The moment Luna stepped into the drawing room, a strange, almost imperceptible shift coursed through her body. It started as a faint wave of nausea, creeping up from the pit of her stomach, followed by a sudden flicker of dizziness that made the room tilt ever so slightly. Her breath hitched, her balance wavering for just a second, and instinctively, her hand lifted to her forehead, pressing against the cool skin there. A fine sheen of sweat had already begun to gather at her temples. The sensation was eerily familiar, and for a moment, she simply stood there, willing it to pass.
Theo, who had been lounging in his usual armchair, a book resting lazily in his hand, looked up just as she faltered. At first, he wasn't certain what had changed, only that something had. He knew her too well to miss even the subtlest of shifts—the way her breath had slowed, the slight tremor in her fingers, the unnatural paleness that had replaced her usual glow. His entire body tensed, every other thought vanishing from his mind as he set the book down and shot to his feet in one swift motion.
"Luna," he said sharply, his voice laced with concern as he strode toward her. His hands reached for her before she could even think to protest. "You're pale."
She mustered a smile, though it wavered at the edges. "I'm alright," she tried, though the weakness in her voice betrayed her. She took a deep breath, willing the nausea away, but her knees felt unsteady, and she had to place a hand against the back of a chair for balance.
Theo's eyes swept over her, cataloging every detail, from the way her lips parted in short, shallow breaths to the way her fingers twitched against the upholstery. He wasn't convinced. Not even close. "No, you're not," he countered gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You're shaking. What's wrong? Does something hurt?"
Luna hesitated, pressing her fingertips lightly against her temple, feeling the soft pulse of a dull headache blooming at the back of her skull. It wasn't unbearable, but combined with the nausea, it left her unsettled. "A little dizzy," she admitted finally, her voice quieter than before. "It's nothing serious, just… strange."
Theo didn't waste another second. Without hesitation, he slid an arm around her waist, supporting her with effortless ease as he guided her toward the plush sofa at the center of the room. "Alright, that's enough standing," he said, his tone firm but still laced with that deep, unwavering care he always held for her. "Sit down. No, lie down."
She let him lead her, grateful for the warmth of his touch and the strength of his hold. As soon as she sank onto the cushions, a familiar sensation washed over her, something buried deep in her memory—this fatigue, this weight pressing down on her bones, this odd queasiness. She swallowed thickly, her hands instinctively coming to rest against her stomach, as if her body was trying to tell her something before her mind had fully caught up.
Theo, ever watchful, crouched in front of her, his hands on her knees, his dark eyes scanning her face for any sign of what was wrong. "Talk to me," he urged, softer this time. "What are you thinking?"
Luna blinked slowly, trying to piece the feeling together, and then, like a sudden bolt of lightning, the realization hit. Her breath caught, her fingers tightening in the fabric of her dress.
"Theo…" she started, her voice barely more than a breath. She lifted her gaze to his, watching as the concern etched across his features deepened. "This feels… familiar."
His brow furrowed, lips parting as if to question her, but she beat him to it.
"It's like the last time I was pregnant," she whispered, the words tasting both surreal and terrifyingly real as they left her lips.
For a long moment, Theo simply stared at her, as if his brain couldn't quite process what she had just said. His grip on her knees tightened just slightly, a sharp inhale the only indication of the storm of emotions brewing beneath his composed exterior. He looked at her as if he was afraid to believe it, afraid to let the fragile hope in his chest take root too soon.
"My love," he finally whispered, inching closer, as if drawing near would solidify the possibility, as if he could feel the truth in her body before she even knew it for certain. "Are you saying… could you be…?"
Luna's lips parted, but for a moment, she didn't have an answer. She wasn't sure, not yet. But the signs—the exhaustion, the nausea, the sudden way her body seemed to shift and prepare for something more—were unmistakable.
"I don't know for sure," she admitted, her fingers skimming over her stomach as if searching for confirmation from within. Her throat felt tight, emotions swelling there like a tide she couldn't control. "But I think… maybe."
Theo exhaled slowly, his hands moving instinctively to cup either side of her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek as if trying to ground himself in this moment. His dark eyes softened, something between awe and quiet reverence settling in their depths. "Luna…" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
She could see it already—the flicker of love and devotion in his expression, the way his heart was already stretching to accommodate the possibility of another life, another little soul to love as fiercely as he loved Lysander.
Luna's breath was unsteady, her fingers curling against the fabric of her dress as she struggled to process the possibility blooming in her mind. The words she had just spoken felt heavy in the air, like something sacred—both terrifying and thrilling in equal measure. She needed to be sure, needed something tangible to confirm what her body had been trying to tell her. But even as she voiced it, a sliver of uncertainty wove itself into her tone, betraying the storm of emotions swirling within her.
Theo, who had spent years perfecting the art of appearing unaffected, utterly composed in even the direst of circumstances, shattered in an instant. An irrepressible, boyish grin broke across his face, cracking through his usual seriousness like sunlight through storm clouds. His lips parted as if he meant to say something, but for a moment, nothing came—only a sharp inhale, a flicker of something wild and uncontained flashing in his dark eyes. And then, finally, an exhale that was half-laughter, half-sob, the kind of raw, unfiltered reaction he rarely allowed himself.
"Merlin," he breathed, and his voice was hoarse, thick with the weight of everything he couldn't quite put into words. "You have no idea how much I want that to be true. You—you already make my miserable existence brighter every day, and if this is real…" He trailed off, his hands twitching at his sides, like he didn't know whether to reach for her or sink to his knees in pure reverence.
Despite the lingering dizziness that made the room tilt slightly around her, Luna found herself smiling—small, hesitant, but real. She reached out, her fingertips tracing over the sharp edges of his jawline, her thumb brushing over the faint stubble that had begun to shadow his skin. He leaned into her touch instinctively, his breath warm against her wrist, his entire being gravitating toward her as though drawn by some invisible force.
"I don't know for certain yet, Sunny," she murmured, her voice quiet, steady despite the way her pulse fluttered wildly beneath her skin. She used the nickname she had given him long ago, back when she had first realized that, beneath all of Theo's brooding and sharp wit, he carried a warmth meant only for those he let in. "But I want to be sure. I need something definitive."
His eyes searched hers, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He nodded, once, as if grounding himself in the moment. "Right. Of course." Then, after a pause, his brow furrowed slightly, as though he had just realized the gravity of the task she had asked of him. "What do we do? A spell? A potion? Something from St. Mungo's?"
Luna bit her lip, hesitating for only a second before shaking her head. "No… I'd rather have a Muggle one."
His expression flickered with something like intrigue before slipping into full-blown confusion. "A Muggle one?" He blinked. "Why?"
She tilted her head, her fingers still ghosting along his jaw. "Because they're straightforward. Immediate. No magic to interfere with anything. Just a simple answer." She hesitated before adding gently, "Will you get one for me, Theo? Please?"
He stared at her, his mouth opening slightly before shutting again, as if attempting to process the request. And then, finally, with the utmost sincerity, he murmured, "Of course, my love."
Let's just say the entire day had been nothing short of misery for Theodore Nott. Absolute, soul-crushing, spirit-breaking misery. He had spent six long, grueling hours outside, subjected to an afternoon that seemed to stretch into eternity, and by the time he returned home, he looked wrecked. Completely and utterly wrecked. His usually pristine appearance was a mess—his expensive coat was damp and wrinkled, his tie had long since been discarded, and his usually sleek hair was an unruly disaster, sticking to his forehead from a combination of sweat, stress, and sheer exhaustion. His boots squelched slightly with every step, water dripping from the hem of his trousers, his entire demeanor one of a man who had fought a war he hadn't been prepared for and lost spectacularly.
He pushed the door open with more force than necessary, stepping into the warm, inviting embrace of home, the only sanctuary he had left. The scent of lavender and parchment, the flickering glow of candlelight, the distant hum of laughter—everything about Nott Manor was a sharp contrast to the hellish day he had just endured. But as soon as his eyes landed on her, the ethereal woman curled up on the sofa, he knew, knew, he was walking into a trap.
Before she could even open her mouth, before she could smirk or, Merlin forbid, comment, he threw up a hand, cutting her off before she could unleash whatever sharp-witted remark was brewing behind those mischievous eyes. "Do not say a single word, woman," he groaned, his voice a mix of desperation and warning, shoulders slumping as he struggled to toe off his damp boots. "Just pee."
Luna blinked at him for a moment, her expression completely neutral, and then—then—she burst into laughter.
Not just a small chuckle. Not a contained giggle. No, she collapsed into full-blown, unapologetic, breathless laughter, clutching her stomach, shoulders shaking with the force of it. It was the kind of laughter that stole the breath from her lungs, that had her gasping for air between giggles, the kind that was pure, unfiltered delight at his suffering.
Theo scowled. "I'm serious, Luna," he grumbled, peeling off his soaked coat and tossing it unceremoniously onto the nearest chair. "Just—go. Now. Before I lose my sanity entirely."
Still giggling, still grinning like this was the funniest thing she had ever witnessed, she gracefully pulled herself off the couch and sauntered toward the restroom, entirely too pleased with herself. "Oh, my poor husband," she teased, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek as she passed him, her voice dripping with amusement. "You're so dramatic."
He simply grunted in response, collapsing onto the sofa with a sigh so deep it felt like he was exhaling his entire soul, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He had done so much today. Too much. And now, all he wanted was for her to take the damn test so they could get this over with.
For a few moments, there was silence.
And then—chaos.
A shrieking wail—so sharp, so high-pitched, so utterly unexpected—ripped through the house, echoing down the halls, so loud that Theo practically leapt off the sofa, his heart lurching into his throat.
He kicked the bathroom door open without hesitation, the adrenaline still racing through his veins as his gaze darted around, prepared to fight off whatever threat had just descended upon his very pregnant wife, prepared to kill—only to find Luna, jumping up and down in the middle of the bathroom, beaming, glowing, her wild golden hair bouncing with each enthusiastic leap.
"WE'RE GOING TO HAVE A BABY!"
For a moment, he just stared. His brain short-circuited entirely, his thoughts moving too fast to be comprehensible. And then, before he even had time to process what was happening, before he could fully absorb the sheer magnitude of what those words meant, he lunged.
He scooped her up with such force that she yelped, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he spun her, gripping her so tightly against his chest that he was certain she could feel the wild, frantic pounding of his heart. His lips crashed against hers, a desperate, reverent kiss, one that tasted of relief, of joy, of something so big that he couldn't contain it inside himself.
"Another baby," he rasped, breaking away just enough to whisper against her lips, his voice raw with emotion. "Another." His forehead pressed against hers, his hands cupping her face with infinite tenderness, his thumbs brushing away the tears he hadn't even realized were there. "Oh, gods, Luna. We're having another baby."
His throat ached with the sheer force of his happiness, his chest so full that he thought he might burst from the weight of it. This—this was everything. His life. His purpose. The very reason his heart beat inside his chest.
And Luna, his beautiful, ethereal wife, the moon to his stars, the dream to his reality, simply held onto him, smiling so wide it made his knees weak, pressing soft, delicate kisses against his cheeks, his nose, his lips.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice full of something so tender it nearly unraveled him. "Thank you, Moon, for this gift of a lifetime."
And Theodore fucking Nott, a man who once believed his heart had reached its limits, who had thought himself incapable of feeling more than he already did, found himself breaking beneath the weight of his love, crumbling under the sheer force of his devotion. His chest was tight with overwhelming emotion, his throat thick with the kind of raw, unfiltered adoration that bordered on worship. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, but he didn't care—he welcomed them, embraced them, because what else could a man do when the very universe had given him everything he never knew he needed?
Without another thought, without hesitation, he dragged Luna down with him, down onto the cool marble floor of their bathroom, the force of his need eclipsing every rational thought. She let out a soft gasp, her hair fanning out around her like a halo of gold, her eyes wide, startled, glowing in the dim light of the sconces lining the walls. He didn't give her a moment to catch her breath before he was on her, pressing desperate, frantic kisses along her jaw, her throat, the delicate line of her collarbone, hands already pushing up the thin fabric of her nightdress with an urgency that bordered on recklessness.
She barely had time to process before she found herself sprawled beneath him, the marble cool against her flushed skin, her pulse pounding so violently she was certain he could feel it against his lips. "Theo—" she started, breathless, but he silenced her with another searing kiss, consuming her, tasting her like she was the very air he needed to breathe.
"*I'm going to make sure this pregnancy is certain," he murmured against her lips, his voice dark, wrecked, dripping with a hunger so intense it sent a shiver down her spine.
She let out a breathless laugh, fingers threading through his dark hair as he dragged his mouth down her body, lips pressing reverent, desperate kisses to every inch of skin he could reach. "Theo, please—" she tried again, amusement laced in her voice despite the rapid thrum of anticipation coiling in her belly. "Is this—Merlin—" she gasped as his teeth grazed her hip, "—the start of your pregnancy kink?"
He hummed against her skin, a deep, satisfied sound that made her toes curl. "I don't know, Moonbeam," he drawled, his voice thick with something dark and carnal, his breath hot against her bare thigh as he settled between her legs. "But I think you should stop talking and let me find out."
And then, before she could even think of responding, he parted her legs with a firm, possessive grip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs, and lowered his mouth to her.
A sharp, startled cry left her lips as his tongue traced slow, teasing circles over her heat, the sensation enough to send her hips arching off the floor. He groaned at the taste of her, his grip tightening, holding her down, pinning her in place as if she might escape him—when they both knew she wouldn't, when they both knew she never would.
"No protests?" he murmured against her, his breath hot against the slickness of her, his tongue tracing sinful, torturous patterns that made her tremble. "I'll take that as permission, then."
And Luna—Luna, who was meant to be resting, who had just found out she was carrying another life inside her—let her head fall back against the marble, her body already melting, surrendering, as she exhaled a soft, broken moan, knowing that rest was the last thing Theo planned to let her have tonight.
~~~~~~
"Lunaaaaa!" Pansy's voice echoed down the corridors as she raced, her high heels clicking like the rapid beating of a war drum.
Moments later, Luna emerged, a look of exasperation mingled with amusement on her face. "Merlin, Pansy, can you shut up for once? Why would you scare away my capybaras?" Luna chided, her tone light even as she struggled to maintain her own fragile composure. The absurdity of the request—capybaras, of all creatures—made Pansy pause for a split second, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Oh, for the love of all things magical, how many animals do you need? Theo isn't enough?" Pansy quipped, her words dripping with playful sarcasm as she dodged Luna's incredulous glance.
Luna arched an elegant brow. "What do you need?" she asked coolly, curiosity mingling with a trace of irritation.
She leaned in conspiratorially. "I have huuuge gossip," she declared, her voice barely containing the bubbling excitement beneath. "Come over then," Luna replied, a wry smile breaking through her exasperation.
The moment Pansy arrived at the sprawling Nott estate, she wasted no time—practically storming through its grand corridors and immaculately maintained gardens, her heels clicking against the stone paths with purpose. She had urgent business, and absolutely no patience for delays.
She found Luna outside, lounging on the grass with Lysander, a picture of ethereal serenity—until Pansy's whirlwind presence shattered the peaceful afternoon.
But it wasn't just Luna and Lysander who greeted her. No, there was… something else. Something scruffy, unfortunate, and entirely unappealing nestled beside the little boy as he giggled and patted its coarse fur. Pansy's nose scrunched in immediate disapproval.
"Ugh, what is that?" she muttered, recoiling slightly.
Lysander, blissfully unbothered by Pansy's dramatic distaste, beamed up at her, his small hands still buried in the animal's rough fur. With an enthusiasm only toddlers could muster, he lifted his arms toward her in an unmistakable demand. "Rocio!" he shouted gleefully, eyes sparkling.
Pansy sighed, utterly powerless against him, and scooped him into her arms. "Oh, pumpkin," she cooed, pressing a kiss to his messy curls. "She's quite… special, isn't she?" She forced a polite smile as she eyed the peculiar creature warily. Only Luna Lovegood would allow such an offensive-looking animal onto her property, let alone treat it like a beloved pet.
Lysander, utterly unconcerned with Pansy's obvious disdain, simply snuggled against her shoulder, babbling happily.
Luna, watching the exchange with thinly veiled amusement, finally exhaled and arched a brow. "Alright, Parkinson. You've clearly got something to say. Spill."
Pansy straightened, her mind snapping back to her mission. The Gossip. With Lysander still firmly attached to her hip, she turned her full attention to Luna, her expression morphing into one of pure theatrical flair.
"I have some juicy news," she declared, her voice practically dripping with intrigue.
Luna, who had spent far too much time dealing with Pansy's dramatics over the years, simply gave an indulgent nod. "Let me hear it," she encouraged, eyes twinkling with curiosity.
Pansy inhaled, ready to unleash her tale in all its riveting glory. "So today, I wanted to show off my new portrait of Lady and Princess—"
But before she could even finish the sentence, Lysander decided to interject.
"Pviness!" he shrieked, with the kind of uncontainable joy that only a toddler could summon.
Pansy groaned. This child. But she soldiered on. "—and I went over to Mimi so she could see Lady's new—"
"Ladii!" Lysander interrupted again, giggling as he swung his little legs in delight.
Pansy closed her eyes, took a slow breath, and counted to three. Then, she exhaled sharply and opened her eyes, glaring at the sky as if seeking divine intervention. "Oh, for fuck's sake, child."
With a swift flick of her wrist, she summoned her most loyal (and long-suffering) house-elf.
"NELLY!" she called, voice carrying through the estate.
With a small pop, Nelly appeared, looking exhausted before she had even been given a task.
"Please bring over the dogs for Master Lysander—I just need him to shut up for a moment."
Luna gasped, scandalized. "Pansy!" she admonished.
But Pansy simply waved her off.
Nelly bowed without question and, with another pop, disappeared to retrieve the very animals that had started this whole mess. Lysander, thrilled, clapped his tiny hands, already anticipating his beloved pets.
Luna crossed her arms, her expression a perfect mixture of amusement and resignation. "You are… impossible."
Pansy smirked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I prefer relentlessly efficient."
Luna sighed, shaking her head, but she couldn't hide her grin. This was Pansy Parkinson—loud, dramatic, unapologetic… and, despite it all, completely and utterly irreplaceable.
"Pansy," Luna sighed, rubbing her temples, "I swear on Merlin's saggy balls, if you don't just say it—"
Pansy flicked her hair over her shoulder with an almost theatrical smirk, her entire posture exuding the satisfaction of someone about to drop a bombshell, the kind of news that would send ripples through their entire circle. She clapped her hands together as if announcing the final act of a grand performance, her voice dripping with amusement and triumph. "Hermione finally left Draco," she declared, savoring the words like the finest wine, stretching them out as if tasting their sweetness. "Can you believe it? Isn't it just—fabulous?"
Luna had been in the middle of an exaggerated eye-roll, no doubt prepared for whatever dramatic nonsense Pansy was about to spin, but at that moment, her face changed entirely. The usual lightness in her features dimmed, the dreamy quality vanished like mist under harsh sunlight, replaced by something sharp, something heavy. She exhaled, the sound edged with frustration as she fixed Pansy with an unreadable stare. "Pansy," she said, her voice carrying an uncharacteristic weight, slow and precise, as if measuring her words, ensuring they cut the way they were meant to. "It's not good. It's fucking sad."
Pansy scoffed, the sound dismissive, almost incredulous, like Luna had just insulted her impeccable taste in fashion. She waved a careless hand, swatting away the very notion of sympathy like an inconvenient gnat. "Sad? What's sad is that she didn't do it sooner. That woman has been through hell and back because of him. She endured everything. For what? Some fucked-up idea of love? She deserved better." Her voice was a sharp contrast to Luna's, brimming with self-assured finality, the kind of certainty that didn't leave room for arguments.
But Luna tilted her head slightly, watching Pansy in that unnervingly knowing way she had, like she was peeling back layers without Pansy's permission, prying into the spaces where Pansy didn't want anyone to look. "And Neville didn't?" she asked, and it wasn't a question so much as a quiet accusation, a truth wrapped in the softness of her voice, a blade hidden in silk.
The smirk that had been so smug just seconds ago faltered, a crack forming in the carefully curated facade. A slow, creeping chill spread through her chest, curling around her ribs, squeezing something tight inside her, something she didn't want to acknowledge. The words had landed somewhere deep, in a place Pansy didn't let people reach. "What?" The word barely made it past her lips, almost a whisper, almost nothing at all.
Luna's expression remained unchanged, serene yet merciless, as though she had all the time in the world to hold a mirror up to Pansy and let her see herself for what she was. "Neville didn't endure you? He didn't take everything you threw at him?" The way she said it was damning, not an accusation but a statement of fact, and the weight of it pressed down on Pansy's chest like a hand forcing her underwater.
Her nails dug into her palms, as if grounding herself in pain would somehow keep the emotions at bay, keep her from unraveling. "This is different," she bit out, stiff and controlled, clinging desperately to her sense of righteousness. "Neville chose this. He loves me."
Luna's voice softened, and somehow that made it worse, because there was no malice in it, no intention to wound—just an understanding so profound that it stripped Pansy bare. "Or do you just think the only way someone would love you is if they were forced to marry you?" The words landed like a physical blow, cutting through Pansy's bravado with ruthless precision, shattering every carefully placed defense.
The air between them went still, violently still, like the moment before a storm crashes down, like the exact second before a dam breaks. Pansy's breath hitched, and she was staring at Luna but not really seeing her, because suddenly there was too much, too much in her chest, too much pressing against her throat, too much of something she had spent years keeping buried. Her fists clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned white, her entire body trembling with something far uglier than anger, something unspoken, something raw and terrifying. Luna wasn't just attacking her, she was seeing her, and that was so much worse.
The silence stretched between them like a battlefield, neither willing to retreat nor advance. Pansy's chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths, her heart hammering as Luna's words sank deeper than she wanted to admit. The weight of them pressed against her ribs, wrapping around her lungs like an iron vice, suffocating her with the cold, unforgiving truth. She tried to swallow it down, but it clawed its way up, leaving behind the raw taste of something bitter, something ugly, something she refused to name.
Luna wasn't looking at her with anger, nor with the smug satisfaction of someone who had won an argument. That would have been easier. That would have given Pansy a reason to lash out, a reason to make it a fight rather than whatever this was. But no, Luna's face held something worse—understanding. Pity. As if she could see right through Pansy, as if she could peel back the layers of confidence, the arrogance, the sharp wit, and find something fragile underneath. It made Pansy feel exposed, raw in a way she hadn't been since she was a child clutching at her father's robes, desperately trying to be loved, to be noticed, to be something worth keeping.
She clenched her jaw so tightly she thought her teeth might crack. "You bitch," she hissed, voice trembling in a way that made her stomach turn. She needed to be angry, needed to hold onto it like a shield, because the alternative was worse. Because if she let go of the anger, all that would be left was the truth. And she wasn't ready for that.
Luna didn't react. She just watched, her gaze steady, her hands resting lightly on her lap as if she was waiting for Pansy to get whatever it was out of her system. It infuriated her. Made her want to scream, to throw something, to break something just to see if Luna would finally flinch. But she wouldn't. Because Luna Lovegood didn't say things she didn't mean.
Pansy had spent years perfecting the art of deflection, of turning every moment into something sharp and cruel before anyone could get too close, before anyone could see the cracks beneath the perfect, untouchable surface. But Luna had bypassed every defense with a single sentence, a casual remark that had gutted her more efficiently than any blade ever could.
"FUCK YOU," Pansy spat, louder this time, her voice raw, shaking with something that wasn't just anger but something deeper, uglier—resentment, heartbreak, jealousy that burned so hot it threatened to consume her whole. "Fuck you and your perfect marriage. Fuck you and your perfect family. Fuck you for never having to wonder if you were enough."
Her breath came hard and fast, her nails digging into her palms so deeply she thought they might draw blood. Her hands were trembling, and that wasn't fair. She shouldn't be the one breaking. Luna should have been the one to shatter, the one to feel the weight of this pain pressing down like a vice. But no—Pansy was the one who felt like glass, fragile and brittle, like all the pressure she had spent years holding back was finally reaching its breaking point, spiderwebbing across her surface, threatening to crack her open in ways she wasn't sure she could survive.
And Luna? Luna still didn't move. She stood there, quiet, unwavering, with that same damn softness in her eyes—not pity, not judgment, but understanding. And that was the worst part. That was what made Pansy want to scream. Because it meant Luna had seen right through her from the very beginning. She had always seen her, even when Pansy had spent a lifetime making sure no one did.
Pansy turned away sharply, staring out at the garden, blinking furiously against the sting of tears she refused to shed. Lysander was running through the grass, his laughter ringing through the air as he played with the pugs, his little legs carrying him in dizzying circles, lost in the pure, thoughtless joy only a child could possess. It was beautiful. It should have been enough to shake her out of this, to remind her that she wasn't the kind of person who let herself feel like this. But it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough.
Luna exhaled softly, the kind of sigh that sounded more like acceptance than defeat. She had hurt Pansy. Not intentionally, not maliciously, but exactly where it would hurt the most. And that realization hit her like a gut punch. A terrible, sinking weight settled in her chest, because she was a terrible friend.
She blinked quickly, swiping at her cheeks as she walked toward Lysander, who was still tumbling around with the dogs, his curls bouncing with every step.
"Okay, loves," she called gently, her voice steady despite the ache in her throat. "Mommy's going to take the doggies back home, alright?"
Lysander skidded to a stop, wide-eyed and already prepared to protest. "NOOOOO!"
"Yes," she said with a small smile, kneeling in front of him and smoothing a hand over his wild curls. "Mummy needs to talk to Pee-Pee."
The nickname, usually something that made her laugh, felt heavier in her mouth now, like an echo of something broken between them.
She finally managed to gather the pugs, shushing their excited wriggles as she scooped them up. With one last glance at Lysander—his little face scrunched up in frustration but already moving on to chase after a butterfly—she took a deep breath, turned on the spot, and apparated straight to Parkinson Manor.
Because this wasn't something she could leave unfinished. Not this time.
Luna apparated into the house with a soft crack, her arms full, cradling both pugs against her chest like a peace offering. The moment Pansy saw her standing there in the doorway, she froze, her entire body going rigid as if struck by an unseen force. Shock flickered across her tear-streaked face, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, the remnants of heartbreak still clinging to her like an unwanted second skin. She had been bracing for this moment, for the inevitable confrontation, but seeing Luna standing there, looking just as hesitant and burdened by their earlier fight, made everything inside her twist painfully.
Neville, who had been quietly watching from the other room, immediately stepped forward. He walked over to Luna, carefully taking the dogs from her arms with the same effortless grace in which he handled everything in life. He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek—a silent expression of gratitude and quiet affection—before murmuring under his breath, "Good luck." His voice was low, knowing, a whisper between friends. Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving them alone in the thick, suffocating tension of everything unsaid.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence between them stretched long and taut, charged with the weight of their shared history, their pain, and their unbreakable bond that, despite its fractures, had never shattered completely. Pansy's breathing was still uneven from the aftermath of her earlier outburst, and Luna stood there with guilt carved into every soft feature, her lips parting slightly as if searching for the right words.
But, as always, it was Pansy who was the braver of the two when it came to emotional vulnerability.
"I would like to apologize," she said abruptly, her voice clipped, formal. It was the kind of apology that barely scraped the surface, the kind that was more about filling the silence than addressing the real wound. "That I offended Rocio."
Luna blinked, lips pressing into a thin line, clearly unimpressed. "It's not about the animal."
Pansy cleared her throat, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I would also like to apologize for being snappy with Lysander."
"It's not about him either."
Pansy stilled.
The room suddenly felt too big, and she felt too small standing there, surrounded by the wreckage of one of the worst fights they had ever had.
Luna exhaled slowly, her gaze never leaving Pansy's as if she were holding something fragile, something sacred, in her hands. "Pansy… I'm pregnant."
For one agonizing heartbeat, the world seemed to stop.
Then—
"OH MY GOOOOOOOOD!"
The sheer force of Pansy's scream could have cracked glass. Before Luna could react, Pansy launched herself across the room with the speed and enthusiasm of a woman possessed. She crashed into Luna with an almost violent level of excitement, arms wrapping around her best friend as she spun her around wildly, laughter bubbling from her lips in pure, unfiltered joy.
She was kissing her cheeks, her mouth, anywhere she could reach, giddy and overwhelmed in a way she hadn't been in a long time. The fight, the pain, the guilt—it all faded for that brief, blissful moment.
Luna let out a breathless chuckle, squirming in Pansy's arms. "Girl, stop the kissing," she scolded playfully, her voice full of fond exasperation. "Take me on a date first or something."
Pansy grinned wickedly, pressing one last dramatic kiss to Luna's forehead before pulling back just enough to cup her face. "Sorry, love, can't. You're married."
The moment should have been nothing but pure happiness.
But then, just like that, reality crept back in. The joy dimmed slightly, giving way to the undercurrent of hurt that still lingered between them. The wounds weren't fully healed, not yet. The echoes of what had been said earlier still hung in the air like ghosts unwilling to be exorcized.
Luna took a deep breath, her expression shifting, growing more serious. "I would like to deeply apologize," she said softly. "For hurting your feelings."
Pansy felt something tighten in her throat, her grip on Luna's arms loosening slightly.
Luna swallowed, eyes filled with a remorse so heavy it nearly broke her. "I know I hit you where it hurts the most. And I have no excuse for that."
Pansy didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't trust herself to speak.
Then, without thinking, she was hugging Luna again, but this time it wasn't out of excitement or giddy happiness. It was something else. Something heavier. Something forgiving. Something healing.
Luna exhaled shakily, her entire body softening as she let herself be held. "Pansy, I feel terrible about what I said."
Pansy, ever the dramatist, clutched her chest as if she were on the verge of collapse. "Terrible? Luna, I almost died!" she declared, her voice dripping with theatrical agony. "You nearly snatched the very breath from my lungs! I perished!"
Luna let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head before cupping Pansy's face and pressing a warm, lingering kiss to her cheek. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice softer now, filled with sincerity.
Pansy hesitated for a beat, then sighed dramatically. "I think it's okay…" she muttered, but the wounded edge to her voice betrayed her.
Luna pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. "No. It's not okay," she insisted, her tone firm yet filled with love. "It was horrific, it was cruel, and I wish I could take it back. I love you, Pansy. And I promise you—I swear to you—I will never say anything like that again."
Pansy swallowed hard, her heart swelling with emotion, her walls cracking just enough to let the warmth back in. Then, with a shaky exhale, she pulled Luna into another fierce hug, burying her face into her shoulder.
"I love you too," she murmured, her voice thick, her heart finally at peace again.
It started over tea—though calling it tea was a generous term when the room was filled with half-empty wine glasses and the remnants of a charcuterie board that had long since been abandoned. The bored housewives—as they had jokingly come to call themselves—sat in the lavish sunroom of the Nott estate, the afternoon light slanting through the tall windows, casting golden hues over their extravagant yet entirely unnecessary plotting.
But this? This wasn't just another afternoon of gossiping about their husbands' latest exploits or debating which wizarding designer had the best fall collection. No, this was serious.
The Malfoy situation was spiraling.
Hermione had left. Really left. And while both Luna and Pansy had been there to pick up the shattered pieces—comforting her, supporting her, getting drunk with her—there was no denying the fact that a Draco without Hermione was a danger to himself, to others, and most importantly, to their peace of mind.
"We have to fix this," Pansy had announced dramatically, sprawled on Luna's plush chaise lounge, a chilled flute of champagne balanced between her fingers.
Luna, who had been lazily twirling her fingers in Lysander's soft curls, hummed in agreement. "Mmm, it is getting tedious. He's been dramatically drinking himself into oblivion for weeks now. And Hermione? She's pretending she's fine, but I can see her aura. It's a mess. Too much dark blue."
Pansy flicked a grape off the table. "Well, obviously. She's miserable. He's miserable. We're miserable watching it. And frankly, I don't have time for Draco's self-inflicted tragic hero nonsense when I have an actual babies to raise." She straightened up, eyes gleaming with determination. "So, we're fixing it."
Luna nodded, as if that was the most obvious conclusion in the world. "Agreed."
Pansy slammed her glass down onto the table, leaning forward with the intensity of someone plotting a full-scale war campaign. "Master Plan: Operation Malfoy Reconciliation begins now."
Luna sighed, shaking her head. "You can't name it that."
"Fine. The Grand Malfoy Redemption Arc."
"…Still no."
" Dramione : The Sequel."
Luna shot her a look.
"Fine. The Plan," Pansy huffed, rolling her eyes.
"Better," Luna conceded with a small smirk.
Pansy stood, pacing now, her mind spinning with strategy. "Alright, here's what we're going to do. You, my ethereal little weirdo, are going to work on Granger."
Luna tilted her head in consideration. "Logical. She trusts me. But how?"
"You visit her," Pansy said as if it were obvious. "Find a reason. Drop in unannounced. Bring a sad-looking dessert—like a half-eaten treacle tart. Guilt her into talking. Make her feel the loneliness. Remind her that she wants him, despite how insufferable he is."
Luna sipped her wine thoughtfully. "And what will you do?"
Pansy grinned. Wickedly.
"I," she declared dramatically, "am going straight to the source of all Malfoy guilt and manipulation."
Luna blinked. "You mean—"
"Narcissa," Pansy purred. "I will handle her."
And just like that, the plan was set in motion. Two women, hell bent on forcing love back together through sheer force of will, armed with guilt, theatrics, and an unshakable belief in their own ability to meddle.
The Malfoys never stood a chance.
~~~~~~
Hermione was startled from her thoughts by a soft knock on the door, followed by her mother's gentle voice. "Hermione, sweetheart, you have a visitor."
Her gaze broke from the book in her lap—one she hadn't been reading, merely holding as a distraction. Her fingers rested on the same page she'd been staring at for hours, the words blurring into meaninglessness. "Who is it?" she asked softly, her voice strained with the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights.
"It's Luna," her mother replied warmly, the name carrying a subtle note of reassurance, as though she knew Hermione needed her friend's gentle presence.
She hesitated, a knot forming in her chest. Relief flickered at the mention of Luna's name—her unwavering calm and whimsical outlook were like a balm for her frayed nerves. But guilt quickly followed. Luna would see through her fragile composure in seconds. She always did. Still, she nodded, forcing a faint smile. "Okay. Send her up please."
Moments later, the door creaked open, and she entered the room, radiating her usual unassuming serenity. She wore a flowing pale blue dress, the color of a summer sky, paired with one of her eccentric necklaces—this one strung with Valentino initials. Her wide, curious eyes scanned the room, taking in its preserved simplicity before settling on Hermione with a knowing, compassionate gaze.
"Mimi," Luna greeted her softly, using the nickname that only she could say with such ease and affection. Her voice was a melody, light yet grounding, and it wrapped around Hermione like a comforting embrace. Closing the door behind her, Luna approached, her expression a mixture of concern and quiet understanding. "Your mummy said you've been here a while."
She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just needed… space. Time to think." Her words felt heavy, as if even speaking them aloud took more effort than she had to give.
Luna didn't reply immediately. Instead, she crossed the room in her usual graceful, almost ethereal way, and sat down beside her on the bed. Her presence filled the space with a quiet comfort that made Hermione feel seen without being judged. The silence between them wasn't awkward; it was purposeful, the kind that allowed wounds to breathe.
Finally, Luna spoke, her tone gentle yet direct. "I heard about Draco." She tilted her head slightly, her soft blonde hair catching the light. "I know things have been difficult."
She felt her throat tighten, the lump that had been lodged there for days now impossible to swallow. "It's been awful," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I tried so hard to help him, babes. To be there for him. But it's like he's drowning, and every time I reach out, he pulls me under with him." Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the image of her friend sitting beside her. "He said things… things I can't forget. Words that hurt so much I don't know if I can recover."
Luna reached out, her hand warm and steady as it covered hers. "Pain makes people lash out," she said, her voice as soft as a lullaby. "It doesn't excuse it, but it explains it. Sometimes, when someone is hurting so deeply, they push away the person they need the most."
She shook her head, the tears slipping freely now. "I just… I don't know what to do anymore. I feel like I've lost him. And worse, I feel like I'm losing myself."
"You haven't lost yourself," she said firmly, her eyes holding Hermione's with an intensity that belied her usual dreaminess. "You've been carrying a burden that isn't yours to bear. Loving someone doesn't mean sacrificing all of yourself, Mimi. It's not about fixing their broken pieces at the cost of breaking your own."
Her sobs escaped in broken gasps as Luna's words pierced through the emotional haze she had been trapped in. "But I love him," she choked out. "I can't just walk away. What if he needs me? What if he can't get better without me?"
Luna's grip on her hand tightened, a small but unyielding gesture. "Mimi, listen to me," she said softly but with an edge of steel. "He has to want to get better. You can't do it for him. You can't pour all of your light into someone who refuses to step out of the shadows. That's not love. That's losing yourself."
She looked down, tears splattering on the quilt. "I just wish it didn't have to be this way."
Luna smiled faintly, a bittersweet expression that carried both sorrow and hope. "I know. Life is rarely fair, especially to those with hearts as big as yours. But you deserve love that doesn't leave you questioning your worth. You deserve a love that makes you feel whole, not fractured."
The room fell silent again, save for Hermione's quiet sniffles. Slowly, she leaned into Luna, resting her head on her friend's shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered hoarsely. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Luna's arms came around her in a gentle hug. "You're not alone, Mimi. You'll find your way. And when you do, you'll remember just how strong you are."
For the first time in weeks, Hermione allowed herself to believe that might be true. Luna's unwavering belief in her felt like the first tiny step toward healing, and though the road ahead still felt impossibly long, she could at least see the faint glimmer of a path forward.
Luna sat across from Hermione in the cozy corner of her room. The soft clinking of teacups and murmured conversations filled the air, but in their little bubble of closeness, it felt as though the world had quieted. Luna's pale blue cardigan slipped off one shoulder as she leaned forward, her hands cradling her mug of chamomile tea. She looked radiant today—more luminous than usual, as though she were carrying a secret too wonderful to contain.
She raised an eyebrow, setting down her own cup. "You've been smiling like a Kneazle who caught the canary since you sat down. What's going on, Luna? Did you find another Crumple-Horned Snorkack expedition to join?"
Luna giggled, her laughter as light and musical as the wind chimes hanging by the tearoom window. She shook her head, her blonde hair catching the golden sunlight streaming in. "No, nothing like that." Her voice softened, a hint of mischief in her tone. "But you're right—I do have something to share."
She tilted her head, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Well, don't leave me hanging, babes. Spill."
Luna's gaze softened, and for a moment, she simply looked at Hermione, her smile growing impossibly warmer. Then she reached across the table, placing her hand gently over Hermione's. "I'm pregnant."
For a heartbeat, she just stared at her, as if the words needed time to settle in her mind. Then her face lit up with pure joy, her hands flying to her mouth in a gasp of disbelief. "Luna! Are you serious? Oh, my goodness!"
Luna nodded, her smile widening into a beam of happiness that lit up the entire room. "I am," she said, her voice a little tremulous, as though she herself still marveled at the reality of it. "Theo and I are going to have a baby."
She was out of her seat in a heartbeat, circling the tiny table to pull Luna into a fierce, unreserved hug. "Oh, Luna, that's the most wonderful news!" she exclaimed, her voice thick with emotion. "I can't believe it—you're going to be a mum again!"
Luna hugged her back, her arms wrapping tightly around her friend. "And you're going to be the most brilliant auntie," she whispered, her voice trembling with happy tears.
She pulled back slightly, her hands still gripping Luna's shoulders as she searched her friend's face. "You're glowing, Luna. Truly. I don't think I've ever seen you look so happy. How's Theo taking it? He must be over the moon."
Luna's eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. "Oh, Theo cried when I told him," she admitted with a soft laugh. "And then he spent the next hour swearing to make the manor completely baby-proof again by the end of the week." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's already ordered books on magical parenting. I think he's read three of them in two days."
She laughed, dabbing at her eyes as tears of joy pricked at the corners. "That sounds like Theo—calm and composed on the outside but secretly in a tizzy underneath."
Luna grinned. "He's already talking about teaching the baby all about astronomy and showing them the constellations from the garden. He says he wants our child to know how vast and beautiful the universe is."
She let out a soft sigh, her heart swelling with happiness for her friend. "Luna, you're the most incredible mother. That child is going to grow up surrounded by so much love and wonder."
Luna squeezed her hand, her voice soft but filled with unwavering certainty. "And they're going to have the most amazing role models in their life, starting with you. I want them to grow up knowing what strength and kindness look like, and you embody both, Hermione."
Her heart caught in her throat at the sincerity of her words. She laughed through her tears, shaking her head. "Don't make me cry even more, Luna. I'm already a mess."
They both laughed then, their joy filling the small space between them like sunlight breaking through clouds. As they settled back into their seats, the conversation turned to baby names, nursery ideas, and Luna's excitement about introducing her child to the magical and Muggle worlds alike.
For the rest of the afternoon, the tearoom seemed brighter, warmer, as though it had been touched by the magic of Luna's news. And for Hermione, the joy of that moment was something she would carry with her forever—a reminder that even in the most unexpected places, life had a way of creating beautiful new beginnings.
~~~~~~
Summoning what little resolve remained, he forced himself toward the fireplace. His hands trembled as he reached for the Floo powder, hovering for a long moment over the flames. It was pathetic, really—how much hesitation lived in his bones, how much shame coiled in his stomach like poison.
Within the hour, Theo and Blaise arrived, both stepping into his penthouse with an expression that mirrored each other—concern, curiosity, and the unmistakable wariness of men who had witnessed Draco Malfoy in ruins before. They were used to this—the self-destruction, the slow spiral, the anger that burned itself out only to be replaced by a hollow nothingness. But this time, something was different. This time, Draco wasn't drinking himself into oblivion or punching walls to feel something. This time, he had called them. That alone was enough to make them pay attention.
Theo was the first to speak, his sharp gaze scanning the wreckage of Draco's study—the overturned glass, the scattered papers, the dim, suffocating atmosphere of a man barely holding himself together. "You look like absolute hell," he said bluntly, stepping inside as if he owned the place. "What's going on?"
Blaise followed, his eyes flicking from the untouched bottle of whiskey to Draco's rigid stance. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Please tell me this isn't just another one of your brooding episodes," he muttered. "Because if we came all the way here just to watch you stare at walls and sulk, I'm going to throw you off the balcony."
He let out a dry, humorless laugh. "As tempting as that sounds, I actually need help."
Something in his voice made both men still. This wasn't just regret. This wasn't just a moment of weakness. This was something deeper—something more desperate.
Theo crossed his arms, his voice dropping in volume but not intensity. "What happened?"
Draco exhaled, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "She left me." The words felt like razors in his throat. "Hermione—she left. Three weeks ago. I haven't heard from her since."
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Blaise exchanged a glance with Theo, the weight of the confession sinking in.
"Well," Blaise said finally, his voice devoid of its usual lazy amusement, "congratulations, Malfoy. You managed to completely fuck things up."
Draco flinched, but he didn't argue. He had no right to.
Theo sighed, rubbing his jaw. "What did you do?"
Draco shook his head. "That's the thing, I don't even know when it happened. I didn't see it coming. I didn't realize—" His voice cracked, frustration bleeding through the exhaustion. "I was so wrapped up in my own goddamn head, in my own fucking damage, that I didn't see I was ruining everything."
Blaise exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Draco, you are the smartest idiot I have ever met. You're telling me she just woke up one day and decided to leave? No warning? No signs?"
"She was slipping away," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I just didn't realize how much until she was already gone."
Theo studied him for a long moment before speaking, his voice softer but still carrying the weight of truth. "Then let me ask you this: are you calling us because you miss her, or because you finally realize you need to change?"
The question hit Draco like a gut punch.
Because that was the real issue, wasn't it? He hadn't just lost Hermione—he had lost himself in the process. He had become the worst version of himself, a man even he couldn't stand to look at in the mirror.
"I don't want to be this person anymore," he admitted, his voice raw. "I don't want to keep falling back into the same patterns. I don't want to keep losing the people who matter because I can't fucking deal with my own shit." He lifted his head, locking eyes with both of them. "I need to fix this. I need help."
Theo's expression softened, and for once, he didn't have some cutting remark or sarcastic quip ready. Instead, he nodded. "Good. Admitting it's the first step."
Blaise let out a deep breath. "We'll help you, but this won't be easy. You can't just sit around and sulk and expect things to magically fix themselves. You're going to have to put in the work."
Draco nodded, the weight of his own mistakes pressing heavily on his chest. "I know," he said. "But I'm ready. Whatever it takes."
Theo clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. "Alright, then. First things first: no more whiskey. No more self-pity. We come up with a plan, and you stick to it."
Blaise smirked, though there was warmth behind it. "And if you slip up, I will personally drag your sorry arse out of whatever pit you try to crawl into."
Draco let out a small, exhausted laugh. "I'll hold you to that."
The three of them stood there for a long moment, the gravity of the situation settling in. This was the beginning of something difficult, something painful—but also something necessary. Draco didn't know if he could fix things with Hermione, but he knew one thing for certain: he had to fix himself first.
And for the first time in a long time, he believed he could.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Blaise let out a slow, deliberate breath. Then he chuckled, low and humorless. "You've really done it this time, haven't you?"
Draco flinched, but he said nothing.
Theo straightened, his eyes narrowing with something between disappointment and fury. "Draco," he said, his voice slow and measured, "do you have any fucking idea what you've done?"
Draco lifted his head slightly, but before he could speak, Theo was on him.
"No, don't look at me like that, don't even try to fucking defend yourself," Theo snapped, his usual cool demeanor cracking as he took a step forward. "You think this is some kind of minor inconvenience? You think this is just a temporary setback? You destroyed her. And now, you're sitting here, moping like a godsdamned child because you don't know how to fix it?"
Draco swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "I—"
"You what?" Theo cut him off viciously. "You miss her? You regret it? Too fucking bad. You didn't just mess up, Draco. You broke her. You ruined something good. Something real. And for what? Because it was easier to push her away than deal with your own goddamn emotions? Because instead of being a man, instead of facing your issues, you let yourself spiral until the only thing left in your life was the wreckage you created?"
Draco's breath was unsteady, his chest rising and falling too quickly. He had expected Theo to be angry—he should be angry—but the sheer disgust in his voice made Draco feel like he had been physically struck.
Blaise, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke. "You know," he mused, his voice deceptively casual, "I've seen you fuck up a lot, mate. Hell, it's practically a sport at this point. But this? This is a new fucking low."
Draco's hands curled into fists. "I know I fucked up," he gritted out.
"Do you?" Blaise shot back, his voice sharp. "Because I don't think you do. You called us here, what, to have a little intervention? To help you clean up the mess? That's not how this works, Malfoy. You don't get to cry about it now. You don't get to decide when it's time to make things better. She does. And after what you've put her through, after everything, what makes you think she'll ever want to see your face again?"
Draco felt something inside him crack.
"That's what I'm trying to figure out," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't—I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to make things right. I don't even know where to start."
Theo exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples as if trying to suppress the urge to strangle him. "First of all," he said, voice tight, "this isn't about Hermione. Not yet. This is about you getting your shit together. Because right now, you're a fucking disaster. And if you think some half-assed apology or some grand romantic gesture is going to fix things, you're out of your goddamned mind."
Blaise nodded, his expression grim. "If you want to make things right, you start by fixing yourself. Not for her. For you. Because right now? You're a fucking joke."
Draco bristled, his pride flaring. "You think I don't know that?" he snapped.
Theo laughed, but there was no humor in it. "No, Draco, I don't think you know that. Because if you did, you wouldn't have let it get this bad in the first place."
Draco clenched his jaw so tightly it ached. "I just—" He let out a ragged breath, his hands shaking as he gripped the edge of the table. "I just want to fix it."
"You don't fix this," Blaise said coldly. "You earn your way back from it. If you even can."
Theo crossed his arms again, staring down at him with something that almost looked like pity. "You don't get to decide when she forgives you, Draco. You don't get to rush this. You don't get to dictate how long she needs, or if she'll ever come back."
Draco pressed his palms into his eyes, his head pounding. "I know," he muttered.
"No," Theo said simply. "You don't."
Draco dropped his hands, looking up at them, his face drawn and exhausted. "What do I do?"
Blaise scoffed. "You really want to know?"
Draco nodded.
"Then listen closely," Theo said, his voice dead serious. "You clean up your goddamn life. You stop wallowing. You stop drinking yourself into oblivion. You get help. You work through your shit, and you do it for you, not because you think it'll get you Hermione back."
"And here's the kicker," Blaise added, his smirk cruel. "You do all of that, and you still might never see her again."
Draco flinched, but Blaise wasn't finished.
"If you really love her, you'll do it anyway. Because you owe her that. You owe yourself that." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "And if you're not willing to do the work? Then you never fucking deserved her in the first place."
Draco swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. He had never felt so small, so ashamed, and yet, for the first time in a long time, he felt something else too.
Resolve.
"Okay," he said hoarsely. "I'll do it."
Theo gave a slow nod. "Then prove it."
Blaise studied him for a long moment before shaking his head. "God help you, Malfoy. Because this is going to be the hardest thing you've ever done."
Draco exhaled, the weight of their words pressing into his ribs. He had no illusions—this wasn't going to be easy. This wasn't going to be quick.
But he would do it.
Because for the first time in his life, he had to.
~~~~~~
When Luna finally arrived home, the weight of the day pressed down on her like a thick, heavy blanket, wrapping around her limbs, making every movement sluggish. It had been an exhausting day, one filled with more emotions than she cared to process all at once. There were too many souls needing comfort, too many people she had tried to hold together while she, herself, was barely keeping upright. The emotional toll of it all left her drained, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion settling into her muscles. These days, it felt like she was running on borrowed energy, constantly pouring herself into others until there was nothing left.
She sighed, rolling her shoulders as she stepped inside, the soft glow of candlelight casting warm shadows against the walls. Their home smelled familiar, a mixture of old books, sandalwood, and the faintest trace of Theo's cologne lingering in the air—a scent she had long since associated with safety. It grounded her. Even before she heard his footsteps, she could feel him, the steady hum of his presence filling the space, a quiet reassurance that she wasn't alone.
Theo arrived home not long after, looking as though he had been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders as well, but the moment he stepped inside and felt her energy in the house, he let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. He could always tell when she was home, not just by the warmth in the air but by something deeper, something unspoken between them. Lysander was gone for the evening, staying with the crazy neighbor lady—the one Luna kept insisting was 'misunderstood' while Theo remained firmly convinced that she was, in fact, absolutely fucking insane.
"No matter what you say, my love, that bitch is crazy," Theo muttered dramatically as he tossed his coat onto the nearest chair, running a hand through his hair.
Luna, half-smiling despite her exhaustion, simply hummed in response, already sinking into the couch, pulling her legs up beneath her. The weight of the day pressed even harder now that she was home, now that she allowed herself to feel it.
"How was it with Draco?" she asked, tilting her head just enough to look at him, her voice quiet but laced with genuine curiosity.
Theo let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as he loosened the collar of his shirt. "As you can imagine," he replied, his tone filled with something between fond exasperation and the kind of exhaustion that came from dealing with Draco Malfoy for more than five minutes. He made his way toward her, sitting beside her, his fingers already reaching out, tracing over the back of her hand, grounding himself in her presence. "And you? How was your day, darling?"
She exhaled deeply, rubbing at her temple as she leaned into his touch. "I had an argument with Pansy," she admitted, her voice carrying the weight of everything left unsaid. "Went over to her afterwards to fix things, then stopped by to see Hermione. And now…" she sighed, sinking further into him, letting the warmth of his body ease some of the tension from hers. "Now, I'm exhausted."
He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head as his fingers continued their slow, absentminded patterns against her skin. "With Parkinson? That's not exactly difficult, my love. It's quite easy to find yourself in an argument with her."
Luna let out a quiet hum of agreement but didn't say anything else, just curled further into him, her body seeking the comfort only he could provide. She shifted, pressing her face against the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply, letting herself drown in the familiarity of him.
"I just want to snuggle," she murmured against his skin, voice thick with exhaustion, a quiet plea wrapped in warmth. "I just want to kiss you."
Theo didn't hesitate, didn't ask questions, didn't need anything more than that. He simply leaned down and kissed her, deeply, slowly, his lips moving against hers with the kind of tenderness that made her breath hitch. It was unhurried, a kiss filled with gratitude, with understanding, with the quiet kind of love that didn't need grand gestures or elaborate words. His fingers curled around the back of her neck, holding her in place as he kissed her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
When they finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them. His fingers traced gentle lines along her jaw, his gaze soft yet filled with something heavier, something more.
"I never had a chance to thank you," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, reverent, as though the words themselves carried more weight than he could put into them. "For choosing our marriage after I fucked it up."
Luna's eyes fluttered open, locking onto his. There was no hesitation when she reached up, cupping his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "You think I ever could have chosen anything else?" she asked, voice steady, unwavering. "Theo, you are my choice. Every time. Even when it was hard. Even when I was angry. Even when I had every reason to walk away, I never wanted to. Because you are my home."
His breath caught, his fingers tightening slightly around her. He kissed her again, this time slower, deeper, his lips conveying everything he couldn't quite put into words. And when he finally pulled away, he tucked her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her, holding her as if she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
And to him, she was.