SUN & MOON - Luna & Theo (HP)

The days blurred into an endless loop of worry and exhaustion. Each sunrise felt the same, casting its pale light over the house that had become both sanctuary and prison. Time lost its meaning as the world outside seemed to pause in sympathy with the battle being fought within.

She moved through it all with quiet determination, her every action precise and deliberate. She tended to Hermione's medical needs with the steady hands of someone used to the delicate balance between life and death. On the outside, she was the picture of calm resolve. On the inside, the weight of responsibility threatened to crush her. She couldn't let it show. Not now.

Each of them had settled into their own unspoken roles. Blaise, the reluctant caretaker, made sure everyone ate, though his meals were often met with half-hearted thank-yous or ignored altogether. Ginny threw herself into managing the house, finding solace in the distraction of endless tasks—laundry, cleaning, organizing supplies. Draco never left Hermione's side, his guilt a heavy shroud that neither food nor sleep could lift. And Theo—Theo was the sentinel, ever watchful, his sharp eyes scanning for threats that never came but always felt imminent.

They operated like a well-oiled machine, each task flowing into the next. Yet, beneath the surface, it was all so mechanical. There was no space for conversation, no time to voice their fears or hopes. The silence that hung between them wasn't born of hostility but of heaviness—an oppressive, shared understanding that none of them dared put into words.

But the silence didn't mean they weren't breaking.

For Draco, the torment was ceaseless. He stayed by Hermione's side, his hand clasped around hers as if his grip alone could tether her to this world. His eyes were red and swollen, his composure a distant memory. He whispered to her—apologies, pleas, promises—all in the hope that she could hear him, that she would wake up and absolve him of the guilt that consumed him.

He blamed himself. For the choices he had made, for the ones he hadn't. For every moment that had led to this. The others gave him space, understanding that no words could mend what was broken within him. Yet, his sorrow was palpable, a weight that pressed down on them all.

She entered the room quietly, her soft footsteps barely audible. She found Draco slumped in the chair by Hermione's bed, his head bowed, his hand still holding hers even as sleep claimed him.

"Hello," she whispered, her voice a gentle nudge against the silence.

Draco stirred, blinking awake. He looked up at her, his exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "Hello, Angel," he murmured, his voice rough.

A small smile tugged at Luna's lips. "Draco," she said softly, "you don't have to call me that."

"But you are an angel," he insisted, sitting up straighter. "Heaven sent you to save her, to save the love of my life. You have no idea what that means to me."

Her expression softened. "I didn't do it for heaven," she said simply. "I did it for Mimi. She's my friend, and I know she'd do the same for me."

Draco nodded, his gratitude raw and unfiltered. "Thank you, Luna. Truly, thank you."

She stepped closer to the bed, her gaze falling on Hermione's still form. "I'd like to bathe her now, if you don't mind."

"I already did," Draco replied quickly, almost defensively. "Changed her nappie, too."

Luna's brow furrowed, her tone gently chiding. "Draco, don't infantilize her. They're not nappies. She's not a child."

Draco's shoulders sagged, his gaze dropping to Hermione. "How can I not? She's so fragile like this."

"She's not fragile," she said firmly, her voice steady. "She's strong. Stronger than you give her credit for. And she'll fight through this. But I need to be with her now. Alone."

Draco hesitated, his reluctance clear, but finally, he nodded. He stood slowly, pressing a soft kiss to Hermione's forehead before stepping back. "I'll be just outside," he murmured.

As the door clicked shut behind him, she sat beside her bed. Her hands brushed lightly against her friend's face, her touch gentle, almost reverent. The hum of medical charms filled the room, mingling with the faint flicker of candlelight that cast dancing shadows on the walls.

"Hello, love," she whispered, her voice breaking the stillness. It was a one-sided conversation, but she spoke as if Hermione could hear her, as if her words might somehow anchor her friend to this world.

"I've been thinking," she began, her fingers tracing soothing patterns on Hermione's hand. "I know you're religious. My grandmother used to take me to church when I was little, and there's this prayer she taught me. It always made me feel safe. Maybe it'll help now."

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Her voice was soft, steady, carrying a quiet reverence as she recited the familiar words.

"For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. Amen."

The words hung in the air, their weight settling over the room. Luna opened her eyes, her gaze resting on Hermione. "We're all waiting for you, Mimi," she whispered. "Come back to us when you're ready. We'll be here."

She leaned back in her chair, her fingers still entwined with Hermione's. The room was quiet again, save for the soft hum of magic and the steady rhythm of Hermione's breathing. Outside the door, Draco stood with his back against the wall, his eyes closed as he listened to her voice, drawing strength from her unwavering faith.

And so, they waited. Together, apart, in hope and in sorrow. Holding onto the fragile thread of belief that Hermione would return to them, stronger than ever.

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

Pansy strolled in with Crookshanks in her arms and Lysander toddling behind her, a smirk playing on her lips as Draco waited near the doorway, arms crossed.

"Parkinson, I'm warning you," Draco said, his tone firm but exhausted. "You can't disturb her peace."

Without slowing her pace or glancing his way, Pansy scoffed, "Oh, fuck off, Malfoy."

Ignoring her completely, Draco's demeanor softened the moment he knelt down to Lysander's level. He picked up the boy, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Hello, my little prince," he murmured. "Would you like to see Mimi?"

"Mimi!" Lysander's face lit up, clapping his small hands together in pure excitement.

Draco smiled at the boy's innocence and excitement. "Auntie is resting, just like the princess in your bedtime story. Now, I need you to be brave for me, little prince. Can you watch over her and keep her safe?"

Lysander's expression turned serious as he nodded eagerly. "Yess!" His eyes sparkled with the pride of his new responsibility, ready to take on his "prince duties."

Draco chuckled softly, feeling a warmth spread in his chest. "That's my brave boy," he whispered, knowing that Lysander's innocent love brought a sliver of light to the otherwise heavy atmosphere surrounding Hermione.

Draco and Pansy stepped quietly into the room, Crookshanks padding silently behind them. The orange furball immediately leaped onto Hermione's chest, settling down as though it had done so a thousand times before. His purring filled the quiet room, a soothing sound amidst the tension. But when Hermione remained still, Crookshanks gently tapped her face with his paw, as if trying to rouse her.

When she didn't stir, the cat's purring turned into soft, pitiful cries.

Pansy's chest tightened painfully at the sight. Her breath hitched, and she swallowed hard, forcing back the wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She couldn't let Lysander see her break. Not now. Not in front of him.

"There you go, Pumpkin," she said softly, placing Lysander gently on the bed. "Go say hi to Mimi. She's asleep, but I bet she can still hear you."

Lysander stared at Hermione for a long moment, his little face serious as if trying to understand. Needing comfort of his own, he reached out and took Hermione's hand, his tiny fingers curling around hers. Then, with his other hand, he gently stroked Crookshanks, who had nestled on her chest, still purring.

"You see?" Pansy murmured, her voice warm with affection. "You and Crooks are helping Mimi heal, just like the prince in your storybook. You're both taking care of her."

Lysander didn't say a word, but after a beat, he snuggled up against Hermione, resting his head carefully on her chest. "Mimi okay?" he babbled, his voice soft, as though he were speaking directly to her.

The room was quiet, the stillness punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of the medical charms surrounding her. It was a strange, fragile peace, the kind that seemed to hang by a thread. 

Pansy knelt beside him, her hands resting lightly on his small shoulders. "She's okay, little love," she said gently, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. "She's just sleeping right now, like the princess in the story. But she'll wake up. Give her a kiss, and then we'll go find Mummy, alright?"

Lysander's little face scrunched in concentration as he processed her words. "Mummy," he repeated, as though reminding himself of where she was. With careful movements, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Hermione's cheek. His small gesture was filled with a kind of innocent love that made the room feel lighter, if only for a moment.

He turned back to her, his big eyes expectant. "Now Mummy?"

Pansy smiled, though her throat felt tight. "Yes, pumpkin. Let's go see Mummy." She rose slowly, lifting Lysander into her arms. The boy didn't protest; he simply rested his head against her shoulder, his tiny fingers playing with a strand of her hair as she carried him from the room.

As they left, Draco remained seated beside Hermione, his gaze lingering on the door through which Lysander had just exited. The boy's soft inquiry echoed in his mind: Mimi okay? It was such a simple question, yet it carried the weight of all their fears and hopes.

He glanced at Crookshanks, who had positioned himself at Hermione's chest, his purring a steady, soothing sound that filled the silence. The cat nuzzled Hermione's hand, his whiskers brushing against her still fingers as if urging her to wake up.

Draco, who had never been particularly fond of the creature, felt a pang of unexpected sympathy. He reached out, his hand hesitating just above the cat's fur before gently stroking it. "I know, buddy," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "I know."

Crookshanks leaned into the touch, his purring intensifying as if grateful for the shared moment. Draco leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the top of the cat's head before settling back into his chair. He stayed there, his hand resting lightly on hers, his presence a quiet comfort.

The garden was alive with the gentle hum of summer, the sunlight filtering through the trees in golden streams. Birds chirped in the distance, and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze lent an idyllic serenity to the scene. Amid it all, Lysander's laughter was the brightest melody, a carefree sound that seemed to chase away every shadow.

Luna's pace quickened the moment her eyes found her son. Her heart swelled as she took in the sight of him, his small form darting between the flowerbeds, curls bouncing as he giggled with abandon. He was chasing a butterfly, his chubby hands outstretched, his cheeks flushed with joy. It was a moment so pure, so untouched by the troubles of the world, that it made her breath catch in her throat.

"Mummy!" Lysander's voice rang out as he spotted her. He abandoned his pursuit of the butterfly instantly, his arms flying wide as he ran toward her on unsteady legs, a determined little wobble in his steps.

She crouched low, arms open, catching him as he threw himself into her embrace. She scooped him up effortlessly, holding him close as if she could shield him from everything that lay beyond this moment. "Hello, my love," she whispered, her voice soft and filled with adoration. She pressed a cascade of kisses onto his rosy cheeks, delighting in the way he squirmed and giggled, his little hands clutching at her hair.

"Did you have fun with Auntie Pansy?" she asked, pulling back just enough to look into his bright, sparkling eyes.

Lysander nodded enthusiastically, his curls bobbing with the motion. "Pee-Pee let me jump on bed!" he declared, his words tumbling out in a rush, his excitement spilling over.

Luna's laugh was light and musical, her head tilting back as she imagined the scene. "Did she now?" she asked, her tone teasing. "Lucky boy. You know that's very special—she doesn't let just anyone jump on her bed."

"Big bed!" Lysander added with an exaggerated gesture, his little arms stretching wide as if to show just how enormous it had been. His delight was infectious, and she couldn't help but laugh again.

Nearby, Theo stood beneath the shade of an oak tree, watching the two of them with a soft smile. His arms were crossed over his chest, but his posture was relaxed, his usual tension melting away as he observed the scene. There was something profoundly grounding about seeing his wife and son together, their joy a balm to his soul. It was a sight he could never tire of, no matter how many times he witnessed it.

"Looks like someone had a good time," he remarked as he stepped forward, his deep voice laced with affection. He placed a gentle hand on Luna's back, leaning in to ruffle Lysander's hair. The little boy wrinkled his nose but didn't protest, too absorbed in recounting his adventures to care.

"Daddy!" Lysander squealed suddenly, his excitement shifting to Theo as he reached for him with tiny, grabby hands. Theo obliged without hesitation, taking the boy from her arms and hoisting him high into the air.

Lysander shrieked with delight, his laughter echoing through the garden as Theo spun him around effortlessly. "Look at you, flying higher than the birds!" he said, his voice full of playful wonder. "Are you a dragon, love? Or a hippogriff?"

"A dlagon!" Lysander roared—or at least, tried to, his small voice breaking into giggles halfway through.

Luna stepped back, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, watching the two most important people in her world. The sight of Theo with their son—his strong arms holding Lysander securely, his face lit with a rare, unguarded smile—made her heart swell with a profound sense of gratitude. For a moment, the weight of the world disappeared, replaced by this singular feeling of rightness. This was her family, whole and safe, wrapped in a bubble of love that felt unbreakable.

He slowed his spinning and pulled Lysander close, cradling him against his chest as the boy's giggles began to subside. "You've had quite the adventure today, haven't you?" he said, his voice quieter now, the words laced with affection.

Lysander nodded sleepily, his little fingers playing with the collar of Theo's shirt. "Mummy back now," he murmured, his voice soft, as though reassuring himself.

She stepped closer, reaching up to brush a strand of Lysander's curls from his forehead. "Yes, my love. Mummy's back now," she said, her voice steady despite the emotions threatening to overflow. She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple before looking up at Theo. Their eyes met, and in that shared glance were a thousand unspoken words—a promise, a gratitude, a love that anchored them both.

He shifted Lysander slightly, freeing one arm to wrap around Luna's shoulders. He pulled her close, enveloping both of them in his embrace. For a long moment, they stood there, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, their small family a picture of quiet perfection.

The world beyond the garden would call to them soon enough, with its challenges and uncertainties. But for now, in this little pocket of time, everything was as it should be. Luna closed her eyes, leaning into Theo's strength, her heart full to bursting. They were together, and that was all that mattered.

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

The prayers had been answered. After what felt like an eternity—a long, agonizing month—Hermione finally woke. It was like the first light of dawn breaking through a stormy sky, tentative yet filled with hope. Her lashes fluttered, her eyes opened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she looked at the world with recognition.

Weeks before, Draco had made the difficult journey to visit Hermione's parents. He had rehearsed the conversation in his head countless times, but nothing could prepare him for the devastation he saw in their eyes. The Grangers were in shock, their faces pale and drawn as he stood before them, carrying the heavy burden of the truth.

Luna stood at the entrance, her heart pounding as she waited for Hermione's parents. The moment they saw her, David and Jane rushed forward, engulfing her in a tight embrace.

"Thank you," Jane whispered through her tears, her voice trembling. "Thank you a million times over."

David, tears in his eyes, took her hands in his and kissed them, his gratitude overwhelming. "These hands saved our baby girl," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Jane clung to her, as if holding onto her for strength, her sobs shaking them both. Luna whispered words of comfort, even though her own emotions threatened to overwhelm her.

Once the tears had slowed, she led them inside to Hermione's room. The air felt heavy with emotion as they entered, seeing their daughter lying still but alive. Jane immediately knelt beside her, holding her hand, while David stood by her, silent tears streaming down his face. The room was filled with quiet sobs and whispered prayers, the reunion so emotional it was almost unbearable.

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

Luna stepped softly into the room, her presence radiating calm and reassurance. "Mimi, you're awake," she said, her voice gentle, like the flutter of wings. She moved closer, her ethereal grace making her seem almost otherworldly.

Hermione blinked groggily, her dry throat making her words come out as a rasp. "Luna?"

Luna's smile was full of warmth. "This is our safe house, Mimi. You're safe now." Her wide, dreamy blue eyes seemed to peer right through Hermione, as if she could see her soul.

Hermione opened her mouth to ask what had happened, but before she could speak, Draco's familiar voice broke the silence. "Everyone's here, darling." His tone was soft, but there was an unmistakable edge of relief. He stepped into the room, looking exhausted but relieved, the worry etched into his usually sharp features.

"No one's leaving your side," he continued, "even if I told them to." His attempt at a dry joke made Hermione's heart flutter. His love and care, so often masked by sarcasm, shone through his tired eyes.

Jane stepped forward, her voice trembling with emotion. "Everyone's been waiting for you, love. We're so happy you're awake."

David nodded in agreement, his smile gentle. "You're surrounded by family, love. We've all been here."

Overwhelmed by the relief, the warmth, and the flood of emotions, hrr eyelids grew heavy. The exhaustion of her ordeal weighed on her, and before she could respond, her eyes closed, and sleep overtook her once again, the soft voices of her loved ones filling the room with a sense of safety and peace.

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

The road to recovery was grueling, but Hermione Granger had never been one to shy away from a challenge. She faced her healing journey with the same determination that had carried her through every battle in her life, yet this time, the enemy wasn't external—it was her own body. The hardest truth of all, one everyone around her already knew, was that she was suffering from hemiplegia.

One side of her body was weaker, resistant to her commands. Each step was a war, each motion a victory wrested from the unyielding limits her condition imposed. And yet, Hermione refused to acknowledge the full weight of her reality. Bold as ever, she dismissed the word "limitation" as though it were an insult, defying it even when her body betrayed her.

Her friends rallied around her, creating a shield of love and support that wrapped her in warmth even on the darkest days. Theo and Blaise made it their personal mission to keep Hermione smiling, even if just for a moment. Blaise, with his endless wit, delivered daily affirmations that walked the line between sarcasm and genuine care.

"Look at you, Granger," he'd say, lounging on the sofa with a dramatic flair. "Conquering physiotherapy like it's your OWLs. By next week, you'll probably out-sprint me—which isn't saying much, considering I don't run. Ever."

Hermione would roll her eyes, but her lips would twitch into the faintest of smiles, and Blaise would wink, knowing he'd won.

Theo, meanwhile, had taken up a peculiar new hobby: rediscovering early 2000s pop music and, apparently, religion. The sight of him dancing through the house to Single Ladies while holding a laughing Lysander on his hip had become a near-daily occurrence.

"You're Beyoncé's backup dancer in another life, Theo," Luna had muttered one evening, massaging her temples as Diva blared from their room.

"And in this one!" Theo had replied, spinning Lysander with a flourish, the toddler squealing with glee.

Even Luna, patient as a saint, had her limits. There were days she threatened to hex the music system into oblivion, but the laughter filling the house—and Hermione's rare chuckles from her corner of the room—always softened her resolve.

Three months stretched into six long, grueling months of physical therapy. Every day was a battle, a test of Hermione's willpower and the strength of those who loved her. She had to relearn the most basic tasks: walking, writing, brushing her hair. The motions came slowly, painfully, and there were moments when frustration brought her to tears. But she never stopped. Hermione Granger was relentless, even when she doubted herself.

Her victories were small but monumental. The first time she managed to stand without assistance, Theo burst into applause, shouting, "Someone grab a trophy!" Blaise, pretending to dab at tears, proclaimed it the most inspiring moment of his life. Luna and Draco exchanged a glance and shook their heads, but neither could stop the proud smiles spreading across their faces.

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

Hermione underwent yet another surgery—this one to fully correct the fractures in her skull that had haunted her recovery. Although it was routine, for Luna, no surgery ever felt routine when it came to Hermione. The sterile room, the quiet hum of magic-infused instruments, and the whispered conversations of friends carried a weight that seemed to press down on her chest every time. She stood inside the operating room, her hands clasped tightly together, her usually serene expression betrayed by the faint tremble of her lips. She had watched Hermione endure so much—too much. This wasn't just about reconstructing bone and healing skin; it was about restoring Hermione in every sense of the word: body, mind, and spirit.

With each incision, each delicate movement of her wand, she couldn't help but feel an ache deep within herself. She imagined every stitch as a thread not just mending Hermione's broken skull but tying together the fragile pieces of her soul that had been so cruelly shattered. The physical wounds might heal, but she knew better than most that there were injuries that no spell could repair, scars left in the hidden corners of the heart. And yet, she hoped—prayed, even—that each magical intervention was a step closer to making Hermione whole again.

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

Eventually, one by one, they returned to their own homes, slipping quietly back into the lives they had once known, though those lives felt like distant echoes of who they had been before. The days of crisis and chaos, of whispered fears and hurried plans in the dead of night, began to fade, as though they were a fevered dream dissolving in the light of a new dawn. The safehouse, once so full of life, brimming with tension and the unspoken weight of shared danger, now stood empty. Its walls, which had borne witness to their laughter, their arguments, their tears, and their moments of fragile hope, now held only silence.

For a time, it felt surreal, as if those months spent on the edge of disaster belonged to another world entirely. The memories lingered, like shadows at the edge of their consciousness, but they no longer held the same power. The adrenaline that had once fueled their every decision was gone, replaced by a tentative calm. Life resumed its steady, predictable rhythm, each day folding into the next without the looming threat of catastrophe. Yet, beneath that surface calm lay a quiet understanding that things could never truly go back to the way they had been.

There was a bittersweetness to the return of normalcy. The familiar routines that once brought comfort now seemed foreign, almost hollow, as though the people stepping back into them were not the same ones who had left them behind. The mundane details of daily life—the brewing of morning tea, the hum of work, the soft patter of rain against a window—took on a strange, almost sacred quality. Each small act felt like a testament to survival, a quiet reminder that they had lived to see these ordinary moments again.

And yet, there was a subtle shift, a change in the fabric of their lives that could not be undone. The bonds forged in those months of uncertainty were indelible, etched into their very souls. They had faced the unthinkable together, their lives intertwined in ways that words could never fully capture. The love, the friendships, the unspoken understanding that had grown between them during that time lingered, a steady undercurrent in their interactions. There was no need to speak of it; they carried it with them, each in their own way.

They didn't dwell on the past, but it shaped them nonetheless. It wasn't something they wore like a badge of honor or a scar, but rather something quieter, more intrinsic. It was in the way they looked at each other, in the moments of silence that didn't need to be filled, in the way they held their loved ones just a little tighter, laughed a little louder, lingered a little longer. They had come through the storm, not unscathed but whole, and that was enough.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the intensity of those dark times softened, like the sharp edges of a stone worn smooth by the passage of water. The safehouse, once alive with fear and determination, became a place of memory—a silent witness to their survival. And life, in its infinite resilience, carried on. They carried on. But they carried with them the knowledge that life was fragile, fleeting, and infinitely precious. And so, in the quiet moments of their days, they found gratitude—not for the storm they had endured, but for the fact that they had endured it together.