He wasn't sure if what he had done during the night could be classified as sleep, but technically, his body had been horizontal for a few hours, and his eyes had been closed at some point, so he supposed it counted. The fact that he felt like absolute death upon waking was simply the price to pay for a mind that refused to let him rest. His limbs felt leaden as he dragged himself from bed, rubbing a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, scowling at his reflection in the small mirror across the room. Dark circles had settled beneath his eyes like bruises, his usually sharp features drawn tight with exhaustion, and Merlin help him, he looked like he had spent the night fighting off demons. Which, in a way, he supposed he had.
With a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand lifetimes, he threw on a shirt and padded down the stairs, his mood foul, his energy levels nonexistent, and his patience for human interaction already running thin. He had barely stepped into the kitchen before he was met with a voice that grated against his already fragile sanity.
"Oh, holy shit," came the delighted exclamation. "You look like hell."
He closed his eyes for a long, suffering moment before turning to face his least favorite Weasley.
"Good morning, Ginevra," he drawled, his tone dry as the bloody Sahara.
She grinned at him from her seat at the table, looking far too pleased with herself, a half-eaten slice of toast in one hand, her other stirring what smelled like a particularly offensive cup of coffee. She was the picture of someone who had slept well, probably terrorized Blaise before sunrise, and was thriving on pure mischief.
"You look awful," she continued, completely ignoring his greeting. "Like, truly horrendous. Have you considered exorcism? A curse-breaking ritual? Perhaps a visit to a healer to check if you've died and no one told you?"
"That is really helpful, Ginevra," he deadpanned, moving past her to pour himself some coffee, though even caffeine felt like a weak defense against the utter assault on his sanity that was her presence. "Where is your emotional support boyfriend? Why can't you go bother him instead?"
She gasped, placing a dramatic hand over her heart. "Oh, baby, you are sensitive in the morning. Did someone have a bad dream?"
He turned slowly, leveling her with the kind of stare that had made trained assassins nervous. She, of course, remained entirely unaffected, grinning at him like a demon in the skin of a far-too-attractive redhead.
"You are," he muttered, more to himself than to her, "an actual menace to society."
She took a leisurely sip of her coffee. "I know."
Theo sighed deeply, already mourning the peace and quiet he would never again know as long as this woman was in his orbit. He needed to have a word with Blaise about the chaos entity he had willingly attached himself to because, at this rate, Theo was going to need a warding spell against her particular brand of energy.
And speaking of chaos—
His gaze flickered to the other end of the kitchen, where Pansy Parkinson had appeared, leaning against the counter, looking entirely too amused by the interaction she had clearly been eavesdropping on.
Of course.
Because why stop at just one strong, independent, terrifyingly self-assured woman when he could apparently suffer in twos?
"Merlin help me," he muttered under his breath, running a hand down his face. This was his life now. Trapped in a safehouse, surrounded by strong, loud, entirely ungovernable women.
Pansy smirked, lifting an elegantly manicured brow. "Having fun, darling?"
Theo pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm in actual hell."
Ginny beamed, popping the last bite of her toast into her mouth as she nudged his coffee cup toward him. "Well, drink up, sweetheart. You're going to need your strength."
He wasn't sure if she meant for the upcoming mission or for simply surviving another day in this madhouse. Either way, it didn't bode well for him.
~~~
The decision settled in his chest like a lead weight, pressing down with the kind of certainty that refused to be ignored. He needed to see it again—the body, the scene, the evidence of his work—because no amount of reasoning, no amount of reassurances from Draco, Hermione, or even himself would put his mind at ease until he laid his own eyes upon it once more. The unease coiling in his gut, the whisper of doubt gnawing at the edges of his mind, the way Lovegood's words refused to let go of him—it was all becoming unbearable. He would not find peace, not until he could confirm that the body was exactly where he had left it, unmoving, unbreathing, proof that this nightmarish uncertainty was nothing more than the result of exhaustion and paranoia.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already-disheveled hair before straightening his spine, steeling himself for the apparition. But just as he turned, ready to leave, a figure materialized beside him so suddenly, so soundlessly, that for the first time in years, a sharp jolt of surprise bolted through his system.
"Fucking hell—" he hissed, his breath catching as he took an instinctive step back, his muscles tensing before his brain caught up with reality.
She tilted her head, silver eyes calm, eerily steady. "I didn't mean to scare you."
His pulse was still unsteady, his heart still beating against his ribs like a war drum. His reaction had been immediate, automatic—his body recognizing a threat before his mind could override it. But that was the thing, wasn't it? Lovegood was not a threat. And yet, every time she appeared—too quiet, too knowing, too present—his entire body reacted as though she were something other, something that did not quite belong to the world the way the rest of them did.
It unnerved him.
The way she stood there, utterly unbothered by his reaction, her expression unreadable except for that slight, infuriating glimmer of amusement, like she had been expecting it. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to push the tension from his muscles, forcing himself to remember that she was just a girl, just her—
Except, she wasn't, was she?
There was something in the way she existed that set his teeth on edge, something in the way she saw things that made his skin prickle, like the ghost of a touch that was never truly there. He could feel it now, a chill that crept along the back of his neck, the undeniable sense that she had already known what he was planning before he had even fully decided.
Her gaze flickered toward the empty space beside him, as though she were listening to something he could not hear, as though there were things lurking in the silence that only she could perceive.
"Going back?" she asked finally, her voice as light as ever, as if she were inquiring about an evening stroll rather than an illicit return to a crime scene.
He hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second, barely a breath. "…Yes."
There was no shift in her expression, no reaction that suggested surprise or disapproval. Instead, she simply reached forward, fingers curling around his forearm, her touch as light as a whisper but as unyielding as iron.
"Then let's go."
There was no room for argument, no hesitation on her part. She had made up her mind, as if it had never been a question of if she would accompany him, only a matter of when.
His body was sluggish with exhaustion, his mind too frayed at the edges to bother protesting. And so, before he could think to stop her, before he could decide whether or not he actually wanted her there, the world folded in on itself, the familiar pull of apparition yanking him from the safety of the safehouse and into the unknown.
His breath caught in his throat, not because of the sudden shift in space, not because of the cold night air hitting his skin, but because of the creeping, suffocating certainty that settled over him as soon as his feet hit the ground.
~~~
The air was thick, the kind of heavy stillness that pressed against the skin and settled in the lungs, cloying and stagnant. It carried no scent of blood, no metallic tang of death, only the damp chill of the early morning and the weight of something unseen pressing into his bones. The street was empty, silent in a way that shouldn't be possible in a city like this. There were no distant sounds of footsteps, no rustling of animals in alleyways, no muffled conversations from behind thin apartment walls.
Just silence.
His boots met the damp pavement with a dull thud as he approached the spot where he'd left the body. It should have been easy—walk to the alley, see the evidence, confirm that everything was as it should be. But as he stepped into the narrow passageway between the looming brick buildings, something shifted.
There was no body.
There wasn't even a trace of one.
The concrete was dry, unstained, as if no blood had ever seeped into its cracks. The walls, which should have been marked by the violence of the night before, bore no smears, no signs of struggle. The dumpster, the one where he had leaned the corpse against for just a moment as he ensured the kill was clean, stood undisturbed, its lid shut as if it had never been touched.
For the first time in years, a foreign sensation crawled up his spine. Not fear—Theo didn't do fear—but something colder, something worse.
Doubt.
His hands curled into fists as he stared at the empty space where there should have been a body. He knew what he had done. He remembered the weight of the blade in his grip, the way it slid into soft flesh, the exact moment he had watched the life drain from vacant eyes. The body had fallen, a dead weight slumping to the ground with no fight left in it.
It had been there.
But now, it was gone.
His breath left him in a slow exhale, sharp and controlled, his mind racing through possibilities. There had been no time for removal, no one who should have known where to look. The Order had designated the target—this was not some meaningless hit, not a street brawl ending in a casualty. This was a clean execution. One that should have stayed exactly where he left it.
And yet, the scene before him was pristine.
His pulse pounded in his ears, and for a moment, he felt the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
He turned sharply, scanning the empty street, his body tense, muscles coiled, ready. There was nothing. Only the flickering of the single streetlamp at the corner, casting elongated shadows that stretched too far, bending at unnatural angles, moving when they shouldn't.
Theo swallowed hard, forcing his breath to steady.
He needed logic. He needed answers.
There had to be a reason for this. Someone had found the body. Someone had cleaned the scene. Someone had erased all evidence of what happened here. That was the only explanation.
Then why did the air feel wrong?
Something was off.
It wasn't just the silence, though that in itself was wrong. The city never truly slept, never let go of its dull hum of life. There should have been distant voices from nearby windows, the shuffle of a rat nosing through garbage, the occasional roar of a faraway engine breaking through the quiet. But here, in this narrow alley where he stood, there was nothing—not even the sound of his own breath seemed to sit right in the air, as if it were being muffled, as if something else was listening.
The air felt heavier, thick like smoke yet scentless, pressing against his skin in a way that made it impossible to shake the sense that he was not alone. The streetlights, which should have provided some comfort, instead only added to the unease, their glow flickering inconsistently, casting elongated shadows that stretched too far, bending unnaturally across the brick walls. They didn't dance with the wind or flicker in rhythm with the city's usual pulse—they moved differently, almost deliberately.
His fingers twitched. He hated this. Hated the feeling of not knowing.
Then, from beside him, the hum started.
Soft. Barely there at first, just a whisper of sound, a vibration curling through the air, neither melody nor tune, only a faint thread of something almost otherworldly.
He turned his head just enough to glance at her.
She hadn't spoken since they arrived, hadn't commented on why she had insisted on coming with him in the first place. But she stood there now, a few feet away, running her fingers along the uneven brick, her gaze distant, her touch light, as if she were searching for something unseen.
The way she moved unsettled him, deliberate yet unhurried, like she wasn't just tracing the stone but reading it, absorbing something beyond what his own senses could detect. Her fingers drifted over the crumbling mortar, barely skimming the surface, yet the moment they passed over a particular section, she stopped.
The hum deepened.
It shouldn't have meant anything, shouldn't have held weight, and yet something in his chest tightened.
A strange pulse ran through the air.
His skin prickled.
"Lovegood." His voice was sharp, cutting through the too-thick silence like a blade.
She didn't respond right away. Instead, her fingers lingered where they had stopped, pressing gently, as if waiting for something to shift, as if expecting an answer.
The hum faded.
She tilted her head slightly, considering, then spoke, her voice as light as ever, but holding an undeniable certainty beneath it.
"This place remembers him."
Theo's stomach turned.
A ridiculous sentence, one that shouldn't mean a damn thing, but the way she said it—calm, unquestioning, as though she weren't speaking a theory but a truth already written into the fabric of reality— made something cold slide down his spine.
"There's nothing to remember," he muttered, forcing his voice to stay even, logical, grounded in something that wasn't this... this nonsense. "He's gone. The body's gone. There's no one left here."
She turned to face him fully now, her pale lashes flickering over unreadable silver-blue eyes. Too knowing.
"Not all bodies stay."
His mouth went dry.
There was something about the way she said it—not just as a warning, not as a question, but as a simple fact—that sent his irritation flaring.
He wasn't stupid. He wasn't easily rattled.
And yet, standing in this place where a corpse should have been but wasn't, staring at a girl who seemed to listen to walls and whisper with ghosts, he was unnerved.
He turned sharply, forcing his gaze away from her, scanning the alley again. Maybe he had missed something, something logical, something that could explain why this place felt so... wrong.
But there was nothing.
Just the flickering lights. Just the stretching shadows. Just the feeling that something was watching him.
A gust of wind swept through the alley, and he had to fight the urge to shudder.
And then—
A rustling sound.
Soft. Barely there.
It came from behind him, where Luna stood.
Theo stilled, every muscle in his body tightening. Slowly, deliberately, he turned.
And the moment his gaze met hers, she spoke again.
"They're still here."
His throat constricted. "Who?"
Luna lifted her chin slightly, looking past him, through him.
Her expression didn't change.
"The crows."
His breath hitched.
The flickering streetlamp let out a loud, audible buzz, the glow surging unnaturally bright for a fraction of a second before it dimmed again, the alley dipping into deeper shadow.
Theo clenched his jaw. This was ridiculous. This was nothing.
He inhaled sharply, forcing the words through clenched teeth.
"There are no fucking crows, Lovegood."
Luna blinked at him, slow and measured.
Then, without looking away, she lifted her hand—and pointed.
Theo's chest tightened. Against every rational part of his mind, he followed the movement of her finger, slowly turning his head toward the building across from them.
His breath stalled in his throat.
Perched along the ledges, the rooftops, the wires stretching overhead—they were there.
Dark figures, lined in eerie silence, their small, beady black eyes locked onto him.
Dozens.
Not moving. Not making a sound.
Just watching.
Theo's skin went cold.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his breathing even, to shove down the rising weight of something awful clawing at his ribs.
It was just crows. Just birds. Just—
Luna's voice broke the silence, the words slipping from her lips like a whisper.
"They know your name."
His hands curled into fists at his sides. His pulse thundered in his ears.
He wanted to leave. He wanted to walk away, to go back to the safehouse, to pretend this conversation had never happened, but his feet wouldn't move.
Because for the first time since he had left the body here, since he had completed the job and walked away, since he had convinced himself that nothing was out of the ordinary—
For the first time, he was terrified that Luna was right.
His mouth opened, a sharp, irritated comment already forming on his tongue—because really, how the hell was this necessary?—but before he could speak, she moved again.
Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her hand.
The moment her palm left the ground, his breath stalled.
Her fingers—her skin—were black.
Dark soot clung to her fingertips, streaking the lines of her palm, sinking into the soft grooves of her skin like a stain that had been waiting for her touch. It wasn't just dirt, wasn't just the kind of grime that lingered on city streets—it was thicker, heavier, wrong. The way it smeared across her fingers was too even, too deliberate, as if it had been placed there, waiting.
He didn't realize he had taken a step back until his boot scraped against the pavement.
The sound was too loud in the silence that stretched between them.
She studied her hand, tilting it slightly, the way an artist might examine their own work, the way someone might try to decipher a message written in something only they could understand. Then, finally, she looked up at him.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, everything felt still.
The streetlights flickered overhead. The wind carried the faint rustle of unseen wings. Somewhere in the distance, a car engine rumbled—but here, in this too-empty alley, all he could hear was the quiet way she exhaled, the way the weight of whatever she had just learned settled between them like a second presence.
He swallowed, his mouth dry, his voice coming out lower, rougher than he intended.
"What the fuck was that?"
She didn't answer.
Not right away.
Instead, she blinked down at her fingers once more, rubbing them lightly together, as if testing the texture, as if the soot itself had something to tell her.
Then, in that soft, almost absentminded voice that somehow made everything worse, she murmured,
"It's still here."
Theo felt something in his chest go cold.
Still here.
Not gone.
Not cleaned.
Not removed.
Still here.
His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, a steady, suffocating thrum that he shouldn't be able to hear, shouldn't be able to feel so viscerally, but he did, because this moment, this exact fucking moment, was wrong.
And Lovegood, with her soot-stained fingers and her faraway gaze—was the only one who seemed to understand why.
~~~
The moment they landed, the sharp pull of Apparition still thrumming through his veins, she staggered, her usually fluid movements thrown off balance by the sudden shift in space. Her breath hitched, and without thinking—without hesitation—he reached for her.
His hands found her waist first, his grip firm but careful, steadying her before she could fall. She was warm, warmer than he expected, her body smaller against his than he realized, and for a fraction of a second, he felt everything.
The slight tremor in her limbs. The way her breath caught as he pulled her upright. The way the air between them suddenly became too thick, too charged, too intimate.
She didn't move away immediately.
And neither did he.
His fingers flexed where they rested against her waist, and his other hand, still gripping her wrist from the way he had Apparated them, felt far too aware of the delicate bones beneath his touch. He could feel the thrum of her pulse against his skin, a steady rhythm, but beneath it, something else—something faintly unsteady, something just slightly off.
"Are you okay?" His voice was lower than usual, rougher, as if the tension of the night had latched onto his throat.
She looked up at him then, wide-eyed, the silver-blue of her gaze reflecting the dim glow of the safehouse's lights. He had never seen her this shaken before.
"What the fuck was that thing?" Her voice, usually airy and distant, wasn't. It was real, sharp, edged with something that almost sounded like fear.
His fingers twitched against her waist. He should let go.
He didn't.
"I have no idea," he admitted, because what else could he say? Because there had been nothing natural about what they saw back there. Because the blood had been wrong, the air had been too thick, the crows had been watching.
Because he had felt it too.
She inhaled slowly, and it did something to him, the way her breath brushed against the space between them, how close they still were, how neither of them seemed to be addressing it.
"Let's go inside," she said finally, quieter now, something unreadable flickering across her expression.
She took a step back, breaking the moment.
And then—
Her fingers brushed against his.
A simple touch. Accidental. Fleeting.
But gods, it wasn't.
It was bare skin against bare skin, the warmth of her fingers lingering over his knuckles, the unmistakable slide of her thumb grazing the inside of his palm, a touch so light, so insignificant, and yet it sent a bolt of something hot and unmanageable straight through his chest.
It wasn't a caress, wasn't anything intentional, wasn't even meant to be anything.
And yet, it was.
His body betrayed him instantly.
A sharp inhale. The slow, unbearable heat curling low in his stomach. The immediate, humiliating realization that he was too aware of her, far too aware of something that had never even registered before tonight.
She hadn't noticed.
Or maybe she had, but she didn't react.
She just let her fingers linger there for a moment longer, just long enough to wreck him, before she finally turned toward the door.
He didn't follow her right away.
He stood there, rooted to the spot, staring down at his own fucking hand like it had just been branded, as if he could still feel the weight of her touch burning against his skin.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
It had been a touch. A single innocuous, accidental moment.
And yet, he was standing here, still trying to regain control of his own body, trying not to acknowledge the humiliating fact that it had been enough to—
Gods, he needed to wank.
Desperately.
This was fucking ridiculous.
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply, forcing himself to move, to walk forward, to pretend none of this was happening inside his own fucking head.
By the time he stepped inside, she was already halfway across the room, moving toward the hallway with that same, slow grace, as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn't just sent his entire body into an irrational state of chaos over nothing.
She paused.
Turned back.
Her eyes flicked toward him, that unreadable glint still lingering there.
He stared back, jaw tight, already bracing himself for whatever cryptic thing she was about to say.
She said nothing.
Just tilted her head slightly, gaze flicking over him once, like she already knew.
Then she turned and walked away.
Leaving him standing there, still too aware of his own traitorous fucking hands.
~~~
The water scalded his skin, burning hot, almost painful, but he didn't turn it down. He braced both hands against the slick tiles, fingers spread wide, his breath coming too fast as he let the heat sink into his muscles, hoping—desperately fucking hoping—that it would be enough to sear her out of his mind.
But it wasn't.
He could still feel it.
The way she had stumbled into him, the way his hands had found her instinctively, the undeniable warmth of her waist beneath his fingers, the unspoken hesitation between them before she had pulled away too slowly, too deliberately. It was the brush of her fingers against his own, that single, fleeting moment where her touch lingered longer than it should have, where it had sent something sharp and electric down his spine.
It had been nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
And yet, his body refused to believe that.
His fingers curled against the tile, his knuckles tightening, his jaw clenching hard enough to hurt as he tried to ignore the sharp pulse of arousal settling low in his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling roughly, shifting his stance as if that would somehow ease the ache, as if the unbearable heat pooling beneath his skin would just disappear if he stood here long enough.
It didn't.
It only grew worse.
His hand twitched at his side. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't.
But the ache was there, heavy and demanding, a tight coil winding itself deep in his gut, refusing to be ignored. He could feel the tension in his shoulders, the burn in his stomach, the steady thrum of something unavoidable pulsing through his veins.
A sharp inhale. A curse muttered through gritted teeth.
His fingers ghosted over his abdomen, hesitant at first, as if there was still some part of him that could fight this, that could walk away from it. But the second he wrapped his hand around himself, a ragged breath tore from his throat, his entire body tensing at the first stroke.
It was slow at first, too slow, too controlled, as if he could keep this from becoming what it already was. His grip was loose, the movement careful, as if testing, as if pretending it wasn't already spiraling out of his control.
But then—
The memory of her flickered behind his eyelids.
The way she had looked up at him.
The way her breath had hitched.
The way her fingers had felt against his own.
A sharp, involuntary exhale left him, and his grip tightened instinctively, his pace quickening as his entire body reacted before he could stop it. His forehead fell against the tile, water streaming down his back, his movements becoming rougher, more desperate, every stroke sending another jolt of pleasure racing up his spine.
He could hear her in his head.
Soft, breathy, unknowingly teasing, her voice curling around him like a whisper in the dark.
He could feel her fingers—not in reality, but in his mind, in the way his own hand wasn't enough, in the way he wanted it to be hers, wanted to feel her touch, her warmth, her breath against his skin.
His strokes turned brutal, his muscles coiling impossibly tight, the pressure building too fast, but fuck, he couldn't stop, couldn't slow down, couldn't do anything but chase it now. His chest heaved, his jaw clenching so hard it ached, his other hand bracing against the wall as his knees almost buckled, his body tightening, trembling, completely at the mercy of it.
The tension snapped so violently, it felt like something breaking inside him.
A guttural, wrecked sound tore from his throat, his fingers digging into the wall as pleasure crashed over him, hot and consuming, leaving him breathless, ruined, shaking. He rode it out, his strokes slowing, his body jerking with every aftershock, his mind nothing but white noise.
When it finally passed, when the last tremor faded, when he was finally still, the weight of it hit him all at once.
His chest heaved. His grip loosened. His head dropped forward, water still streaming down his face, his breath still uneven, unsteady, wrecked.
A sharp, bitter laugh escaped him.
Fucking pathetic.
He hated himself for this.
For how easy it had been. For how quickly he had lost control. For the way it had taken nothing more than a single fucking touch from her to unravel him.
His hands twitched, and suddenly, he felt the unbearable need to scrub them over his face, to erase the lingering sensation of her against his skin, to pretend that this had never happened, that he wasn't here, standing under burning water, completely ruined over nothing.
Except it wasn't nothing.
It was her.
And now, he knew there was no coming back from this.
Absolutely perfect. Fucking perfect.
As if his life wasn't already an absolute fucking disaster, now he had this to deal with—this mess, this complete and utter humiliation, this unbearable knowledge that it had taken nothing, nothing at all, for his body to betray him so completely. A single touch. A brush of fingers. That was all it took.
Pathetic. Absolutely fucking pathetic.
The water was still running, the heat steaming up the small space, but he didn't move. He stood there, his breath still uneven, his body still thrumming from the release he shouldn't have given into, his hands curled into fists at his sides. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to breathe—deep, slow, controlled.
None of this had happened. That was the rule.
He would pretend it hadn't happened. He would step out of this shower, wash it from his skin, from his thoughts, from the unforgiving grip it had on him, and then he would forget.
But as he turned the knob, as the scorching stream cut off, leaving him standing in thick, humid air, the sharp ache of reality hit him full force.
He still wanted her.
Even now. Even after that. Even after he had given in to something shameful, to something that had crawled under his skin like an infection, something that had left him weak and wrecked and so fucking angry at himself he could barely breathe.
The realization made his stomach churn.
No. He wouldn't let this happen again.
Without thinking, he turned the knob in the opposite direction.
The water that blasted against his skin was ice-cold, sharp and biting, like stepping directly into the middle of a storm, like plunging into a frozen lake, like a physical shock that nearly made him stagger back.
It was what he needed. It had to be.
The first sharp breath that tore from his throat was involuntary, his entire body seizing at the temperature shift, at the way the cold sank into his muscles, chasing away the warmth, the lingering sensation of his own fingers, of her phantom touch still burning against his skin.
He stood beneath it, forcing himself to endure it, refusing to give in to the sharp chill scraping against his nerves. His breath came in short bursts at first, sharp inhales, sharp exhales, but eventually, his heartbeat began to slow, the fire inside him beginning to smother under the weight of the cold.
This was better. This was necessary. This was control.
And yet, his mind wouldn't fucking let him go.
The steam clung to the walls, curling like ghostly tendrils against the tile. He exhaled slowly, watching the breath leave him, watching it fade away, disappear, vanish—
Like a body that was never there.
His stomach twisted, a sick, uneasy feeling curling around his ribs, the weight of everything that had happened tonight crashing over him like a wave.
He had too many questions. Far too many questions.
He reached for the shampoo with a steady hand, his movements slow, methodical, forcing himself into the simple routine of it—lather, rinse, repeat—as if he could somehow scrub the night away along with everything else.
But even as the cold water worked its way deep into his bones, even as the tension in his muscles finally began to ease, there was one question that wouldn't leave him, one that followed him even as he dragged his hands over his face, fingers digging into his temples.
What had Luna meant when she said it's still here?
The thought lodged itself in his brain like a thorn, impossible to pull free, and the longer he stood there, the worse it became.
What did she mean? What was still here?
Not the body. He had checked.
Not the blood. There had been nothing.
Then what?
His jaw clenched, irritation flashing hot through him again, his fingers tightening into a fist against the cool tile.
He had no answers.
Only the memory of her voice, quiet and undeniably certain.
And the way the air around them had felt too thick.
And the way the crows had stared at him like they knew something he didn't.
Theo exhaled sharply, forcing the thoughts back, forcing himself to let it go.
He shut the water off with one final turn of the knob, stepping out into the cold air, into the reality that awaited him outside this fucking bathroom.
He wasn't ready to face her.
Not yet.
But he had no choice.
~~~
Neville was the newest addition to the team.
Theo didn't particularly mind him—not yet, anyway. He wasn't loud, wasn't reckless, wasn't the kind of person who felt the need to fill silences with useless words. He had a quiet competence about him, the kind that had obviously been hard-earned, something that wasn't flashy but solid, dependable. Theo could respect that.
But then, Pansy looked at him.
And suddenly, everything changed.
Theo hadn't even been paying attention at first. He had been sitting at the rickety kitchen table, minding his own fucking business, halfway through a cup of tea that he desperately needed after the absolute hell that had been the last twenty-four hours. He had been prepared to ignore everyone, to block out whatever chaos the rest of the safehouse was brewing, to simply exist in temporary peace.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught it.
That look.
It wasn't obvious, not to anyone who wasn't paying attention. A flicker of curiosity. A slight tilt of her head. A lingering glance, just a second too long. But Theo had known Pansy Parkinson for too many years to miss the signs.
Oh, fuck no.
The realization hit him like a curse straight to the chest.
Pansy was interested.
In Neville.
Longbottom.
Theo nearly choked on his tea.
He wasn't alone in this—he knew it. He could already see the moment Blaise caught on, the slight, knowing smirk that flickered across his usually unreadable expression as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, observing the inevitable disaster about to unfold. Even Draco, who had entered the kitchen moments before, paused just long enough to follow Pansy's gaze and roll his eyes.
"You've got to be kidding me," Theo muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand down his face as the weight of his impending suffering fully settled into his bones.
Because he knew exactly what this meant.
It was only a matter of time.
A week, maybe two—if he was lucky—before things spiraled completely out of control. Before they thought they were subtle, but weren't. Before the tension in the room grew unbearable because Pansy wasn't one to shy away from what she wanted.
Before he had to start practicing silencing charms.
Theo was exhausted already.
Why was it like this? Why was everyone in this godforsaken safehouse incapable of going five fucking minutes without falling into bed with someone?
It had started with Draco and Granger—which, quite frankly, he still wasn't fully recovered from. That mess had been building under everyone's noses for months, until one night, after some mission gone wrong, when Theo had made the absolute mistake of walking past the wrong fucking door at the wrong fucking time.
It had taken weeks to scrub the sound from his mind. Weeks.
Then, of course, there was Ginny and Blaise, who had absolutely no shame whatsoever.
They weren't even trying to be subtle.
Theo couldn't sit in a room with them for more than five minutes without feeling like he was intruding on something.
It was insufferable. Utterly, completely insufferable.
And now, fucking Pansy and Longbottom?
Theo sighed, long and suffering, staring down at his tea as if it held the answers to why the universe had cursed him with this never-ending nightmare.
The chair across from him scraped against the floor as someone sat down.
"You look like you're having an existential crisis, mate."
Theo didn't even glance up.
"Blaise, if you say one word, I swear to Merlin, I'll hex you into next week."
Blaise chuckled, entirely too entertained at his expense. "You do realize this means you're the only one left, right?"
Theo's grip on his mug tightened.
"I will kill you."
Blaise only smirked, sipping at his coffee as if Theo's impending breakdown was the most amusing thing in the world.
It was. For him.
For Theo? This was actual, living hell.
Draco finally decided to put him out of his misery by changing the subject, thankfully, but Theo could still feel it—the shift.
Because Pansy was still looking at Neville.
And Neville?
Neville was definitely looking back.
Theo sighed again, louder this time, with more weight, with more suffering.
He needed an actual drink.
Draco finally sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as if the sheer weight of the absolute idiocy happening before him was just too much to bear. He stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, expression pinched with the kind of deep-seated exhaustion that only came from spending too much time locked in a safehouse with people who refused to act like normal human beings.
He let the silence hang for a second longer, dragging it out, making sure everyone in the room was fully aware of the atrocity that had just taken place.
Then, in the driest, most unimpressed tone Theo had ever heard, he spoke.
"Now that we've all had to suffer through that impossibly cringe eye-fucking moment—" Draco gestured vaguely between Pansy and Neville, his lip curling in thinly veiled disgust, "I'd like to actually get to the fucking point and welcome our newest addition to the team."
There was a beat of silence before Blaise outright cackled, doubling over slightly, his shoulders shaking. Ginny slapped a hand over her mouth, but her snort of laughter still escaped, entirely too pleased with the absolute chaos unfolding.
Neville, to his credit, didn't look nearly as mortified as he should have.
Pansy, on the other hand, rolled her eyes dramatically and flipped her hair over her shoulder, unbothered, unashamed, and entirely unapologetic.
"You're all so immature," she muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting off a smirk.
"Oh, we're immature?" Theo drawled, slumping further in his chair, barely resisting the urge to bang his head against the table. "I'm sorry, were you not just mentally undressing Longbottom in front of the entire fucking room? Because I'm fairly certain we all just suffered through that together."
Pansy didn't even blink.
"He's handsome, get over it."
Theo let out a slow, suffering breath, rubbing at his temple as if this whole conversation was physically giving him a migraine.
Neville chose that exact moment to lean forward slightly, his expression infuriatingly neutral, his voice calm when he said, "Well, thank you, Pansy. That's very kind."
Theo's entire soul left his body.
Draco groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he were seconds away from cursing the entire safehouse into oblivion.
"You know what? No. I refuse to witness this. This is my limit." He exhaled sharply before turning directly to Neville, as if forcing himself to pretend none of this had ever happened.
"Longbottom, welcome to the fucking team. Please do not make me regret this decision any more than I already do."
Theo prayed to whatever higher power existed that the ground would open up and swallow him whole.