SUN & MOON - Luna & Theo (HP)

The shadows of his past crept in, uninvited.

As a teenager, Theo had sought escape in the most destructive ways. He had ventured into the Muggle world, slipping through its streets unnoticed, his mind set on one thing: drugs. Cocaine had been his poison of choice, a sharp, dangerous reprieve from the pain he couldn't numb any other way. Those were wild years, where the highs were dizzying and the lows were bottomless pits he could never quite climb out of.

He thought he had left those days behind, buried them under layers of control and discipline. But tonight, as he stood in the familiar silence of his home, the memories resurfaced with a biting clarity. The urge to drown out the noise in his head was almost overwhelming. He could still remember the rush, the brief moment of bliss that came before the inevitable crash. The numbness had been seductive, a way to escape the feelings he couldn't bear to face.

But now, with Hermione's situation heavy on his mind, the old temptations felt like a cruel joke. He had clawed his way out of that life, forced himself to build something better, something more stable. For Luna. For Lysander. For the family he never thought he could have. Yet the familiar ache remained, a reminder of the demons that still lurked in the corners of his mind.

Theo sighed, running a hand through his hair, feeling the exhaustion seep into his bones. He had managed to survive his own darkness, but seeing Hermione caught in hers shook him to his core. The fragility of it all—the thin line between coping and breaking—was something he knew too well.

As he sat down in the quiet of his living room, the memories still gnawing at him, he allowed himself a moment of melancholy. He had come so far, yet the past was never truly gone. It lingered, like a shadow, always waiting to resurface. But he was determined not to let it consume him again. Not now. Not with so much at stake.

In the silence, Theo resolved to be stronger—for his friend, for his family, and for himself. The darkness might always be a part of him, but he wouldn't let it define him. Not anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He could feel the distance between them like a cold, unyielding wall. Luna, once so warm and open, now seemed miles away, her gaze always averted, her touch fleeting. It gnawed at him, the uncertainty, the fear that something was deeply wrong, but she refused to let him in.

One evening, unable to bear it any longer, he found himself on his knees before her, desperation etched into every line of his face. "My love," he implored, his voice breaking with emotion. "Please, tell me what is wrong. Please, let me help you."

She stood a few feet away, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if shielding her heart from his words. Her eyes, usually so full of light, were distant, clouded with thoughts she couldn't—or wouldn't—share. "There is nothing wrong," she replied, her tone flat, almost mechanical. "I just don't feel comfortable lately."

His heart pounded with dread, his mind racing to dark places. "Are you cheating on me, my moon?" he asked, the words tumbling out in a rush of panic. "Please, just tell me."

Her eyes flashed with hurt, and she turned to him with a rare spark of emotion. "I would never," she said fiercely, her voice trembling with both anger and pain. "Don't ever say anything like that."

Theodore felt a wave of guilt crash over him, knowing he had hurt her with his unfounded accusation, but still desperate to understand. "Then please, tell me," he pleaded, his voice softening, breaking. "How can I make things right?"

She took a deep breath, her expression hardening once more as she looked away. "Just give me space, Theodore," she said, her tone final, leaving no room for argument.

Theo's heart sank as he watched her retreat further into herself, the emotional chasm between them widening. He felt helpless, unable to bridge the gap, his love for her burning brightly but failing to reach her. The uncertainty and fear gnawed at him, and he could do nothing but respect her wish, even as it tore him apart inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There they were—another boring Sunday brunch with their friends. Except this time, it wasn't boring at all.

Ron had brought Lavender.

Pansy spotted them as they strolled in, and instantly, her eyes narrowed in disbelief. Of all the days to show up looking like that. She wasn't exactly Lavender's biggest fan, but today? Today, she was practically offended. Lavender's outfit was a complete disaster, a crime against brunch fashion if Pansy had ever seen one.

"Honestly, what is she wearing?" She muttered to herself, leaning over to whisper to Neville, her voice dripping with disdain. "That outfit looks like it came straight from a 90's charity shop. And not in a chic, vintage way—more like the clearance bin."

Neville gave her a soft, noncommittal hum, but Pansy wasn't done. Oh no, she was just getting started.

"Who shows up to brunch in that shade of mustard yellow? Is she trying to look like an overcooked egg yolk or what?" Pansy continued, her eyes following Lavender as she flounced toward their table. "I mean, it's one thing to wear an ugly outfit, but it's a whole other thing to look like she lost a fight with a bargain bin. What, did she just close her eyes and grab the first thing she touched?"

Ginny, sitting across the table, caught Pansy's eye and smirked. She was clearly enjoying the commentary. "Go easy on her, Pans. Maybe she's going for a 'retro mess' vibe."

Pansy raised an eyebrow, shooting Ginny a sideways glance. "Please, if that's retro, then I'm a Muggle. And don't get me started on those shoes. Merlin's beard, are those...clogs?" She practically gasped. "Clogs, Red! In public!"

He choked on his drink, trying and failing to suppress his laughter. "Sassy," he said, half-amused, half-begging her to behave, "be nice."

Luna, sitting next to Ginny, couldn't help but smile as she watched Pansy roast Lavender. She found Pansy's commentary hilarious, and she was amused by Lavender's obliviousness.

"I think Lavender's outfit is quite unique," she said, her voice soft. "It's very expressive, don't you think?"

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Unique? More like a fashion disaster," she replied.

She shook her head. "I think it's beautiful. It shows that Lavender is not afraid to be herself. She's not afraid to stand out from the crowd."

Ginny giggled. "You're too kind, Luna. I think Pansy has a point."

She shrugged. "Maybe so. But I think Lavender looks lovely. And that's what matters most."

But she wasn't done. Oh no. This was a battlefield, and Lavender was walking right into her line of fire.

"I swear, Ron must be blind," Pansy went on, now fully committed to the roast. "He's a Gryffindor, so that explains some of it, but this? This is just tragic. Someone needs to send her a howler. A fashion howler."

Lavender, blissfully unaware of Pansy's ongoing critique, smiled brightly as she approached the table, her mustard monstrosity of a dress swaying awkwardly with each step. Her eyes flicked to Ron, who looked utterly clueless, as if he hadn't noticed the atrocity standing next to him. Of course, he hadn't. Typical.

"Morning, everyone!" Lavender chirped, taking her seat beside Ron, who grinned sheepishly at the group.

Pansy returned her smile with one of her own—a thin, tight-lipped smile that spoke volumes. "Morning, Lav. Love the outfit," she said sweetly, batting her lashes. "So...bold."

Ginny had to bite down on her napkin to keep from laughing out loud. Draco, who had been quietly sipping his tea, smirked into his cup, knowing better than to get involved.

"Thanks, Pansy!" Lavender replied, beaming. "It's vintage!"

"Ah, yes," she said, her voice as smooth as silk. "I could tell. Very...timeless." She took a sip of her mimosa, pausing for dramatic effect. "I mean, it's practically prehistoric."

Neville elbowed her lightly under the table, but it was too late. Ginny had dissolved into barely concealed giggles, and even Ron was starting to look suspiciously at Lavender's dress, as if he was only now realizing her thinly veiled insults.

"Well," Lavender said, oblivious to the shade being thrown her way, "I just thought it would be fun to wear something a little different."

"Different? Absolutely," she agreed, nodding slowly. "No one else would dare."

Draco finally chimed in, his tone lazy but amused. "Bold choice, Lavender. It's not every day you see someone pull off... clogs."

Lavender blinked, glancing down at her shoes as if only now realizing they were the subject of scrutiny. "Oh, these? They're super comfortable."

Her smile was razor-sharp. "I'm sure they are, darling. Comfort over style—always a choice."

Ron, clearly sensing the tension but unsure of how to fix it, awkwardly cleared his throat and reached for a scone. "So, uh... how's everyone been?"

"Oh, just fabulous," she said, her tone dripping with saccharine sweetness. "This brunch just gets more...interesting...every week."

As the conversation shifted, Pansy leaned back in her chair, sipping her drink with a satisfied smirk. Sure, it was just another Sunday brunch with friends, but with Lavender here, it was turning into something far more entertaining.

And really, she thought, glancing at Lavender's outfit one last time, wasn't that what Sundays were for?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If Draco Malfoy was an enigma, a puzzle wrapped in icy coolness and centuries of pureblood mystery, then Lavender Brown was a straight-up bitch—bold, loud, and an absolute conundrum. Trying to make sense of her was like attempting to solve an equation with missing variables, all while she prattled on about the latest trends or some meaningless gossip.

Sitting next to her at brunch felt like pure, unadulterated misery for Hermione. Every high-pitched giggle from Lavender made Hermione's skin crawl. She would honestly rather be Alan Turing, cracking impossible codes for the rest of her life, than endure another minute of this superficial torture. At least cracking codes had a point—sitting next to Lavender felt like slowly losing brain cells to a never-ending stream of inane chatter.

Trapped at the brunch table with Lavender Brown, Hermione could feel a familiar wave of irritation rising like a storm. Draco, for all his cold stares and cryptic remarks, at least had depth—a challenge worth unravelling. But Lavender? She was nothing more than a walking tabloid, spilling gossip and self-importance with every exaggerated flick of her hair. Hermione would have preferred deciphering ancient runes off a troll's backside—at least that would've been intellectually stimulating.

Her eyes drifted to her china cup, feigning interest in the delicate patterns as Lavender droned on. The truth was, she'd rather be interrogating a Death Eater, wands drawn and tension high, than sitting through this mind-numbing drivel. Anything would be better than listening to Lavender's endless stream of superficial nonsense.

Lavender Brown, a human incarnation of a spoiled perfume sample, poked at her lukewarm breakfast. Every saccharine word felt dripping with condescension, a poorly veiled jab at Hermione's perceived social climb. It was a game of one-upmanship, a battle of appearances, and Hermione was growing weary of the charade.

"Alright Granger," Lavender drawled, her perfectly manicured nails tapping a staccato rhythm on the tablecloth. "Fancy seeing you here. Still slumming it with Ministry wages, or have you Malfoy coughing up enough Galleons for caviar these days? I hear the new Auror uniforms are rather...plebeian." Her voice was laced with venom, her eyes scanning Hermione with a predatory gleam.

Hermione, ever the picture of politeness, offered a tightly controlled smile. "It has its adjustments, Lavender. Though renovations can be quite rewarding when you get to personalise the space." Her voice held a hint of sugar, sweet enough to curdle milk, but laced with a pointed barb about Lavender's lack of interior design knowledge.

Lavender's eyes sparkled with a hint of malice. "I bet. It must be so... thrilling to live in such a modern place. All that luxury and, of course, the Malfoy legacy."

The insinuation in Lavender's words was clear. Hermione clenched her jaw, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "Every place has its charm. It's the people who live there now that matter."

Lavender's eyes narrowed, her voice dripping with venom. "Oh, please, Granger. Don't pretend you're some sort of martyr. You married up, plain and simple. And don't think I haven't noticed the way you've been clinging to Malfoy like a barnacle. It's almost pathetic."

Pansy was seething, every nerve on edge as Lavender's grating voice continued to claw at her patience. The woman was insufferable, her presence alone enough to irritate Pansy to no end. Her hands itched to throw a snide comment or two, but before she could open her mouth, Neville's firm grip tightened around her waist, pulling her closer in a silent plea.

"Please, love," he murmured softly into her ear, his voice low and soothing. "Behave."

Pansy shot him a sideways glance, her eyes flashing with defiance. "No promises," she whispered back, her tone sharp as a blade.

She could feel the tension bubbling under her skin, desperate to erupt. Keeping quiet around Lavender was like trying to bottle a storm. But Neville's presence, solid and reassuring, kept her just on the edge of restraint. For now.

Hermione's patience was wearing thin. She could feel her face growing hot. "Lavender, I appreciate your concern for my happiness, but perhaps we should change the subject. This conversation seems to be going nowhere productive." Her voice was firm, but she tried to maintain a polite tone.

Draco's patience, too, was wearing thin. "Lavender," he interjected, his voice low and dangerous, "I believe this conversation has reached its conclusion."

Lavender smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Just curious, Draco. We're all friends here, aren't we?"

"Friends," Hermione thought bitterly. If this was friendship, she'd rather be alone. 

"I would advise your husband to be more respectful and keep his eyes to himself during the meal," Draco said icily, his gaze locked with Ronald's. The atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically, the once hushed conversation turning into a tense silence. Hermione's hand tightened around Draco's, a silent plea for calm.

"Perhaps you should consider keeping your own eyes on your plate, rather than lingering over what doesn't belong to you. Because if I catch that intrusive gaze directed at my wife once more," he continued, a glint of steel flashing in his eyes, "well, let's just say this breakfast might end a bit more abruptly than you'd like." Draco's eyes narrowed. "Admire from afar, Weasley. Or better yet, don't admire at all."

Draco's hand, pale and elegant, closed around the silver knife. Its weight shifted in his palm, a familiar balance. His eyes, icy and predatory, locked onto Ron, a cold, calculating gleam in them. The clatter of cutlery and hushed conversations faded into a distant hum. The world narrowed to two men, a silent promise hanging heavy in the air.

The knife spun lazily in his fingers, catching the light in a deadly dance. Each rotation was a silent threat, a promise of violence should the need arise. Ron's face, once flushed with anger, turned a sickly shade of green. His eyes darted around, searching for an escape, a way out of this suffocating tension. But there was no escape. Only Draco, and the promise of pain that gleamed in his hand.

Ron cleared his throat nervously before responding, "Look, Malfoy, I wasn't—"

Draco cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Save it, Weasley. I know how you used to look at her, and old habits die hard.

"No need for explanations, Weasley," Draco drawled, his voice laced with a silky menace. "We all have a past, don't we? Some are more regrettable than others, of course." He tilted his head slightly, a predator toying with his prey. "Isn't that right? After all, a leopard can't change its spots, can it?"

Hermione placed a calming hand on Draco's arm. "Draco."

Draco's expression softened slightly as he turned to Hermione. "I'm just making sure our boundaries are clear."

Ron nodded, still a bit flustered. "Yeah, I get it. Sorry, 'Mione."

Draco narrowed his eyes, his voice low. "Do not talk to her directly, Ronald. She is mine. She is mine to look at, to talk to. She means nothing to you now and forever. I'm the only one who knows how the golden cunt tastes. Get over her, and get back to that whore of a woman, that you call a wife."

Hermione stood from the table and without a warning apparated them back to their home.

The tension in the room shattered in an instant.

Pansy, without a second thought, lunged across the table, knocking over glasses and sending a wave of mimosa splashing right into Lavender's stunned face.

"HOW DARE YOU!" Pansy shouted, her voice echoing through the room like a crack of thunder, her eyes blazing with fury.

Luna, always calm but not one to tolerate such behaviour, stood as well, her expression one of disappointment. "This is absolutely disgusting," she said quietly, but the weight of her words hung heavily in the now-silent room.

Ron, looking completely out of his depth, sat there frozen, his face flushed and confused, like a child caught in the middle of a grown-up fight, utterly useless.

Ginny, however, was livid. Her fiery temper, always ready to ignite, flared in an instant. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, rounding on Ron, grabbing his arm, and yanking him to his feet with a force that surprised even him.

Without waiting for a response, she dragged him from the table, her expression stormy as they disappeared into the next room, leaving an uncomfortable silence in their wake.

Pansy's voice dripped with venom as she leaned in, eyes narrowed, her gaze fixed on Lavender. "You have no right to talk about Hermione like that. What's the problem, Lavender? Can't handle being a sloppy second? Can't stand the fact that she's always been better than you? And guess what? She'll always be better."

Lavender's face paled, but before she could respond, Luna gracefully stepped forward, her usual serenity replaced with quiet intensity. "You're not even a sloppy second, Lavender," she said, her voice calm but cutting. "You were never more than an afterthought. How can you be jealous of someone as kind and brilliant as Hermione? She's a wonderful person—her goodness radiates."

Neville, who had been silently clenching his jaw, finally spoke, his voice calm but filled with quiet authority. "And an incredible friend. She's everything you'll never grasp."

Before the tension could escalate further, Blaise rose from his seat with a cold, controlled demeanour. His gaze flickered to Lavender, and his voice was low, dripping with disdain. "Brown," he said, his words sharp as a blade, "it's time for you to leave. And if you leave so much as a single champagne stain on my rug, you'll regret it." His eyes narrowed as he added with a biting edge, "Fucking bitch."

Luna and Pansy were seething, their anger palpable. Luna had a rare storm brewing behind her blue eyes. "How could she ruin a perfectly good breakfast?" She said, her voice unusually sharp, her usual tranquillity nowhere in sight.

Pansy, on the other hand, was pacing, fists clenched and muttering under her breath. "That woman has some nerve. I swear, I'm about to go beat that bitch up." She turned toward the door, fully intending to chase Lavender down.

Neville, sensing the danger, quickly rushed over, wrapping his arms around her waist before she could storm out of the room. "Sassy, darling," he whispered soothingly, though he was clearly trying not to laugh at the sight of his furious wife, "let's just go home, okay?"

Pansy, still glaring in the direction Lavender had disappeared, grumbled, "No! I want to hit her!"

Neville, ever the peacekeeper, pressed a kiss to her temple, his tone gentle but firm. "Alright, love. You can hit the plant when we get home."

Pansy huffed, crossing her arms in defeat. "Fine. But it better be a big one"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Theo had been immersed in his work for weeks, his focus unrelenting as he poured over ancient texts and arcane formulas. His goal was clear: to create a weapon that mimicked the destructive power of Fiendfyre, a substance known for its devastating effects.

In the dim light of his study, Theo's hands moved with precision, blending ingredients and chanting incantations with a practised ease. The room was cluttered with parchment, rare ingredients, and intricate devices, each step in the process meticulously calculated.

As he mixed the volatile components, a soft glow illuminated his face, revealing the intense concentration etched into his features. The concoction in his hands was a swirling mass of shimmering colours, its potency palpable even from a distance.

He worked tirelessly, his mind a maze of calculations and contingencies. The stakes were high, and every detail had to be perfect. This wasn't just another project; it was a pivotal piece in a larger scheme, one that demanded both precision and secrecy.

With each passing day, Theo's obsession with his work grew, the weight of his mission pressing heavily on him. The task was not just about creating a weapon—it was about ensuring that it was perfect, capable of achieving the desired effect with the utmost reliability.

His eyes flickered with a mix of satisfaction and trepidation as he examined his creation one final time. The device, his own twisted masterpiece, was now complete. It had taken countless hours and precise calculations, but it was ready. The dangerous concoction, mirroring the destructive power of Fiendfyre, was contained within a sleek, black casing—a work of dark ingenuity.

As the clock ticked past midnight, He moved stealthily through the house. The usual creaks of the old floorboards seemed unusually loud to him, each sound a stark reminder of the risks he was about to take. He made sure to leave no trace of his departure, his footsteps quiet and measured as he gathered his things.

He glanced back at the quiet, sleeping forms of his family—Luna and Lysander—his heart heavy with unspoken fears. His love for them was genuine, but the life he led demanded sacrifices and secrets that weighed heavily on him.

He slipped out of the house, the cool night air brushing against his face as he made his way to the hidden compartment where his vehicle awaited. The engine roared to life as he drove into the darkness, the faint glow of the moon casting long shadows on the road.

As he sped away from home, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was leaving a part of himself behind. The life he was leading was dangerous and unpredictable, and he knew that it could have devastating consequences for those he loved. Yet, he was determined to see this through, to complete his mission no matter the cost.

The road stretched out before him, a dark and winding path leading to an uncertain future. Theo gripped the steering wheel tightly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He had no idea what awaited him, but he was ready. He had prepared for this moment for years, and he was not going to let fear hold him back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night wrapped itself around him like a shadowed cloak, concealing his every move as he ventured toward his unknown destination. The true purpose of the mission remained veiled in secrecy, a dangerous wager that could alter their fates forever. In the dimly lit room, Theo, Draco, and Blaise stood shoulder to shoulder, the oppressive silence pressing in on them. Their expressions were grim, eyes glinting with steely resolve as they meticulously reviewed the plan one final time. The soft, intermittent flicker of a dying lamp was the only sound that disturbed the stifling quiet, underscoring the weight of what lay ahead.

Draco stood at the centre of the room, his face set in stone, his voice cold and unwavering. The tension in the air thickened as he began to speak, his words laced with a fury simmering just beneath the surface.

"We've gone over the plan," he began, his gaze sweeping across the room. His eyes burned with a controlled fire, sharp and unforgiving. "This isn't just another mission. We are doing this for Hermione. He—Ronald Weasley—crossed a line that no one comes back from. He dared to lay a hand on my wife, dared to abuse her. And now he's doing the same to his own wife. This is one of the things we do not, and will never, tolerate."

His voice grew harder, colder with each word. Draco's jaw clenched as he steadied his breath. "No one harms our loved ones. No one. Not now, not ever. We are not our fathers, bound by their twisted codes of power and cruelty. We've built something stronger—something that isn't controlled by fear but by the strength of loyalty. And we will always protect our family, no matter the cost."

The room was silent for a moment, every man present absorbing the weight of Draco's words, understanding the severity of what lay ahead. The flickering light above cast shadows across their faces, giving them an almost spectral appearance, like silent sentinels poised for battle.

With a unified, almost primal response, they echoed his resolve in one voice.

"To our family."

The words hung in the air, vibrating with the weight of an unspoken vow. It wasn't just a statement of intent—it was a cold, unflinching declaration. This wasn't about mere revenge or some strategic manoeuvre. No. It was about protecting the one thing that transcended all else: family. And anyone foolish enough to threaten that bond would soon discover just how far they were willing to go, just how deep into the abyss they would descend.

Draco's eyes were narrowed to slits, his wand gripped so tightly his knuckles turned white. The dim light of the room seemed to grow darker, the shadows creeping in as if they too understood the gravity of what had just been set in motion. There would be no hesitation. No second chances. No mercy. This was their line in the sand, and no one crossed it without paying in blood.

He stood off to the side, his gaze flickering toward the device in his hand. Its presence seemed to pulse with an eerie energy, a silent reminder that the final step was upon them. His voice was low, almost a murmur, as he finally spoke. "Everything is set. The detonation sequence is primed, timed to perfection. The entire area has been scoped. There's no way out for him."

His words were devoid of emotion, but his eyes betrayed the storm brewing beneath the surface. This was no simple task, not when the target was Ronald Weasley—brother to Blaise's wife, friend to Draco's wife, once an ally in their shared war. But those ties were long severed. Weasley had crossed a boundary that could never be forgiven.

Blaise's expression was unreadable, though his fingers tapped rhythmically on the arm of his chair, betraying a mix of anticipation and nervous energy. His voice was almost too calm, a dangerous edge lacing his words. "We need to be precise. There's no room for error. We end this cleanly, without leaving a trace."

Draco exhaled slowly, his eyes hardening into something sharp and lethal. "No mistakes," he said, his tone final, unyielding. "We do this right, or we don't do it at all. This is the last time we clean up anyone's mess. If we fail, there won't be a second chance."

His gaze shifted between his two allies, both cloaked in the same unrelenting resolve that weighed heavily on his own shoulders. His voice was steady, though a tremor of anticipation ran beneath it. "Agreed. We finish this. We start in thirty minutes."

The silence that followed was oppressive, each man lost in his own thoughts as they readied themselves for the task ahead. This wasn't just about removing a problem—it was a statement, a grim message sent from the shadows. Their target would soon understand that the old rules didn't apply to them. They had created their own, and in their world, betrayal was a fatal mistake.

They stood in the shadow of the Weasley house, the air thick with tension. The night was deathly still, save for the quiet whisper of the wind through the trees. The house loomed before them, unaware of the fate that awaited it. They shared a brief, silent exchange, their eyes reflecting the shared understanding of what had to be done.

His breath was slow and measured as he stared at the window, behind which lay their objective. His fingers brushed the edge of his coat, slipping into the pocket to retrieve the device. It was small, unassuming, but inside it contained a force of destruction that even the most skilled wizards feared: Fiendfyre.

Without a word, he moved with quiet purpose. His hand, steady and unshakable, lobbed the device through the window with a subtle flick of his wrist. For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then, the air seemed to ignite with a dangerous hum as the Fiendfyre erupted in a blaze of malevolent magic.

The flames tore through the room, hungry and unstoppable, consuming everything they touched. Fiendfyre wasn't like ordinary fire—it had a will of its own, a dark, destructive sentience that sought out its prey. The inferno roared to life, twisting and writhing as it spread, its tendrils devouring the house with a ravenous speed.

They stood in the shadows, watching the fire with grim satisfaction. The heat from the flames was fierce, though none of them flinched. They had seen worse, done worse. This was just another necessary act, another sacrifice to ensure the safety of those they loved.

As the Weasley house began to collapse under the weight of the Fiendfyre's assault, Blaise spoke softly, his words nearly lost in the crackle of the flames. "There's no going back now. We're committed."

Draco's expression remained cold, his eyes never leaving the fiery destruction before them. "There was never any turning back."

Theo, his face half-shadowed by the dancing light of the fire, finally tore his gaze away from the house. His voice was quiet, almost contemplative. "He'll understand now. This was inevitable."

The fire raged on, a violent testament to the cost of betrayal. As the final embers consumed what remained of the Weasley legacy, the three men turned away, their steps measured and deliberate as they walked into the night, leaving behind only the ashes of a once-prominent family.

Their message was clear: In their world, there was no forgiveness for those who harmed their own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the time comes, when Theo is finally called to stand before his creator, to meet the gaze of eternity itself, he knows that no silver-tongued persuasion or sharp wit will spare him from the reckoning that awaits. The weight of every choice, every whispered lie, every secret act committed under the cloak of darkness, presses upon him like a chain that grows heavier with each passing year. His ledger of sins, meticulously hidden from the world, is no longer just a mental tally—it's written in the very fabric of his soul, stretching across 28 pages, each line inked in guilt and remorse.

Twenty-eight pages of transgressions, each entry a reminder of the choices that shaped him, that dragged him deeper into the shadows from which there seemed no escape. He had been meticulous in his sins, each one calculated and necessary—or so he told himself. But as the list grew, so did the gnawing feeling in his gut, a slow corrosion of whatever fragments of innocence he might have once possessed.

The first page is filled with the small betrayals, the deceptions that seemed insignificant at the time. A lie told here, a promise broken there. But sins have a way of compounding, of growing like weeds in the garden of a man's heart. By the second page, the lies had evolved into something darker—friendships manipulated, loyalties bent to serve his own ends. The faces of those he had wronged lingered in the margins of the pages, ghosts that whispered his name in the dead of night.

By the time he reached the tenth page, the weight of his deeds had become a constant companion, a shadow that clung to his every step. And yet, he had not stopped. The pull of power, of control, had been too strong. For every sin he committed, there was always a justification—always a reason why he couldn't turn back. The sins of the flesh, of betrayal, of greed, all etched in neat, unwavering script across the parchment. With each new act, the pages filled, but the space in his heart for redemption shrank.

And still, the list grew.

Page fifteen bore the stains of blood—metaphorical and literal. The sins of violence, of taking life where life still had a chance to grow. The faces of those who had stood in his way, or simply fallen victim to the maelstrom of his world, were seared into his memory. He remembered each name, each life extinguished by his hand or his command, and yet he had never let himself feel the full weight of it. Not then. But now... Now he could see them all, standing before him, silently judging.

By the twenty-first page, the betrayals ran deeper, more insidious. They weren't just professional. They cut into the very marrow of his soul, fracturing relationships, turning love into something he couldn't even recognize anymore. There were no excuses left, no rationalisations that could cover the cold truth: that he had hurt those he loved the most. That he had let the darkness in him take root and grow, until it choked out everything that was good and pure.

Page twenty-eight. The final page, for now, though he knew that it, too, would soon be filled. The ink was smudged here, as though written in haste—or perhaps in desperation. These were the sins he hadn't wanted to acknowledge, the ones that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness but that he had shoved down into the deepest recesses of his mind. The sins he couldn't bear to look at too closely, because to do so would mean admitting the truth: that he had become the very thing he had once despised. That he had crossed the line he swore he never would.

He would have to confess it all. Every sin, every misdeed, every betrayal. When the time came to meet his maker, there would be no place to hide, no more shadows to slip into. The reckoning would be absolute, and his soul—battered and burdened—would be laid bare before the Creator.

How does a man even begin to atone for a list like that? How does he find the words to explain why he had done what he had done, why he had chosen the path of darkness when the light had been within reach?

He knows he will not be granted mercy easily, if at all. Forgiveness, if it is even possible, will have to be earned, and not through words alone. It would take more than a lifetime to balance the scales. He had committed sins that echoed through other people's lives, that rippled out in ways he would never fully understand. How many futures had he altered with a single decision? How many lives had he broken beyond repair?

The night was often his confessor. In the stillness of the early hours, when sleep eluded him and the weight of his actions pressed down on him like a shroud, Theo would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, the silence punctuated only by his own ragged breathing. He would think about the people he had hurt, the promises he had broken, and the darkness that seemed to have claimed his soul long ago.

Perhaps that is what awaits him when his time comes: not fire or brimstone, but silence. The deafening silence of a soul laid bare, with nothing to offer but its own sorrow. A silence where the Creator listens, but does not speak, and Theo is left to fill the void with his confessions, one by one, as the pages turn, slowly, inexorably, through the catalog of his sins.

And when the final page is turned, when the last sin is confessed, will there be anything left of him to save? Will there be anything left worth saving?

Theo does not know. But he knows that when the time comes, he will face it. Because that, too, is part of the price.

The price of his sins. The price of his choices.

The price of a soul lost, and perhaps, just perhaps, found again in the telling.