SUN & MOON - Luna & Theo (HP)

He stumbled into the house, blood smeared across his shirt, his lips swollen and split, and a dark bruise already forming around his eye. His movements were slow and deliberate, each step cautious as he tried to keep from waking Luna. His hand fumbled for the door, and in his haste, he knocked it against the frame with a loud thud.

From the bedroom, she stirred. She blinked in the darkness, her mind trying to make sense of the noise. She sat up, her heart pounding in her chest as she reached for her wand. The moonlight filtered through the window, casting shadows that made the room feel unfamiliar. Then, she heard another sound—his uneven breathing.

"Theo?" Her voice was laced with concern, but she didn't wait for a response. She threw back the covers and bolted from the bed, her feet barely touching the ground as she ran towards the hallway.

When she saw him, battered and bloodied, she froze for a moment, her heart sinking.

"Merlin, Theo, what happened?" she gasped, rushing towards him, her hands trembling as she tried to inspect his injuries.

He raised a hand weakly, trying to wave off her concern. "It's nothing," he muttered, his voice rough and strained. "Nothing that you need to worry about."

Her eyes widened, a mix of fury and heartbreak welling up inside her. She had heard those words too many times before—each time something terrible had happened, each time he came back to her broken and bruised, expecting her to just accept it without question. This time, it was different. She couldn't—wouldn't—stand by anymore.

"Stop it," her voice trembled, her chest tightening. "I've had enough of this shit, Theo!" she screamed, startling him, her voice echoing through the house. For a split second, he recoiled .She had never shouted at him like that before, and the sheer force of her outburst made him flinch.

"Luna, please—" he began, but she cut him off, her voice a sharp blade that pierced through the night.

"WHAT. HAPPENED?" she demanded, stepping closer, her fury barely restrained.

He hesitated, his eyes flickering with guilt. "I got into a fight."

"A fight? With who?" her voice cracked with frustration. "You know what—I don't even care anymore. You come home like this, night after night, and I'm just supposed to sit here and pretend like everything's fine? I CAN'T EVEN LOOK AT YOU!"

His throat tightened. He wanted to say something, anything, to soothe her anger, but the words wouldn't come. He could see the pain in her eyes, the exhaustion in her voice. She had reached her breaking point.

"Go to another bedroom," she whispered, her voice raw and filled with anguish. "I can't do this tonight."

His heart dropped. He wanted to reach out, to hold her, to tell her that everything would be alright, but he knew it wasn't true. Not this time. Without another word, he turned and walked down the hallway, the weight of her words heavier than any physical blow he had endured that night.

He stood in front of the mirror, his reflection blurred by the water dripping down his face. His hands shook slightly as he splashed more water on his busted lip, the sting reminding him of the events of the night. He could feel her behind him—her presence was unmistakable, even when she didn't make a sound. His heart sank further.

"We'll talk about this tomorrow, Luna," he said, his voice low and tired. "Just let me clean up." He didn't dare look at her reflection, too ashamed to face her after what he had put her through.

But she didn't respond. She didn't move away either.

"Please go," he whispered, hoping she would leave before she saw how truly broken he was. But instead, she stepped closer, her footsteps soft against the floor. He felt her hand on his shoulder, and before he could protest, she gently turned him towards her.

Her palm found his cheek, warm and soft, and he leaned into her touch without thinking. The pain in his body seemed to ebb just slightly at her closeness. Her eyes were full of something he couldn't quite decipher—anger, sadness, love, perhaps all three.

With a flick of her wrist, wandless magic sparked between them, and he felt the warmth of healing magic seal his split lips. He winced, but the pain was soon replaced by relief. She leaned in and pressed a soft, slow kiss to his lips. The taste of blood still lingered between them, but neither of them pulled away.

She ran her fingers lightly over his face before stepping back, her gaze intense as she raised her wand and whispered a diagnostic charm. The spell illuminated his injuries—broken nose, fractured rib. Her lips tightened as she absorbed the damage.

"Sit," she instructed, her voice soft but firm.

He obeyed, sinking down onto the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving hers. He watched as she prepared to heal him, her movements precise and controlled. There was no trace of the earlier outburst—just the calm, resolute woman he had come to rely on more than anything. "I'm going to heal you now, but it's going to hurt."

He nodded, bracing himself as she murmured the incantation. His nose snapped back into place with a sharp crack, and his rib followed suit with a dull, sickening thud. The pain was brief but intense, and he gasped, clutching the edge of the bed until his knuckles turned white.

When it was over, she stepped back, her face unreadable. He sat there, waiting for her to say something—to yell, to demand answers, to rage at him for what he had done. But she didn't.

Without a word, she turned away, heading for the door. She paused only to cast a warming charm over the room, her wand flicking in one fluid motion. "Good night," she whispered, her voice distant.

And just like that, she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.

He stared at the door, feeling a hollow ache settle in his chest. He had expected her anger, even welcomed it, but the quiet disappointment in her eyes cut deeper than any spell or punch he had taken that night.

He couldn't bear the weight of the silence. The air felt thick as he opened the door to their bedroom, each step heavier than the last. She laid there, her body still, but the soft glisten of tears on her cheeks betrayed her pain. It broke something inside of him to see her like that—so fragile, so quiet. He had done this to her.

He slipped into bed beside her, careful not to startle her. She didn't move, but her shallow breaths told him she was still awake.

Without thinking, he whispered, his voice barely audible, "I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife. Please, offer me that deathless death."

She didn't respond, her silence cutting deeper than any words could. But slowly, as if searching for reassurance, she reached out and intertwined her fingers with his. The warmth of her touch sent a wave of relief through him. He pulled her closer, letting her rest her head on his chest, and kissed her tear-streaked cheek softly, tasting the salt of her grief.

Her voice was barely above a whisper, raw and filled with emotion. "This is never going to happen again, right? You will never make me cry like this again, right?" Her voice broke as she continued, her words tinged with a desperate hope. "You won't allow me to see you like that again, yes?"

His heart clenched. He wanted to promise her the world, to tell her that nothing like this would ever happen again, that he would never break her heart in such a way. But he couldn't. Not truthfully. Instead, he held her tighter, his voice rough with emotion as he spoke. "I would never allow myself to see you cry because of me."

Liar.

But there was a painful truth hanging between them, and he couldn't apologize for the rest. He couldn't promise her that the violence in his life would never seep through again. They both knew the world they lived in. They both knew his past, the shadows that clung to him. Apologizing would have been a lie, and he had already caused enough pain for one night.

They lay there in the dark, her soft breaths against his chest, the room filled with unspoken fears and unshed tears. But for now, they held onto each other, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they could make it through the storm together.

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

The days passed in a strange, suffocating quiet. They moved around each other like ghosts in their own home, avoiding the unspoken truth that hung heavy between them. He wasn't brave enough to bring it up, and she didn't push. But the silence was unbearable, eating away at him, gnawing at his insides like guilt always does.

He wasn't sure which was worse—the shame of letting her see him covered in blood, or the fact that he couldn't tell her the truth about what he had become. About what he had been doing all this time. He knew she would have questions, suspicions even, but how could he admit that the fight he'd mentioned wasn't really a fight at all? That he had killed someone? And not just yesterday, but over and over again, with a kind of cruel regularity that now felt like a twisted routine.

He'd never imagined this version of himself. The man who took lives like it was nothing, who crossed a line he had sworn he'd never approach. But here he was, drowning in lies and bloodstains, and every time he looked at her, every time her gaze met his, it felt like he was falling deeper into a darkness he couldn't claw his way out of.

She wasn't stupid. She had always been far more perceptive than he gave her credit for. And as much as she avoided pressing him, there was something in her eyes—a quiet knowing. She had seen the blood, the injuries, the haunted look in his eyes. How could she not know? She was waiting for him to say it, to confess the weight he carried. But how could he?

How could he tell her that the man she loved wasn't a 'businessman' anymore? That he was something far worse? He couldn't even look at himself in the mirror without feeling sick. He had always justified it as necessity, a part of his darker dealings, but the more lives he took, the more he felt the emptiness growing inside him.

The guilt had become unbearable, festering like a wound that refused to heal. And yet, every time he thought about telling her, the words stuck in his throat like poison. He couldn't do it. He wasn't ready to lose her. But he also wasn't sure how much longer he could keep pretending, how much longer he could live with the lies.

The nightmares started soon after. Dark, suffocating dreams of blood and death. He'd wake in a cold sweat, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like a vice. Luna, always so attuned to him, would stir beside him, her soft whispers trying to soothe him back to sleep, but nothing helped. The nightmares weren't something he could escape from. They were his reality, creeping into every part of his life.

And still, they avoided the topic.

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

That week had been a nightmare, filled with unease that gnawed at her insides. He had two great fears in life: Luna or his children getting hurt. Today, that fear became a living nightmare, one that would forever haunt him.

The morning had been relatively quiet—Lysander had gone down for his nap without fuss. He had just settled back into the living room, ready to enjoy some much-needed peace. He was savoring the quiet moment, when it happened.

A scream—a heart-stopping, soul-shaking cry—ripped through the house, echoing from the nursery upstairs. It wasn't the usual whimper or sleepy grumble they were used to; this was raw, filled with agony.

His blood froze in his veins. For a split second, the world stood still, and then panic surged through him. Without a word, both of them bolted from the couch, their hearts pounding in sync with the sheer terror of that sound.

He reached the stairs first, his legs moving faster than he thought possible. The nursery door loomed ahead, and every terrible possibility raced through his mind. He didn't hesitate—he kicked the door open with such force that it slammed against the wall with a deafening crack.

The scene that greeted them was chaotic and horrifying. Lysander lay in his crib, his tiny fists clutching his moonstone rattle tightly, while Crumple-Horned Snorkacks swarmed around him in a frenzy. Normally, these creatures were harmless, guarding the invisible Wrackspurts in the corners of the room. But today, they'd shifted their attention, obsessively circling the rattle and, worse, their precious boy.

Without hesitation, Luna reacted. A swift flick of her wand, and the Snorkacks vanished in an instant, the air clearing of their frantic presence. She rushed to Lysander, scooping him up in her arms as he cried, his sobs wracking his small body.

His little hand, clutching his bitten arm, trembled as he showed her the red marks left behind.

"Oh, little love," she whispered, her voice filled with a mother's gentle reassurance. "It's just a bite. Look, mommy will kiss it, and it'll go away." She pressed soft kisses to his arm, her voice soothing as she cooed to him.

Lysander sniffled, still unsure, his wide eyes searching for more comfort. He held his arm out toward Theo, his small voice quivering.

He knelt beside them, his heart heavy as he saw Lysander's tear-streaked face. "Come here, Dada will make it all better," he whispered, pressing gentle, exaggerated kisses on his son's tiny arm, trying to coax the pain away with each one.

Lysander's sobs slowly turned to soft giggles, his fear melting in the warmth of his parents' love. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, wrapping his arms tightly around both Luna and their son. In that fragile moment, the weight of what could have been settled deep in his bones.

"I thought… I thought I lost him," he murmured, his voice breaking as he sat back on the floor, eyes fixated on the spot where his son had been crying just moments before. "If something happened to him, I wouldn't survive it. Nothing would ever mean anything again."

Luna, cradling Lysander, looked down at him, her expression softening for a moment as she rocked their son.

"Theo… it's just a bite. A small scrape. Nothing more. He'll be fine. Look, he's already back to his happy self." She glanced at Lysander, who was playing with her hair, no longer concerned about the small boo-boo. "Last week, he fell off the swing and broke his arm. Now that was a scare."

"He what?" his voice was sharp, a surge of panic coursing through him. "He broke his arm? When?"

"It's healed now. Nothing to worry about," she replied calmly, but her words seemed to do little to soothe him.

"When did this happen?" he demanded, his voice rising. "Where was I?"

"You were off fighting, probably," she said with a bitter edge to her voice, her eyes narrowing as she met his gaze. "Or off doing something else you refuse to talk about."

"Luna—" he began, his heart sinking.

"One day," she interrupted, her tone cold and detached, "I'll be tired of your lies, Theodore. You keep hiding things from me, and one day I won't have any more patience left. So forgive me if I don't rush to tell you every little thing. He's safe with me. But only with me."

Her words cut deeper than any wound ever had. He could only watch as Luna, holding their son protectively in her arms, turned her back on him and left the room. The sound of the door closing behind her echoed in the silence, leaving him alone in the aftermath of her words, the guilt and shame consuming him.

He remained sitting on the floor, his hands gripping his hair as her words echoed in his mind. 

He's safe with me. But only with me.

"Luna, wait..." His voice barely escaped his lips, weak and filled with guilt, but she had already left the room, the soft click of the door shutting behind her a heavy punctuation to her words.

His chest tightened, the weight of everything crashing down at once. The sight of Lysander crying out, the thought that for even a second, something terrible could've happened. And now, the revelation that his son had broken his arm while he was off… doing what exactly? Fighting. Killing. Being everything that she despised.

He stared at the crib, feeling like a stranger in his own home. His world, once tethered by her unwavering love and Lysander's innocent laughter, was fraying at the seams.

His baby boy broke his arm. Broke his arm. The thought gnawed at him. And I didn't even know.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the guilt, but it was relentless. How many times had he left her alone, claiming it was for their protection? How many times had he walked back into this house with blood on his clothes, lying to the one person who mattered most? Now, her words—sharp and cold—cut through him like a blade.

One day I'll be tired of your lies, Theodore.

His stomach churned. That day wasn't far off. He could feel it.

"I'm losing her," he whispered, the words barely audible as he stared at the empty space where she had stood just moments before. The weight of it sank deeper into his chest, his heart heavy with the realization that the distance between them was growing—like sand slipping through his fingers.

Unable to sit still, he rose to his feet and wandered into the playroom, his eyes scanning the scattered toys, the small remnants of their son's carefree life. She was sitting by the window, Lysander dozing peacefully in her lap. Her expression was distant, as if she were a thousand miles away.

"Where did you learn how to heal like that?" He asked, his voice soft, unsure if he should even break the silence.

She didn't look up right away, stroking Lysander's hair absentmindedly as she replied. "During the war. I found peace in it. Healing was… different. After everything we went through, I needed something that didn't involve destruction." She paused for a moment, her gaze far away. "After the war, I went to Egypt to study the roots of medicine, to learn more. It became a part of me."

He stood quietly, absorbing her words. He felt a pang of guilt—he'd always known she was strong, but he hadn't fully understood the depth of her resilience. How much she had survived. And now, here he was, failing to live up to the trust she'd given him.

"You know everything," he said, his voice carrying a mix of admiration and regret. "About medicine, about… everything."

Her lips curled into a sad smile as she finally looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. "About medicine? Yes," she said, her tone calm but distant. "About you? I'm not so sure anymore."

Her words hung in the air like a bitter truth, the gap between them widening with every unspoken secret. He felt a knot form in his throat as he struggled to respond, the weight of his double life pressing down on him, suffocating him in her quiet disappointment.

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

He slipped out of bed quietly, his lips brushing against her forehead as he whispered, "I love you." It was the same ritual every night he went to "work," the same empty words he hoped would keep her calm, keep her blind. He didn't notice the way her body tensed under the covers as he Apparated away, the faint crack of his departure echoing through the house.

As soon as the room fell silent, she opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling, her heart heavy with exhaustion—not from lack of sleep, but from the burden of knowing the truth. She had been sick of his lies for months, sick of pretending everything was fine, sick of watching him disappear into the night without explanation. She had long stopped believing in his hollow reassurances.

Her decision had been building for a while, simmering just below the surface, and tonight, it finally boiled over. She couldn't take it anymore. Without a second thought, she called for the elves, their small, eager forms appearing instantly at her bedside.

"Pack my things," she said quietly, her voice firm. "And Lysander's too. We're leaving."

The elves didn't question her, their hands quick and efficient as they gathered her belongings. Luna, on the other hand, moved slowly, deliberately. Every step she took away from him felt like a weight lifting from her chest, though her heart ached for the love they once shared, for the man she thought he was.

By the time the house was emptied of her and Lysander's presence, all that remained was a small note on the bed, written in her delicate hand: Leave us alone.

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

Her childhood home felt cold when she arrived, the absence of her father making it feel like a shell of what it once was. It had been her sanctuary, the place she always felt safe, but now it was empty, just like she felt inside. She cradled Lysander to her chest as she walked through the rooms, memories of her childhood flooding back. Her father's laugh, her mother's voice—they lingered in the walls, in the air.

But now it was just her. Just her and her baby.

She knew she couldn't stay here forever. The cottage was too isolated, too small for the life they needed. But for now, it was all she had. She needed time—time to think, time to breathe, time to figure out what she wanted from her future. One thing she knew for certain was that she couldn't keep living the way she had been. Not with him. Not with the lies.

She knew exactly what he was. Assassin. Killer. Hitman. Whatever name fit, it didn't matter anymore. He could dress it up in business suits and whispered "I love you's," but she saw through the facade. She had seen the blood on his clothes too many times, had felt the distance grow between them with every secret he kept.

And yet, he would never admit it. He'd never look her in the eyes and tell her the truth. That was the part that broke her the most—his refusal to be honest, to trust her with the ugly reality of who he was.

What would it take? What would it take for him to finally confess?

She didn't have the answer. She only had the silence of the cottage, the quiet hum of the wind outside, and the steady rise and fall of Lysander's breath against her chest.

For now, that would have to be enough.