In Darkness, Together

The crackle of the fireplace disrupted the heavy silence of Parkinson Manor, its embers casting flickering shadows along the grand walls. She had barely settled in for the evening, a glass of wine poised at her lips, when the familiar surge of green flames erupted in the hearth. The sight alone was enough to irritate her—interruptions were never welcomed at this hour—but the moment she saw who it was, that irritation curdled into something colder, something sharper.

Draco Malfoy's face flickered in the fire, his expression as impassive as marble, his gray eyes void of any warmth. There was no pretense of pleasantries, no lazy smirk or self-satisfied drawl—just steel-cut authority, woven into his very being.

"Parkinson," his voice sliced through the room, crisp and commanding. "Tonight, you're going to tell Neville the truth."

The words landed like a slap, sending an icy shock straight to her core. Her spine went rigid, her fingers tightening around the delicate stem of her glass until she thought it might snap.

"What?" Her voice wavered between disbelief and fury, as though the ground beneath her had suddenly tilted beneath her feet. "Draco, what the fuck are you talking about?"

Draco didn't so much as blink. "Karkaroff is in Romania. I need him there to help us track him down."

She felt the world narrow, the air in the room turning stifling as her pulse roared in her ears. "Why… why are you doing this to me?" Her voice was raw, filled with something dangerously close to panic. "Why now? You're ruining everything!"

His lips curled into something that barely qualified as a smirk, the kind of expression that felt more like a warning than amusement. "Because that's what I do," he said, his tone almost nonchalant. "I've decided this is how it's going to be."

Her stomach lurched, her breathing coming sharp and uneven. "You're a psychopath!" she spat, her fury bubbling over, scorching hot and unchecked. "You'll destroy everything I have with him! For what? Your own twisted sense of control? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Whatever remained of his amusement vanished in an instant, replaced by something far colder, far more dangerous. "Because I'm your boss, Parkinson," he said, his voice dropping to something quiet and lethal. "And that's what I've decided. This isn't about you or your perfect little marriage—this is about Karkaroff. We've been after him for too long, and I'm not about to let personal bullshit get in the way. He is crucial to this."

Her entire body trembled with rage, her nails biting into the skin of her palms. The wine glass was long forgotten, discarded somewhere in the distance, but she barely registered it. "I hope you fucking die, Draco!" she snarled, her voice cracking under the sheer force of her fury. "Do you hear me? I hope you die chasing this sick obsession of yours!"

Draco simply raised an unimpressed brow, completely unfazed. He didn't meet her anger with more anger, didn't rise to the bait—because he didn't need to. His composure was more infuriating than any screaming match could have been.

"After your little tantrum is over," he said, "I suggest you pull yourself together. Get your shit in order. We leave at dawn."

The flames vanished as suddenly as they had appeared, plunging the room back into suffocating darkness. Silence swallowed everything, a gaping void left in the wake of his words.

She stood there, still seething, still shaking, as the weight of reality came crashing down around her. This wasn't just about Draco's orders. This was about everything.

She had always known this moment would come. But knowing it was inevitable didn't make it hurt any less.

She paced the length of the room, each step a frantic echo of the chaos unraveling inside her. The truth. How the fuck was she supposed to tell him the truth now? How could she take the life they had built together—the fragile, beautiful peace they had carved out of the wreckage of their pasts—and shatter it with a few words? They had been happy, hadn't they? As happy as two people like them could ever hope to be. And now Draco, with his relentless obsession, was dragging her into the fire, forcing her hand, threatening to destroy everything.

Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths as she fought to steady herself, but her thoughts wouldn't relent, wouldn't slow, wouldn't give her a single moment to breathe. She had always known that what she did with Draco wasn't clean. It was calculated, it was necessary, but it wasn't something she ever wanted to touch him. He was supposed to have something real, something untouched by the world she had chosen to live in. That's why she had kept it from him, why she had buried it so deep she almost let herself believe it didn't exist. But now, she had no choice. The secret she had guarded so fiercely was about to rip its way into the light.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes as if she could physically push back the impending catastrophe. Neville. Her Neville. The man who had never asked her to be anything but herself. The man who had taken one look at her sharp edges and biting words and stayed anyway. The man who had believed in her when she had spent her entire life convincing herself she wasn't worth believing in.

And now she would ruin him.

The thought made her chest constrict with something close to panic. Because it wasn't just about telling him what she had done—it was about what he represented. He was good. He was light. And if he knew the full extent of what she had been involved in, if he knew the kind of work she had done for Draco, the kind of blood she had on her hands, he wouldn't just be angry. He wouldn't just be hurt. He would leave.

And that was the one thing she couldn't survive.

The pacing resumed, faster now, more erratic, as her mind flipped between every possible scenario, every way this conversation could go, every way she could lose him. Would he hate her? Would he look at her differently? Would he think their entire marriage had been built on a lie? Would he walk out the door and never come back?

Her stomach twisted violently, the weight of it all pressing so heavily on her chest she thought she might be sick.

Get it together, Parkinson.

She stopped abruptly, her hands balled into fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms. There was no running from this. No delaying it, no rewriting the past to make it softer, no lying her way out of it. Draco had made sure of that.

Taking a shaky breath, she walked toward the door, her movements stiff, mechanical. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in every inch of her body, but her hands were steady when they reached the doorknob.

Then, just before she could turn it, a single tear slipped down her cheek. She swiped it away angrily, inhaling deeply as she forced steel into her spine.

No turning back now.

Her fingers tightened on the handle, and with one last, silent prayer that she wouldn't lose him, she stepped into the hall, ready to face the storm she had spent so long trying to outrun.

~~~~~~

In the evening, the Malfoy penthouse dining room was bathed in a soft, golden glow, the kind that transformed the space into a sanctuary of warmth and comfort. The fading light of a long summer day spilled through the tall windows, turning the marble surface of the table into a gleaming canvas, while the chandelier above twinkled like a constellation suspended in time. It was a scene of delicate intimacy, a temporary reprieve from the chaos that had defined their lives for so long. The air hummed with an almost surreal peace, a moment of calm in a world that had been anything but.

Hermione sat propped up with pillows on a plush armchair at the head of the table, her posture relaxed but her eyes keenly attuned to the small miracle unfolding before her. Lysander, nestled safely in a highchair bearing the regal crest of a snarling lion, was in the throes of a newfound passion—artistic exploration, if you could call it that. His tiny fist, chubby with innocence, grasped a spoonful of pureed pumpkin with the determination of a seasoned artist. But rather than delicately placing it on his plate, he flung it—an arc of bright orange puree splattering onto the floor in a generous cascade, as though the earth itself were his canvas.

Lady, who had long since taken up residence at their feet, didn't hesitate for a second. With an almost exaggerated snort of delight, she began lapping up the unexpected offering, savoring each drop of the creamy pumpkin as if it were the most delicious treat she had ever encountered. The sight was so absurdly comical that laughter erupted around the table, ringing through the room like a symphony of joy that pushed aside the lingering anxieties of the past year. The sound was like a balm, soothing Hermione's heart and reminding her that, despite the trials they had endured, they were, for once, allowed to simply be—together.

Ginny, seated beside Hermione, reached out with a careful hand to tuck a stray strand of hair back into place, the gesture intimate and comforting. Her eyes met Hermione's, a silent conversation passing between them—one that carried years of shared history, of battles fought and won together. It was a look of quiet relief, of solidarity, and most of all, a look that conveyed how deeply they both appreciated the peace that had finally begun to settle over them, like the gentle evening light. The war, the loss, the heartbreak—they had all been through so much, and now, here they were, rebuilding, healing, and—just for this fleeting moment—simply living.

Across from them, Draco and Pansy fake bickered, their voices punctuated by bursts of laughter that filled the space with warmth. Pansy, with all her usual flair, made a dramatic show of brandishing a napkin in one hand, declaring with mock seriousness that Lysander was in dire need of immediate cleanup. 

Her eyes twinkled with mirth, and the playful banter only seemed to cement the fact that they had all, in some sense, become a family—not by blood, but by choice and circumstance.

Luna sat beside them, her gaze calm and unhurried as she traced delicate patterns in the margins of an old book, her soft smile speaking of contentment. Even Theo, usually the embodiment of stoic calm, allowed the corners of his eyes to crinkle with amusement as he caught the interplay between the others. It was a rare sight—Theo, with his tendency to wear an impenetrable mask, genuinely relaxing in the presence of these people who had become his chosen family.

As Lysander, now sporting a smear of pumpkin across his cherubic face that was less a mess and more an abstract work of art, gurgled with delight, Hermione felt a swell of emotion rise in her chest. Gratitude. For the small things. For the chance to be here, now, in this moment of peace. It wasn't perfect, and the road ahead was anything but easy, but it was theirs. And for that, she was grateful beyond words.

But as the evening wore on and the night deepened, the atmosphere in the Malfoy house dining room shifted. The flickering candlelight, which had cast such a warm glow over the scene, now began to dance with shadows, long and twisted shapes crawling across the walls. The air itself seemed to thicken, as if the house, too, sensed that something was coming—a reckoning, a moment of truth that would bring with it the weight of everything they had kept buried. The tranquility they had fought so hard to establish felt fragile, a mere veneer over something darker, something deeper.

Draco, who had been standing at the head of the table for most of the evening, suddenly raised his glass. His face was pale, the usual Malfoy composure stripped away, revealing a weariness that seemed to emanate from his very being. The crystal goblet in his hand gleamed faintly in the candlelight, the liquid inside catching the light in a way that almost made it look otherworldly. Yet, the movement was slow, deliberate, as if each motion cost him more than he cared to admit. His gaze swept over the group, lingering on each of them in turn, but it was Hermione he focused on longest. She felt the weight of that gaze, a mixture of something unreadable—perhaps regret, perhaps desperation—and something more raw, more human, than she had ever seen in him before.

"A toast," his voice broke the silence, low and measured. "To honesty," he continued, his words ringing with a weight that belied their simplicity. "To the laying bare of secrets, to the truth of what we've all been avoiding." His eyes flicked briefly toward Pansy, then Theo, then Blaise—each of them unmistakably tense under his gaze. "May the truths we speak tonight bind us closer, or… or reveal the cracks that have always threatened to split us wide open."

Her heart clenched at the unspoken challenge in his words, and she tightened her grip on her own goblet, the cool crystal a welcome counterpoint to the heat gathering in her chest. She knew what this was—a reckoning. They had all known it was coming. The quiet had been a lull, a brief respite before the storm. The truth, no matter how long they had pushed it down, had always been there, festering beneath the surface.

Hermione met his gaze across the table, his eyes dark and stormy, filled with a complexity she couldn't fully parse. There was fear in them, unmistakable and raw, and something else—something more desperate. It was the vulnerability he rarely allowed to show, the kind that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

The room seemed to hold its breath as the weight of his words settled into the silence. Laughter and casual conversation had dissolved, leaving nothing but the hum of tension that vibrated in the air. Pansy, who had been the life of the gathering just moments ago, fell silent. Her fingers toyed nervously with her napkin, twisting it in a tight knot, her face unreadable. Theo drummed his fingers against the table, an unconscious sign of his agitation. Even Blaise, ever strong, sat with her hand firmly gripping Ginny's, his knuckles pale and tight as if bracing for something inevitable.

"To honesty," Blaise echoed softly, his voice barely above a whisper. It lacked his usual strength, the words trembling in the air between them, thick with the weight of all they had yet to confront. His eyes flicked briefly to Hermione, a silent exchange passing between them—a shared understanding of the gravity of what was unfolding.

Theo, always composed and unreadable, raised his glass with a silent nod. His eyes, however, betrayed a flicker of unease, and his jaw clenched as if steeling himself for the revelations to come. He had always been a man of secrets, but tonight, he knew the truths would not remain buried for much longer.

The sound of crystal clinking together reverberated through the room, sharp and discordant against the stillness. It was a sound of finality, as if the veil between them and the past had been lifted, and there was no turning back.

He lowered his glass slowly, his eyes scanning the room, meeting each of theirs in turn. "Tonight," he said quietly, almost as a promise, "we lay it all bare. No more lies. No more hiding. Whatever comes next, we face it together."

But as the words settled into the heavy silence that followed, her mind raced with questions, with fears of what was to come. Could they truly face what had been buried for so long? Or would the weight of their secrets tear them apart, unraveling the fragile bonds they had built in the aftermath of all they had survived?

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the table, their movements restless and erratic, mirroring the unease that had settled over them all. There would be no more pretending, no more safe spaces. The truth, however painful, would come crashing down upon them—and there was no escaping it now.

The foundations they had tried to rebuild their lives upon—love, trust, friendship—were about to be tested, and Hermione couldn't help but wonder if they were strong enough to withstand the storm.

The Slytherins led their partners to a private guest room, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing them off from the world. A heavy silence filled the air, thick with unspoken truths. The weight of the moment pressed on their shoulders, an inevitable confrontation brewing.

~~~~~~

She sashayed toward the stairs, the evening sun catching in her dark hair, a playful spark lighting her eyes. Her once-pristine black dress now .

When she reached the top of the stairs, she paused, her earlier scolding forgotten, a playful smile dancing on her lips. Yet, there was still that glint in her eyes—a challenge, daring him to join her in their lighthearted charade.

As she brushed away a lingering pug hair from her dress, the gesture held more meaning than she let on. It was a silent acknowledgment of the chaos their lives had become, but also the shared amusement they found in it. Beneath the playful banter and mock exasperation, they were a united front—partners in life, and in the antics of one particularly troublesome pug.

Lady trotted between their legs with a sense of purpose, her tail swishing like a furry metronome. Pansy, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with mischief, watched him struggle to maintain his balance. The fading evening sun cast a soft glow through the hallway windows, and a playful tension danced in the air between them.

"Nevie, my love," she cooed, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that tickled his curiosity, "let's drop the charade for a moment. We need to talk."

He glanced up from his crouched position, one hand absently scratching behind Lady's ears, the pug offering a contented snort in return. His brow arched in surprise, though a familiar smile began to play on his lips. "About what, precisely?" he asked, rising to his full height with a casual air that belied his growing intrigue.

Pansy, her dark hair falling in perfect waves over her shoulders, tapped her foot with exaggerated impatience. "About the vast, unexplored territory that is my daily life," she declared with theatrical flair, waving her hand as if unveiling a secret world. "You see, darling, while you're off saving the world one Herbology experiment at a time and wrestling with our resident furry tornado," she gestured to Lady, whose tail wagged furiously at the attention, "I... Well, let's just say I don't spend my days brewing chamomile tea and gossiping with socialites."

She paused dramatically, letting her words hang in the air. The playful glint in her eyes was gone, replaced with a darker, more serious expression. Her tone softened, turning almost conspiratorial. Leaning in close, she whispered in his ear, "Poison. That's what I'm brewing."

His smile faltered, though his curiosity only deepened. His gaze sharpened, studying her with an intensity she rarely saw from him. "Intriguing," he murmured, his voice low, as though they were suddenly co-conspirators in some grand, dangerous secret. "Mrs. Longbottom, do tell—what thrilling activities do you engage in while I'm away, toiling in greenhouses and handling our furry little princess?"

For a fleeting second, her confident smile wavered, a shadow passing over her face. She hesitated, the weight of what she was about to reveal pressing down on her chest. "Nevie," she began, her voice losing its playful edge, "you were always on the right side of the war—honorable, brave, the hero. And as far as the Sacred Twenty-Eight go, you've always been on the right side of that, too."

Her eyes met his, filled with an intensity that made his heart skip a beat. "I didn't have that luxury. My family—well, you know what the Parkinson name once stood for. The allegiances we were forced into, the dark loyalties that still linger even though Voldemort's been dead for years..." She took a breath, gathering her thoughts as the gravity of what she was about to admit settled between them.

"You see, while you've been busy doing your good, clean work in the light, I've been navigating the shadows. I never stopped making potions. But the ones I make now... they aren't for curing ailments. They're for survival."

His eyes widened, but he didn't interrupt. He could feel the shift in the air, the raw vulnerability creeping into her voice as she continued.

"I brew poisons, Nevie. Subtle, deadly poisons. Like Aqua Tofana," she said, her tone steady but laced with emotion. "The kind that's never detected, that leaves no trace but helps women... women like me, or worse off than me, escape from lives of torment. Abused wives, desperate souls. I'm their silent hand in the dark."

The confession hung heavy in the air, like a storm cloud ready to break.

She turned away from him for a moment, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as if bracing herself for the inevitable judgment. "I inherited this from my mother, you know. She was a poison maker, too. It's a skill passed down through generations of my family. I never wanted to involve you in this, and I certainly never intended to tell you. But there it is. This is my truth."

Her voice was thick with emotion, but when she turned back to face him, her expression was one of defiance. 

" They say if you weren't served love on a silver spoon as a child, you'll learn how to lick it off a knife. Well, Neville, this is my knife. This is how I survived. This is how I continue to survive."

He stood still, absorbing her words, his usual gentle demeanor masked by a sudden intensity. She searched his face for any sign of anger, disgust, or disappointment, but instead, she found something else. Something unexpected.

He just stared at her, his gaze unreadable at first. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but firm. "You think I don't know?"

She blinked, taken aback. "What?"

"You think I haven't noticed? The smell of certain herbs on your clothes, the way you disappear for hours at a time with no explanation?" His tone wasn't accusatory, merely factual, as though he were piecing together a puzzle. "You think I'm blind to the life you've lived, Sassy?"

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She had never imagined he would have known—or worse, understood.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His green eyes softened, filled with something that made her heart ache. "I'm not angry, Parky. Not at all." His hand reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm just... mad that you felt like you couldn't tell me. That you thought I wouldn't stand by you."

"I..." She began, her voice shaking. "I was afraid you'd... you'd leave me."

His lips curved into a soft, reassuring smile. "Parky," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "if I had a problem with who you are, or what you do, I would've asked the Ministry to let us live separately. But I didn't. Because I love you—more than anything."

Before she could respond, tears welled up in her eyes, and she threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his chest as sobs wracked her body. He held her tightly, one hand cradling her head as he whispered soothing words into her hair.

"I'm sorry, Nevie," she choked out between sobs. "I didn't want to lie to you. I just... I thought you'd never understand."

He pulled back slightly, lifting her chin so their eyes met. "Pansy," he said softly, his thumb brushing away a stray tear, "I understand more than you think. And I don't care what you do or who you are. I love who you are, and that's all that matters."

She let out a shaky laugh, her tears still falling, but her heart lighter than it had been in years. "I love you too, Nevie. More than I ever thought possible."

And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, Lady circling their feet, she realized that for the first time in her life, she wasn't alone in her darkness. He was her light, and together, they would navigate whatever shadows came their way.

 ~~~~~~

A sudden crash echoed from upstairs, followed by frantic shouts. The room erupted into chaos as couples surged down the stairs, their faces pale with confusion and alarm. Luna and Theo, who had been the epitome of quiet domestic bliss just moments ago, appeared at the landing, their hands no longer entwined but hanging loosely at their sides. Their expressions mirrored the shock and disbelief etched onto their faces. Only seconds earlier, they had been locked in a tearful embrace, mourning together, but now, an icy tension filled the air, shattering the fragile peace.

In the center of the room stood Hermione and Draco, statuesque in their stillness, their eyes fixed on the figure sprawled across the threadbare rug. Ginny, her fiery red hair a stark contrast against the pale, worn floor, lay motionless, her chest heaving with breathless sobs. Her tear-streaked face was a mask of betrayal and disbelief, her gaze locked onto Hermione as if searching for some explanation, some reassurance that the world hadn't just shifted beneath her feet.

Hades and Persephone.  

A crimson light glowed from Hermione's wand, lingering in the air like the ghost of a battle just fought. Its sinister glow cast sharp shadows across the room, illuminating the fracture that had split their once unified front. The weight of it all—Ginny's brokenness, Hermione's stoic guilt, and the palpable tension—hung in the air like thick smoke.

It was Draco who broke the silence, his voice slicing through the room like a cold blade. "Well," he drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "that was certainly a productive way to handle things." His steely gaze flickered between Ginny, her tear-stained face contorted in anguish, and the wide-eyed onlookers. "Perhaps the rest of us have managed to keep our emotions in check."

His grip tightened around Hermione's hand, his knuckles white with barely contained rage. His voice, when it came again, was low and dangerous, every word sharpened by fury. "Tonight," he began, each syllable deliberate, "we don't seek justice." His eyes burned with cold intensity. "We seek vengeance."

The room collectively held its breath as Draco's chilling declaration took root. His gaze was no longer just hard—it was unyielding, a promise of what was to come. "Jelena Karkaroff," he spat the name with venom, "the woman who dared to harm the one I love." There was a possessive glint in his eye now, his love for Hermione driving him to the edge of reason.

"An eye for an eye," he continued, his voice now as sharp as the edge of a blade. "That's the game we play now." The possessiveness in his grip on Hermione was a silent vow—he would burn the world to the ground before letting another harm her again.

"Igor is hiding in Romania," Draco sneered, his jaw tightening. "Cowering in the shadows like the coward he is." His voice dripped with disdain. "We'll smoke him out. And then we'll bring him and his sister to their knees."

His gaze swept across the room, his eyes locking with each of them, daring anyone to defy him. "Form groups," he commanded, his voice brokering no argument. "Find Igor Karkaroff. This is not a request. We do not fail the ones we love."

The room seemed to buzz with dark energy, an unspoken agreement rippling through the group. Draco's words ignited something primal, something fierce within each of them. There was no turning back.

Luna had now taken on an eerie focus. Her mind raced with ways to use magical creatures to track down Karkaroff, her usual light-hearted demeanor now shadowed by a chilling edge. Pansy, with calm precision, began gathering her poisons and vials, her sharp eyes assessing each bottle with deadly intent. She was a master of her craft, and she would see to it that Jelena's downfall was as painful as it was inevitable.

Neville, his heart hammering with a mixture of fury and resolve, selected a gleaming sword from his collection. The shy boy he once was had long since disappeared, replaced by a man willing to do whatever it took—even to the point of using dark magic if it came to that. His loyalty to Hermione and Pansy burned in his chest, and he would stop at nothing to protect them.

Meanwhile, Theo and Blaise moved through their armory with practiced ease, loading their wands and gathering every magical artifact and gun in the house. The air around them crackled with tension, their faces set with grim determination.

In the midst of the flurry, Draco and Hermione stood together, their fingers interlaced in a silent vow of solidarity. Their tender glances, brief as they were, spoke volumes. Even amid the chaos of preparation and war, their love was a constant—a light in the darkness, even as vengeance consumed them both.

As the group readied themselves for the bloodbath ahead, the mood shifted from shock to steely resolve. Each person knew their role, their part to play in what was about to unfold. The lines had been drawn, and there would be no mercy.

He stood at the ready, his sword gleaming in the dim light, his eyes fierce with the determination of a man who had long outgrown the boy he once was. This wasn't just about vengeance for Hermione or for Ginny; it was about protecting everything and everyone he loved. He knew the risks. He knew what it might cost him.

But tonight, they will hunt. Tonight, they would destroy anyone who dared to threaten their family.

And no one—least of all Igor Karkaroff—would escape what was coming for them.

~~~~~~

She stayed with Luna and Hermione to escalate the situation with Ginny.

After Draco and the others took the portkey to Romania, the girls worked together to help Ginny regain consciousness.

Hermione, her expression resolute despite the turmoil around her, knelt by Ginny's side. "Ginny, wake up," she urged, her voice gentle yet firm. 

Luna, her usual ethereal calm replaced by a rare intensity, waved her wand over Ginny, murmuring a soft incantation. "She'll come around soon," she said, her voice steady.

Pansy, her demeanor uncharacteristically serious, stood nearby with her arms crossed. "When she does, we need to make sure she understands everything," she said. "We can't afford any more misunderstandings."

Ginny stirred, a low moan escaping her lips. Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh light. "Hermione?" she whispered, confusion clouding her gaze.

Hermione squeezed her hand reassuringly. "It's okay, Ginny. You're safe."

Ginny's eyes flickered with recognition, then widened with a surge of anger. "Safe? You call this safe?" she spat, struggling to sit up. "My life is falling apart because of you! Everything is your fault, Hermione, since the day I met you in school, everything is your fault."

"Ginny, please," Hermione pleaded, her voice trembling.

"NO!" Ginny shouted, her voice breaking with emotion. "Every bad thing that happened to Harry and Ron is your fault. Everything that happened during the war, and my Fred's death—it's all in your hands."

"Started with me?" Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. "Ginny, I don't understand."

"Don't you dare play dumb!" Ginny spat. "Remember first year? You waltz into Hogwarts with your bushy hair and know-it-all attitude, stealing the attention like a siren. Suddenly, Harry's only interested in what Hermione Granger has to say, not Ginny Weasley." Her voice cracked slightly, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the anger.

"That's not true," Hermione countered gently. "We were all just kids then, learning the ropes. Harry valued your friendship too."

Ginny scoffed. "Maybe. But then came the Triwizard Tournament. You were all for Harry entering that death trap! Didn't you care about the danger? What if he hadn't come back? What if I'd lost him too?" A choked sob escaped her lips as she remembered the terror of that year.

"We were worried sick about Harry," Hermione admitted, her voice softening. "But we never thought…"

"Then came the fight between Ron and Harry," Ginny interrupted, her voice gaining momentum. "Fourth year, the Yule Ball, all that mess. You were supposed to be their friend, Hermione, but you let everything explode. Didn't you ever think about how it affected the rest of us?"

Hermione flinched, a pang of guilt twisting in her gut. "Of course I did! But sometimes friendships go through rough patches. We all make mistakes."

"Maybe," Ginny conceded, "but it always felt like there was this inner circle – you, Ron, and Harry. Planning, strategizing, keeping secrets. While the rest of us, me included, just… existed on the periphery." Her voice was laced with bitterness.

"That's not fair, Ginny," Hermione pleaded. "We included you whenever we could. Remember the Chamber of Secrets? You were a target, possessed by that awful diary. If it wasn't for Harry…"

Ginny cut her off with a sharp shake of her head. "Don't you see? All this danger, this war… it stole my childhood, Hermione. Stole Fred! Maybe if you hadn't been so focused on fighting the good fight, on following Dumbledore blindly, things would have been different!"

Tears streamed down Ginny's face now, a raw torrent of long-suppressed emotions. "And now you! You dragged me into this mess with Malfoy, and look where it's landed me. Blaise's changed, Hermione. There's darkness in him, a darkness you seem content to ignore because it fits your narrative."

Hermione stood there, tears silently sliding Tears streamed down Ginny's face, her voice raw with barely contained emotion. Downward spirals are messy, and Ginny's anger was a torrent threatening to drown them all. Hermione slumped slightly in her chair, unable to form a coherent defense. The weight of Ginny's accusations, a culmination of years of unspoken hurt, felt like a crushing blow.

Luna, ever the voice of reason, surprised them both. Her voice, usually laced with ethereal calm, was now firm, tinged with a fierceness they hadn't witnessed before. "That's enough, Ginny," she said, her eyes flashing with a newfound intensity. "We've all lost people we love. Blaming Hermione won't bring them back. It won't bring Fred back."

Ginny recoiled slightly at the mention of her brother, a flicker of pain momentarily eclipsing the fury in her eyes. But the anger quickly reignited. "No, Luna!" she shouted, her voice rising with renewed fury. "My husband and all the men are gone, just to save Hermione's golden hide! What's so special about you, huh? Why does everyone bend over backwards for the brightest witch of her age?"

The venom in Ginny's voice hung heavy in the air. Pansy, who had been a silent observer until now, uncrossed her arms and spoke with a surprising calmness that contrasted sharply with Ginny's tirade. 

The room seemed to hold its breath as Ginny's words hung in the air, a bitter echo of her pain. Hermione's eyes widened, her face pale, unable to respond.

Before anyone could react, Ginny spun on her heel and apparated away, the crack of her departure leaving an oppressive silence in its wake. Luna sighed, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. "She's hurting," she whispered, her voice thick with empathy. "We all are."

Pansy crossed her arms. "Doesn't excuse the outburst," she muttered, her gaze flickering to Hermione.

Hermione stood frozen, a tapestry of emotions swirling on her face. Guilt gnawed at her insides, Ginny's words echoing in her mind. 

"Maybe it is too much," she choked out, a tear escaping her eye. "Maybe I am the reason they're all in danger." Luna shook her head firmly. "No, Hermione. They're doing it because they care about you. Because you're part of the family."

She nodded, her voice softer now. "We need to stay strong, for them and for ourselves. Ginny will come around. She just needs time."

Hermione nodded, wiping away her tears. "We have to keep going. For all of us."

As they stood together, the strength of their bond became their anchor, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. The resolve to protect and support each other solidified, forging an unbreakable alliance in the face of their shared trials.

~~~~~~

The forest grew darker as the man pressed deeper into its twisted heart. The cold, damp air clung to them, heavy with the scent of decay. Each step felt deliberate, the silence only broken by the crackle of dead leaves underfoot and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures. The trees loomed above them, their skeletal branches stretching out like talons, scratching at the inky sky.

"There," Blaise whispered, pointing towards a faint clearing ahead. In the center stood a cabin, its windows boarded and dark. A thin stream of smoke curled lazily from the crooked chimney—an eerie sign of life in the desolate wilderness.

Draco's pulse quickened, the cold certainty in his gut hardening. They had found him—Karkaroff. The man who had orchestrated the attack on Hermione. Now, it was time for vengeance.

Theo smirked, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. "About time, Longbottom," he teased, glancing at him, who adjusted the straps on his pack, ensuring his assortment of magical plants was within easy reach. The once timid boy, now transformed by years of study and battle, stood ready to face the darkness head-on.

A dilapidated white church stood oddly near the cabin, its purity marred by proximity to such evil. It was a symbol of how dark magic could corrupt even the most sacred places.

Draco's voice cut through the tension like steel. "We stick to the plan. We take Karkaroff by surprise—no room for theatrics. Theo and I disarm him. Blaise watches the perimeter. And Neville," his gaze met his, a hint of respect flashing in his usually cold eyes, "you handle whatever surprises he's hiding."

His resolve solidified. "Ready," he replied, his voice steady.

They crept toward the cabin, their movements shadows in the fading light. The wooden door creaked ominously, and the faint glow from a crack in the window was the only sign of life. As they reached the porch, a low, guttural growl rumbled from within, sending chills down his spine. Whatever Karkaroff had in there wasn't human.

Instinctively, his hand found the vial of powdered dittany in his pouch. Just in case.

A heavy silence followed, thick and suffocating, as they gathered their courage. Then, with a swift motion, they burst through the door. Chaos erupted. From the shadows lunged a monstrous boar, its tusks gleaming wickedly in the dim light. Karkaroff scrambled back in fear, his wand clattering to the floor. Draco and Theo acted immediately, disarming him before he could react.

But his attention was locked on the beast. Adrenaline surged as the boar charged, but instead of panicking, he remembered Professor Sprout's lessons on calming aggressive creatures. His fingers flew through his pack, pulling out a vial of lavender essence. Without hesitation, he hurled it at the boar's feet.

The fragrance filled the air, momentarily stunning the creature. He seized the chance. He wasn't a duelist, but he was a Gryffindor—courage burned in his veins. Spotting a nearby tangle of Devil's Snare, he ripped free a length of vine and flung it around the boar's legs. The beast roared, thrashing against the constricting tendrils before crashing to the floor with a final, earth-shaking thud.

Panting, he stood over the fallen creature, his sword still in hand. The room was silent, save for Karkaroff's shallow breaths. Theo and Blaise stared at him, their disbelief giving way to respect. Even Draco's cold gaze softened, a rare flicker of admiration shining through.

Neville Longbottom, the awkward boy once mocked for his forgetfulness, had just subdued a monstrous foe with nothing but wits and raw courage. In that moment, he wasn't just the Herbology prodigy—he was a warrior.

Draco's voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding. "Leave Karkaroff to us, Neville. Go clear your head." His tone held a weight that made his skin crawl. He knew what would happen next, the vengeance that would unfold.

For a moment, he hesitated. He looked between the subdued boar, the trembling Karkaroff, and his friends. But Draco's gaze was resolute, leaving no room for argument. With a nod, he stepped outside, the door slamming shut behind him with a grim finality.

The night air hit him like a slap, cool and sharp. The sounds of the forest—rustling leaves, distant owl calls—seemed amplified in the quiet. He leaned against the railing of the porch, his heart still racing from the battle. He wasn't naive. Inside that cabin, vengeance was being exacted. Karkaroff would pay for what he had done to Hermione. And part of Neville, the part that longed for justice for his parents and the countless lives lost, understood.

But another part of him recoiled. Vengeance, he knew, came at a cost.

He closed his eyes, and Hermione's face flashed before him. Her belief in him, her trust, grounded him. He wasn't a part of what would happen next, but he would make sure this mission succeeded for her. For his wife. For everyone who counted on him.

Steeling himself, he straightened, his grip firm around the hilt of his sword. He wasn't the shy boy of Hogwarts anymore. He was Neville Longbottom, a Gryffindor to the core. And whatever came next, he would face it with courage and strength.

~~~~~~

The air crackled with a different kind of tension now. Luna and Lysander, thankfully, remained blissfully unaware, their rhythmic breathing a stark contrast to the scene that unfolded before Pansy and Hermione. The silence that followed the apparition was deafening, broken only by the soft clinking of a glass as she set it down with a trembling hand.

Their gazes fell upon Draco, their initial relief at his safe return morphing into horror as they took in the macabre spectacle. He stood there, an unsettling stillness radiating from him. Blood, a sickening crimson, soaked his clothes and dripped from his hands, one of which held a grisly trophy – Karkaroff's severed head , its eyes wide with a permanent, silent scream.

Hermione lurched forward, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. The image that met her eyes threatened to shatter her. This wasn't the determined Draco she thought she was fighting alongside. This was a monster, a chilling reflection of the very darkness they were trying to vanquish.

Her voice, when it came, was a mere whisper, laced with a tremor of fear. "Draco… what have you done?"

Pansy seemed to shrink under the weight of the moment. Her face, drained of color, mirrored the horror dawning on Hermione's. This wasn't vengeance; this was cold-blooded murder, and the implications sent a shiver down her spine.

Draco, however, remained unmoved. His gaze was distant, as if he were lost in a world only he could see. He raised the severed head, its lifeless eyes staring vacantly, and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion.

"Justice has been served," he said, the words echoing hollowly in the tense silence.

She practically leaped out of her chair. Her usual poise was replaced by a frantic desperation as she flew into her husband's arms.

"Nevie, my love, are you alright?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

He met her embrace with a measured calmness that surprised him. He held her close, a silent promise of protection in the face of the storm brewing around them. 

Across the room, Draco stood like a statue, Karkaroff's head still dangling from his hand. His earlier detachment had given way to a chilling emptiness in his eyes.

"I should've brought you trophies as well, home sooner," Draco murmured, his voice barely a whisper. Was it a genuine apology or a twisted justification for his actions? It was impossible to tell.

The room hung on a knife's edge. She clung to him, her body shaking with silent sobs.

Theo, with a faint grimace, used a silent charm to levitate Luna and Lysander, their peaceful slumber undisturbed. They drifted upwards, glowing faintly in the moonlight filtering through the window, before Theo gently deposited them in the guest bedroom.

Blaise, ever the pragmatist, broke the silence. "Where's Ginny?" he asked, his voice laced with worry. His wife, usually calm and collected, wouldn't just disappear.

Pansy, drained from the emotional rollercoaster of the evening, sighed. "Ginny had a… meltdown," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Big one. Went Apparated out of here in a huff."

Blaise's face hardened. The news of Ginny's outburst clearly struck a chord. Without a word, he rose from his chair, his cloak billowing around him. A crack echoed in the room as he Disapparated, his destination likely.

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, its warmth a stark contrast to the chilling scene before them. Hermione stood there, alone with Draco, the severed head of Karkaroff, a grotesque centerpiece on the table. The air crackled with unspoken words, the weight of the night pressing down on them.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Hermione spoke. "The head," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Toss it in the fire. Get rid of it."

Draco turned towards her, his face an unreadable mask. He picked up the head by its hair, the lifeless eyes staring vacantly. For a moment, Hermione thought she saw a flicker of something akin to satisfaction in his gaze, a dark thrill that sent shivers down her spine.

"Thank you, sweetness," she said finally, the words catching in her throat. "For taking care of things."

A wry smile played on Draco's lips, a chilling counterpoint to the sincerity in her voice. "Anything for you, my love," he replied, his voice laced with a hint of something that could have been devotion or something far more dangerous.

He strode towards the fireplace, the head dangling from his hand like a macabre trophy. As he tossed it into the flames, a wave of heat rolled out, momentarily obscuring their faces. When the flames subsided, only ashes remained, a silent testament to the brutality that had transpired.

Hermione watched him, a storm of emotions brewing within her. Gratitude for his actions warred with unease at the darkness that seemed to simmer beneath the surface. They were bound together by this mission, a tangled web of loyalty and desperation. 

Karkaroff, uneasy at the price they had paid. She took a deep breath, trying to quell the tremor in her hands. This wasn't the time to unravel, but the tension thrummed in the air, an electric current buzzing beneath her skin.

"Draco," she said, her voice barely a whisper. He turned, his gaze meeting hers across the room. It was a look that spoke volumes, a shared understanding of the darkness they had just walked through.

Hermione took a hesitant step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath her weight. She stopped a few feet away from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, far enough to maintain a sliver of distance.

She didn't need to finish the sentence. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air, a silent invitation laced with a desperate need for solace.