Soft Things in a Hard World

SEPTEMBER 1995

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, autumn pressing its slow decay into the grounds of Hogwarts. The sky sagged low with thick clouds, bruised and heavy, the kind that threatened rain but never quite delivered. Theo walked in measured steps beside Draco and Blaise, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, the soft crunch of leaves beneath their feet a steady rhythm against the absent-minded cadence of their conversation. Or rather, Draco’s conversation—his perpetual, relentless diatribe about Granger.

“—the insufferable gall of her, honestly,” Draco was saying, words slicing through the chill. “I’ve never met a more self-important, pompous, sanctimonious—”

“You’re repeating yourself,” Blaise interjected, barely paying attention as he admired his own reflection in the silver pommel of his cane. “Self-important, pompous, sanctimonious… I think you’ve used all of those in the last three minutes.”

“She deserves each and every one of them,” Draco shot back, huffing. “The way she looked at me in Transfiguration, like I was some kind of—”

Theo let the words fade. He wasn’t listening anymore. He hadn’t been for a while. His attention had drifted, drawn away by something—or rather, someone—just beyond the treeline, past the crumbling remnants of the old carriage path.

Luna Lovegood was standing in the thinning grass, her robes dusted with soil, fingers splayed with quiet reverence against the sleek black coat of a thestral. The creature stood beside her, skeletal and towering, its great leathery wings half-folded, ribs visible beneath the parchment-thin skin. It tilted its long head, listening as she murmured something too soft to catch.

“—as if sharing the Prefect’s carriage with them wasn’t bad enough, I had to listen to Weasley yammer on like the classless idiot he is,” Draco continued. “And Granger—oh, she just had to act like she’s the only one who understands how the bloody system works. ‘Oh, Malfoy, you can’t just dock points for breathing too loudly.’” His voice took on a high-pitched mockery of Granger's, his expression twisted with irritation. “I swear, if I have to spend another year watching her lord her Prefect badge over everyone, I might just—”

Theo had never understood why people feared thestrals. He’d seen thestrals for as long as he could remember—had been one of the first in their year to do so, though he had never spoken about it. Their presence had never unnerved him. If anything, he found them solemn, almost regal.

And yet, in all the years he had watched them, he had never seen someone else approach them the way Luna did. Most kept their distance, half-believing the old superstitions about omens and ill luck. But Luna—

She stood there with a quiet ease, hand brushing along the thestral’s side as though it were a tame horse in need of comfort. Her pale hair, nearly silver in the dim light, was slipping loose from its braid, strands curling around her face like soft-golden wisps. Her expression was dreamy, serene, as though she belonged there in the wild things and whispered moments that no one else cared to notice.

Theo found himself slowing his steps, gaze fixed, ignoring the way Draco’s voice still prattled on beside him.

“—and the nerve of her, thinking she could correct me—”

Luna smiled then, a small thing, her lips curving in a way that was less about joy and more about understanding. As though the thestral had spoken to her in a language no one else could hear.

Theo exhaled, slow and soundless.

“She’s quite pretty, don’t you think?”

Blaise’s voice cut through his thoughts like a knife, sharp and knowing. Theo didn’t move, but his fingers flexed in his pockets. He didn’t need to ask who Blaise meant.

“I suppose,” Theo murmured, noncommittal.

Blaise made a soft, amused noise. “Suppose? You’ve been staring for the last five minutes.”

Draco, ever oblivious to anything that wasn’t his own grievances, paid no mind to them, still embroiled in whatever imagined war he was waging against Granger in his head.

Theo ignored Blaise’s smirk and turned his head, just slightly, eyes flickering back to Luna before forcing himself to look away. She was still there, fingers skimming the creature’s long neck, her voice too low to catch. But even when he turned back to the path, back to his friends, back to the world he knew best, the image of her remained—soft and quiet, a girl who had never feared the things others could not see.

OCTOBER 1995

The corridors were awash in the late afternoon glow, sunlight slanting through the high-arched windows, casting long, gilded shadows against the ancient stone. Students moved in slow, unhurried waves, the lull between classes thick with murmured conversation and the rustle of parchment.

Theo walked between Draco and Blaise, their usual formation, half-listening as Draco aired yet another grievance about Granger, his voice edged with frustration.

“—as if I needed her insufferable corrections. I was perfectly aware of the counter-hex, but no, she had to make a performance out of it—”

Theo barely registered the words, letting Draco’s voice roll over him like distant thunder. His attention had been drawn elsewhere, his gaze caught on a pair walking ahead, further down the corridor. Harry Potter and Luna Lovegood.

They weren’t touching, but their proximity suggested familiarity, an ease between them that felt deliberate. Luna moved with the same unhurried grace she always did, as if she walked through an entirely different world, unfazed by the currents of time and expectation. A faint, knowing smile curled at the edges of her lips as she listened to Potter, her head tilting at just the right moments, as though she could hear the spaces between his words. Potter, for his part, looked more relaxed than usual, his normal brooding replaced by something lighter, something that unsettled Theo in ways he didn’t care to examine.

He wasn’t sure if he was curious or—

No. That was ridiculous.

Luna was a mystery, an enigma wrapped in silk and strangeness, and Theo had always liked puzzles. That was all this was.

Wasn’t it?

A sharp voice sliced through the air, dragging him from his thoughts.

“Honestly, Malfoy, if you spent half as much time studying as you did complaining about me, you might actually—”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Granger, do you ever shut up?” Draco snapped, pivoting on his heel so abruptly that his robes flared around him, his glare slicing into her like a freshly sharpened dagger.

Theo and Blaise exchanged a glance, both slowing their pace, watching as Draco squared off with Granger in yet another battle of wills. Theo had seen this confrontation a hundred times before, and he doubted it would be the last. There was a certain predictability to it, a rhythm as familiar as the tides, neither willing to cede ground.

Granger looked moments away from launching into another tirade, her wild curls catching the light like a halo, though there was nothing angelic about the way she was glaring up at Draco. The golden light caught in her curls, making them burn with something wild, untamed. She wasn’t backing down. She never did.

Theo might have found it amusing if his mind weren’t still lingering elsewhere. He turned his head slightly, searching the corridor for another glimpse of Luna, but she and Potter had already disappeared around the bend, their presence a lingering afterimage in his mind.

“What do you think they talk about?” he murmured, half to himself.

Blaise, ever perceptive, turned to him with a quirked brow. “Who?”

Theo hesitated, weighing his words before shaking his head. “Never mind.”

Draco stormed back toward them, still bristling from his latest verbal sparring match, his ire practically radiating from his skin. “The absolute nerve of her—” he began, his voice an exasperated drawl, but Theo wasn’t listening.

His thoughts were still elsewhere, caught in the space between curiosity and something he couldn’t quite name.

NOVEMBER 1995

The dimly lit dungeon was thick with the acrid scent of brewing potions, a medley of crushed ingredients and simmering concoctions curling through the air in lazy tendrils. Candlelight flickered against the damp stone walls, casting elongated shadows over rows of cauldrons bubbling with half-finished mixtures. Professor Snape’s voice droned somewhere in the background, but Theo barely registered it.

He sat at his usual station beside Blaise and Draco, methodically slicing a sprig of moonwort while Draco muttered under his breath, seething.

“—the absolute audacity of her, honestly,” Draco hissed, his blade biting into the roots of a shrivelfig with unnecessary force. “You should have seen her, Blaise. Sitting there in Transfiguration, looking at me like I’m some sort of bloody idiot—”

“I do see her, Draco,” Blaise muttered idly, eyes half-lidded as he measured out crushed lacewing flies. “Every day.”

Draco ignored him, his focus still fixated on his ever-growing list of grievances against Granger. “She acts as though she’s the only one who understands theory, as if the rest of us are just here to marvel at her brilliance—”

Across the room, the Gryffindors were clustered together, their side of the dungeon perpetually louder, an undercurrent of easy camaraderie running through their ranks. He had long since learned to tune out their incessant noise, but today, his ears caught something that made his movements slow, his grip tightening just slightly around his silver knife.

“Are you seeing Luna later?” Weasley’s voice, unfiltered and brash, cut through the flickering quiet of the room.

Theo didn’t look up, but his focus had sharpened, his movements slowing as he waited for the answer.

Potter, who had been grinding billywig stings into fine powder, hesitated just a fraction of a second before answering. “Yeah, probably. She wanted to show me something by the lake. Why?”

Weasley made a vague noise, stirring his cauldron without much thought. “Dunno. Just seems like you’ve been spending a lot of time with her lately.”

Theo felt the words settle in his chest with an odd weight, though he wasn’t sure why.

“She’s nice to talk to,” Potter said simply, as if that explained everything.

Theo pressed his blade into the cutting board, slicing through the moonwort with more force than necessary, the sharp snap of stems a quiet counterpoint to his thoughts.

“I’m just saying,” Weasley continued, his voice hushed now as though belatedly realizing they weren’t the only ones in the room, “people might start thinking something’s going on between you two.”

Potter let out a short, careless laugh. “And? Since when do I care what people think?”

Theo shifted in his seat, jaw tightening. It was true—Potter had never cared for speculation, never let the whispers of the castle dictate his choices. If he was spending time with Luna, it was because he wanted to.

That thought sat uncomfortably in Theo’s chest, a slow burn of something he refused to name.

Draco muttered something else under his breath about Granger, but Theo wasn’t listening anymore. His focus remained fixed on the Gryffindor table, on the easy way Potter spoke of Luna, on the way the words had affected him when they shouldn’t have at all.

DECEMBER 1995

The afternoon air was crisp, the sky a soft wash of silver as the sun threatened to slip behind the horizon. Students moved in clusters along the stone pathways that wove through the Hogwarts grounds, their robes stirring in the chill December breeze. A murmur of voices rose and fell in the distance, but Theo barely registered it.

His steps were measured, unhurried, matching the pace of Draco and Blaise as they made their way toward the castle. Draco, however, was far from silent.

“Look at them,” he sneered, his voice curling around the words like something sour. “It’s pathetic. You’d think after five years of having to share space with her, Weasley would’ve at least figured out how to dress like he owns more than one set of robes.”

Blaise let out a low hum, his eyes flickering toward the pair walking ahead. “Granger’s fit, though.”

Theo didn’t react, but he felt the shift in the air beside him. Draco’s head snapped toward Blaise so fast it was a wonder he didn’t get whiplash. “What?”

Blaise smirked, entirely too pleased with himself. “I’m just saying. If she wasn’t a complete nightmare, nor a Mudblood, I’d consider it.”

Draco’s expression darkened, his jaw locking as a muscle ticked beneath his cheek. “You need help,” he bit out, the words edged with something that went beyond disgust. Something defensive.

Blaise’s smirk widened. “You’re awfully bothered by that, mate.”

Draco scoffed, turning his gaze back toward Granger with barely veiled irritation. “Hardly. I just think your taste is appalling. She’s—she’s Granger.”

Blaise hummed again, clearly unconvinced. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Draco muttered something under his breath, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag as if he needed something to ground him.

Theo wasn’t listening. Not really. He heard them, but their voices were distant, drowned beneath the quiet hum of his own thoughts. His gaze had drifted elsewhere, drawn like a thread pulled taut to a single, effortless point of focus.

Luna  stood near the edge of the courtyard, half turned away from the path, her long, golden hair catching the wind like strands of woven light. It moved in slow, weightless ripples, the delicate ends brushing against the fabric of her robes. There was something unearthly about it, about her—an odd sort of grace, as if she existed just a step outside of time, untethered from the world that governed the rest of them. She was speaking to someone—Thomas, maybe?—but her expression was distant, as though she were only half-present in the conversation.

Theo didn’t realize he had slowed his steps until Blaise cast him a knowing glance.

“Something on your mind, Nott?”

Theo blinked, forcing his gaze away, exhaling through his nose. “No.”

Blaise smirked but said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them. Draco, still muttering under his breath about Blaise’s so-called lack of taste, now walked a step ahead, shoulders squared with a tension he would never admit to.

Theo kept his eyes forward, but the image of her remained. The way the wind played with the strands of her hair, the way she tilted her head just slightly as she listened, as if hearing something no one else could.

JANUARY 1996

The streets of Hogsmeade were alive with the easy hum of conversation and the crisp bite of winter air. Smoke curled from the chimneys of the village’s old thatched roofs, the scent of spiced cider and warm pastries thick in the air. Students ambled down the cobbled paths, bundled against the cold, eager for a break from the confines of the castle.

Theo walked with his usual measured pace, flanked by Draco and Blaise as they made their way toward the Three Broomsticks. Draco was talking about something—likely another grievance, another perceived slight—but Theo wasn’t listening. His gaze had drifted, caught on a figure moving just ahead of them.

Luna walked alone, her pale hair falling in waves down her back, catching the muted sunlight like a veil of silver. She didn’t seem to mind the solitude, her pace slow, almost dreamlike, as though she were listening to something beyond the rustling leaves and the distant chatter of students. 

Theo felt something in his chest tighten, something pulling him toward her before he had the chance to think better of it. But before he could take a step, two figures approached her from the side.

Luna turned at their approach, her dreamy expression shifting into something softer, something more present. Longbottom said something that made her smile, and the She-Weasel linked her arm through Luna’s, the three of them moving together as though they had been meant to all along.

Theo let out a slow breath, hands slipping into his coat pockets, forcing himself to look away as he followed Draco and Blaise inside the Three Broomsticks.

The warmth of the pub wrapped around them instantly, the scent of butterbeer thick and inviting, the low murmur of voices a welcome contrast to the cold outside. The moment they stepped in, however, something in Draco shifted.

Theo noticed it immediately.

Draco, who had been leading the way with his usual air of effortless arrogance, suddenly hesitated. His shoulders stiffened, his gaze darting toward a corner of the pub, and then, in a rare moment of indecision, he turned slightly, as if considering walking right back out.

Blaise, perceptive as ever, didn’t miss it. “What’s got you acting like you just saw the Dark Lord himself?”

Draco scowled, straightening his spine as he made a show of adjusting his gloves. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Blaise’s gaze followed Draco’s, and the smirk that curled on his lips was nothing short of wicked. “Ah. I see.”

Theo didn’t need to look to know what—or rather, who—had Draco rattled.

Granger was sitting at a table near the fireplace, her curls a wild frame around her face, her brow furrowed as she read something, a half-finished butterbeer at her elbow. She wasn’t even looking at them, wasn’t even aware of Draco’s presence, and yet he looked like he was bracing for battle.

“What’s your problem?” Blaise pressed, still amused. “You suddenly developing an allergy to Gryffindors?”

“Drop it,” Draco muttered, sinking into a seat where he had a clear view of her but also, notably, a quick escape route.

Blaise’s grin only widened. “You’re not even going to make a scene? Call her something insufferable? What’s wrong, Draco?”

Draco ignored him, making a sharp turn toward the bar. Blaise let out a laugh but followed, clearly not done tormenting him.

Theo, however, wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

His gaze had already sought out Luna, finding her easily among the crowd. She sat with Neville and Ginny at a table by the window, her fingers curled loosely around a mug of butterbeer, her expression lost in some quiet thought as her friends talked beside her. The firelight made her hair look even paler, almost incandescent, the softest halo around her fair skin.

As if sensing his stare, Luna lifted her gaze, her wide, silvery eyes finding his through the throng of people.

Luna’s eyes were impossibly bright in the dim pub, shimmering with quiet amusement, as if she had known he’d been watching the entire time. And then she smiled—not just a polite smile, but a small, knowing thing, as if she saw something in him he hadn’t quite realized himself.

His pulse quickened.

Blaise said something beside him, but Theo didn’t hear it. The rest of the pub faded away—the chatter, the warmth of the fire, Draco’s odd behavior. All that remained was Luna and the soft, enigmatic curve of her lips as she lifted her butterbeer to take another sip, never once breaking eye contact.

The moment was shattered when Weasley walked through the door, his gaze instantly zeroing in on Granger. He strode over without hesitation and dropped into the seat beside her, far too comfortable in her presence for Draco’s liking.

Draco went completely still.

Theo, trying not to appear too fixated on Luna, couldn’t help but notice the way Draco’s fingers curled against the table, the subtle clench of his jaw. It was rare to see him this openly reactive.

Blaise leaned forward, watching Draco like he was an unsolved puzzle. “You’re being weird,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Very weird.”

Draco didn’t respond. His attention remained locked on Granger and Weasley as they exchanged words too low to overhear. Granger smiled at something Weasley said, nudging him with her elbow, and Draco’s fingers twitched like he had to stop himself from reacting further.

Theo huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he turned back to his butterbeer. Blaise, however, was relentless.

“You look like you want to hex him,” Blaise noted, grinning wickedly now. “Jealous, Draco?”

Draco scoffed, finally peeling his eyes away from the pair. “Hardly.”

“Uh-huh,” Blaise drawled, clearly unconvinced. “You look like you just bit into a particularly sour lemon.”

Theo only half-listened, still acutely aware of Luna’s presence across the room. He could feel her gaze on him every now and then, like a delicate brush of static in the air. When he finally dared to glance her way again, she was still watching him, her head slightly tilted, her expression serene.

Then, as if she had decided something, she raised her butterbeer in an almost imperceptible toast.

Theo’s lips parted slightly. His heartbeat thrummed louder than before.

Blaise and Draco continued to bicker beside him, but their words faded into white noise. All that mattered was Luna’s smile and the silent, inexplicable gravity that pulled him toward her.

FEBRUARY 1996

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual evening chatter, silver goblets clinking, enchanted candles flickering above like tiny suspended stars. The scent of roasted meat and warm bread drifted through the space, mingling with the crisp air that seeped in through the high-arched windows.

Theo sat at his usual place at the Slytherin table, idly pushing his peas around his plate. His mind wasn’t on dinner, nor on the conversation happening beside him—at least, not entirely. His attention had drifted across the hall, where Luna Lovegood sat among the Ravenclaws, peeling an orange in slow, methodical spirals. He watched as she carefully unwound the rind, her fingers delicate, as though handling something far more precious than simple fruit. She looked as though she were listening to something no one else could hear, her expression dreamlike, distant.

“—can you believe that?”

Theo barely flicked his eyes back to Draco, who had been ranting for the better part of ten minutes, his voice low but heated as he stabbed at his steak with unnecessary force. Blaise, beside him, looked vaguely entertained, but not enough to stop lazily buttering his bread.

“I mean, it’s pathetic, isn’t it?” Draco continued, not needing confirmation. “Sending letters to Krum? Krum, of all people. As if she could actually—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching, his grip tightening around his fork. “She was standing there, all wrapped up in that ridiculous scarf, acting as if she wasn’t doing anything suspicious. But I saw the address, plain as day.”

Blaise finally glanced up, smirking. “And?”

Draco scoffed. “And what?”

Blaise’s smirk widened. “And why do you care?”

Draco’s glare was instant, cutting, but Blaise remained unfazed, taking an unhurried sip from his goblet.

“I don’t care,” Draco said sharply, too quickly. “It’s just pathetic, that’s all. As if she’s still clinging to some summer fling with that overgrown Bulgarian troll. It’s embarrassing.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, stabbing another piece of steak. “Probably filling the letter with all sorts of idiotic Gryffindor nonsense—her marks, her bloody elf-rights campaign, her self-important lectures—”

Theo hummed absentmindedly, eyes still on Luna as she plucked a single seed from the orange and set it aside, as though saving it for later.

“—not that it matters,” Draco continued, oblivious to Theo’s distraction. “It’s not like Krum even understands half of what she’s saying. He probably just stares at the letters like an idiot and—”

“Oh, you sound rational,” Blaise drawled, tearing off a piece of bread. “Completely unaffected.”

Draco’s scowl deepened. “I’m just saying, it’s ridiculous.”

Theo finally pulled his gaze away from Luna, glancing at Draco’s tense shoulders, the irritation rolling off him in waves. He sighed, spearing a piece of potato with his fork.

“She can send letters to whoever she wants, you know.”

Draco turned his glare on Theo now. “Excuse me?”

Theo lifted a shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, chewing thoughtfully. “I mean, it’s a free country, isn’t it? She fancies Krum, so she writes to Krum. Simple.”

Draco made a noise of pure disdain, somewhere between a scoff and a scoff’s uglier cousin. “She doesn’t fancy him.”

Blaise smirked. “No?”

“No,” Draco snapped. “It’s just—it’s just habit. She probably thinks she’s being polite.”

Theo hummed again, glancing back toward the Ravenclaw table, where Luna was now carefully placing her orange slices in a perfect ring around her plate before eating them in a slow, deliberate pattern.

Draco let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “It’s pathetic,” he muttered once more, as if saying it enough times would make it true. “Absolutely pathetic.”

Blaise’s smirk didn’t fade, and Theo, chewing his food without a word, simply went back to watching Luna.

MARCH 1996

The Forbidden Forest loomed in the fading light, its towering trees casting elongated shadows across the thinning grass. The early spring air was still, quiet, save for the distant rustling of leaves and the occasional hoot of an unseen owl. Theo stood at the edge of the clearing, hands deep in the pockets of his robes, his gaze fixed on the creatures before him.

Thestrals.

They moved with an eerie, skeletal grace, their parchment-thin wings rustling as they shifted. He could see every ridge of their bones, every stretched tendon beneath their black, leathery skin. They were unnatural, he thought—grotesque in the way of things that should not be seen, yet could not be ignored.

Still, he had come here, hadn’t he? He had wandered away from the castle, away from the noise, just to stand here and look.

He was so lost in thought that he nearly missed the soft sound of footsteps approaching behind him. Light, unhurried steps, as if the person moving toward him wasn’t concerned about being noticed at all.

He straightened, adjusting his posture to something indifferent, something unaffected.

“Are you afraid of them?”

Theo barely turned his head. He didn’t need to. He knew the voice instantly—dreamy, weightless, as though it drifted rather than spoke.

Luna stepped beside him without hesitation, her wide silver eyes focused on the thestrals with quiet reverence. She was close enough that he caught the faint scent of lavender and parchment, like an old book left to dry in the sun.

Theo exhaled slowly, eyes flickering back to the creatures. “No,” he said at last, his voice measured. “They’re just... not what I expected.”

Luna tilted her head, her long, pale hair catching the last bit of dying sunlight. “What did you expect?”

Theo hesitated. He didn’t know. Something else. Something less—

“Ugly,” he admitted flatly, the word slipping out before he could stop it.

Luna didn’t react with offense or disapproval. Instead, she let out a soft hum, as if turning the thought over in her mind. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “I suppose they are. But not all things have to be beautiful to be wonderful.”

Theo turned to look at her fully now, but Luna wasn’t watching him. She had stepped forward, her fingers lifting toward one of the thestrals, unafraid, unhesitating. The creature stilled beneath her touch, its bony structure shifting as if leaning into her palm. She stroked along its thin neck, her expression calm, gentle.

Theo swallowed, pressing his hands further into his pockets. “You see them, then?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

Luna nodded, her gaze never leaving the creature. “I saw my mother die,” she said simply, without sadness, without weight. “That’s how it works, isn’t it?”

Theo didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He had seen death, too. He had seen it too young, too suddenly, before he had the chance to understand what it meant. The thestrals had been waiting for him at Hogwarts ever since.

They stood there in silence for a while, Luna’s fingers moving in slow, patient strokes along the creature’s spine. Theo tried not to let himself stare, tried not to let himself wonder why she wasn’t repulsed, why she touched them so easily when he couldn’t bring himself to reach out at all.

“You’re Theo Nott,” she said at last, as if the thought had only just occurred to her.

Theo raised an eyebrow. “You know who I am.”

Luna nodded. “Yes. You don’t talk very much.”

Theo smirked faintly. “And you talk too much.”

She turned to him then, smiling, but not in the way people usually did when they were insulted. It was as though she found the statement neither offensive nor untrue—simply an observation. “That’s alright,” she said. “Sometimes I like the quiet.”

Theo wasn’t sure why that unsettled him. He turned his gaze back to the thestrals, watching the way their hollow eyes blinked, watching the way Luna stood among them like she belonged.

“You’re not scared of anything, are you?”

Luna tilted her head again, considering the question as if it were something worth unraveling. “Oh, I think everyone is scared of something,” she said at last. “But fear isn’t the same as avoidance.”

Theo let out a quiet huff. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

She turned her silver eyes on him, and for a fleeting moment, he felt seen in a way he hadn’t before. “Only if you want it to.”

Theo studied her for a long moment, then shifted his weight, turning back toward the castle. “It’s getting late,” he muttered. “You should head back.”

Luna merely smiled, giving the thestral one last stroke before stepping back. “Walk with me?”

Theo hesitated, then nodded, falling into step beside her as they left the clearing, the weight of something unspoken trailing behind them like a second shadow.

As they walked, the night deepened, the stars blinking into existence overhead. The castle loomed in the distance, its warm glow standing in stark contrast to the darkness of the forest behind them. Theo kept his hands in his pockets, stealing glances at Luna from the corner of his eye. She walked with the same strange grace she always carried—light, effortless, as if she belonged more to the wind than the ground beneath her feet.

“You don’t really think they’re ugly,” she said, breaking the silence.

Theo blinked. “What?”

“The thestrals,” she clarified, turning her head slightly to look at him. “You don’t think they’re ugly. You just don’t understand them yet.”

He frowned, about to argue, but something about the certainty in her voice made him pause. She didn’t say it as if she was trying to convince him—she said it as if she already knew he would come to see it in time.

Theo exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re strange, Lovegood.”

Luna smiled. “Yes, I know.”

They reached the entrance hall, the light from the torches spilling onto their faces. Luna turned toward him, her expression as unreadable as ever. “Goodnight, Theo.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Goodnight.”

──────────────

The Slytherin common room was cast in its usual emerald glow, the low-burning lamps reflecting off the damp stone walls. The fire crackled in the hearth, but it did little to chase the chill clinging to the air. The room was unusually quiet, save for the heavy, measured footsteps echoing down the corridor leading from the dungeon entrance.

Draco stormed inside, his robes still slightly disheveled from the aftermath of the Quidditch match. His platinum hair, usually immaculate, was slightly mussed, and his jaw was tight, as though he were physically restraining himself from smashing something.

Theo barely looked up from his parchment, his quill dragging in slow, careful strokes. The sketch of Luna was coming together in faint, deliberate lines—her long, silvery hair cascading over the edges of the page, the distant look in her wide eyes nearly tangible in ink.

Blaise, seated lazily on the other side of the sofa, turned his head just enough to watch Draco’s dramatic entrance. "Well, someone’s in a mood."

Draco ignored him, throwing himself into the nearest armchair with all the grace of a thunderstorm. He was muttering under his breath, sharp, venomous words barely audible beneath his ragged breathing. Theo caught only fragments between the scratch of his quill.

"Bloody Potter… Weasley… absolute scum… cheating bastards…" Draco’s hands clenched into fists before he ran one through his hair in frustration. "Should’ve hexed him when I had the chance."

Blaise, ever unbothered, took a sip of tea from his glass and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "You did provoke them, Draco. What did you expect?"

Draco’s head snapped up, his grey eyes alight with fury. "Excuse me? Since when is stating the truth a provocation? It’s not my fault Weasley can’t handle reality. He’s pathetic—"

Theo, still sketching, exhaled through his nose, the faintest sign of exasperation. Blaise arched a brow. "You really hate him, don’t you?"

Draco scoffed, looking away, his fingers tightening around the arms of the chair. "He’s worthless. He contributes nothing. He’s loud, stupid, useless—"

Theo barely listened, his strokes darkening the shading of Luna’s hair. Draco’s voice had taken on a different edge, something more bitter than his usual entitled drawl.

Blaise, as always, caught on immediately. "You don’t hate him," he said smoothly, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. "You hate that he has something you want."

Draco stiffened, his glare snapping back to Blaise like a knife. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Blaise’s smirk widened. "Oh, come on, Draco. Even Theo, who isn’t listening, can probably figure it out."

Theo’s quill slowed just slightly, though he didn’t look up.

Draco’s jaw clenched. "Don’t be ridiculous."

"Am I?" Blaise feigned innocence, lifting his glass. "You only get this level of irrational about two things: Granger and Weasley. And let’s be honest, you’re not mad because Weasley exists. You’re mad because of who he’s always with."

Theo’s quill paused completely. For a brief moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire.

Draco’s silence was answer enough.

Blaise, ever relentless, tilted his head. "Go on, admit it. You can’t stand Weasley because you’ve got it bad for Granger."

The sound of Draco’s chair scraping against the stone floor was sharp and abrupt as he shot to his feet. "You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about."

Blaise laughed under his breath. "That defensive, huh?"

Draco turned away, muttering something too low to catch. He looked as if he might hurl the nearest object at the wall, his whole body wound tight with unspoken rage.

Theo didn’t say anything, just dipped his quill back into the inkpot and returned to shading Luna’s smile, the lines softer than they had been before.

Draco could rage about his own obsession all he liked. It wasn’t Theo’s problem.

Not when he had his own distractions.

APRIL 1996

The library was thick with the scent of parchment and ink, the quiet hum of quills scratching against parchment filling the air like a steady pulse. The long wooden tables were occupied by students buried in books, their heads bent low as they studied for the impending OWLs. Candlelight flickered against the tall, dusty shelves, casting long shadows between the towering stacks of ancient tomes.

Theo walked alongside Blaise, his satchel slung lazily over one shoulder as they followed Draco deeper into the maze of tables. They had fully intended to settle at their usual spot in the far corner, where the noise was minimal, and distractions were scarce, but then—

Draco abruptly changed course.

Theo and Blaise slowed in unison, exchanging a glance before shifting their focus to their blond-haired friend, who, rather than heading toward their secluded corner, strode directly to a table where Hermione Granger sat alone.

Theo sighed, barely surprised.

Blaise, ever amused, smirked as he muttered, "This should be good."

Draco, with an air of perfect nonchalance, pulled out the chair beside Granger and sat down, dropping his books onto the table with a little too much force. "Fancy seeing you here, Granger. Revising for the moment you finally drop dead from overexertion?"

Granger’s quill paused mid-sentence. She turned her head slowly, her expression shifting from concentration to sheer irritation in the span of a heartbeat.

"Oh, wonderful," she said flatly. "Just what I needed. A distraction in human form."

Theo slid into the chair across from her without a word, already reaching into his satchel and pulling out his sketchbook. His quill moved before he could think, lines taking shape in practiced, effortless strokes.

Luna. Again.

Her hair, long and unruly in a way that always looked unintentional. Her eyes, wide and knowing, seeing things beyond the ink that brought her to life. Theo’s fingers worked on muscle memory, shading the edges of her soft features while the familiar rhythm of bickering filled the air like background noise.

Draco leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, clearly prepared to make a day of it. "No Weasel? No Scarhead? What, did they finally come to their senses and leave you to drown in your own misery?"

Granger scoffed, setting her quill down with a sharp clink against the table. "Unlike some people, I don’t need constant validation to function."

"Oh, that’s rich, considering you nearly combust every time a professor praises someone else’s work," Draco shot back, his smirk sharp enough to cut. "What’s wrong, Granger? No adoring fans here to stroke your ever-growing ego?"

Granger opened her mouth, inhaling sharply, but before she could unleash whatever searing retort she had loaded on the tip of her tongue—

"Quiet, the both of you!"

Madam Pince’s sharp whisper cut through the air like a whip, her severe eyes narrowing from behind her desk. The tension between Draco and Granger momentarily cooled as they both turned toward the librarian, who was glaring at them over the rim of her spectacles.

Draco, ever the picture of innocence, gave a slow, insincere nod. "Of course, Madam Pince. Granger was asking me for help."

Granger’s eyes burned with unspoken words, but she merely inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring before turning back to her book with deliberate composure.

Blaise, watching all of this unfold, leaned lazily on one elbow, his smirk positively gleeful. He had yet to say a word, content to observe, his amusement plain as day.

Theo, on the other hand, barely lifted his head. His quill traced the delicate curve of Luna’s lips, his mind only half-aware of the ongoing battle across the table. He had long learned to tune out Draco’s fixation on Granger, though it never failed to amuse him how much Draco refused to acknowledge it for what it was.

Luna’s inked expression remained serene under his fingertips. She was far away from this, from the petty arguments, from the tension thick enough to slice through. She was somewhere softer, somewhere untouched.

Theo exhaled slowly, letting himself drift into the quiet of his own world, leaving Draco and Granger to their endless, ridiculous war.

──────────────

The April air was crisp, the sky overcast in a way that made the castle seem softer, its edges blurred beneath a quiet haze. The courtyard was nearly empty, save for the occasional student crossing between classes, the rustling of leaves against the stone pathways filling the silence.

Theo had been watching her for a while now.

Luna sat beneath the worn archway, her legs tucked neatly beneath her, a book balanced on her lap. Her long, pale hair caught the faintest breeze, lifting gently around her shoulders like a silken veil. A small frown creased her forehead, but it wasn’t one of worry—it was the kind of look people wore when they were utterly lost in thought, somewhere far beyond where their feet were planted.

Theo exhaled sharply through his nose. He had no reason to be standing here. No reason to be looking at her at all.

His footsteps were careful as he crossed the courtyard, but they still felt too loud, disrupting the strange peace that always seemed to surround her. When he stopped in front of her, Luna lifted her head, her silver eyes blinking up at him with soft curiosity.

"Hello, Theo," she said simply, as if she had been expecting him all along.

His mouth went dry. He shifted on his feet, fingers curling inside his robe pockets where a folded parchment weighed heavier than it should.

He had drawn her. Not intentionally, at first. It had begun as idle sketches in the margins of his notes, faint outlines that grew sharper, more defined, until he realized there was no mistaking who had emerged from his ink. He had tried to stop. He hadn’t.

Now the drawing sat inside his pocket like a confession.

Theo cleared his throat. "Hi." His voice came out stiff, awkward. He frowned at himself.

Luna tilted her head, studying him the way she studied everything—with quiet, unwavering interest.

"You look troubled," she observed. "Would you like to sit?"

Theo hesitated. He shouldn’t.

But he did.

Lowering himself beside her, he kept his hands buried in his robes, eyes flickering toward her book. The words were in a language he didn’t recognize, the pages filled with elaborate sketches of magical creatures, their anatomies labeled with careful script.

"You draw, don’t you?" Luna said, her voice light.

Theo stiffened. His fingers clenched around the parchment. "How do you know that?"

"You always have ink on your hands." She smiled slightly. "And I’ve seen you doodling in class. You’re quite good."

He stared at her, unnerved. He hadn’t realized she had been looking at him, too. The way her gaze rested on him made his throat tighten.

His grip on the parchment curled, then unfurled. His fingers hesitated for only a breath before he pulled the folded paper from his pocket and placed it between them, his hand retreating as though the thing might burn him.

Luna blinked once, then again, before reaching for it with careful fingers, delicate and unhurried. She unfolded it as if she were unwrapping something precious, her expression calm yet unreadable, her eyes scanning over each careful stroke of ink.

Theo turned away, jaw tight. He shouldn't have done this. He should've burned the bloody thing, shredded it, let the ink fade and disappear like it had never existed. The moment stretched too long, too thin. He could feel his own pulse at his temple, his own breath heavy in his chest.

"Oh," Luna breathed, soft as a sigh, as if she had stumbled upon something rare and wonderful.

His gaze snapped back to her. She was still looking at the drawing, her fingers ghosting over the edges of the parchment as though mapping each detail, each careful line. Her cheeks had turned a faint, unmistakable shade of pink.

"You drew me."

Theo swallowed. "Yeah."

Luna tilted her head, studying the lines. "I like it. It's lovely, Theo."

Something in Theo’s chest eased, just a fraction. He didn’t have time to understand why before a sharp voice cut through the air.

"What’s this, then?"

Theo’s stomach dropped.

Draco and Blaise had entered the courtyard, their robes billowing behind them. Draco’s smirk was lazy, but his eyes were sharp, flickering between Theo and Luna with something dangerously close to disgust.

Theo stood quickly, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

Draco approached with slow, deliberate steps, his voice low. "What exactly are you doing, Theo?"

Theo’s pulse picked up, but his face remained carefully blank. "Nothing."

Blaise lingered a few steps behind, watching with mild amusement as Draco’s gaze flickered to Luna, who had not moved, her book still resting on her lap, Theo’s drawing now folded neatly between its pages.

Draco sneered. "Speaking to Lovegood? That’s a new low. What, did you lose a bet?"

Theo felt Luna glance at him, but he didn’t meet her eyes.

Draco continued, his tone cruel and precise. "You know people already think she’s mental, don’t you? I’d hate for them to start thinking the same about you."

Theo’s hands twitched inside his pockets. His jaw clenched.

Luna simply smiled. "That’s alright. People think all sorts of things."

Draco’s smirk faltered just slightly, but he recovered quickly, scoffing. "Let’s go, Theo."

Theo hesitated. His body felt heavy, weighed down by something he couldn’t name, something thick and bitter that coiled in his chest. His feet felt rooted to the ground, to the spot beside her, where warmth still lingered from their brief moment of quiet understanding.

Luna did not move, nor did she look away. If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. Her silver eyes remained steady, thoughtful, as if she already knew what he would choose. As if she had known before he had even realized there had been a choice at all.

Theo inhaled sharply, shoulders tensing as he forced himself to turn, his hands curled into fists within his robes. The cold air bit against his face as he followed Draco’s retreating form, each step feeling heavier than the last.

"Pathetic," Draco muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Theo to hear. "Spending time with the likes of her. You know better."

Theo said nothing. His throat felt tight, his tongue leaden. His fingers twitched, itching to reach for something—anything—to hold onto. But he didn’t stop walking. Didn’t glance back to see if Luna was still watching, if she had already returned to her book, or if she was tucking his drawing somewhere safe, even when every muscle in his body wanted to.

MAY 1996

The Slytherin common room was dimly lit, the green glow from the enchanted lamps casting long, eerie shadows against the damp stone walls. The fire crackled low in the hearth, filling the space with the faint scent of burning oak. It was late, most students having already retired to their dormitories, but Draco Malfoy was too wound up to care.

“I swear, she never knows when to keep her mouth shut,” Draco sneered, pacing near the fire, his fingers twitching at his sides. 

Theo sat in the armchair closest to the fire, his posture deceptively relaxed, though his fingers tapped against the armrest in an unsteady rhythm. Blaise, opposite him, lounged with his legs stretched out over the sofa, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his expression unreadable.

Draco, of course, was oblivious to the lack of enthusiasm from his audience.

“She was running her mouth about Umbridge again,” Draco sneered, his tone dripping with contempt. “Complaining about how she’s a ‘tyrant,’ how she’s ‘ruining Hogwarts,’ as if her precious little opinions mean anything. So I took points from her. Twenty. You should’ve seen her face—bloody priceless.”

Draco smirked, his voice lowering, sharper now. “Then I reminded her of what she is. Called her a Mudblood. That shut her up fast.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “And of course, Weasley had to act like a rabid dog, wand halfway out of his pocket before she stopped him. Pathetic. It’s like she enjoys playing the martyr.”

Theo’s jaw tightened, his fingers going still against the armrest. He felt a slow burn ignite beneath his skin, spreading like a fire he couldn’t quite control. His stare was fixed on Draco now, sharp and unblinking.

Blaise sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. “Merlin, Draco. Don’t you ever get tired?”

Draco scowled. “Of what?”

“This,” Blaise gestured lazily. “Of parading around as Umbridge’s little attack dog. Inquisitorial Squad or not, you’re starting to sound obsessed.”

Draco’s expression darkened. “I’m defending the school, Zabini. Unlike some people.”

Theo said nothing. He barely heard them now, his focus narrowing on the way Draco spoke about her—about Granger—so carelessly, so easily. As if she were nothing. As if he didn’t think about her more than he should, as if Theo hadn’t seen the way Draco’s eyes followed her with something closer to obsession than hatred.

It made him sick.

Because Draco could spit at her, insult her, humiliate her, and no one would think twice. It was expected of him. Accepted. And yet, Theo? He couldn’t even speak to Luna without worrying about what Draco might say. Couldn’t even stand next to her without feeling the weight of judgment pressing down on him.

He had let Draco influence him. And for what?

A muscle ticked in Theo’s jaw as he forced himself to look away, exhaling through his nose in a slow, measured breath. He was angry—at Draco, at himself. At how easy it had been to walk away from Luna in that courtyard. How simple it had been to choose silence over her.

Draco was still pacing, still ranting, but Theo wasn’t listening anymore. He stared into the fire, his hands curled into fists in his lap.

Blaise shifted, clearly bored now. “Right. Well, this has been riveting, but I think I’d rather watch paint dry.”

Draco shot him a glare. “You don’t take anything seriously.”

“I take plenty of things seriously,” Blaise replied smoothly, standing and stretching. “You just don’t happen to be one of them.”

Theo stood as well, though his movements were slower, more deliberate. He didn’t look at Draco as he turned, stepping toward the dormitory stairwell.

“Where are you going?” Draco demanded.

Theo didn’t pause. “Somewhere quieter.”

Draco huffed. “Unbelievable.”

But Theo was already gone, his mind heavy with thoughts he couldn’t shake, his chest tight with something that felt an awful lot like regret.

JUNE 1996

The platform was crowded with students in their traveling cloaks, trunks being levitated onto the train as the final remnants of Hogwarts disappeared into the background. The air hummed with a mix of chatter and the distant call of the train’s whistle, a reminder that the school year was over, and soon, they’d all be scattered across Britain—some returning to homes they loved, others to places they merely tolerated.

Theo walked through the haze of movement, his pace deliberate, his eyes searching. He knew where she’d be. Luna never rushed. She lingered in spaces, as if waiting for the world to catch up with her rather than the other way around.

Luna was standing just outside one of the compartments, her trunk beside her, looking up at the sky like she was waiting for some secret only she could hear. The warm June sun turned her pale hair almost white, the soft breeze tugging at the hem of her robes.

Theo hesitated. Then, before he could think better of it, he stepped forward.

Luna blinked when he stopped in front of her, her silver eyes refocusing on him as if she were surprised to find him there.

"Hello, Theo."

He exhaled slowly. "Hello, Luna."

She tilted her head, watching him with that quiet, unreadable curiosity. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing over the folded parchment he had carried for days. It wasn’t as careful as the first drawing he had given her—this one was rougher, lines etched in quick strokes, but still, unmistakably, her.

He held it out to her.

Luna took it, unfolding it with delicate fingers. Her lips parted slightly as she looked at the image, tracing the ink lines with the tips of her fingers. A flush of pink crept along her cheeks.

"You’re giving me another one," she said softly, almost like a question.

Theo swallowed. "Yeah."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The chatter of the platform faded into the background.

Then, Luna’s gaze lifted to his, sharp in a way it rarely was. "Aren’t you worried about Malfoy seeing you talking to me?"

Theo’s jaw tightened. His throat felt dry. "Are you okay?"

Luna blinked at the question, as though it was one she hadn’t expected. She tilted her head again, eyes searching his face. "Are you?"

Theo let out a slow breath, running his tongue over his teeth. "Luna—"

"I heard about your father," she said, quiet but certain. "I’m sorry."

Theo’s fingers twitched at his sides. His stomach twisted, his grip on control suddenly fragile.

"I don’t want to talk about that," he said flatly.

Luna didn’t look away. "I know."

The pause stretched, long enough for him to think—long enough for the train whistle to cut sharply through the air. He should leave. Should walk away before this conversation becomes something heavier than he can hold. But Luna was still watching him, her silver eyes impossibly steady, as if she could see something beneath his skin, something he hadn’t even admitted to himself.

"Things are changing," she murmured, voice lilting like she was reciting a prophecy. "The Dark Lord is back. There’s going to be a war."

Theo’s fingers curled into his palm, nails pressing into skin, his knuckles turning white. He could feel the weight of the Dark Mark even though it wasn’t there yet—not truly. But the shadow of it loomed, a ghost against his forearm, pressing into his future like an inevitability he couldn't outrun. 

The war wasn’t some distant storm on the horizon anymore. It was here, pulling at the edges of their lives, threading itself through the unspoken words between them. Luna saw it. He could tell in the way she looked at him now, a quiet knowing settled in her expression, as if she understood what he couldn’t bring himself to say.

"Are you okay?" he asked again, voice quieter now, rough around the edges.

Luna smiled—not her usual airy, distracted smile, but something softer, something sadder. "I don’t think that’s the right question anymore."

Theo stared at her, his breath tight in his chest, his mind aching with things he couldn’t say. The weight of them pressed against his ribs, heavy, unrelenting. He could have told her to be careful. Could have asked her to write. Could have let himself be selfish just this once and admitted that he wasn’t ready to leave this moment behind.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he reached for her hand, the warmth of her fingers startling against his own as he pressed the folded drawing into her palm, closing her fingers around it as if that alone could protect her from everything to come.

Luna’s eyes flickered down to their hands, then back up to him, her gaze full of questions she didn’t ask.

The train whistle sounded again, sharp and urgent. A final warning.

Theo swallowed, his throat dry. "Be safe, Luna."

He turned before she could reply, before he could lose whatever frayed sense of resolve was keeping him upright. His steps were measured, purposeful, but he could still feel her eyes on him, could still feel the weight of what he hadn’t said pressing into his spine as he boarded the train.

──────────────

The train rattled along the tracks, the rhythmic clatter filling the tense silence of the Slytherin compartment. The summer air outside was thick, the sky smeared in lazy streaks of gold and blue, but inside, the atmosphere was anything but peaceful.

Draco was pacing.

His movements were sharp, his breathing measured but tight, the kind of restraint that only just barely kept a person from unraveling entirely. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, the frustration rolling off him in waves.

"It’s a bloody disgrace," he seethed. "Azkaban. My father. Your father, Theo. Locked up like common criminals while Potter struts around like some goddamn hero. If it weren’t for him—"

Theo barely looked up. He sat slouched in his seat, legs stretched out in front of him, elbow propped against the window. His fingers tapped idly against his thigh as he stared at the passing countryside, the blur of green and gold a welcome distraction from the venom in Draco’s voice.

Blaise, across from him, was similarly unimpressed. He lounged back, one brow raised, watching Draco as though he were an actor on stage, waiting for his inevitable breaking point.

Draco continued, his voice rising. "They shouldn’t be in there. And the worst part? It’s not over. This war—" he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Fuck."

Theo turned his head just slightly, shifting his gaze to Draco with an unreadable expression. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet. "Are you just angry because Potter put your father in Azkaban? Or because he put your little Mudblood in danger?"

Draco stilled.

It was brief, just a flicker of hesitation, but Theo caught it. The way Draco’s fingers twitched at his sides, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his grey eyes flashed with something darker, raw, unspoken.

Theo had hit a nerve.

"Don’t be ridiculous," Draco spat, too quickly, too sharp. "She made her own choices. And look where it got her."

Blaise, who had remained silent up until now, let out a low hum. "She was in the hospital wing for a while, wasn’t she?"

Theo saw it then—the way Draco’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists, the fire sparking behind his glare.

Because it was the truth.

Granger had been in the hospital wing for days after the battle at the Ministry. Dolohov’s curses had torn through her defenses, had nearly taken her life. Potter and Weasley had visited her constantly, staying by her bedside, looking stricken, furious, terrified. And Draco—Draco, who supposedly loathed her, who had never let a moment pass without sneering her way—hadn’t said a single word about it.

Not until now.

Draco’s breath was coming quicker, his rage swelling, barely contained beneath his skin. And then, as if he couldn't bear to stay still any longer, he whirled toward the compartment door, yanking it open with unnecessary force.

"Crabbe, Goyle—come on."

The two hulking boys blinked in confusion but followed him immediately, the compartment shaking as the door slammed behind them.

Theo exhaled, running a hand down his face. Blaise chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

"Well," Blaise mused, stretching out like a cat. "That should be entertaining."

Theo didn’t reply. He just turned his gaze back to the window, watching the countryside blur past, wondering just how much longer Draco could keep pretending.

DECEMBER 1996

The castle was quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that settled deep in the bones, making shadows stretch longer and every step feel heavier. The air hung thick with the chill of the ancient stone walls, the torches along the corridor burning low, their light flickering weakly against the cold. Theo walked with his head down, hands tucked into his pockets, his mind heavy with thoughts he wished he could escape. He tried to ignore the phantom ache beneath his sleeve, the ever-present weight of the Dark Mark seared into his skin, a reminder of what he had become. It was always there, pulsing beneath his veins like a poison he could never purge, a brand that burned even in silence.

Then he heard her—a voice as familiar as it was unexpected, drifting through the stillness like a whisper carried on the wind.

“Theo.”

He froze.

Her voice was unmistakable, airy and light as always, but there was something different in it tonight—something certain, something knowing. He swallowed and kept walking.

“Theo,” she called again, softer this time, closer. He heard the quiet padding of her footsteps against the stone, the swish of her robes.

He clenched his jaw and pressed forward, past the dim torches, past the looming suits of armor. If he ignored her, she’d go. She had to.

But then he heard her hum—some soft, lilting melody that didn’t belong to any song he knew, something that wound itself around the space between them, making it smaller. His steps faltered.

Suddenly, she was slipping into place beside him, walking as if she belonged there.

“You don’t have to ignore me, you know,” she said lightly, as if he hadn’t spent months avoiding her. “It’s just me.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “That’s exactly the problem.”

She tilted her head. “You’re frightened.”

“I’m not frightened,” he snapped, but it came too fast, too defensive.

Luna didn’t flinch. She just watched him, those pale eyes of hers impossibly steady, seeing too much. “Lying isn’t good for the soul,” she said after a moment, as though she were commenting on the weather. “It makes your heart heavy.”

Theo huffed. “My heart is already heavy.”

“Then why are you making it worse?” She blinked up at him, her lips parting slightly, like she truly wanted to understand.

Theo’s fingers twitched, curling into fists in his pockets. “Because it’s better this way,” he said finally, voice low.

Luna studied him, head tilted, her hair nearly silver in the dim torchlight. “Better for whom?”

Theo’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He had no answer. Not one that made sense. He should walk away. He should keep moving.

But he didn’t.

Luna took a step closer, and he became painfully aware of how quiet the corridor was, how the world seemed to shrink around them, isolating them in a moment neither of them fully understood. The torches flickered dimly, casting long shadows that stretched toward them like unseen hands. It was just the two of them, standing in the dim glow, a space carved outside of time, outside of logic, outside of everything that should have made sense but didn’t.

“Do you still draw?” she asked suddenly, as if she could see straight into his mind, past the things he didn’t say.

Theo hesitated, then exhaled through his nose. “Not as much.”

“Why not?”

His sleeve felt tight against his forearm, the Mark thrumming like a second heartbeat. “Because I don’t feel like myself anymore.”

Luna was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly, she said, “You’re still you, Theo.”

Something in him cracked.

Before he could stop himself, before he could think, he reached for her.

His fingers found the edge of her sleeve, brushing against the fabric, curling around her wrist. And then, all at once, it wasn’t enough. He pulled her toward him, crashing his lips against hers, one hand slipping to her waist, the other tangling in the silk-fine strands of her hair.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t startle—she just melted into him, pressing closer, warm and real and unafraid. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers grazing the collar of his shirt, anchoring herself against him.

For one perfect, impossible moment, he let himself sink into it—let himself believe that, just for now, there was no war, no Mark, no impossible divide. Just warmth, just closeness, just her.

And then, just as fast, the guilt struck like a curse.

The world came crashing back. His arm burned. The Mark seared against his skin, a cruel brand, a chain forged in choices he had no power to undo. A reminder that this was not his to have, not his to keep.

Theo jerked back, breath ragged. “I—” He shook his head, hands falling away from her like she was something he wasn’t meant to touch. “I can’t.”

Luna’s brows furrowed, lips still parted, confusion flickering in her expression. “Theo—”

“I can’t,” he repeated, whispering almost to himself. His pulse hammered in his throat as he tore himself from her, down the corridor, away from the only thing that had felt real in months.

MARCH 1997

The dungeon corridors were silent at this hour, thick with the kind of darkness that swallowed sound, that made footsteps seem weightless and the air feel heavier. Theo stood just outside the entrance to the Slytherin common room, his back against the cold stone wall, waiting. His jaw was clenched, his pulse a steady thrum beneath his skin. The chill of the dungeons seeped through his robes, but he barely noticed. His mind was burning, his thoughts circling like vultures over a fresh corpse.

Then, at last, he heard them—footsteps, quick and deliberate, moving through the shadowed corridor. A moment later, Draco appeared, stepping out from the darkness, his platinum hair catching the dim light from the flickering torches. He barely had a chance to register Theo before Theo moved.

With one swift motion, Theo grabbed him by the front of his robes and slammed him against the stone wall. The impact was sharp, a dull thud echoing through the corridor. Draco let out a strangled sound, more from shock than pain, eyes narrowing immediately in anger.

“What the fuck—” Draco started, but Theo cut him off, his voice low, venomous.

“I saw you.”

Draco stilled. His breath came shallow, his gaze flickering just slightly before hardening. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t.” Theo’s grip tightened. His heart was hammering against his ribs, anger clawing at his throat. “You think I wouldn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t see you sneaking out of an empty classroom with her?”

Draco scoffed, twisting against Theo’s grip. “Let me go.”

“No.” Theo shoved him harder against the wall, eyes burning with something raw, something furious. “What the hell are you doing, Draco? Are you completely out of your mind?”

Draco bared his teeth, his pale hands curling into fists. “Watch yourself, Theo.”

“Watch myself?” Theo laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “You’re the one who needs to watch himself. Do you have any idea how fucking stupid you’re being? Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if they find out? What they’ll do to her?”

Something in Draco’s expression flickered, a sudden flash of something dark and volatile beneath the surface. His breath came sharper, a brief hitch in his control before he smothered it.

Theo saw it. He pushed. “They’ll rip her apart, Draco. You know that, don’t you? She won’t just be another Mudblood in their eyes. She’ll be a message. A spectacle. They’ll make sure you watch.”

Draco’s jaw tensed, his lips pressing into a thin line. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, his eyes burning.

Theo exhaled sharply, shaking his head. His voice dropped, lower, quieter. “She’s a Muggle-born, Draco. A Mudblood. Potter's Mudblood, for fuck's sake.” He spat the name like it was something venomous, something that burned his tongue just to say. “And you—” His grip faltered just slightly, his fingers trembling against the fabric of Draco’s robes. “You’re Marked.”

Draco flinched then, just slightly, the words slicing through whatever feeble defenses he had left. Theo could feel the tension in him, the way his breathing hitched just for a second before he forced it back down, burying it deep.

“I know,” Draco muttered, voice raw.

“Do you?” Theo demanded. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t seem like you do. You think you can play both sides? You think you can keep this a secret forever?” His voice dropped into something colder, more biting. “You think she’ll still look at you the same way when she finds out what you’re supposed to do?”

Draco’s face twisted, a flicker of something breaking in his expression before he masked it, his features settling into something hard, cold. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“She will,” Theo said. “She will, and then what? You think Potter and Weasley are just going to let that slide? You think the Dark Lord will?”

Draco swallowed, his throat working around the weight of it, but still, he didn’t say anything. Silence stretched between them, heavy, suffocating.

Theo let out a slow breath, his grip loosening just slightly. “I get it,” he admitted, quieter now, almost bitter. “I get what it’s like to want something you’re not supposed to have.” His fingers twitched at his sides, an image flashing unbidden in his mind—pale hair, a soft, dreamy voice, the weight of a drawing pressed into someone else’s hands. He forced it down. “But this isn’t just about you, Draco. This is war. You have a task. You have a fucking mission.”

Draco’s nostrils flared, his fists clenching, but he said nothing. Because they both knew Theo was right.

Theo stepped back, jaw still tight, anger still simmering beneath his skin. “Stay away from her.”

Draco said nothing. But his hands trembled slightly, his breath uneven. He swallowed again, his throat bobbing as if he were struggling to form words he knew he couldn’t say.

Theo’s eyes flickered to his forearm, to the place beneath Draco’s sleeve where they both knew the Dark Mark sat, burned into his skin like an unshakable brand. He looked at Draco one last time, something like disappointment flashing in his gaze.

Then he turned and walked away, leaving Draco alone in the corridor, the weight of the night pressing heavy on his shoulders.

SEPTEMBER 1997

Draco had disappeared from class, excusing himself abruptly before slipping out the door. Theo had watched, noting the paleness of his face, the way his hands trembled just slightly as he gripped the edge of his desk. That had been nearly twenty minutes ago. Theo knew exactly where he had gone.

Slipping away from the rest of the students, Theo made his way to the boys’ lavatory down the corridor, the one no one ever used unless they wanted to be alone. The door creaked as he stepped inside, the faint scent of damp stone and stale water filling the air. He barely had to listen before he heard it—the sharp, uneven breaths, the muffled retching echoing off the tiled walls.

Theo exhaled and took a step closer. "Draco."

Silence. A beat passed before Draco straightened abruptly, dragging the sleeve of his robe across his mouth. His shoulders were rigid, his expression cold and collected as he turned. "What do you want?"

Theo crossed his arms, leaning casually against the nearest sink. "You’re not as good at lying as you think you are."

Draco scoffed, reaching for the faucet, rinsing his hands with slow, deliberate movements. "I’m fine."

Theo let the silence stretch, watching him. Studying the exhaustion etched into his face, the way his hands still trembled slightly even as he turned off the tap. He looked thinner. Sharper. Like something was eating away at him from the inside.

"When’s the last time you spoke to your girlfriend?" Theo asked suddenly, his voice calm, almost casual.

Draco stilled. His fingers curled against the porcelain, knuckles whitening. "None of your business."

Theo sighed, tilting his head. "It’s better this way, you know. It keeps her safe."

Draco’s breath hitched. Then, just as quickly, his expression twisted, something dark flashing behind his eyes. He turned on Theo with a sharpness that was almost violent. "Safe?" he spat. "She will never be safe. Not in this world."

Theo didn’t move, didn’t react to the venom in Draco’s voice. He just watched him, the way Draco’s breathing came fast and uneven, the way his hands clenched like he wanted to hit something, to break something. Maybe even himself.

After a long moment, Draco exhaled, turning away, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. His other hand clutched at the edge of the sink as though grounding himself. The mask was slipping, cracking at the edges.

Theo let out a slow breath. "You should get back to class."

Draco didn’t answer. He just stood there, shoulders rising and falling with every heavy breath.

Theo lingered a moment longer before turning, leaving Draco alone with the weight of the world pressing down on him, his reflection a ghost in the dim-lit mirror.

JANUARY 1998

Theo had long since stopped believing in happy endings.

The war was inside these walls now, stitched into the very fabric of Hogwarts, etched into the bloodied knuckles of first-years and the hollow-eyed glances exchanged in the halls. The Carrows were relentless, doling out punishments like they were meant to be lessons. He had seen children flinch at shadows, seen the way they stiffened when a professor entered the room. Fear was their new uniform, and there was no removing it.

Theo had never felt the urge to care, had never considered himself capable of it—not until her.

Luna found him when he wasn’t looking to be found. She always did.

She had a way of seeing past the things he wanted to keep hidden, of showing up when he most needed her but least expected it. At first, he had resisted—pushed her away with sharp words, with silence, with long stretches of avoidance that never quite worked because she was Luna, and Luna didn’t believe in walls.

He had spent his nights doing what little he could. Healing spells, stolen vials of Dittany, whispered reassurances to children who had learned too quickly that pain was the only teacher left. He never spoke of it, never let anyone see, but Luna knew. She had been there the first night he had knelt beside a sobbing second-year, murmuring soft spells to mend the welts across her hands.

Luna had pressed her own hands over his when they had trembled too much to be steady.

That was the second time he kissed her.

The first had been a mistake, a moment of weakness in the shadows of an empty corridor, when her presence had unraveled something tight in his chest. But the second—

The second had been real.

And the third had been desperate, after a long night when the Carrows had taken it too far, when he had found her waiting for him in the Room of Requirement, eyes full of knowing, of something soft he didn’t deserve. She had kissed him then, the taste of moonlight and quiet rebellion on her lips, and he had let himself believe, just for a moment, that there was still something worth saving.

The fourth had been slow, deliberate. She had waited for him outside the library, in the alcove between the suits of armor, and when he had drawn close enough, she had simply taken his hand and led him deeper into the shadows. He had kissed her then, standing against the cold stone, her fingers tangled in the collar of his robes, his own hands trailing up her arms, pressing against her warmth, grounding himself in her. He had kissed her with purpose, as if trying to memorize the shape of her lips, the way she sighed into him, the way her body curved so naturally against his own.

The fifth had been after he had watched a first-year scream under the Cruciatus Curse. He had found her again that night, his hands shaking, his breath ragged, his stomach twisting with something raw and broken. He hadn’t said a word, just taken her face between his hands and kissed her like he was drowning. And Luna, soft as she was, strong as she was, had held him there, her hands splayed against his chest, keeping him from falling apart entirely.

The sixth time—it had been different. It had been more. It had been everything.

It was the night before Christmas, when the castle was quiet, when the tension had settled into something unbearably still. They had met in the Room of Requirement, the space shaping itself into something soft, something warm. A fire flickered low in the hearth, and for the first time in months, there was a moment where neither of them had to be afraid.

He had touched her then, reverently, as if afraid she would disappear between his fingers. She had let him, had unmade him with her hands, had pressed her lips to his in a way that told him she saw him—not the name, not the Mark, just him.

The kisses deepened, turning into something slower, something heavier. His fingers traced the delicate slope of her neck, the soft curve of her waist, memorizing the way she felt beneath him. She gasped against his lips as he pulled her closer, his hands skimming over every place he had longed to touch. There was no hesitation between them, no second-guessing. Only understanding, only need.

She whispered his name, breathless, as his lips found the line of her collarbone. It unraveled him. He had spent so long trying to keep himself contained, trying not to feel, trying to silence the part of him that wanted. But with her—there was no restraint. He worshipped her with his hands, his mouth, every inch of him pressing against every inch of her, needing to prove that he was still human, that he could still feel, that he could still love.

And Luna had always known. She had always seen beyond the darkness, beyond the war, beyond the name he bore and the Mark burned into his skin. She touched him without fear, her hands sliding down his arms, over his ribs, fingers mapping him like a constellation she had always known existed but never had the chance to trace. When she pulled him down to her, their bodies molding together, it was like something that had always been meant to happen.

They moved together in the firelight, slow and deliberate, no urgency except to exist here, in this moment, in this tiny sliver of peace the world had allowed them. And when it was over, when they lay tangled in each other’s warmth, her fingers combing through his hair, he realized that he had never known what it felt like to be whole.

For once, just once, he let himself believe he could have this, that they could have this.

She never asked him to be good. She never asked him to be anything other than what he was. But in the quiet moments, when her fingers brushed his, when she whispered nonsense stories about creatures he didn’t believe in, when she looked at him like she saw past the Mark, past the weight of his name, past everything that made him Theo Nott—

He thought maybe he could be.

He made sure no one knew. Not even Draco.

The secrecy was protection. For her, for himself. He didn’t have the luxury of hope, not with the Mark seared into his skin, not with the war pressing in on all sides. But still, when she reached for his hand in the safety of the shadows, he let her.

There were nights when he let himself imagine something different—something where he wasn’t who he was, where the war had never carved itself into his bones, where they were just two students, young and foolish and free to love as they pleased. But those nights were fleeting, and morning always came too soon.

Because if there was one thing he knew, it was that he could not save himself.

But he could save her.

 MARCH 1998

The dungeons were empty, their silence pressing against the cold stone walls like something alive, something waiting. The flickering torchlight carved jagged shadows against the damp floor, stretching and twisting as Theo paced the length of the corridor, forcing his breath to stay even, forcing his hands to stay loose when all he wanted was to slam Draco against the nearest wall.

Draco, for his part, looked like he was barely containing himself. His jaw was locked, his fists curled so tightly that the tendons in his arms stood out, pale and stark beneath the flickering light.

"You need to end it."

Theo exhaled through his nose, slow, measured, but his chest still felt tight. "End what?" he asked, voice flat, waiting—daring—for Draco to say it out loud.

Draco stopped pacing, turned on his heel. His grey eyes, usually sharp with calculation, were burning now, alive with something restless and unspeakable. "Don’t play stupid, Theo. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Lovegood."

Theo’s lips curled slightly, though it wasn’t a smile. "You don’t get to tell me what to do."

Draco scoffed, running a shaking hand through his already disheveled hair. "For Merlin’s sake, Theo, she’s on the other side of this war! Do you think that’s going to change? Do you think the Dark Lord is going to look the other way because you’ve gone and developed some idiotic, sentimental attachment to a girl who would never understand you?"

Theo stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t wake up every day knowing that this is impossible? That it’s doomed? You think I haven’t accepted that already?"

Draco let out a bitter laugh, hollow and sharp. "Clearly not, since you’re still pretending there’s a choice. You don’t care? Fine. But you will when you’re forced to choose, Theo. When it’s her life or yours, or worse—when it’s her life or mine. Do you think our fathers would hesitate? Do you think our mothers would step in to save her when the time comes? She’s a liability. She’s a weakness. And weaknesses get people killed."

Theo felt something crack deep inside him. His nails bit into his palms as he stared at Draco, at the lines carved into his face, at the way his voice had almost wavered at the end.

He inhaled sharply, then exhaled the words before he could stop himself.

"And what about you?"

Draco stilled, his entire body going rigid. "What about me?"

Theo let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You act like I’m the only one making a mistake, like you have some grand understanding of where we stand, but you’re blind, Draco. You think you have control, but you don’t. You think you can walk the line between duty and obsession and no one will notice?"

Draco’s hands curled at his sides, but Theo didn’t stop. He stepped closer, his voice low, lethal. "You think I don’t see it? You’ve been obsessed with her for years, in your own twisted, psychotic way. You’re pathetic. The way you pretend you don’t care when, in reality, it’s all you do?"

Draco’s expression twisted, his rage bubbling just beneath the surface. "Shut up."

"No." Theo took another step, his voice rising now. "You don’t get to lecture me about being on the wrong side of a war when you’re in love with Hermione fucking Granger."

The words landed like a curse.

Draco moved fast, shoving Theo back against the wall, his face inches away, breath sharp and uneven. "Don’t."

Theo didn’t flinch. He just laughed, bitter and sharp. "What, don’t say it? Don’t remind you that the one person you can’t have, the one person you’re not supposed to want, is the only one you do?" His voice dropped lower, but the words hit harder. "You think I’m weak for caring about Luna? Fine. Maybe I am. But at least she’s here."

Draco’s grip on Theo’s robes twitched.

Theo’s eyes darkened. "Where is Hermione, Draco?"

Draco’s silence was deafening.

Theo sneered. "Oh, that’s right. She’s gone. Run off into the woods with Potter and Weasley while you’re stuck here playing Death Eater. While she’s out there sleeping next to them, you’re stuck crawling to the Dark Lord’s feet, pretending like you don’t think about her every fucking second of the day."

Draco shoved him back, hard enough to make Theo’s head knock against the cold stone wall. His breathing was ragged now, uneven, his entire body shaking. "Shut. Up."

Theo just smirked, breathless, triumphant. "See? You don’t hate me for being weak. You hate that the girl I'm in love with is still within my reach. When's the last time you held Hermione?"

Draco’s hands twitched at his sides, as though he wanted to hit something—Theo, the wall, himself—but he didn’t. His breathing was uneven, his entire body vibrating with rage, with something deeper, something closer to grief than he’d ever admit.

"Fuck you, Theo," he spat, his voice hoarse. But there was no fire behind it, only exhaustion.

Theo tilted his head, his smirk shifting into something more knowing, more cutting. "Maybe. But at least I’m not lying to myself."

Draco's jaw locked so tight it looked painful, his entire frame coiled with tension. He stared at Theo for one more breath, two—then turned sharply, his boots scuffing against the stone floor as he stormed away, disappearing into the yawning darkness of the corridor beyond.

Theo let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders, stretching out his fingers, flexing the tension from them. He should have felt victorious. Should have felt something other than this gnawing, hollow ache in his ribs. But he didn’t.

The war had already taken too much from both of them.

And it wasn’t finished yet.

APRIL 1998

Theo barely had time to register the pale figure sweeping toward him before he was yanked roughly by the collar and dragged down the corridor.

"Draco—?" he hissed, stumbling to keep up.

Draco didn’t answer. His grip was iron, his breathing ragged. Theo barely had time to glance around before he was shoved into an abandoned classroom, the door slamming shut behind them.

Draco’s wand was out in a flash—he flicked it at the door, locking it, then cast a quick Muffliato.

Then, without warning, he turned on Theo, shoving him back a step.

“Do you have any idea—” Draco’s voice cracked, and suddenly he wasn’t speaking so much as shaking. His pale hands trembled at his sides, his face ghostly, eyes wide and wild. “Do you have any idea what I just—what they—”

His throat seized, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut.

Theo stood frozen, staring. He’d seen Draco upset before, seen him angry, seen him shaken—but never like this. Never broken. 

Theo barely had time to react before Draco turned on him, his face pale and stricken, his hands shaking.

“She was there,” Draco choked, his voice hoarse. “Hermione—she was there. At the Manor.”

Theo blinked, not understanding at first, then realizing with a slow, creeping horror exactly what Draco was saying.

“She was on the floor,” Draco whispered, and then he was shaking his head, fast, as if trying to clear the image from his mind. “And Bellatrix—” He swallowed, hard. “Bellatrix—she—she—” He broke off, dragging a trembling hand through his hair before slamming his fist into the desk beside him. “She tortured her, Theo. She fucking tortured her. And I—I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t—I just—I just stood there.”

Theo felt something cold sink into his gut. He had never seen Draco like this before—never seen him unravel so completely. He was shaking, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands clutching his own arms like he was trying to hold himself together.

Draco’s hands shot up to his hair, gripping at the strands, his breaths shallow and panicked. “I couldn’t—” His voice cracked again, his body trembling so hard he nearly doubled over. “I couldn’t do anything. I had to just—just stand there while she—while she—” He squeezed his eyes shut, and for the first time since Theo had known him, Draco Malfoy let out a choked, gasping sob.

Theo could only stare.

“I tried,” Draco gasped. “I—I tried to build her Occlumency walls. I tried to block it out for her, to keep her from feeling all of it, but I—” His voice broke, and suddenly, he was sinking to his knees, hands trembling as they pressed into the cold stone floor. “It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fucking enough.”

Theo’s throat was dry, his limbs locked in place. He had no idea what to say, what to do. He had seen Draco angry, seen him arrogant, seen him tired—but never this. Never shattered.

Draco exhaled in a sharp, unsteady breath, tilting his head up toward the ceiling, his entire body trembling. “It was the first time I’d seen her in nearly a year.” His voice cracked violently on the word. He squeezed his eyes shut again, shaking his head. “And I couldn’t— I couldn’t even hold her. I couldn’t—I couldn’t protect her.”

A sob tore from him, and his hands fell to the floor, his entire frame folding in on itself. “I’m a coward,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am such a fucking coward.” Theo took a step forward before he could think, before he could question it. His hand hovered, uncertain, before gripping Draco’s shoulder. Draco flinched but didn’t pull away.

Then, just as Theo opened his mouth, Draco let out another breath—this one sharp and uneven. His fingers curled into fists against the floor.

“There’s more,” Draco said, his voice barely holding together. “Luna was there.”

Theo stilled. The air seemed to shift, a dangerous stillness settling between them.

“She was in the cellar with Ollivander,” Draco continued, his voice quickening, desperate. “But she—she escaped. With Potter. With Granger. They all escaped.”

Theo felt his pulse skyrocket. His stomach dropped so fast he thought he might be sick.

His vision blurred at the edges, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He didn’t even realize he had moved until his back hit the wall, his hands gripping the edge of the desk beside him, white-knuckled. His heart was a pounding drum in his ears, drowning out all sound but Draco’s ragged breathing.

“Luna was there,” he repeated under his breath, trying to piece together the words, trying to make sense of them. “She was—”

“She’s safe now,” Draco said quickly, his voice still shaking. “She got out, Theo. Luna got out. And Hermione, my Hermione—she got out."

Theo's chest clenched so painfully he thought he might collapse. He pressed a hand against his ribs, trying to steady his breathing, trying not to let the panic swallow him whole. He needed air. He needed—

Theo slammed his fist into the wall, hard enough that the pain sent a sharp jolt up his arm.

Across the room, Draco exhaled shakily, still on the floor, his body curled inward as though he could fold himself small enough to disappear. His hands, white-knuckled and trembling, lay limp against the cold stone, his breaths shallow and uneven, his frame wracked with a weight neither of them could name. He looked less like a boy and more like a ruin, something hollowed out and left to crumble in the wake of too much grief.

Theo swallowed thickly, his own hands still shaking at his sides. He felt it, too—that unbearable, suffocating knowledge that they had lost control of everything, that they were nothing but passengers in a war that had no mercy for them. The weight of their names, their blood, their marks—it had all led to this. To them, drowning in guilt and fear, ghosts of themselves long before death had the chance to claim them.

For the first time in months, Theo didn’t feel like he was drowning alone.

They were both wreckage, shattered things masquerading as men, undone by the same war they had been born into.

And there was no saving either of them.

JUNE 2010

The wedding reception had begun to slow, the initial burst of laughter and music settling into a languid warmth, an atmosphere brimming with quiet joy. Candles flickered in enchanted globes above the dance floor, casting a warm golden light over the guests as they moved in easy circles, their laughter melting into the hum of distant violin strings. The air smelled of lavender and honeyed wine, carrying the last remnants of summer into the evening breeze.

Theo stood near the edge of the celebration, away from the bright, spinning bodies twirling across the dance floor. He had a glass of firewhisky in hand, but it remained untouched, the amber liquid catching the light in lazy reflections.

Draco was beside him, his own drink half-finished, but his fingers had gone slack around the glass. He was staring at something—lost, dazed, a man caught in a dream he hadn’t realized he was living. The sharp edges of him, the perpetual wariness that had once been his shield, had dulled into a quiet sort of wonder, a trance-like daze he didn’t seem eager to break.

Theo and Blaise exchanged a look.

Blaise tilted his head, unimpressed. "Draco?"

Draco said nothing, just continued to stare, a slow, barely-there smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Theo sighed, nudging his shoulder. "Oi. You still with us?"

Draco blinked, as if returning from some faraway place. "Fine," he murmured absently.

"Are you?" Blaise asked, peering at him like he’d grown another head. "Because you look a little… stupid, mate. What exactly are you staring at?"

Theo already knew. He followed Draco’s line of sight, past the candlelit tables, past the swaying guests, past the flickering lanterns—

Just then, a new song started, something slower and sweeter. Theo sighed, setting his untouched drink down on a nearby table. "I should find my wife before she gets the impression I’ve run off."

Draco let out a quiet scoff, but his lips twitched. "Wouldn’t want that."

Theo smiled, deep and knowing. "No, I wouldn’t."

As he moved back toward the heart of the reception, Luna turned at just the right moment, her pale ivory dress flowing like water around her as she met his gaze. The flickering candlelight made her glow, her long hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, her silver eyes knowing, expectant.

Theo reached for her, and she smiled as she stepped into his arms, her fingers cool against the back of his neck as she pulled him into a slow, unhurried kiss.

A small weight barreled into his leg.

Theo didn’t have to look down to know who it was.

He grinned before he even turned, already reaching down to scoop the child up into his arms. Small hands grasped onto the lapels of his robes, and bright silver eyes blinked up at him, round and full of mischief. Platinum curls bounced as the boy settled comfortably against his godfather’s chest.

"Scorpius," Theo greeted, his voice warm, familiar.

The boy beamed. "Uncle Theo."

Theo chuckled, shifting him slightly in his arms. "You ran off, didn’t you? Your dad’s going to hex me if he thinks I lost you."

Scorpius giggled, entirely unbothered, and lifted his tiny arm to point toward the dance floor.

Theo followed the direction of his tiny finger—and then he saw them.

Draco and Hermione, moving in slow, effortless steps, their bodies pressed close as they swayed in unison. Hermione’s curls tumbled over her shoulders, her head tilted up toward Draco as she murmured something, her laughter soft against his ear. His hand rested low on her back, guiding her in a way that was unconscious, instinctual. And Draco—Draco, who had spent years denying himself even the simplest of affections—was looking at her as if the world had never been cruel to them at all, as if nothing had ever kept them apart.

Luna's fingers wove through his, grounding him back into the moment, back into the here and now. He smiled as he turned to her, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of her head before glancing down at Scorpius, who was still watching him with bright, inquisitive eyes.

Hermione turned in Draco’s arms, the candlelight catching the soft curve of her belly beneath her flowing gown. The gentle swell was unmistakable, and Theo’s breath caught just slightly before a soft hum of amusement came from beside him.

"I wonder," Luna murmured, tilting her head, her voice like the whisper of a breeze, "will it be a boy or a girl?"

Scorpius perked up at that, twisting to look at Luna with wide, determined eyes. "I want a sister!"

Theo chuckled, tightening his grip around the boy. "Oh, do you? And what if it’s another boy?"

Scorpius pursed his lips, deep in thought. "Then I’ll teach him to fly, I s’pose. But a sister would be better."

Luna smiled, reaching out to smooth down the platinum curls atop his head. "A sister would be lovely. But I think you’ll be a wonderful big brother either way."

Scorpius beamed, clearly pleased, before snuggling closer to Theo’s chest. Theo exchanged a glance with Luna, warmth blooming in his chest as he watched Hermione and Draco, the two of them moving together, wrapped in a certainty that had once seemed impossible, a devotion neither had the words for but lived in every glance, every touch.

Theo smiled, then leaned down to kiss Luna once more, slow and deliberate, as if grounding himself in her presence. Her fingers curled at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, laughter dancing in her eyes as they parted.

Scorpius, watching them, suddenly reached out and placed both tiny hands on Luna’s stomach, rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of her gown.

"I hope Aunt Looney has lots of babies," he declared confidently.

Luna laughed, her cheeks glowing under the soft light. "Oh, do you now?"

Scorpius nodded, his expression completely serious. "Yes. You and Uncle Theo should have loads. Then we can all play together."

Theo let out a quiet chuckle, pressing a kiss against Luna’s temple. "You hear that, love? We’ve been given our orders."

Luna grinned, brushing her fingers along Scorpius’ cheek. "Well, if Scorpius Granger-Malfoy wishes it, we may have to consider."

The little boy beamed, satisfied, before nestling his head against Theo’s shoulder. Theo met Luna’s gaze, his heart full, his fingers still entwined with hers as the music swelled around them.

And as he held Scorpius close, his gaze drifted beyond the candlelit haze, where Draco and Hermione swayed like something inevitable, something written in the stars long before either of them understood. The firelight turned her curls into molten gold, the gleam in Draco’s eyes softer than it had ever dared to be. Theo felt Luna’s fingers tighten around his, grounding him, anchoring him in the warmth of now.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, breathed her in, and let his world shrink to this moment—this quiet, perfect moment where love had not just survived but flourished, blooming between old scars and whispered promises.

Just this once, he thought, maybe fate had been kind after all.