The moment I realized I loved you, I researched even more wards and layered them over the house. I wanted you to feel safe here, to know that nothing could get past me."

Her fingers curled around his, squeezing just enough to make sure he felt her certainty. "Good," she whispered, her voice steadier now. "I did the same. The last thing I want is for you to ever worry about something happening to us."

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich, wrapping around her like a tether to the present. "You've always been resourceful. It's one of the things I love about you."

A comfortable silence stretched between them, thick with the quiet understanding that had always existed between them, the kind of bond that didn't need words. But still, something inside her twisted, something deeper, something colder. Her smile faltered, her thoughts running faster than she liked, spinning through possibilities, through worst-case scenarios she hadn't dared to voice.

"But it's not just about spells and charms, is it?" she murmured, almost to herself, her thumb absentmindedly tracing the back of his hand. "There's a darkness out there, Neville. It's not just paranoia. We can't pretend it doesn't exist."

The lightness in his eyes faded, replaced with something more serious, something knowing. "I know. I feel it too." His voice was quieter now, more certain. "It's just… we've fought so hard to get here, Pans. We've built something real, something good. I don't want to lose sight of that."

She exhaled, nodding slowly, trying to absorb the warmth of his words, the steadiness of his presence. "We won't," she said, more for him than for herself. But then she looked up, meeting his gaze fully. "But I need you to promise me something."

His brows knitted together, his concern deepening. "Anything."

"If something feels off, we talk about it. No secrets. No hiding."

Liar.

He gave her a firm nod, his grip on her hand tightening slightly, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as if sealing the promise between them. "I promise," he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to her hand. "You can trust me, my love. I'm in this for the long haul, no matter what's ahead."

She leaned in, resting her forehead against his, the warmth of him soothing the sharp edges of her thoughts, their breaths mingling in the quiet of their home. "I love you, Nevie. More than anything."

"And I love you."

But even as they whispered those words to each other, even as she felt the familiar comfort of his arms pulling her close, she couldn't shake the creeping sensation along her spine. The world outside their sanctuary was quiet—for now. But she knew better.

She had always known better.

The soft padding of paws broke the moment, drawing them both from the depths of their thoughts. They turned in unison as Lady Lemongrass trotted into the room, her little body practically vibrating with excitement as she leaped onto the couch with dramatic flair.

She smirked despite herself. "Look at her, always trying to steal the show."

He let out a quiet chuckle, reaching over to scratch behind the pug's ears. "She knows we need the distraction."

"Of course she does," she murmured, absently running her fingers through the dog's fur as Lady settled into her lap, letting out a happy sigh. "She's our little guardian angel."

But even as she let herself fall into the moment, let herself breathe in the warmth of her home, her mind was elsewhere.

Ron and Lavender.

The news of their deaths had been shocking, but it wasn't the loss itself that unsettled her—it was the method. The brutality of it, the sheer finality. Fiendfyre wasn't an accident. It wasn't something done in the heat of the moment. It was deliberate. Calculated. It was a message.

And she wasn't foolish enough to ignore it.

She glanced at him again, watching as he absentmindedly ran a hand over Lady's fur, his lips still curled faintly in the remnants of a smile. He was talking again, about safety measures, about expanding the wards, about being cautious—but his voice faded into the background, lost beneath the steady drum of her own thoughts.

They were safe. For now.

But she had spent her entire life in a world where safety was an illusion.

Their family was powerful, untouchable in ways that most could only dream of. But power came with enemies, and enemies had a way of waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

She studied him, memorizing the soft features of his face, the way his fingers moved without thinking, the way his eyes gleamed when he spoke of things that mattered to him.

There was no one in this world she loved more.

And yet…

She was the only person he should genuinely fear.

A chill ran down her spine at the thought, unexpected and unrelenting.

She wasn't just his wife. She wasn't just his partner. She was something else entirely.

And she wasn't sure how much longer she could keep it at bay.