Together in Turmoil

Hermione gets kidnapped and brutally attacked. Scene is not written in this fanfiction.

I'm so sorry. Nothing nice is going to happen for a while.

Neville is the husband of the century.

Pansy and Crookshanks bestie moment.

The past few days had felt like something out of a dream—idyllic, blissful, almost too good to be real. Their lives, so often fraught with tension and unpredictability, had finally settled into something steady, something soft. She found herself cherishing the simple moments more than ever—the way he reached for her hand absentmindedly, the sound of his laughter echoing through their home, the ease with which they fit together. Their marriage had become a seamless blend of playful teasing, deep midnight conversations, and the kind of intimacy that made her heart swell with warmth. It was as if, for the first time, the universe had decided to grant them peace, and she was determined to hold onto it as long as fate allowed.

At that very moment, she was fully immersed in an endeavor that, by her standards, was of utmost importance—designing an extravagant new wardrobe for Lady. The little pug, sprawled dramatically on the plush cushions of the chaise lounge, was snuffling in mild protest as she attempted to measure her for what was sure to be her most ostentatious ensemble yet. Pansy had been mentally debating between a silk-trimmed brocade or a deep, rich velvet, wondering if a touch of embroidery would elevate the look further. She was just about to reach for a spool of gold-threaded fabric when the air in the room shifted.

A sudden burst of silver light cut through the space, sending a chill skittering down her spine. The graceful form of Luna's unicorn Patronus emerged before her, its presence radiating urgency, its luminescent form casting long shadows against the walls.

Her body tensed before the message even came.

"MALFOY PENTHOUSE. NOW. URGENT!"

The words rang in her ears like the crack of a whip, snapping her out of her serene reverie. The atmosphere of warmth and leisure evaporated in an instant, replaced with an icy grip of dread that coiled tightly in her chest. Her mind raced ahead, tripping over worst-case scenarios, conjuring images of blood, of shattered glass, of Draco or Hermione lying motionless on the floor.

Without hesitation, she released her hold on Lady, the tiny pug tumbling unceremoniously onto the cushions with an indignant huff. The tape measure slipped from her fingers, forgotten, as her instincts took over.

A single breath. A single beat of her frantic heart. And then she was gone—disappearing in the crack of apparition, her body still tingling with the ghostly presence of Luna's Patronus as she materialized inside Draco and Hermione's penthouse, bracing herself for whatever horror awaited her on the other side.

~~~~~~

The Malfoy Penthouse was a grand and luxurious space, but tonight it was filled with a frantic energy as Draco, Theo, Blaise, Pansy and Ginny scattered in every direction, their urgency palpable.

Draco's heart pounded in his chest as he turned the corner of the living room. The mess in the room told a story of struggle—a toppled vase, broken glass, and scattered books. The sight only fueled his growing panic. 

"My love!" he called out, his voice echoing off the marble floors and high ceilings. "Hermione, where are you?"

Blaise was already in the kitchen, opening drawers and rifling through the cabinets. "She could have left a note or something!" he shouted back, though it was clear that nothing of the sort had been left behind.

Ginny raced into the study, her eyes darting over the desk and bookshelves. "She has to have left something behind!" Her voice trembled as she picked up a half-empty cup of tea, hoping for some clue, but finding only the cold dregs of the drink.

Theo, meanwhile, had moved to the hallway, his eyes scanning for any sign of Hermione's presence. He checked every room, from the guest bedrooms to the library, but the penthouse remained eerily silent.

Draco!" Ginny's voice rang out from the living room. "Come here!

Draco rushed into the room, his eyes catching the sight of a small, silver ribbon caught on the edge of a coffee table. He knelt down, his fingers gently brushing against it. "This must be from the gift she received earlier."

Theo joined them, his face grim. "A portkey. She was taken somewhere."

Blaise came in from the kitchen, his face reflecting the same worry. "If she was taken against her will, Dobbiamo trovarla!"

Draco's eyes were fierce as he looked around the room. "We need to search for any trace of where the portkey might have taken her."

"Look for anything unusual," Theo said, moving to inspect the area where Hermione's things were scattered. "Anything that could give us a clue."

Ginny bent down, her fingers brushing over the edge of the broken vase. "There's something in the rubble here." She carefully extracted a small piece of parchment from beneath the shards of ceramic.

Draco took the parchment from her, his hands trembling slightly as he unfolded it. The delicate paper rustled softly in the tense silence of the room. 

As he read the cryptic message aloud, his brow furrowed in concentration. "For the diamond in the world of gold." Draco's voice was low and troubled, the weight of the words hanging in the air.

Blaise's eyes narrowed as he thought furiously. "What the fuck does that mean?" he muttered, frustration evident in his tone.

Ginny's eyes widened as realization dawned on her. "It's Hermione—the Golden Girl!" Her voice trembled with a mix of hope and fear.

Theo's gaze was intense, his mind racing to connect the dots. "Draco, think quickly! What diamond? Who's diamond?" he demanded, his urgency clear.

"That fucking bitch!" Draco yelled, his rage palpable as he slammed his fist against the wall. "Karkaroff's whore! The last time we saw her, she was dripping in diamonds, like she's turning trash into treasure!"

He took a deep breath, his anger only partly abated. "Of course! It was all an act to make herself look more valuable, more important than she really is."

"Ginny looked at him with a mix of fear and curiosity. "What are you saying, Draco?

"Draco's eyes flashed with grim realization. "Karkaroff's wife is the key. She flaunted those diamonds as though they were her badge of honor, her way of claiming a false superiority. If the message refers to a diamond, then it must be her connection to the diamonds she showed off."

His face was set in a hard line as he continued, "Diamonds and drugs, they're both symbols of black market trade, of contraband and corruption."

His eyes burned with frustration. "Karkaroff was accusing us of selling low-quality drugs last time we met. But it wasn't the truth—it was a trap designed to mislead us."

Ginny's eyes widened, a mix of horror and disbelief crossing her face. "Drugs? Ferret, what are you talking about? 

Blaise's shoulders slumped, a deep sorrow in his eyes. "Mia cara, I'm afraid the world we live in is far darker than you ever imagined. I'm so sorry you had to learn it like this."

Her eyes widened in shock, her body frozen in place. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place with a sickening clarity. The luxury they enjoyed had come at a steep price, and the strange hours, the bloodstained clothes—everything she had ignored—now made a brutal, horrifying sense."Blaise!" Ginny's voice was sharp, filled with indignation. "We will deal with this later. For now, Draco, you need to use the soul bond to locate Hermione!"

Draco's jaw tightened with determination. He whispered, "Uruz." A beautiful rune appeared in the room like a holographic projection, its light casting an ethereal glow.

"Uruz, the mother of manifestation, please show me where Hermione Granger-Malfoy is," Draco commanded, his voice ringing with urgency.

The rune glowed a soft pink, swirling and shifting until it displayed a vision of a dark dungeon. Hermione's terrified face filled the projection, her mouth open in a silent scream.

Draco's heart clenched at the sight. "Hold on, Hermione," he whispered fiercely. "I'm coming."

"Ginerva!" Draco barked at Ginny. "Get Potter here and get us a portkey."

"There is no need for that," Theo interjected.

Before anyone could react, Theo gathered them into a tight circle. With a swift, practiced motion, he apparated them directly to the Nott Manor basement. 

He rushed to a cabinet filled with objects and pulled out a piece that looked like reading glasses. Without missing a beat, he ran to another cabinet and flung it open with a rush of motion, revealing an arsenal of guns, knives, and wands.

"Merlin," Ginny breathed, momentarily speechless at the sight.

Draco, ever the pragmatist, grabbed a wand and a sleek, silver knife. "We need to move quickly," he said, his voice low and urgent. 

"Mia cara," Blaise said in a low voice, his eyes locking onto Ginny's. "At this exact moment, I need you. I need the fire that burns inside your Gryffindor heart. You must fight with every weapon you have."

Ginny nodded, her posture shifting from that of a trophy wife to a determined warrior. She kicked off her high heels and Accio'd a set of comfortable clothes from Luna's closet. Within seconds, she was ready, her eyes fierce with resolve.

Draco gave her an approving nod.

~~~~~~

The moment the words left their lips—Hermione had been kidnapped—everything inside her shattered. It was as though the very foundation of her world had been ripped away, leaving her standing in a void where nothing felt real, nothing felt solid. The walls that once enclosed a space of warmth and familiarity now loomed over her like a prison, their presence suffocating, the air thick with a dread so profound it seeped into her very bones.

Her hands found the coffee table, fingers gripping the edges so tightly her knuckles turned white. She needed something—anything—to anchor herself, to keep her from slipping under the crushing wave of terror that threatened to drown her. But even as she clung to the cold, unyielding wood, her breath came in shallow, broken gasps, her lungs fighting against an unseen force that wrapped itself around her chest like iron chains. The world tilted, the edges of her vision darkening, and for a moment, she feared she might collapse.

And then the dam broke.

A sob tore through her throat, raw and unrestrained, as her knees buckled beneath her. The floor was unforgiving against her skin, the impact jolting through her body, but she barely registered the pain. Her cries filled the empty space, shattering the silence, echoing off the walls like a desperate plea to the universe. Bring her back. Give her back.

The weight of the moment crashed over her in relentless waves, dragging her deeper into an abyss of sorrow so consuming it felt as though it might never end. How could this be happening? Hermione—her Hermione, their Hermione—was gone. Taken. Ripped from them by unseen hands, stolen into the unknown. And she had done nothing—nothing—to stop it.

Her fingers clawed at the floor, grasping at nothing, as if she could physically pull herself out of the chasm of despair that yawned before her. Tears streamed down her cheeks in burning trails, hot and unrelenting, and for the first time in a long time, she let them fall freely. She had spent years mastering the art of holding herself together, of standing strong, of never showing weakness. But now, she was coming undone at the seams, unraveling beneath the crushing realization that she had failed to protect someone she loved.

A sound broke through the storm inside her—soft, familiar, a frantic shuffle of movement against fabric. A small, warm body darted out from the shadows, moving with urgency toward her. Crookshanks.

The cat hesitated for only a second before pressing himself against her, his fur warm, his little heart hammering against her own. His tiny frame trembled, his wide, intelligent eyes filled with an emotion that mirrored her own—fear. The normally self-assured and confident cat had hidden himself away, too afraid to face what had happened. And yet, even in his own terror, he had found his way to her.

A strangled sob caught in her throat as she reached for him, her arms curling around his small body, pressing him tightly against her chest. The moment she felt his warmth, the soft, rhythmic thump of his heart, something inside her cracked open even further. She wasn't the only one left behind.

His mother—their Hermione—was gone. And Crookshanks, for all his intelligence, for all his sharp instincts, didn't understand why.

Her fingers tangled in his fur as she buried her face against him, her breath shaky, uneven. "Your mommy… she… oh my god, Beast…" Her voice broke, the words spilling out in choked, gasping sobs. The cat made a small, sorrowful sound, pressing himself closer, as if trying to understand, as if trying to offer comfort.

She swallowed down the grief clawing at her throat and forced herself to sit up, her arms still wrapped around him. She couldn't lose herself in this pain, not now. There wasn't time to fall apart—not when Hermione was out there, alone, afraid, waiting for someone to come for her. Waiting for Pansy to come for her.

Her hands shook as she brushed her tears away with the back of her sleeve, her body still trembling, but now for a different reason. She couldn't let this consume her. She wouldn't let this consume her. Hermione wasn't just her best friend. She was her family. And family meant that Pansy would burn the world down before she let anything happen to her.

"You need to come with me," she murmured, her voice still shaking but steadier than before. "We have to find her. We have to. We can't let her be alone."

Crookshanks let out a small, affirmative noise, curling himself against her, his body warm and solid in her arms. He trusted her. And in that moment, she made a silent promise—to him, to Hermione, to herself. She would not stop until she brought her home.

Pushing herself up from the floor, she tightened her grip on the cat and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her mind raced, frantically piecing together the events of the evening, analyzing every detail, searching for an answer. Who had taken her? Where had she been taken? Why?

And then, the realization hit her with brutal force.

She wouldn't be able to do this alone.

As much as it pained her to admit it, she needed them. She needed the only other people who would tear the world apart just as readily as she would to find Hermione. Draco. Blaise. Theo. Ginny. Neville.

Her legs moved before her mind fully caught up, carrying her toward the door with determination she hadn't felt since the war. Every second wasted felt like an eternity, and she refused to let the darkness win.

The weight in her chest was still there, heavy and suffocating, but beneath it, something stronger had begun to burn.

Rage.

Pure, unfiltered, unrelenting rage.

The kind that turned grief into action. The kind that turned fear into fury. The kind that made people pay.

She looked down at Crookshanks, his golden eyes mirroring her own fire. "Come on, Crooks. Let's go find your mommy."

She clutched him tighter, grounding herself in the warmth of his small, fragile body. And with each step she took toward the door, she pushed through the fear, the panic, the suffocating grief.

There would be time to fall apart later.

But right now? Right now, someone was going to fucking pay.

The bond between them pulled taut, vibrating with an intensity that nearly stole his breath. It was a connection he had always felt, a tether that had been there from the moment they had chosen each other, but now it burned through his veins with urgency. She was in pain. He could feel it as if it were his own, a weight crushing down on her chest, drowning her in a sea of panic and fear. He had never felt her emotions this strongly before—never like this, never so raw, so devastating.

And he couldn't wait.

Closing his eyes, he surrendered himself to the invisible pull of their bond, letting it guide him through the space between them, bridging the distance with a single thought. His body shifted, the world twisting for a fraction of a second, and then—he was there.

The moment he appeared in the penthouse, his heart clenched painfully at the sight before him. She was on the floor. Kneeling, hunched over, her entire body wracked with sobs that he could already tell were tearing her apart from the inside out. The sight of her—his love, his fierce, unshakable Pansy—so completely shattered made something inside him break.

"Pansy," he breathed, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a lifeline.

She gasped, her head snapping up at the sound of his voice, her tear-streaked face contorted with an anguish so profound it left him breathless. For a moment, she just stared at him, as if she couldn't believe he was real, as if she had been drowning and he was the first bit of solid ground she had seen in miles.

And then she crumbled.

Her sobs came harder, more desperate, her entire frame shaking violently as she tried to form words, but nothing came out except strangled gasps of air. She was hyperventilating.

He was beside her in an instant, sinking to his knees, his hands reaching for her instinctively, but she wasn't responding to his touch. She was lost—completely lost in the depths of her grief, and he had to pull her back before it swallowed her whole.

"My love, breathe," he urged, his voice softer now, trying to anchor her. "Look at me, Pansy. Just focus on me, okay?"

Her breath hitched, her eyes frantic, darting everywhere but at him. She was spiraling, and it sent a bolt of fear straight through him. He had seen her emotional before, seen her angry, seen her sad, but never like this. Never like this.

"They… kidnapped…" she finally gasped, choking on the words as though saying them aloud made them real. "Hermione."

The world stopped.

Neville felt the weight of those words like a punch to the gut, but there was no time to process it, no time to let the horror of it settle in. Pansy was falling apart, and he needed to catch her before she shattered completely.

"Where is everyone else?" he asked, keeping his voice steady, calm—he had to be calm for her.

"They went to find her!" she sobbed, clutching Crookshanks so tightly to her chest that the poor cat let out a small, distressed noise. "Neville, some bitch has her!" Her voice cracked, raw and terrified. "What is she going to do to her?"

She was spiraling again, fast, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps, her body trembling so hard that he was afraid she might pass out from the sheer force of it. He couldn't let that happen.

"Pansy, listen to me," he said, moving closer, his hands finding her face, cupping it gently as he forced her to meet his eyes. "They will find her. Do you hear me? Hermione is strong. Draco is strong. They will find her."

"But what if—"

"No." His voice was firm, unwavering. "No 'what ifs.' Not right now."

She let out a shuddering sob, her body still taut with tension, her grip on Crookshanks unrelenting.

"Baby," he said, his voice softening, his thumbs brushing away the tears streaking down her face. "You're squeezing him too tight, love."

She blinked, startled, glancing down at the cat who remained nestled against her despite the pressure of her hold. Immediately, she loosened her grip, running her fingers through his fur in silent apology.

"He needs to come with me," she whispered, her voice still shaking, but there was a desperation there, an absolute certainty that she couldn't leave him behind. "I can't—I won't—leave him."

Neville nodded without hesitation. "Okay. Then we take him with us."

She let out a small, uneven breath, nodding rapidly, as if that tiny concession was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

"But first, you need to breathe, alright?" he said, his hand settling on her back, his palm warm and steady against the tremors that wracked her body. "Just like I taught you, baby. In and out. With me."

She struggled at first, her breath still uneven, her chest still tight with panic. But he stayed with her, coaxing her gently, breathing in time with her, reminding her that she wasn't alone.

It took time, but finally, finally, the ragged edges of her breathing began to smooth. The tremors in her hands dulled, and the wild, frantic panic in her eyes settled into something steadier—not calm, not yet, but steady.

He ran a hand through her hair, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "We'll find her, Parky." His voice was low, a promise wrapped in unwavering certainty. "You are not alone in this. I'm right here with you. Always."

She closed her eyes, letting the words sink in, letting herself believe them. She needed to believe them.

"Okay," she whispered, exhaling a shaky breath. "I trust you."

His heart clenched at the sheer vulnerability in her voice, at the way she was putting everything in him right now, trusting him to hold her together. And Merlin, he would. He would hold her together until his dying breath.

She tightened her grip on Crookshanks one last time, steeling herself.

Then, with one final, deep breath, she turned toward him, her expression still heavy with grief but now lined with something else—determination.

"We have to go," she said, her voice stronger now, more certain. "We have to find her, Neville. Now."

He nodded, squeezing her hand one last time before they both stood.

They were going to get Hermione back.

Together.

~~~~~~

With an unyielding grip on her wrist and a surge of unshakable determination coursing through him, he pulled her close and twisted into the suffocating pressure of Apparition. The world around them warped, colors bleeding together into a blinding vortex of motion. A brief but dizzying sensation overtook them, the rush of magic humming in their bones before, in an instant, they landed back in the familiar walls of their home. The silence that greeted them was thick, suffocating—an eerie contrast to the chaos they had just left behind.

She didn't move. Not at first. She remained rooted to the spot, still clutching Crookshanks so tightly against her chest that his little body trembled with each uneven breath. He let out a soft, distressed mewl, his wide golden eyes flicking up to her face as if searching for reassurance, but she couldn't offer him any. She was too lost, too shattered. He was her anchor, and she was his—two fragile souls desperately seeking refuge in one another amidst the storm of fear that had engulfed them.

Neville's heart twisted at the sight of her. She looked so small, so breakable in that moment, as though one wrong move might shatter her completely. He exhaled slowly, then knelt beside her, keeping his touch light but steady as he reached out.

"Shh, it's okay," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath as he ran soothing fingers up and down her arm. He could feel the way her body trembled beneath his touch, how the tension coiled so tightly within her that he feared she might never let go.

Crookshanks burrowed even deeper against her, his tiny body pressing firmly into hers, his silent promise that he wasn't going anywhere. They were holding each other together—her and that damn cat. It was a heartbreaking sight, but it was also the only thing keeping her from spiraling into complete despair.

An hour passed, the minutes stretching endlessly between them. She remained still, curled into the couch, Crookshanks nestled against her while Neville sat beside her, unwavering in his presence. He didn't speak, didn't push. He just stayed.

And then, without warning, a sharp crack echoed through the air, shattering the stillness like glass.

Theo.

The moment she saw him standing there, his expression grim and urgent, she sprang off the couch, her heart hammering so violently she swore it might break free from her chest.

"Theo!" she gasped, the sheer weight of her emotions crashing over her in a tidal wave. Her vision blurred with fresh tears, her mind already racing to the worst possible scenarios. He wouldn't be here unless something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Theo stepped forward, his eyes dark and filled with an intensity that sent ice crawling up her spine. Something had happened. Something bad.

"Listen to me, Pansy," he said, his voice sharp, cutting through her panic like a blade.

She took a shaky step forward, her hands trembling at her sides. "Theo, please, just tell me—"

"Listen. Carefully." His tone was steel, but his eyes betrayed the fear he was barely holding back.

Neville moved closer, his entire body taut with tension, his instincts screaming that whatever Theo was about to say would change everything.

And then, Theo spoke the words that sent her world crumbling down.

"Hermione was brutally attacked." He paused, inhaling through his nose as if the words themselves were too much to bear. Then, his voice dropped lower, almost a whisper—almost an admission of defeat. "Brutally."

It felt like the air had been punched from her lungs.

She heard nothing else. She couldn't.

The words slammed into her, reverberating through her bones, echoing inside her skull until there was nothing left but the horrifying weight of them. Brutally attacked.

Her knees buckled, the strength draining from her body as she collapsed to the floor. The pain was too much. The fear was too much.

She couldn't breathe.

The world tilted, her vision swimming as she sucked in desperate, ragged gasps of air that refused to fill her lungs. Hermione. The name pulsed in her mind, over and over, a cruel, endless loop.

"LISTEN TO ME, PANSY!"

Theo's voice snapped through the chaos of her mind, yanking her back from the abyss.

She barely registered Neville dropping to his knees beside her, his hands gripping her shoulders, anchoring her. She felt like she was going to be sick.

"I'm listening," Neville cut in, his voice firm, steady—the only solid thing in the whirlwind of despair.

Theo's gaze flicked to him, and for the first time, a crack appeared in his carefully composed exterior. He was afraid.

"I need you to go to Nott Manor and get Lysander," Theo said, his voice urgent, unwavering. "Bring him here. Keep him safe."

Pansy's breath hitched as realization dawned. Lysander. Their precious, innocent little boy.

Theo's eyes softened for the briefest moment as he spoke his son's name, as if the very thought of him was the only thing keeping him standing. But when he looked at them again, his resolve was iron. "I need my son to be safe."

"Yes, of course," Neville replied immediately, without hesitation, his voice full of determination. He understood the gravity of the situation, understood that there was no room for error.

Pansy, still trembling, lifted her eyes to Theo, her voice barely more than a whisper. "What about Hermione?"

Theo exhaled slowly, something breaking in his gaze. "Luna's doing surgery on her now."

Another knife to the chest.

She pressed her hand over her mouth, stifling the sob that threatened to tear free.

"But what if—" she choked, unable to even say the words. What if they were too late?

"We will do everything we can," Theo reassured her, and this time, his voice was softer, almost gentle. But they both knew the truth. They knew the risks.

Right now, their priority was Lysander.

A fresh wave of emotion surged through her, but she forced herself to swallow it down. There wasn't time. Hermione would need her later, but right now, Theo needed her to be strong.

Wiping at her tear-streaked face, she inhaled deeply, forcing herself to stand on shaky legs. There was no choice. There was no hesitation. Lysander was in danger, and she would do whatever it took to protect him.

"I'll go," she promised, her voice raw but resolute.

Theo nodded, but there was something in his gaze—relief, maybe, or something dangerously close to gratitude.

"Be quick," he warned, his voice low. "We need to stay one step ahead."

She turned toward the door, already feeling the weight of her responsibility settling over her like a cloak of iron.

Neville placed a steadying hand on the small of her back, offering silent reassurance, a silent promise that she would not face this alone.

Together, they would get Lysander.

Together, they would protect him.

And then, Merlin help anyone who had dared to hurt Hermione Granger.

~~~~~~

With a sharp crack, the world around them shifted, and in an instant, they were standing in the grand foyer of Nott Manor. The towering marble columns, the intricate gilded chandeliers, the echo of their hurried footsteps against the polished floors—all of it was familiar, yet tonight, it felt different. Tonight, the vast halls of the manor weren't a place of comfort or history, but a fortress that had become their last line of defense.

Her breath came in quick, uneven gasps, urgency clawing at her chest as she took off toward the sweeping staircase, her heart hammering with a singular thought: Lysander. Every second felt like an eternity, the weight of responsibility pressing down on her as her mind raced through the possibilities—what if someone had already been here? What if they were too late?

As she reached the top of the staircase, the faint sound of splashing water reached her ears, a soft, playful echo that clashed starkly against the storm raging in her heart. She pushed the nursery door open with a force that sent it bouncing against the wall, her eyes darting around wildly before they landed on the source of the noise.

There, sitting in a porcelain tub far too large for his tiny frame, was Lysander. He let out a delighted giggle, his chubby hands smacking at the water, sending glistening droplets into the air like tiny stars. Beside him, perched on the edge of the tub, was Bobsy, his tiny, wrinkled hands carefully lathering soap into the child's soft curls.

For a brief moment, the sheer contrast of the scene before her left her breathless. The world was on fire, yet here, in this room, innocence still existed. The laughter of a child still rang out, untouched by the horrors lurking beyond these walls. And for that one fleeting second, she felt something break inside of her—a desperate, aching need to protect this tiny, perfect piece of light from the darkness that had already stolen too much from them.

"Bobsy!" she called out, her voice sharper than she intended, laced with both relief and urgency.

The house-elf's oversized ears twitched as he turned, his large, glistening eyes filled with concern. "Missus!" he squeaked, his hands immediately twisting together in anxious knots. "Master sent you?"

She nodded quickly, stepping closer. "Yes, your master sent me. We need to take the little master somewhere safe."

Bobsy's small frame stiffened as his already large eyes widened in fear. "Lysander is in danger?" he asked, voice quivering, his tiny fingers clenching the washcloth in his lap.

Neville, stepping in beside her, offered a gentle reassurance as he placed a steadying hand on the elf's trembling shoulder. "Nothing bad is going to happen to him, Bobsy. We're going to protect him." His voice was calm, soothing, filled with a conviction that even Pansy found herself clinging to.

She knelt beside the tub, leveling her gaze with Bobsy's, her own expression uncharacteristically soft. "I need you to be very brave for me now," she murmured, reaching out to cup his small hands in her own. "You're the only one I trust to do this."

The elf nodded furiously, though his lip trembled. "Yes, Missus, Bobsy will do his best!" His voice quivered with emotion, but the determination in his gaze was unmistakable.

She squeezed his hands before releasing them, her fingers moving to Lysander's damp curls, brushing them back as she took in his soft, carefree expression. He had no idea. No idea that his world was on the verge of shattering. No idea that his father had sent them in a panic, desperate to ensure his safety. He was still untouched by the cruelty of the world, and Pansy swore she would keep him that way for as long as she could.

"Come here, my sweet boy," she whispered, lifting him gently from the tub, the warm water cascading down his plump little limbs. His small hands reached up, wrapping around her neck, and the moment his tiny, wet body curled against her chest, something deep inside her settled.

She nuzzled her nose into his curls, inhaling the scent of lavender soap and innocence, pressing a kiss against the damp strands before pulling back just enough to meet his gaze.

"I need a kiss for comfort," she said softly, a hint of a smile breaking through the worry creasing her features.

Lysander, ever her perfect little prince, giggled, then leaned forward and pressed a wet, sloppy kiss to her cheek. The warmth of it, the pure, untainted love in that small act, nearly undid her. She wanted to freeze this moment. She wanted to keep him like this forever, safe in her arms, unaware of the cruelty that waited beyond these walls.

"Bobsy," she said, turning her attention back to the elf, her tone shifting from gentle to firm. "I need you to put the house under protection spells, the strongest ones you know. Can you do that for me?"

Bobsy wiped at his eyes before puffing up his tiny chest, determination overtaking his fear. "Yes, Missus! Bobsy will make sure the house is safe!"

She exhaled, relieved but still aching with worry. "Promise me," she pressed, locking eyes with him. "And when you're done, come to us. I need you with us."

The elf nodded fiercely. "Bobsy promises! Bobsy will come to you after!"

Pansy reached out, pulling the little elf into a hug, pressing a firm kiss to his wrinkled forehead. "Good boy," she whispered against his skin. Because that's what he was—a boy. A little thing who loved Lysander as fiercely as they all did, a creature who, despite the servitude forced upon him, had a heart that beat for the ones he loved.

"Be careful," she urged, stepping back, adjusting her grip on Lysander as he snuggled against her.

Bobsy nodded once more before vanishing with a loud pop.

She turned to Neville, who had been silent, watching her.

He didn't speak, didn't need to. Everything he wanted to say was written in his eyes. Pride, admiration, understanding.

She wasn't just Pansy Parkinson, the sharp-tongued socialite, the woman raised in a world of wealth and ruthless politics.

She was someone who loved fiercely. Someone who protected what was hers with a fire that could burn down the world if necessary.

He reached out, his hand settling over hers as she held Lysander close.

No words needed to be exchanged.

With one last glance at the nursery—the toys scattered on the floor, the water still rippling in the tub, the remnants of an innocence they were fighting to preserve—they turned toward the door.

The battle had already begun.

And she would be damned if she let the darkness win.

~~~~~~

As they landed home, a fleeting wave of relief washed over her at the sight of familiar walls and the welcoming warmth of their sanctuary. It was a momentary comfort, one that barely held back the storm raging inside her. Before she could even catch her breath, the click of tiny paws against the floor signaled Lady bounding toward her, her tail wagging so furiously that her small body nearly tumbled over with the force of her excitement. The little pug yapped in delight, pressing against her legs as if sensing the chaos still swirling within her. Right behind her, Crookshanks slinked forward, his golden eyes sharp and watchful, his deep purring vibrating against the silence of the house. 

The weight of their presence, their quiet understanding, filled the space around her, but it did little to ease the ache of worry pressing against her ribs.

With a sharp inhale, she pushed through the suffocating dread clawing at her throat and focused on what needed to be done. They had Lysander. He was safe—for now. But that was only the beginning. There was no time to fall apart, no space for panic. Every second wasted was a second stolen from Hermione, and the very thought of it sent a fresh wave of desperation surging through her veins.

Lifting her wand with a flick of precision, she began moving the nursery furniture into place, the items gliding through the air with seamless efficiency. The bassinet settled against the far wall, the softest blankets tucking themselves neatly into place, while the changing table found its home near the window, catching the warm glow of the dim evening light. 

But despite the rhythmic, familiar motions, she could feel her pulse hammering in her ears. Every object she placed felt like an act of defiance against the helplessness threatening to consume her.

Her hands trembled as she carefully laid Lysander onto the changing table, brushing damp curls from his forehead. The little boy squirmed, his tiny hands reaching up blindly, blissfully unaware of the nightmare unraveling around them. She swallowed thickly, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. He was innocent in all of this. He deserved peace. He deserved a world where he didn't have to be hidden away for safety.

"I know, my loves," she whispered, glancing down at Lady and Crooks as they lingered near her feet, their little bodies vibrating with the energy of the moment. They knew. Even without words, they could feel it—the shift in the air, the silent panic clinging to her every breath.

Lady let out a small, insistent bark, as if affirming that she was there, that she wouldn't let anything happen to them. Crookshanks rubbed against her leg, anchoring her in the present, his tail flicking against the side of her calf. The love of their little companions was enough to soothe the rawest edges of her fear, if only for a moment.

"Let me help you, my love," his voice, warm and steady, broke through the chaos of her mind. She turned, her eyes finding his, and for the first time since they had arrived, she noticed the exhaustion lining his features, the weight of responsibility pressing heavily upon his shoulders. He was carrying this, too.

Before she could respond, he added, "Please go and make me a whiskey."

She blinked, caught off guard. Whiskey? She had expected him to suggest a strategy, a plan, anything but this. It seemed ridiculous given everything that was happening. A drink? Now?

But then, as she met his unwavering gaze, she realized what he was doing. Grounding her. The simple act of stepping away, of forcing her hands to do something mundane, would tether her back to reality, pull her from the spiral threatening to consume her.

Wordlessly, she nodded, turning toward the liquor cabinet. Each movement felt mechanical, automatic, a ritual so familiar that she didn't have to think about it. 

She retrieved the crystal decanter, the amber liquid swirling inside, steadying herself as she poured. The clink of glass against glass was a stark contrast to the storm brewing in her chest, but somehow, the motion helped.

As she returned to him, she found that in the time it had taken her to pour the drink, he had already dressed Lysander in warm, soft clothes, carefully tucking him into the bassinet. The sight of it—the quiet, meticulous care in his actions—brought a rush of emotion to her chest.

She extended the glass to him. "There you go, Nevie," she murmured, her voice softer now.

He accepted it with a small nod but, instead of taking a sip, he turned the glass toward her.

"Thank you, darling," he said, his voice gentle yet firm. "Now drink it."

She furrowed her brows, confusion flickering in her tired eyes. "What?"

He held her gaze, unwavering. "My love, I would give you a calming draught if I thought you needed it, but I need you at full attention. Just a sip."

She opened her mouth to protest, to insist that she didn't need it, that she was fine, but the moment her hands clenched into fists at her sides, she knew it would be a lie. She wasn't fine. Her body was trembling, her breathing still uneven, the weight of the night pressing down on her like a crushing force.

"My bloom," he said again, his tone softer now, coaxing, filled with unshakable warmth. "You need to take care of yourself first. I can't have you falling apart right now. We need to be strong for him." His eyes flickered toward Lysander, still sleeping soundly. "And for her."

Her throat tightened, but she nodded, finally lifting the glass to her lips. The first sip burned, but the warmth that followed unraveled the tight knots in her chest, if only slightly. She exhaled shakily, her muscles loosening just enough for her to take another deep breath.

"See?" he murmured, watching her carefully. "Just a little sip. You're doing great."

She set the glass down, rubbing at her temples as the tension began to ease. "Thank you," she admitted, reaching out absently to stroke Lady, who had curled up beside her. The little dog let out a soft sigh, settling her head onto Pansy's lap. Crooks stretched across the couch, his steady purring filling the quiet space.

He waited a beat, letting the moment settle, before his voice turned serious again. "Now," he said, his tone quiet but filled with determination, "we need to come up with a plan to keep Lysander safe. We have to be ready for anything."

She nodded, the exhaustion still clinging to her but no longer suffocating. They would protect him. And they would bring Hermione back.

Together, they would face whatever darkness lay ahead.

~~~~~~

She cradled Lysander against her chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of his tiny body as he slept, blissfully unaware of the chaos that had upended their world. His warmth seeped through her, a fragile reminder of innocence in a world that had become so cruel. Curled up protectively on the infant's chest, Crooks purred rhythmically, his low, soothing vibrations filling the silence like a quiet reassurance that they were all still here. At her side, nestled close, Lady pressed against her, her small, sturdy body offering a comfort that words could never quite provide. The weight of the day pressed heavily upon her, exhaustion settling in like an anchor pulling her under. 

Her body finally surrendered, her mind drifting into the dark embrace of sleep, where, for just a little while, the fear, the grief, and the heartache would be held at bay.

Some unknown time later, a sound stirred her—a whisper, barely perceptible, but enough to drag her back from the depths of slumber. Her eyelids fluttered open, her senses sluggish as she adjusted to the dim lighting of the room. The shadows danced across the walls in soft flickers, casting elongated shapes that felt almost surreal in her half-conscious state. Then, as her awareness sharpened, she registered the voices—low, urgent murmurs coming from the other side of the room.

She blinked away the haze of sleep, her heart stammering in her chest as she focused on the figures before her.

 Theo stood just feet away, his frame tense, yet there was something uncharacteristically fragile about him in this moment. He cradled his son in his arms, the weight of responsibility and grief etched into every line of his face. 

The way he held the child—so carefully, so reverently—made something inside her ache. Theo was always a pillar of strength, always so composed, but tonight, he looked frayed at the edges, as though the sheer magnitude of everything that had transpired was finally catching up to him.

Neville stood a few steps away, his back straight, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable yet filled with the gravity of someone who understood the depth of the situation unfolding before them. The silence stretched between them for a moment, heavy and thick, before Theo finally spoke.

"She's alive. My Luna saved her." His voice was a whisper, a mix of relief and disbelief, as though even he could hardly believe the words he was speaking.

A sharp breath escaped her lips, and a shaky, "Oh, thank Merlin," followed, barely above a whisper. The words did little to lessen the tightness in her chest. Relief rushed through her veins, yet it was laced with an unbearable sadness. Hermione was alive. That should have been enough. But as her gaze flickered over Theo's form, she saw the truth before he even spoke the next words.

His shirt was soaked in blood . A deep, violent red. It clung to him like a stain, a chilling reminder of everything that had happened, of everything that had been lost.

"Jelena is dead," he said, voice flat, as if the words carried no real weight to him. And perhaps they didn't. Perhaps the weight he carried was so much greater than her death that it barely registered. "She can't hurt Hermione anymore."

For a moment, Pansy felt a flicker of dark satisfaction. A monster had been slain, and yet… The feeling was fleeting. Her heart was still too raw to revel in justice, too consumed by the agony of knowing just how much damage had already been done.

"I hope she rots in hell," she murmured, her voice cold with fury. The thought of Hermione suffering at the hands of that woman made her stomach churn with a rage she could barely contain.

"She will." Theo's response was firm, unwavering. But then, for the first time since he had arrived, his shoulders seemed to slump, his voice dipping lower. "But Hermione… she's in a medical coma." He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "She had skull surgery."

The air in the room shifted. The words settled between them like a lead weight, sucking all the oxygen from her lungs.

A medical coma. 

Skull surgery.

The implications of those words sent a shudder down her spine. She had braced herself for bad news, but nothing could have prepared her for that. For a moment, she just stared at Theo, feeling like she had been punched in the gut. Her mind reeled, trying to comprehend the severity of what Hermione had endured.

She turned to Neville, searching for something—some kind of anchor, some reassurance that he was hearing the same thing she was, that this wasn't just some twisted nightmare. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and the flicker of anguish in his eyes told her he was barely holding himself together. They all were.

Then Theo spoke again, his voice firm but softer than before. "Pansy, I'm going to be honest with you. You can't visit her in your state." His words weren't cruel, weren't meant to wound, but the sharpness of them still made her flinch.

She wanted to argue. She wanted to demand that she be allowed to see Hermione, to be by her side, to hold her hand, even if Hermione wasn't awake to know it. But the truth was undeniable.

Theo was right.

If she saw Hermione like that, hooked up to tubes, fighting for her life, she wouldn't be able to hold herself together. And right now, the last thing Hermione needed was Pansy falling apart.

She exhaled, shakily nodding. "I understand," she whispered, her throat tight with emotion.

There was a brief pause before Theo continued, shifting the conversation in a way she hadn't expected. "I need the two of you to take care of Lysander for now," he said, looking between her and Neville.

Neville, who had been silent up until now, straightened slightly, a flicker of determination sparking in his eyes. "Of course, it's an honor," he said without hesitation.

The way he said it, the steadiness in his tone, brought Pansy a strange sense of reassurance. She knew, without a doubt, that he meant it.

She glanced down at the small boy, still nestled in Theo's arms, his peaceful expression oblivious to the horrors that had transpired. Lysander deserved safety. He deserved love. And if there was one thing she could do, one thing she could control in the midst of all this chaos, it was ensuring that this child—her godson—was protected.

"We'll do everything we can for him," she promised, her voice steady, her heart swelling with fierce determination.

Theo nodded, the tension in his body easing just slightly. "Thank you," he said, his voice softer now. "He needs you both right now. I need to be there for Luna."

She didn't miss the way his expression flickered, the exhaustion catching up to him, the weight of everything pressing down. He was trying so hard to hold everything together, just as they all were.

Before he could turn to leave, she took a step forward. "Theo, wait," she said, her voice firm with conviction. "Please keep us updated on Hermione. We'll be here. For you. For her. We're family."

There was a moment of silence, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

"I will, Pans," he murmured. "And Lysander will be safe with you and Neville."

And with that, he turned and left.

As the door clicked shut, Pansy exhaled slowly, looking down at Lysander, his tiny hands curled against his chest, completely at peace.

This was what they were fighting for. The innocence. The love. The life they refused to let darkness take from them.

She glanced at Neville, who met her gaze with a quiet nod of understanding.

They would protect him. And they would bring Hermione home.

No matter what it took.

~~~~~~

Weeks slipped away in a haze of sleepless nights and soft, golden mornings, each day blending seamlessly into the next as they adjusted to the rhythm of life with Ly. Their home, once a sanctuary of sharp edges and carefully constructed facades, had transformed into something altogether different—a place filled with warmth, with the scent of lavender baby lotion and the quiet hum of lullabies whispered in the dim glow of candlelight. 

There was something profoundly grounding about the weight of a child in her arms, about the way his tiny fingers curled instinctively around hers, about the innocent way he cooed and babbled in response to their voices. He had unknowingly become their anchor, a small, fragile thread of hope that tethered them to the present.

Yet even amidst the tender moments—the giggles during bath time, the way he sighed contentedly when he dozed off on Neville's chest, the soft scent of milk and linen as he nuzzled into their embrace—the absence of Hermione hung over them like an unspoken grief, a constant, lingering shadow that refused to be ignored. No matter how much joy Lysander brought them, no matter how much they tried to stay present, the gaping hole where Hermione should have been remained, silent but omnipresent.

Every day, they waited. For news. For progress. For a sign that she was coming back to them. And every day, a flicker of hope burned within them as updates trickled in. Sometimes it was Theo, arriving at their doorstep with exhaustion lining his face, his voice carrying the weight of sleepless nights spent watching over her. 

Other times, it was Luna, her words gentle, brimming with quiet certainty, reassuring them that Hermione was strong, that she was fighting. Some days, the news was better—an increase in response to stimuli, a slight improvement in her vitals—small victories that felt monumental in a battle where time was both their enemy and their greatest ally. 

Other days, the silence was suffocating, and the uncertainty gnawed at them, an ache that no amount of whispered reassurances could soothe.

She ached to see her. To hear her voice, to witness the sharp wit and fierce intellect that had always been a balm against the cold edges of the world. She missed the way Hermione's presence filled a room, the way she saw people, the way she never let them pretend to be anything less than who they were. Pansy missed her best friend in a way that felt like a missing limb—an absence so profound it became part of her, a phantom pain that lingered even in the happiest moments.

Then, on a quiet afternoon, as she focused on changing Lysander's diaper—her hands moving with the practiced ease that came from weeks of repetition—her heart stuttered in her chest at the sudden flicker of silver light. A Patronus, delicate and ethereal, materialized before her, its presence flooding the room with soft, silvery light. She barely had time to process it before the voice—Luna's voice, calm and unwavering, yet charged with something undeniably urgent—filled the air.

" Come, love. Visit Hermione. We all need you ."

The words were simple, but their meaning crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to that single, shimmering message. Luna had reached out. Luna wanted her there. It was an invitation, a call not just to visit but to be there, to step into the place she had been avoiding out of fear, out of guilt, out of the crushing uncertainty that had kept her rooted in place for weeks.

Her hands stilled, the clean diaper slipping from her grasp as her mind struggled to catch up with the pounding of her heart. This was it. This was the moment.

Before she could fully register her own movement, she turned, her gaze locking onto Neville as he stepped into the room. He carried Crookshanks in his arms, the cat's sleepy golden eyes half-lidded in lazy contentment, but as soon as he looked at her—at the expression on her face—his features shifted into immediate concern.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice soft, yet sharp with understanding.

She swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the message settle deep in her chest. "Luna," she breathed, her fingers clutching the edge of the changing table for support. "She says we should come. She says Hermione is stable."

The words hung between them, suspended in the space where fear and hope collided. For the first time in weeks, there was no waiting, no unanswered questions. There was only this—the chance to see Hermione, to stand beside her, to face the reality they had all been holding their breath for.

His eyes softened, but beneath the quiet understanding, she saw something else—a flicker of emotion he hadn't yet spoken aloud. A fear that this visit would bring more pain than comfort, that seeing Hermione like this would be its own kind of wound. But he nodded, stepping forward, placing Crooks gently on the nearby chair before reaching for her hand.

"Then let's go," he murmured, his fingers warm and steady against hers. "She needs you."

And just like that, the hesitation, the fear, the long weeks of waiting were over. It was time.

~~~~~~

Neville stood in the doorway, a silent sentinel against the harsh reality that weighed heavily on her heart. He didn't need to say anything; his presence alone was a balm to her frayed nerves. She crossed the threshold, and without hesitation, leaped into his arms, burying her face against his shoulder as the floodgates opened. The tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and unrelenting, carrying with them the weight of everything she had witnessed.

The image of Hermione in that sterile surgical room was seared into her mind, a haunting reminder of how fragile life could be. What if Hermione never woke up? The thought spiraled through her mind, each cycle tightening the grip of dread in her chest. She had fought so hard, endured so much, and yet here she lay, vulnerable and still. The starkness of the room, the bright lights, the beeping machines—they all felt so cruel and cold in contrast to the warmth Hermione usually radiated.

But it was the sight of Hermione herself that rattled Pansy the most. 

The bravery of her friend was astonishing; she had gone through skull surgery, her body battered yet resilient, and she was now bold in a way that was both shocking and admirable. Hermione's head was bare, devoid of the beautiful, cascading curls that had framed her face; the absence of hair felt like a stark proclamation of her struggle. 

Despite the sterile surroundings, there was something almost ethereal about her. Hermione looked like an angel, lying there, surrounded by the sterile equipment of the hospital. In her stillness, she seemed to transcend the brutality of her experience, embodying a serene strength that Pansy could only admire from a distance. It was as if she had emerged from a battle, scarred yet victorious, a testament to the power of the human spirit.

She could hardly reconcile the image of the vibrant, fiercely intelligent woman she knew with the fragile figure before her. The haunting memory of Hermione's laughter, her endless debates over the most trivial of subjects, and their shared moments of vulnerability danced through her mind like flickering shadows. How had it come to this? The world outside continued to spin, while they stood at the precipice of uncertainty, teetering between hope and despair.