The morning light crept in softly, brushing the bedroom walls with a pale, golden warmth as Ginny woke with a sharp inhale, her body jerking as though something inside her had called her back too quickly. She lay still for a moment, listening to the quiet around her, trying to understand what had pulled her from sleep. It was not fear. It was not pain. It was something quieter, buried deep beneath her ribs, warm and insistent in a way she could not quite name.
Her heartbeat thudded in her chest, heavy and off rhythm. She stared up at the ceiling, willing herself to settle, but the strange flutter in her stomach only grew. It was subtle, barely more than a ripple of awareness, yet unmistakable. She pressed a hand to her abdomen without thinking, palm flat against the soft skin beneath her shirt, and a shiver ran through her.
A thought passed through her so quickly she almost missed it. A thought too wild and too delicate to grasp at first.
No. It was impossible.
Except it wasn't, was it?
Her pulse picked up as she sat up slowly in the dim light, her breath catching on the edges of memories from the last few weeks. The fatigue she had blamed on sleepless nights, the dizzy spells she had brushed aside, the way her emotions had swung sharply without warning. The cravings that had made no sense. The dreams that lingered long after she woke, dreams filled with warmth and laughter, dreams she had pushed away without examining too closely.
Her fingers curled in the blanket as her chest tightened.
It could not be. It should not be. But the possibility pressed against her with a quiet, undeniable insistence.
She needed to know.
Moving carefully, she slipped out of bed, her feet touching the cool floorboards with a soft sound that seemed too loud in the still house. Each step felt heavy, weighted with something she did not yet have the courage to name. The silence trailed behind her as she walked to the bathroom, her breath slow and shaky, her thoughts tangled in hope and fear.
She reached for her wand first, steadying herself with the familiar feel of it in her hand.
"Accio pregnancy test," she whispered.
The small box flew neatly from where she had hidden it months ago, landing in her palm with barely any weight at all. Her heart thudded painfully. She had bought it in a moment of curiosity she never thought would matter, tucked it away and forgotten it. Until now.
The bathroom door clicked softly shut behind her.
She stood there for a long moment, staring at the box as if it might answer her without needing to be opened. Her hands shook as she set it on the counter. She breathed through the nerves rising fast in her chest, then forced herself to move, to open it, to follow each step as calmly as she could manage.
When she finally placed the test on the counter to wait, her fingers locked around the edge of the sink, gripping it as though she needed something solid to anchor her. Her breath came too fast. She tried to slow it, tried to steady herself, tried to remind herself that she had survived far worse moments than this.
But this was different. This was not war or danger or grief.
This was life.
This was possibility.
When the time came, she almost could not bring herself to look. Her throat closed. Her eyes burned. She lifted the test with a trembling hand.
Two lines.
Clear. Unmistakable.
A ragged sound escaped her, half sob, half breathless laugh. Her knees nearly gave out as she pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to quiet the flood of emotion rising too quickly for her to contain. She backed up slowly until her shoulders touched the wall, sliding down until she sat on the floor with the test still clutched in her shaking fingers.
Pregnant.
The word settled into her bones, warm and terrifying and beautiful all at once.
She pressed her free hand over her stomach again, softer this time, as if greeting something fragile and new.
Tears gathered on her lashes and spilled freely, not from grief this time, but from something gentler. Something that looked like wonder.
She whispered into the stillness, her voice cracked and breathless.
"Okay," she murmured. "Alright. I'm here. I'm right here."
Another tear slipped down her cheek.
She closed her eyes, let her hand rest where it felt right, and breathed in the beginning of something she had never expected.
Something miraculous.
Something hers.
This was real. The truth settled over her like a warm rush of air, equal parts dizzying and grounding. The tiny life growing inside her was no longer a guess she whispered to herself, no longer a fragile hope she was afraid to touch. It was real. It was here. It was hers. The realization hit with a force she wasn't prepared for, something primal and ancient rising from deep within her, curling around her ribs until she could hardly breathe.
Love. A fierce, consuming love that felt older than she was, older than anything she had ever known. It swept through her with the kind of certainty that left no room for doubt, no hesitation, no question of whether she was ready or enough.
She already loved him. Loved him in a way she had never loved anything. Loved him in a way that rewrote the shape of her heart.
Before she had even said the word out loud.
Before she had even stopped shaking.
Before she had the chance to do anything but feel it.
This child was hers. Theirs. A small miracle shaped out of tenderness and chaos and every night she had curled into his warmth thinking she would never deserve this kind of life.
Her mind surged forward, breathless and wild. She saw the moment she would tell him, the way his dark eyes would soften as the truth sank in. She saw his hands, steady and sure, resting over her stomach with reverence he would try to hide behind a shaky grin. She saw him whisper in Italian, words he only ever used when he felt too much, words meant for the two of them alone. She saw the family they would become, the future she never dared to imagine but suddenly ached to hold.
Her mother flashed through her mind. The home she had grown up in. The family that had been loud and messy and imperfect. The mother she would try to be. A sob worked its way up her throat, sharp and tender, knocking through her like a wave. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth as tears slipped over her fingers.
Terrifying. Beautiful. Entirely overwhelming.
She stayed there on the floor for longer than she meant to, surrounded by the quiet of the morning and the soft echo of her own heartbeat. The house around her slowly woke, sounds drifting through the walls in a gentle rhythm, but nothing could pull her out of this moment until she was ready.
Eventually, her breath steadied. Her hands no longer shook. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her wrist, then rose slowly, almost reverently, her body feeling different now, as if she moved with a newfound weight, a quiet purpose she had never known before.
Her fingers drifted over her stomach again, a gesture as natural as breathing.
A small smile, soft and private, curved her lips.
Outside this room, nothing had changed. The world was the same. The house was the same. Morning sunlight still filtered through the windows in the same gentle slant.
But inside her, everything had shifted.
She stepped into the hall, her heart steady for the first time in weeks, knowing without a single doubt that the path ahead had been rewritten.
Her life would never be the same again.
~~~~~~
The Malfoy penthouse dining room was bathed in the soft, golden glow of twilight, turning marble into molten gold and casting warm halos around the chandelier's delicate crystals. The fading light stretched through the tall windows, filling the space with a quiet intimacy—a rare, fleeting moment of peace in lives that had seen too much chaos.
Hermione, propped comfortably against pillows in a plush armchair at the head of the table, watched the small miracle unfolding before her. Lysander, snug in a highchair adorned with the regal crest of a lion, had discovered a new passion—culinary chaos. His tiny fingers, plump with innocence, grasped a spoonful of pureed pumpkin with the determination of an artist at work. Instead of delicately guiding it to his mouth, he flung it in an enthusiastic arc across the room.
Lady did not miss a beat. With a delighted snort, she pounced on the mess, her tiny tongue working furiously to clean the floor as if it were the most exquisite feast ever laid before her. The sight was so absurdly comical that laughter erupted around the table, a chorus of mirth pushing aside the shadows of the past year.
Ginny, seated beside Hermione, reached out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, her fingers lingering in a gesture both familiar and comforting. Their eyes met, and without words, they spoke—of survival, of gratitude, of the sheer relief of sitting here, surrounded by the people they loved. They had fought, lost, and rebuilt, and now, for just this moment, they were allowed to simply be.
Across the table, Draco and Pansy were locked in a playful argument, their laughter punctuated by the occasional exaggerated groan from Theo, who watched them with an expression of long-suffering amusement. Pansy, ever dramatic, waved a linen napkin like a dueling flag. "This child," she declared, eyeing the pumpkin-streaked Lysander, "is an artistic genius. A misunderstood visionary. We must encourage his work, not stifle it."
Draco rolled his eyes, smirking as he wiped pumpkin from his sleeve. "Brilliant. You can encourage him from your side of the table, then."
Luna, unbothered by the mayhem, traced lazy patterns in the margins of an old book, a dreamy smile playing on her lips. Even Theo, who usually wore his stoicism like armor, let out a rare chuckle as he reached for his wine, shaking his head at the scene before him.
And then there was Lysander—grinning, gurgling, and now thoroughly decorated in his own dinner, utterly delighted by the chaos he had wrought. Hermione felt the warmth bloom in her chest, a rush of love so deep it left her breathless.
This wasn't the life any of them had imagined, but it was theirs. Messy, imperfect, full of laughter and love. And for that, she was endlessly grateful.
The warm glow of candlelight, once comforting, now cast restless shadows along the walls, twisting and shifting as if they, too, sensed what was coming. The Malfoy dining room, filled with laughter just hours ago, had grown quiet, tension thickening the air like an approaching storm. The fragile peace they had clung to was nothing more than a temporary reprieve. The reckoning had finally arrived.
Draco stood at the head of the table, his fingers tight around the stem of his goblet, knuckles pale against the crystal. The usual Malfoy composure was stripped away, revealing exhaustion that seeped into every line of his face. His gaze swept across the table, lingering longest on Hermione, something unspoken passing between them—something raw, desperate.
"A toast," he said at last, his voice steady but heavy. "To honesty. To the truths we've buried. To whatever comes next." His eyes flicked to Pansy, then Theo, then Blaise. They all understood the weight of this moment.
Hermione felt her grip tighten around her glass, the coolness grounding her as heat rose in her chest. The quiet had only delayed the inevitable. The past, no matter how deeply buried, had always been waiting.
The room held its breath. Pansy, once effortlessly vibrant, now twisted her napkin in tense fingers. Theo's usual mask of indifference was cracking, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished table. Blaise clasped Ginny's hand, the strain evident in the way his knuckles whitened. Even Luna sat unnaturally still.
"To honesty," Blaise echoed, his voice a whisper, his dark eyes meeting Hermione's in silent understanding.
Theo nodded wordlessly, jaw tight as if bracing for impact.
The soft clink of crystal meeting crystal rang out—sharp, final, like a bell tolling for what was to come.
Draco lowered his glass, his gaze sweeping over each of them. "No more lies. No more hiding. Tonight, we face the truth."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The candle flames flickered wildly, restless against the heavy stillness.
This was it. No more pretending. No more safe spaces.
Secrets would be laid bare, and when the night was over, nothing would ever be the same.
One by one, the Slytherins led their partners away, retreating to the sanctuary of private rooms, doors clicking shut behind them. Conversations would be had. Truths would be spoken. And whatever came next, they would either weather the storm together—or be torn apart by it.
~~~~~~
The tension between them throbbed in the air, thick and blistering, the kind that made the walls feel too small. Blaise grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the corner of the room, but she tore herself free so violently that her shoulder jarred with the movement. Her pulse hammered in her ears, her breathing came in ragged bursts, and her rage rose like a fire she no longer bothered to contain.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she hissed, shoving him square in the chest.
He took the shove without flinching, though the muscle in his jaw tightened. He let her stand there with her fists curling at her sides, fury crackling in the air between them like a live wire.
"Ginny, I need you to listen," he said, the words low and rough, as if he was trying not to let something break loose inside him.
"Oh, I am listening," she snapped back, folding her arms across her chest in a tense, trembling line. Her nails dug hard into her skin. "I'm waiting for the next round of bullshit you think you can feed me. What is it this time? Another pretty lie? Another excuse? Or do you just enjoy seeing how far you can push me before I snap?"
He took a step forward, fists clenching at his sides, barely holding himself together. "This isn't an excuse," he said, voice strained. "It is the truth. The truth I should have told you months ago."
She laughed once, a jagged, humorless sound that sliced straight through him. "The truth? From you? That is adorable." Her eyes glittered. "Go on then. Wow me."
His patience tore clean in half.
"I am a killer," he said, each word steady and final, a confession soaked in blood.
Silence hit them. Heavy. Sharp. Long enough for her expression to flicker with something he could not name before her face hardened again, cold and merciless.
"That is your big confession?" she whispered, a laugh curling around the words like poison. "That is what you dragged me in here for? You want applause? You want me to faint? You want me to pat your hand and tell you you did your best?"
Her voice rose, venom lacing every word. "Because it is not okay, Blaise. It will never be okay."
He took a breath that sounded like it scraped down his throat. "I did not have a choice—"
"Bullshit," she roared, shoving him so hard his back hit the wall. "You always have a choice. And you chose this. You chose to bring blood into our home. You chose to lie to me. You chose to make me feel crazy every time I asked where you were."
His eyes flashed. "I chose it to protect us. I chose it to protect you."
"Don't you dare put this on me," she shot back, stepping closer, fury trembling through her voice. "You do not get to twist this. You do not get to call yourself a martyr after dragging me through hell."
His body went still, every part of him pulled tight as a bowstring. "I am not a monster," he said softly, voice raw. "I need you to believe that."
She laughed again, colder this time. "Then what are you?" Her face tilted up to his, her eyes burning. "Tell me. What the fuck are you if not a monster?"
He did not answer. He could not.
She pushed a hand into his chest, close enough to feel his heartbeat stuttering beneath her palm. "Heroes do not come home stinking of blood. Heroes do not stare through their wives like they are strangers. Heroes do not lie, Blaise. Not like this."
"I did what I had to do," he shouted, voice breaking around the edges, but she cut him down with a single look.
"And what about what I had to do?" she cried, her voice shaking. "I had to sit alone at night wondering if you were dead or just out burying another body. I had to wash the stains out of your clothes and pretend I did not see. I had to look you in the eye every day and act like the truth was not sitting right behind your silence."
He dragged his hands through his hair, pacing, breathing hard.
She stared at him with something that looked almost like heartbreak. "You kept me in the dark because you were scared. Not for me. For yourself." Her voice dropped into something sharp enough to cut. "You were terrified I would leave once I knew the truth. You were terrified I would see the real you."
His face twisted, something inside him cracking. "You have no idea what I have sacrificed for you, baby."
The word landed like a slap. She recoiled.
"Sacrificed?" she whispered, her voice brittle with disbelief. "You sacrificed your humanity. You sacrificed every promise we ever made." She gestured between them, her hands trembling. "And for what? For a life you never even let me be part of?"
He stepped forward, crowding her space. "What do you want from me? Tell me. Tell me what the fuck I am supposed to do."
"Let me go," she whispered.
His breath caught.
She held his gaze, steady and final. "I cannot keep loving a man I do not know. I cannot keep sleeping beside a stranger who comes home covered in blood."
"Ginny," he said, barely breathing the word.
"Don't," she interrupted, turning away before he could reach for her. "Do not say another word. You have done enough."
Selective transparency is not honesty.
And may the fire of who you are burn you alive until you are capable of standing in the fucking truth of it.
The silence between them felt like a loaded gun pointed at both their heads, one wrong breath away from going off. Ginny stood there, trembling with fury, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. Her heart slammed so hard it hurt, and every beat felt like another reminder of just how deeply he had betrayed her. Blaise looked no better, his jaw rigid, his fists curling at his sides, his whole body held together by a thread.
She stared at him like he was something rotten. "You disgust me," she said quietly, the words slow and deliberate, each one slicing into him. "I don't even know who the fuck you are anymore. Did I ever?"
He took a step toward her before stopping himself, his breath catching. "Ginny, please. Just let me explain."
Her laugh cut through the room, sharp and bitter. "Explain? That should be good. Go on then. Tell me why my entire fucking life has been a joke. Tell me why you could kiss me, touch me, climb into bed with me, fuck me, and still walk around living some double life like it was nothing." She pointed at him with shaking hands. "What do you want? Sympathy? Should I stroke your cheek and tell you it's alright that you're a murderer? Should I feel sorry for you?"
He flinched like she had slapped him.
"You knew," she said, stepping closer, her voice low and venomous. "You knew exactly what you were doing every single time you left this house and came back with blood under your nails. So do not stand there and pretend you had no choice."
"I did it for us," he said, voice cracking as the words ripped out of him. "For you."
"For me?" she repeated, and her laugh was ugly, humourless, sharp enough to cut him open. "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to be the idiot wife who waited up all night wondering if her husband was dead or just busy dumping a body somewhere?" She jabbed a finger at his chest. "Do not you dare call this love. Do not act like you were protecting me. You were protecting your own goddamn ego."
He swore under his breath and paced, raking his hand through his hair. "You don't understand," he snapped.
"No," she growled, stepping forward, "you don't understand." She shoved him again, her voice rising. "You lied to me. You lied every single day. You let me love you while you built a life made of blood and secrets, and you let me walk through it blind."
His breathing turned shallow. His expression twisted. "I never wanted to hurt you."
"But you did," she said, her voice cracking in a way that made something in him freeze. "You hurt me every night I sat here alone, wondering why your shirt smelled like metal and smoke. You hurt me every time you walked through the door and kissed me like I should not ask questions. You hurt me every time you handed me promises you had already broken."
He took a step toward her. "Ginny, listen—"
"No," she snapped, stepping back. "I am done listening. You had years to tell me the truth. Years to give me a choice. You could have trusted me. I trusted you. And what did you do with that? You dragged me into your darkness and expected me to smile."
He swallowed hard, his throat working as if the words physically wounded him. "You think I wanted this life? You think this was something I chose freely?"
"You always had a choice," she shouted, her voice shaking from the force of it. "And every single time, you chose the bloody path. And you chose it for me too, without ever asking what I wanted. That is what makes you selfish. That is what makes you a coward."
He looked like he had taken a blade straight through the heart. His entire frame went still.
"And now," she said, her voice softer but somehow more devastating, "you have made it worse."
He froze. "Ginny," he whispered, "what are you talking about?"
She stared at him, her eyes bright with a fury that barely masked the terror beneath it. Her voice dropped to almost nothing.
"I'm pregnant."
The words landed like a bomb.
Blaise went rigid. His eyes widened. His breath caught, sharp and broken.
"What?" His voice barely made it out.
She held his gaze, unflinching. "I'm pregnant," she said again, slower this time, as if each word was a weight she had to lift. "And the thought of raising a child with you makes me sick."
The silence that followed swallowed them whole.
Blaise moved toward her without thinking, a reflex born from years of reaching for her first, but she slapped his hand away so hard the sound cracked through the room like a curse. He recoiled, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.
"Don't touch me," she hissed, her voice low and shaking with pure disgust. "Do not you fucking dare act like you care now. Do not stand there and pretend this changes a damn thing."
"Ginny, please," he rasped. His voice was shredded, the edges frayed. "We can—"
"We can what?" she cut in, her tone sharp enough to draw blood. "Raise a baby in a house built on blood? Teach them that murder is just part of the family business?" Her laugh was cold, hollow. "Tell me, Blaise. How exactly do you picture this? You doing bedtime stories after a night of killing someone's father? You holding our baby with hands still stained with someone else's life?"
He sucked in a breath like she had punched him.
"I can fix this," he said quickly, desperately, the words tumbling out with no control. "I swear to you, I will get out. I will change. I will—"
"Stop lying!" she screamed, the sound ripping straight from her chest. Her voice cracked under the strain, raw and broken. "Stop feeding me the same bullshit you've fed me for years. You already made your choice. You chose them. You chose this life." Her hand pressed to her stomach, slight but protective. "And I'm choosing this baby. I'm choosing them over you. And that means keeping them as far away from you as I possibly can."
Blaise shook his head, almost violently, as if he could undo her words by sheer force of will. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, fingers trembling like he was holding back a scream.
"Ginny, that is not fair," he managed, but she cut him with her next breath.
"You are not a husband," she said, her voice steady now in a way that frightened him more than her rage. "You are a liar. You are not a father. You are a killer. And the only thing you have ever been good at is destroying everything you touch."
The words hit him like a physical blow. Something inside him seemed to cave in, his face emptying of all color, all fight. Blaise Zabini, who had stared death in the face more times than anyone should, looked like a man who had just watched his entire world collapse.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. No excuse. No plea. No promise.
Nothing.
Ginny inhaled a shaky breath, her eyes bright with fury and heartbreak, and she straightened her spine as if bracing herself for the weight of her choice. "I do not care how sorry you are. I do not care what you swear you will change. You ruined us. You ruined everything. And I will not let you ruin this baby too."
She turned before he could move, before he could reach for her again, before he could drag out one more useless apology. Her footsteps were quick, resolute, her shoulders stiff as she walked away.
Blaise stayed where he was, frozen in place, drowning in the silence she left behind. He looked like a man who had finally run out of sins to hide behind.
And for the first time in his life, he looked afraid.
~~~~~~
Hermionesat rigid in her chair, fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve. Her breath hitched as another crash echoed down the hallway, followed by a string of curses sharp enough to make even Kreacher wince. Her eyes flicked to him, searching for reassurance, but what she found instead made her stomach clench.
Draco's face was unreadable, save for the tight set of his jaw and the cold, measured way he held himself—like a man who had already made peace with the storm he was about to walk into. It wasn't just anger. It was something deeper, something honed and lethal. A quiet, practiced resolve that only came from surviving the kind of battles that left scars no one could see.
"Love," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the chaos. "Are you sure? Maybe... maybe there's another way. One that doesn't—"
He reached for her hand, his grip steady, grounding. "There's no turning back now," he said, voice low, resolute. His thumb brushed over her knuckles in a fleeting attempt at comfort, but the tension in his frame betrayed him. "They need to hear the truth. If we don't do this now, nothing changes. And I won't—" He exhaled sharply. "I won't let it happen again."
The conviction in his voice struck like a blow. She looked down at their entwined hands, her mind racing. Truth. It could burn through every carefully laid deception, but at what cost? She wasn't sure she was ready to find out.
Another crash. Another scream.
He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "We knew this would be ugly. It has to be. But once the dust settles, they'll understand." He paused, and for the first time, she heard the slightest waver in his voice. "They have to."
She swallowed hard. Fear gnawed at her, but so did the truth in his words. The weight of their choice pressed against her ribs, suffocating, irreversible.
A final crash sent splinters of wood skidding across the floor. Her fingers tightened around his, feeling his pulse—a steady rhythm, strong despite the storm around them.
"We can't stop it now," he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. "But we can face it together."
She nodded, though the fear hadn't left her. "Together," she whispered, the word feeling like both a promise and a prayer. It wasn't enough to quiet the dread curling in her gut, but for now, it was all she had.
The door to the hallway slammed open, and the first of their enemies stepped into the room, the tension palpable as the truth started its inevitable march forward.
Ginny didn't see reason. She didn't see hope. All she saw was Draco Ferret Malfoy.
With each measured step towards the dining room, the fury in her eyes intensified, a wildfire threatening to consume her. Reaching the doorway, she stopped, not to gather her composure, but to savor the dramatic effect.
"Draco Malfoy," she hissed, her voice laced with enough venom to petrify a troll. "You dare speak of reason? You, whose family motto might as well be 'Death and Destruction for Dummies'?" A humorless laugh, sharp and brittle, escaped her lips. "Resistance? You call this resistance? This is what you dragged me into? This clandestine, pathetic little rebellion?"
She scanned the room, taking in the bewildered face of Hermione, who looked ready to faint at the sight of her blazing fury. "You want me to see reason? Look around you, Malfoy! Look at the terror you've instilled in these people! This is your legacy – fear, not freedom!"
Her gaze snapped back to Draco, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You took away my family," she choked out, a single tear tracing a fiery path down her cheek. "And now, you want to take away their future? All because you can't seem to escape the shadow of your Death Eater father? Well, let me tell you something, Malfoy," she snarled, her voice cracking with barely contained rage, "you may be a Malfoy, but you'll never be a leader. All you are is a pale imitation, a wannabe revolutionary clinging to the coattails of a ghost."
Hermione flinched, the accusation a fresh wound on top of the confusion already swirling in her gut.
"Ginny, wait!" she called out, her voice small in the wake of her fury. "It's not that simple."
Ginny spun on her heel, her emerald eyes blazing with an inferno that froze Hermione in place. "Not that simple?" she snarled, her voice sharp enough to cut through steel. "He vanishes for weeks, comes back reeking of blood and death, and you're standing here telling me it's not that simple? Does your own psychopath tell you about his killings? Or does he just conveniently leave that out when he's washing the stench of his crimes off in your bed?"
She flinched again, guilt flickering across her face, but Ginny wasn't finished.
"Don't you dare defend Blaise to me," Ginny spat, her voice low and venomous. "You're supposed to be the smart one. The rational one. And yet here you are, enabling him, justifying all of this, like you're his bloody accomplice! Is that what you've become, Hermione? His perfect little enabler?"
Her voice cracked, but it didn't falter. If anything, the break only made the fury behind it more raw, more devastating.
"Blaise… he wasn't always like this, at least not in school," Ginny said, her tone softening, but only for a fleeting moment. "He used to be good. He used to be… a good person. But this? This family business you keep dancing around? It poisoned him. It's turned him into someone I barely recognize. And you—" her finger shot out, trembling with rage as it pointed at Hermione, "—you're just standing there, holding their leash while they drown themselves in darkness!"
She opened her mouth to speak, but Ginny cut her off with a bitter laugh.
"No, don't even try it," she snapped. "Don't tell me Blaise is doing it for us. For me. For some noble, self-sacrificing cause. You think I can't see what this is? He's choosing the dark. Every time he walks out that door, every time he comes back with blood on his hands and refuses to talk about it, he's choosing them over me.."
Tears spilled over her cheeks, but her voice only grew colder, sharper, each word a dagger aimed at Hermione's chest.
"And you," she hissed, her gaze narrowing, "you're standing by Malfoy like some lovesick fool, pretending it's all for the greater good. But tell me, Hermione—when do we get to be enough? When do the people who love him get to come first? Or are we just collateral damage in whatever twisted war you think they are fighting?"
The room was suffocatingly silent, save for her ragged breaths. She looked at Hermione one last time, her face a mask of fury and heartbreak.
"You tell Blaise," she said, her voice low and trembling with anger, "that he gets one last chance. Me, or them. Because I will not let him drag me—or anyone else—down with him. And if you keep standing by Malfoy's side, then you're no better than he is."
The raw pain in her voice struck a chord deep within Hermione. Looking at him, his face ashen and his shoulders slumped in defeat, she realized she wasn't entirely wrong.
"Ginevra please," Draco drawled, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Don't play the wide-eyed ingénue. The Zabinis? They've been neck-deep in bloodshed for centuries. Saint Blaise? More like Saint Butcher. Your precious husband was a murderer long before he ever crossed paths with me. This darkness? It's woven into the very fabric of his family tapestry."
He leaned closer, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "Did he ever tell you about the fun little 'accidents' that kept the Zabini coffers overflowing? Or maybe he prefers to keep his trophies hidden under that greasy charm of his."
His voice dropped to a venomous hiss. "Don't delude yourself, Weasley. Your perfect husband is just as good at playing pretend as you are. He may smile and bring you trinkets, but beneath that veneer lies a monster you wouldn't recognize. A monster you probably wouldn't mind taming, considering your taste in broken things."
Her face contorted in a mask of fury, her emerald eyes blazing with a fire that could rival a phoenix's. "Don't you dare," she spat, her voice a feral growl. "Don't you dare speak of him like that! He may not be a saint, but at least he doesn't slither around in the shadows like a malnourished ferret, his every action dictated by a daddy with a reputation for torture!"
"Threats, Malfoy? You wouldn't know a real threat if it Avada'd you from behind. Maybe you should worry about the crumbling foundation of your own ancestral home before you try to lecture me on mine. Because unlike you, Draco Malfoy, I will protect my family. Even from overgrown schoolyard bullies with delusions of grandeur and a desperate need to cling to the coattails of a Dark Lord whose shadow will forever stain your pathetic existence."
"And what about you, Granger?" She shrieked, her voice strained with a mix of fury and hurt. "After everything? After I spent months holding your hand, this is how you repay me? After I wiped your ass for months while you were busy mooning over your precious ferret-faced husband?"
Draco bristled at the blatant disrespect towards Hermione, his own voice laced with icy contempt. "Ginerva, enough of this Gryffindor theatrics," he sneered. "Don't you dare talk about my wife like that. We all know Weasley heroics are best left in the past, along with your precious brothers who couldn't defend themselves from a rogue bludger."
Her face contorted in a mask of fury hotter than a fiendfyre. "Heroics? You wouldn't know heroism if it confunded you straight into the Chamber of Secrets! You spent your entire life hiding behind your daddy's robes, while I was out there facing Death Eaters, not waltzing around like a pampered peacock with a superiority complex the size of Hogwarts!"
She took a menacing step forward, her voice a low growl. "And don't you dare lecture me about loyalty, Malfoy. Your wife, your precious Granger, couldn't stay loyal to a cause for a single school year, let alone a husband. Just like you, she's a traitor who betrayed her friends and her ideals for a seat at the Slytherin high table."
A dangerous glint flickered in her emerald eyes. "Perhaps you two deserve each other. A pair of self-serving people, more concerned with power and prestige than anything resembling decency. You with your delusions of a pureblood utopia and your wife with her insatiable thirst for knowledge that always seems to lead her down the most self-righteous path."
Draco's face flushed a deep crimson, his sneer replaced by a grimace. "At least my wife possesses an intellect that rivals her morals, Weasley. You may have had your five minutes of fame during the war, Weasley, but those days are over. Now all you have left is the bitter taste of defeat and the desperate need to cling to the ghost of a lost brother."
A choked sob escaped her lips, a heartbreaking counterpoint to the fury in her eyes. With a feral snarl, she lunged for Draco, her hand raised high, aiming for a stinging slap across his smug face. But vengeance was ripped from her grasp.
A flash of crimson light filled the room, not from her wand, but from Hermione's. "Stupefy!" she shouted, her voice hoarse with a mixture of anger and despair. The spell hit her squarely in the chest, sending her flying backwards.
Ginny crumpled onto the threadbare rug, the breath knocked out of her lungs. Her emerald eyes, wide with shock and betrayal, locked onto her face. Tears, a treacherous mix of fury and hurt, streamed down her cheeks, blurring her vision.
The fragile peace of the evening shattered with a sudden, violent commotion. Heavy footsteps thundered down the grand staircase, voices raised in confusion and panic. The celebratory air twisted into something sharp, electric with tension. Couples rushed into the dining room, eyes wide with disbelief as they took in the scene before them.
At the center of it all, Ginny lay sprawled across the rug, chest heaving, fury burning through her tear-streaked face. Her wild red hair fanned around her, a sharp contrast to the dull, threadbare carpet. Her fingers twitched, aching to lash out, but she was frozen—stunned, not just by magic but by betrayal. Above her, Hermione stood motionless, wand trembling, the crimson afterglow of her spell still clinging to the air.
The silence was suffocating.
"She was going to kill him," Hermione whispered, voice barely more than a breath but cutting through the room like a blade.
Draco, standing beside her, felt every muscle in his body coil with restrained fury. His jaw clenched, his grip on Hermione's hand tightening, his pulse a low, steady drumbeat of rage. His storm-grey eyes flicked between Ginny, still gasping on the floor, and the others—Theo, Luna, Neville, and Pansy—frozen in stunned silence on the landing.
And then, Draco's lips curled.
"Well," he drawled, his voice smooth but laced with venom. "That was certainly… dramatic." He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Perhaps some of us should learn to manage our emotions."
His tone was mocking, but beneath it lay something far darker. The air around him crackled, the weight of his anger pressing down on the room like a gathering storm.
He turned, his gaze locking onto each person in the room before landing on Hermione. His grip on her hand was no longer just protective—it was a silent vow, a promise etched in the marrow of his bones.
"Tonight," he murmured, his voice calm, too calm. "We don't seek justice. We seek vengeance."
The declaration sent a ripple of energy through the room, each person instinctively straightening, as if pulled to attention by the gravity of his words.
"Jelena Karkaroff," he continued, eyes burning cold and unforgiving. "The woman who dared to harm the one I love."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers flexed against hers. He was no longer speaking as the heir to an ancient house, no longer the man who played at civility. This was something primal.
"An eye for an eye," he murmured, the phrase spoken not as a thought, but as a sentence. A death sentence.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, the storm outside echoing the storm within.
"Igor Karkaroff is in Romania," he continued, voice sharp as a blade. "Lurking in the shadows like the coward he is. We'll smoke him out."
He scanned the room, his steely gaze daring anyone to hesitate. The candlelight flickered against his face, casting jagged shadows that made him look more warlord than wizard.
"Form groups," he commanded. "Find him. This is not a request." His tone was final, ringing through the air like the last toll of a war drum. "We do not fail the ones we love."
The room shifted, the energy changing, solidifying.
Luna took on a sharper edge, her mind already calculating. She spoke softly, summoning creatures of the night to aid in the hunt, her magic stretching into the unseen corners of the world.
Pansy moved with quiet efficiency, gathering vials of poison with meticulous precision. No theatrics now—just cold, lethal focus.
Neville, no longer the hesitant boy of their youth, strode toward his collection of weapons, fingers curling around the hilt of a blade. It glinted in the dim light, a symbol of the quiet, unshakable force he had become.
Theo and Blaise worked in tandem, loading their arsenal with practiced ease. Metal clanged, the whir of enchanted mechanisms humming between them. Their movements were smooth, their minds already ahead, already calculating, already ready.
Among them all, they stood together, still, silent. His fingers brushed against hers, grounding her in the storm.
No more waiting. No more running. Tonight, they were not just fighting. Tonight, they were delivering a reckoning.
~~~~~~
Pansy remained by Luna and Hermione's side, intent on addressing the escalating situation with Ginny. The weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the urgency that propelled them into action.
After Draco and the others vanished through the portkey to Transylvania, the girls wasted no time in working together to help Ginny regain consciousness.
Hermione, her expression resolute amid the chaos swirling around them, knelt beside her, determination etched into her features. "Ginny, wake up," she urged, her voice a soothing blend of gentleness and authority. Each word was a lifeline, pulling Ginny back from the depths of her unconsciousness.
Luna, her usual ethereal calm replaced by an intensity rarely seen, waved her wand over Ginny with a fluid grace, murmuring a soft incantation. "She'll come around soon," she said, her voice steady and unwavering, radiating a quiet confidence that calmed Pansy's racing heart.
Pansy stood nearby, her demeanor uncharacteristically serious as she crossed her arms, tension coiling within her. "When she does, we need to make sure she understands everything," she said, her tone leaving no room for doubt. "We can't afford any more misunderstandings." The gravity of the situation loomed over them, and she knew that clarity was paramount if they were to navigate the storm brewing around them.
As they waited in the dim light, the girls formed a protective circle around Ginny, their bond fortified by shared purpose and silent determination. They were not merely friends; they were allies prepared to face the unknown together, ready to unravel the web of confusion that had ensnared Ginny and threatened to pull them all under.
Ginny stirred, a low moan escaping her lips as she gradually regained consciousness. The world around her was a haze, harsh light piercing through her eyelids, prompting her to blink against the brightness. Slowly, the shapes and colors began to solidify, and she caught sight of her worried face hovering above her. "Hermione?" she whispered, confusion clouding her gaze, each word a fragile thread pulling her from the depths of unconsciousness.
Hermione, who had been anxiously awaiting this moment, squeezed Ginny's hand reassuringly, a lifeline in the tumultuous sea of emotions. "It's okay, Ginny. You're safe," she said, her voice steady but tinged with concern.
Ginny's eyes flickered with recognition, but the moment was short-lived; an avalanche of anger replaced any semblance of relief. "Safe? You call this safe?" she spat, her voice thick with disbelief as she struggled to sit up, the effort pulling at the wounds of her heart. "My life is falling apart because of you! Everything is your fault! Ever since the day I met you in school, everything is your fault!"
"Ginny, please," she pleaded, her voice trembling as she tried to bridge the chasm opening between them.
"NO!" Ginny shouted, the raw intensity of her emotions breaking through, her voice quaking with fury. "Every bad thing that happened to Harry and Ron is your fault. Everything that happened during the war, and my Fred's death—it's all in your hands!" The accusation hung in the air like a thundercloud, charged and dangerous.
She flinched, confusion clouding her brow. "It started with me?" she echoed, genuinely bewildered. "Ginny, I don't understand."
"Don't you dare play dumb!" Ginny spat, her rage bubbling over. "Remember first year? You waltzed into Hogwarts with your bushy hair and know-it-all attitude, stealing the attention like a siren. Suddenly, Harry's only interested in what Hermione Granger has to say, not Ginny Weasley!" Her voice cracked slightly, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the fortress of anger.
"That's not true," she countered gently, desperation threading her words. "We were all just kids then, learning the ropes. Harry valued your friendship too."
Ginny scoffed, disbelief etched across her face. "Maybe. But then came the Triwizard Tournament. You were all for Harry entering that death trap! Didn't you care about the danger? What if he hadn't come back? What if I'd lost him too?" A choked sob escaped her lips, tears of frustration mingling with the memories of that harrowing year.
"We were worried sick about Harry," she admitted, her voice softening as she remembered their collective fears. "But we never thought…"
"Then came the fight between Ron and Harry," Ginny interrupted, her voice gaining momentum as she spoke. "Fourth year, the Yule Ball, all that mess. You were supposed to be their friend but you let everything explode. Didn't you ever think about how it affected the rest of us?"
She flinched again, a pang of guilt twisting in her gut. "Of course I did! But sometimes friendships go through rough patches. We all make mistakes."
"Maybe," Ginny conceded, the bitterness in her voice lingering. "But it always felt like there was this inner circle— you, Ron, and Harry. Planning, strategizing, keeping secrets. While the rest of us, me included, just… existed on the periphery." Her words dripped with resentment, a painful truth that cut deeper than any spell.
"That's not fair, Ginny," she pleaded, desperation creeping into her tone. "We included you whenever we could. Remember the Chamber of Secrets? You were a target, possessed by that awful diary. If it wasn't for Harry…"
"Don't you see?" Ginny cut her off with a sharp shake of her head, her emotions spiraling. "All this danger, this war… it stole my childhood, Hermione. Stole Fred! Maybe if you hadn't been so focused on fighting the good fight, on following Dumbledore blindly, things would have been different!" Her voice rose, filled with anguish as memories of loss flashed before her.
Tears streamed down Ginny's face now, a raw torrent of long-suppressed emotions finally breaking free. "And now you! You dragged me into this mess with Malfoy, and look where it landed me. Blaise has changed, Hermione. There's darkness in him, a darkness you seem content to ignore because it fits your narrative."
Hermione stood there, tears silently sliding down her cheeks, unable to respond. The torrent of Ginny's anger and grief washed over her, leaving her feeling small and helpless. The weight of Ginny's accusations, a culmination of years of unspoken hurt, felt like a crushing blow, leaving her breathless and shaken.
Suddenly, Luna, who had been quietly absorbing the tumult, found her voice. It was a sound both soft and fierce, surprising them both. "That's enough, Ginny," she said, her eyes flashing with a newfound intensity. "We've all lost people we love. Blaming Hermione won't bring them back. It won't bring Fred and Ron back." Her words hung in the air, a counterbalance to Ginny's rage.
Ginny recoiled slightly at the mention of her brother, a flicker of pain momentarily eclipsing the fury in her eyes. But the anger quickly reignited, the fire burning hotter than before. "No, Luna!" she shouted, her voice rising with renewed fury. "My husband and all the men are gone, just to save Hermione's golden cunt! What's so fucking special about you, huh? Why does everyone bend over backwards for the brightest witch of our age?"
The venom in Ginny's voice hung heavy in the air, a bitter echo of her pain. Hermione's eyes widened, her face pale and stricken, unable to respond to the onslaught of accusations.
Before anyone could react, Ginny spun on her heel and apparated away, the crack of her departure leaving an oppressive silence in its wake. The room seemed to hold its breath, the absence of her presence amplifying the tension that lingered like a fog.
Luna sighed, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. "She's hurting," she whispered, her voice thick with empathy. "We all are."
Pansy, uncharacteristically subdued, crossed her arms tightly against her chest. "That doesn't excuse the outburst," she muttered, her gaze flickering to Hermione, who stood frozen, a tapestry of emotions swirling across her face.
Guilt gnawed at her insides, each of Ginny's words echoing in her mind, relentless and unforgiving. "Maybe it is too much," she choked out, a tear escaping her eye. "Maybe I am the reason they're all in danger."
"No, Mimi," Luna shook her head firmly, her voice steady and unyielding. "They're doing it because they care about you. Because you're part of the family."
Pansy nodded, her voice softer now, laced with understanding. "We need to stay strong, for them and for ourselves. Ginny will come around. She just needs time."
She nodded, wiping away her tears as she drew a shaky breath. "We have to keep going. For all of us." Her voice was tinged with determination, the fire of her resolve flickering back to life.
As they stood together, the strength of their bond became their anchor, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos swirling around them. In that moment of shared vulnerability, the trio forged an unbreakable alliance, ready to face the trials ahead, their hearts intertwined in a tapestry of love, loss, and resilience. They were warriors in a battle not just against external foes but also the internal demons that threatened to tear them apart. The world outside may have been dark and perilous, but together, they could weather any storm that came their way.
~~~~~~
Landing on the cobblestones, Blaise looked around, his breath visible in the chilly night air. The dimly lit street stretched out to his right, the flickering lamps casting long shadows. He had an address in mind, a safe haven in the labyrinth of the downtown backstreets.
He moved swiftly, his steps echoing softly against the cobblestones. The address belonged to an old friend, a trusted ally from his darker days. Reaching the modest townhouse, he knocked on the door, his knuckles rapping against the aged wood with a sense of urgency. Minutes passed with no response. He knocked again, louder this time, but the house remained silent. Frustration gnawed at him. He knew he couldn't stay exposed in the open for long."Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath. His plan was unraveling before it even began.
The crisp mountain air of Hargita-Băi stung Draco's lungs as he stepped into the dense forest. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the thick canopy overhead, casting long, eerie shadows across the forest floor. Blaise and Theo flanked him, their expressions grim as they surveyed their surroundings.
"Any sign of him?" Theo asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Draco shook his head, his gaze darting nervously between the gnarled trees. "Not yet. But this place…" he trailed off, the unsettling quiet pressing down on him. An unnatural stillness hung in the air, broken only by the occasional snap of a twig or the rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth.
"Feels wrong, doesn't it?" he muttered, pulling his cloak tighter around him. "Like the magic here is… twisted."
A shiver ran down Draco's spine. He wasn't one to shy away from the darker corners of the magical world, but there was something about Hargita-Băi that felt different, more malevolent. Perhaps it was the lingering knowledge of the dark rituals rumored to have been practiced here in centuries past, or maybe it was the weight of their mission – vengeance against a woman who had sought to harm his love.
Suddenly, a loud screech echoed through the trees, sending a flock of crows scattering into the twilight. Draco instinctively reached for his wand, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Just a bird," Theo said dismissively, but his hand hovered near his own wand.
"Maybe," Draco replied, his voice tense. "But keep your eyes peeled. This place seems to be teeming with… something."
They continued deeper into the forest, the silence pressing in on them, broken only by the occasional rustle or crack. The air grew colder, and the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled their nostrils. The further they ventured, the more twisted and gnarled the trees became, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, clawing at the sky.
"There," he hissed, pointing towards a clearing ahead. In the center stood a dilapidated cabin, its windows dark and boarded up. Smoke curled from a crooked chimney, the only sign of life in this desolate place.
Draco's breath hitched. A cold certainty settled in his gut – they had found Karkaroff. This was the place where Hermione's would-be murderer lay in hiding.
Now came the hard part – extracting their vengeance.
A wry smile played on Theo's lips. "About time, Neville," he chuckled, his grip tightening around the worn hilt of his sword. The years of relentless Herbology studies had transformed him, but his Gryffindor courage still burned bright. Here, in this remote village nestled amidst an unsettling forest, he had a chance to prove himself worthy, not just to his friends, but to himself.
The white church, once a symbol of hope, now seemed strangely out of place next to the dilapidated house spewing ominous smoke. It was a stark reminder of the corrupting influence of dark magic, even in the most unexpected corners.
Neville adjusted the straps of his pack, ensuring his arsenal of magical plants was readily accessible. He'd spent countless hours researching obscure flora with Professor Sprout, learning their unique properties and potential applications in combat. Today, that knowledge might be the difference between victory and defeat.
"Remember the plan," Draco said, his voice low and steely. "We take Karkaroff by surprise. No time for theatrics. Theo and I will disarm him, Blaise will watch the perimeter, and Neville…" Draco's gaze met Neville's, a flicker of respect replacing his usual indifference. "You'll handle any… surprises Karkaroff might have lurking in the shadows."
Neville straightened his back, a surge of determination coursing through him. "Ready when you are," he replied, his voice firm.
With a silent nod from Draco, they crept towards the house, their movements cloaked in the shadows cast by the encroaching darkness. The rhythmic creak of the old wooden door and the faint glow emanating from a single cracked window were the only sounds that disturbed the eerie silence.
As they neared the porch, a low growl erupted from within the house, a sound that sent shivers down Neville's spine. It wasn't human. Whatever lurked inside with Karkaroff, it wasn't something they'd anticipated.
Neville's hand instinctively reached for the pouch containing powdered Dittany, a potent healing agent – just in case.
A tense silence descended, broken only by the ragged breaths of the approaching group. Neville's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the stillness.
This was it. The moment of truth. He was no longer the shy boy who couldn't remember a simple charm. He was Neville Longbottom, and he was here to fight.
But the fight wasn't what he expected. As they burst through the creaking door, a hulking creature lunged from the shadows. It was a monstrous boar, its tusks gleaming wickedly in the dim light. Karkaroff, pale and sweating, scrambled back in fear, his wand clattering to the floor.
Theo and Blaise reacted instinctively, disarming Karkaroff before he could reach his wand. But Neville's focus was solely on the enraged beast. Adrenaline surged through him, sharpening his senses. He remembered Professor Sprout's lessons on Mooncalf aggression – how they were soothed by calming scents. Thinking fast, he rummaged through his pack, pulling out a vial of lavender essence.
With a deep breath, Neville tossed the vial at the boar's feet. The creature, momentarily stunned by the sudden fragrance, hesitated in its charge. Seizing the opportunity, Neville lunged forward, not with the grace of a skilled swordsman, but with the raw courage of a Gryffindor. He parried a vicious swipe of the boar's tusk, then used his knowledge of Herbology to his advantage.
Spotting a clump of Devil's Snare growing in the corner, he yanked a length of the vine with surprising strength and entangled the boar's legs.
The enraged creature squealed in frustration, struggling against the constricting vines. With a final heave, Neville managed to trip the boar, sending it crashing to the ground with a thud. He stood there, chest heaving, his sword pointed at the subdued beast.
Silence descended upon the room, broken only by Karkaroff's ragged breaths.
They stared at Neville with a mixture of surprise and grudging respect. Even Draco's eyes held a flicker of something that might have been admiration. In that moment, Neville Longbottom wasn't just the Herbology prodigy anymore. He was a warrior, a protector, and a testament to the power of courage that resided within him.
Neville's grip tightened around his sweat-slick sword hilt.
He wasn't sure what awaited him outside, but the chilling finality in Draco's voice sent a shiver down his spine. Loyalty warred with unease, the weight of their mission pressing down on him.
"What about Karkaroff?" he managed, his voice hoarse. Leaving the former Headmaster with Draco and the others, especially after witnessing that monstrous creature, felt wrong.
A flicker of something akin to respect crossed Draco's face, a stark contrast to his usual Malfoy sneer. "We'll handle him," Draco said curtly. "Just… go. Clear your head."
Neville hesitated for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the subdued boar and the disarmed Karkaroff. Finally, with a deep breath, he nodded curtly and turned towards the doorway. As he stepped outside, the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the oppressive silence.
He found himself standing on a creaky wooden porch, bathed in the cool moonlight filtering through the dense canopy. The crisp mountain air stung his lungs, a stark contrast to the stale, fear-tinged atmosphere within the house. Distant sounds of the forest – the rustling of leaves, the hooting of an owl – seemed amplified in the sudden quiet.
Neville leaned against the rough wooden railing, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He wasn't naive.
He knew what awaited Karkaroff inside. Vengeance, swift and merciless. A part of him, the Gryffindor part, recoiled from the violence. But another part, the part that ached for his parents and all the others lost to the war, understood the thirst for justice, even if it came at a dark price.
He closed his eyes, the image of Hermione's face flashing before him. Her unwavering belief in him, her fierce loyalty, fueled a surge of determination within him. He may not have been a part of what was happening inside, but he would ensure their mission's success. He would protect Hermione and his wife, no matter the cost.
Taking a deep breath, Neville straightened his back and squared his shoulders. He may not have been able to fight with herbs this time, but the lessons learned, the courage ignited, would stay with him. He was Neville Longbottom, a Gryffindor, and he would stand strong, ready for whatever came next.
~~~~~~
The air crackled with a different kind of tension now. Luna and Lysander, thankfully, remained blissfully unaware, their rhythmic breathing a stark contrast to the scene that unfolded before Pansy and Hermione. The silence that followed the apparition was deafening, broken only by the soft clinking of a glass as Pansy set it down with a trembling hand.
Their gazes fell upon Draco, their initial relief at his safe return morphing into horror as they took in the macabre spectacle. He stood there, an unsettling stillness radiating from him. Blood, a sickening crimson, soaked his clothes and dripped from his hands, one of which held a grisly trophy – Karkaroff's severed head, its eyes wide with a permanent, silent scream.
Hermione lurched forward, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. The image that met her eyes threatened to shatter her. This wasn't the determined Draco she thought she was fighting alongside. This was a monster, a chilling reflection of the very darkness they were trying to vanquish.
Her voice, when it came, was a mere whisper, laced with a tremor of fear. "Draco… what have you done?"
Pansy, usually so composed, seemed to shrink under the weight of the moment. Her face, drained of color, mirrored the horror dawning on Hermione's. This wasn't vengeance; this was cold-blooded murder, and the implications sent a shiver down her spine.
Draco, however, remained unmoved. His gaze was distant, as if he were lost in a world only he could see. He raised the severed head, its lifeless eyes staring vacantly, and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion.
"Justice has been served," he said, the words echoing hollowly in the tense silence.
Pansy, as if sensing his return, practically leaped out of her chair. Her usual poise was replaced by a frantic desperation as she flew into his arms.
"Neville, my love, are you alright?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Neville met her embrace with a measured calmness that surprised him. He held her close, a silent promise of protection in the face of the storm brewing around them.
Across the room, Draco stood like a statue, Karkaroff's head still dangling from his hand.
His earlier detachment had given way to a chilling emptiness in his eyes.
"I should've brought you trophies as well, home sooner," Draco murmured, his voice barely a whisper. Was it a genuine apology or a twisted justification for his actions? It was impossible to tell.
Theo, with a faint grimace, used a silent charm to levitate Luna and Lysander, their peaceful slumber undisturbed. They drifted upwards, glowing faintly in the moonlight filtering through the window, before he gently deposited them in the guest bedroom.
Blaise broke the silence. "Where's Ginny?" he asked, his voice laced with worry. His wife, usually calm and collected, wouldn't just disappear.
Pansy, drained from the emotional rollercoaster of the evening, sighed. "She had a… meltdown," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Big one. Apparated out of here in a huff."
His face hardened. The news of her outburst clearly struck a chord. Without a word, he rose from his chair, his cloak billowing around him. A crack echoed in the room as he Disapparated, his destination likely.
The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, its warmth a stark contrast to the chilling scene before them. Hermione stood there, alone with Draco, the severed head of Karkaroff, a grotesque centerpiece on the table. The air crackled with unspoken words, the weight of the night pressing down on them.