The night was too quiet, too still, thick with something unnatural, something rotten, something that pressed against the air like an invisible force wrapping itself around Theo's throat. The cobblestone streets, slick with the remnants of rain, reflected the moon's heavy glow, but the light did nothing to chase away the feeling burrowing into his skin. The world felt dense, suffocating, as if something had settled into the space between heartbeats, waiting, watching. His breath curled into the cold air, but the chill in his bones had nothing to do with the weather. There was no reason for this feeling, no explanation for the creeping dread crawling up his spine, but it was there, thick and inescapable, setting every nerve on edge as the alley came into view.
He had not come alone. Luna walked beside him, quiet as ever, her presence unnervingly calm, as if she already knew what he was about to see, as if she had been expecting it long before he even realized something was wrong. The way she moved, light and effortless, the way she carried herself, shoulders relaxed, gaze unreadable, made the fear clawing at his insides feel all the more suffocating. If she wasn't afraid, did that mean she understood what was happening? Or did it mean she had already accepted the horror waiting for them?
The alley was the same. The damp stone walls, the stench of rot, the faint memory of blood soaking into the earth. This was the place where he had ended a life, where he had felt the warmth of blood spill over his fingers, where he had watched the light flicker out of a man's eyes and had known, without question, that he was dead. But the body wasn't there anymore, hadn't been there for days, had disappeared into nothing, into whispers, into the thing that had followed Theo home in the dark. It should have been gone.
But it wasn't.
At first, it was just a shape in the shadows, something half-formed, something he could convince himself was a trick of the light. But as the seconds stretched too long, as the stillness of the alley became suffocating, the shape shifted. Moved. Stood. Breathed.
Theo's heart slammed against his ribs, his entire body locking up, a sickening pulse of dread curling low in his stomach. He had seen this before, had felt this moment in the back of his mind for days, had felt it in the way the shadows stretched too long in the corners of the safehouse, in the way his own reflection didn't quite match the way he moved. He had known, somewhere deep inside himself, that this moment was inevitable.
It wasn't human anymore.
The eyes were wrong, too dark, too deep, as if something else was inside them, something wearing the dead man's skin like a suit. The mouth was wrong, lips stretched too far, curled into something that mimicked a smile but didn't belong to anything living. It watched him, patient, waiting, the same way the whispers had waited, the same way the shadows had crept closer each night, the same way the weight in his chest had grown heavier with every breath since the moment he let it in. His fingers twitched toward his wand, but the sickening certainty settling in his gut told him it wouldn't make a difference. Magic wasn't going to stop whatever this was. Magic wasn't made for this.
Luna moved before he did, slow, deliberate, her breath steady despite the thing standing in front of them, despite the unmistakable wrongness pressing in around them. She didn't speak, didn't flinch, didn't even seem surprised. Theo wanted to demand answers, wanted to shake her, wanted her to explain why she wasn't afraid, why she wasn't running, why she was standing beside him like this was just another strange little secret she had known all along.
The thing took a step forward.
Theo took a step back.
His voice was rough when he finally spoke, hoarse and uneven, every muscle in his body screaming to move, to run, to get as far away from this nightmare as possible, but he forced himself to stay, forced himself to ask, forced himself to hear it out loud. "What are you?"
The thing smiled wider, its head tilting too far, something twisting beneath its skin like it was shifting, reforming, something inside it moving in a way no human body ever should. Then it spoke, not in a voice Theo recognized, not in the voice of the man he had killed.
It spoke in his own.
"You already know."
The world shrank, the air thickened, the alley twisted into something smaller, something pressing against him like the walls were closing in, like the ground beneath his feet was tilting. The whisper curled through his mind, slithering into his ribs, wrapping itself around his lungs until he couldn't breathe. He had known, hadn't he? He had known since the moment Luna first whispered to him in the safehouse, since the moment she had told him he had killed the wrong man, since the moment she had told him something had stayed behind.
He had let something in.
And now, it was wearing his sins.
Luna exhaled beside him, slow and measured, but when he finally looked at her, when he finally met her gaze, there was no comfort there, no reassurance, only the quiet, patient look of someone who had already accepted what he had refused to acknowledge. He wanted to ask her if she had known this would happen, if she had seen this coming, if she had tried to warn him and he had just been too stubborn, too blind, too unwilling to understand. But there was no time, because the thing standing in front of them, the thing in his own voice, in his own body, was still smiling.
And it wasn't finished yet.
The air collapsed around them, suffocating, thick, pressing against their lungs like something unseen was trying to dig its way inside. The alley was no longer just an alley. It had become something else, something alive, something watching. The thing in front of them, the thing wearing a dead man's skin, the thing that was no longer human, no longer anything that belonged in this world, moved in a way that made Theo's stomach churn. It shifted too fast and too slow all at once, a marionette with its strings tangled, its head tilting, its grin stretching too wide, its body convulsing like it was trying to remember how to be alive.
Theo's breath wasn't coming fast enough, wasn't coming at all, because this wasn't supposed to happen. He had killed it, had buried it, had walked away, but now it stood before him, whole, breathing, watching. Luna was beside him, her presence calm, steady, unbothered in the way only she could be, but he could feel it—the tension beneath the surface, the sharp edge of awareness coiling in her limbs, the way she had already calculated every possible outcome before Theo had even begun to react.
The thing took a step forward, and Theo didn't hesitate. His wand was in his hand before his mind could catch up, years of training, of muscle memory, of instinct taking over before fear could consume him entirely. A curse left his lips, sharp, precise, a spell designed to break bones, to send something human crumbling to the ground, to destroy.
It hit.
And it did nothing.
The force slammed into the creature's chest, should have cracked ribs, should have sent it flying, should have done something, anything, but it only shuddered, only twitched, only grinned.
Theo's blood turned to ice, his grip tightening around his wand, the air around them warping, bending as if reality itself was struggling to keep up. The thing moved faster than it should have, faster than it had any right to, its feet barely touching the ground, the sound of its movement more like the rustling of dry leaves than footsteps. Theo barely had time to blink before it was too close, before a horrible, clawed hand shot out—
Luna moved first.
A blur of motion, a rush of magic, a whisper of something ancient slipping through the air. Her wand flicked, barely more than a twitch of her fingers, but the effect was immediate. A force slammed into the creature, sending it back, sending it skidding across the alley floor like it had been yanked by something unseen. The air crackled with something old, something primal, something that didn't come from the spells they had learned at Hogwarts.
Theo was still reeling, still trying to process what the fuck had just happened, but Luna was already moving, already reaching for him, already grabbing his wrist in a grip that was surprisingly strong.
"We need to go."
Her voice was firm, but not frantic, level, steady, carrying the weight of someone who knew exactly how bad this situation had become.
Theo didn't argue.
They ran.
The world blurred around them as they moved, the night folding into itself, the alley stretching impossibly long before it twisted into a narrow street, then another, then another. The city was a maze, the roads unfamiliar in the dark, every turn leading them deeper into something they didn't understand. He could hear it behind them, could hear the sharp, unnatural sound of its movement, not quite running, not quite walking, more like something shifting, something dragging, something too wrong to exist in a world that followed rules.
Theo's heartbeat slammed against his ribs, his breath coming fast, sharp, but he didn't let himself falter. He didn't let himself look back.
Luna moved beside him, her grip still locked around his wrist, guiding him, pulling him forward, her mind already steps ahead, already thinking about where to go, how to get out.
Something shifted.
The shadows bent.
The thing was closer than it should have been.
It lunged.
Theo reacted on instinct, twisting, yanking Luna behind him, raising his wand in the same motion, blasting another curse at the creature even though he knew it wouldn't work. It staggered, just barely, just enough to give them another second, but that was all.
"We're not losing it like this," Theo gritted out, his voice rough, his pulse thrumming beneath his skin like a war drum. "We need—"
Luna's fingers dug into his arm, her other hand already lifting, her lips moving fast, whispering something too quiet to catch. The air around them shifted, heavy, charged with something not quite magic, not quite anything he could name.
Then, without warning, the ground disappeared beneath them.
Theo barely had time to curse, barely had time to react, barely had time to process the feeling of being yanked sideways through space, through something heavier than air, something thicker than magic. Apparition wasn't supposed to feel like this. Apparition was supposed to be sharp, precise, clean—not like being dragged through water, not like sinking into something alive.
And then they were falling.
The floor slammed into them, the world snapping back into focus all at once. Theo hit the ground hard, his back colliding with something solid, his vision spinning as he tried to get his bearings. The space around them was dark, small, walls too close, ceiling too low, the unmistakable scent of old stone and dust surrounding them.
Luna had dropped them into a fucking basement.
He coughed, pushing himself up, his limbs aching, his pulse still racing, his body still trying to process the fact that they had barely gotten away.
Above them, something scraped against the outside walls.
It was still looking for them.
Theo turned to Luna, breath still uneven, voice coming out rough, laced with frustration and something else, something dangerous, something close to panic. "Tell me that's going to hold."
Luna didn't answer immediately. She just looked at him, her breath just as labored, her chest rising and falling fast, her hair wild from the wind, from the magic, from everything. Her face was unreadable, the flickering candlelight casting strange shadows against her skin, and then, finally, she spoke.
"It won't hold forever."
Theo dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, trying to force his brain to catch up, trying to push through the panic still pressing at the edges of his mind. He knew what she meant. That thing wasn't gone. It wasn't done.
But neither were they.
Because whatever had crawled back from the dead, whatever had come for him, whatever had been whispering in the dark—
They would find a way to stop it.
~~~
The instant the tension in the alley snapped, Luna reached for him, her grip unshaking, her fingers curling around his wrist with the kind of certainty he could never seem to find in himself. Apparition was never supposed to feel like this, never supposed to feel like the world was collapsing inward, like the very fabric of reality was bending and twisting in ways it wasn't meant to. It wasn't supposed to feel like drowning in something thick and alive, wasn't supposed to press against his ribs as if something unseen was trying to crawl inside. The pull of the magic yanked them forward, sent them spiraling, left the dark weight of something watching still lingering against his skin even as the room reformed around them, even as they landed in the only place that was supposed to be safe.
Theo stumbled as they landed, his legs unsteady, the rush of it all leaving him breathless, raw, frayed at the edges. His heart slammed against his ribs, his pulse refusing to settle, his body fighting against something invisible, something heavy, something that refused to let go. The dim candlelight of their shared bedroom flickered, the soft glow stretching too far across the floor, the air still thick with remnants of whatever had followed them, whatever they had barely escaped. He knew the protective spells Luna had cast would hold, that the thing outside wouldn't be able to step beyond the threshold of this room, but it wasn't enough. None of it was enough.
Because he could still feel it.
His breath came sharp and uneven, his limbs still tense, his skin still burning from something more than fear. He hadn't let go of her wrist, hadn't loosened his grip, hadn't even thought about it because she was the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing tethering him to the present, the only thing that wasn't twisting into something monstrous. His knuckles were white where he held onto her, his fingers digging in, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough that he wasn't sure how to stop. He couldn't look away from her, couldn't focus on anything but the way her breath brushed against his skin, the way her chest rose and fell, the way her eyes searched his, slow and deliberate, as if she was waiting for something, as if she already knew what would happen next.
The silence pressed against them, thick and humming with something unspoken, something deeper, something clawing at the edges of his restraint. His throat was dry, his pulse deafening, his skin still prickling with the ghost of that thing's presence, and then suddenly—he was moving. His grip tightened for a fraction of a second, his body pulling forward before his mind had even caught up, before he had the chance to think, before he had the chance to stop himself.
He kissed her.
It wasn't soft, wasn't slow, wasn't careful. It was instinct, a raw and desperate thing, a reaction to everything he couldn't name, to the adrenaline still burning in his veins, to the way she was the only thing that felt real in a world that had started to bend beneath his feet. His hands weren't gentle, weren't questioning, weren't anything but need as they curled around the back of her neck, as they pressed against the small of her back, as he pulled her into him like she was the only thing keeping him from coming undone. His lips crashed against hers, not tentative, not asking, but claiming, like he had spent too many nights pretending he didn't want this, like he had spent too long keeping himself from the one thing he needed most.
And she didn't pull away.
For a second, just a second, she melted into him, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, her lips parting, her body fitting against his like this was meant to happen, like it was inevitable. Her breath hitched, a sound so small it could have been lost between them, but he heard it, felt it, wanted more of it.
Then, as fast as it had begun, it shattered.
They tore apart, breathless, eyes wide, staring at each other like they had just done something catastrophic, like they had crossed a line neither of them had been ready to acknowledge. The air between them was too thick, the room too small, the candlelight flickering against her face, catching the way her lips were red from the force of it, the way her hands were still fisted in his shirt, the way she looked at him like he had just undone something she wasn't sure could be fixed.
Theo still hadn't let go of her, still hadn't stepped back, still hadn't breathed. His body was thrumming with the remnants of something dangerous, something deep and impossible to ignore, something that had nothing to do with the fear pressing in around them. His fingers still lingered at her waist, barely touching, not nearly enough, and for a moment, just a moment, he thought maybe, maybe she would kiss him again.
Then the moment snapped.
The tension fractured like a rope pulled too tight. Theo stepped back too fast, too sharp, as if putting space between them would erase what had just happened, as if that would stop the rush of heat still burning beneath his skin, as if that would stop him from wanting her again. Luna let out a slow breath, her fingers smoothing over the fabric of her dress as if she could somehow wipe away the moment, as if she could undo it.
The room was still, but the weight of what had just happened pressed against them, thick and unbearable, more dangerous than anything waiting outside. His mind was still spinning, still reeling, still stuck on the feeling of her mouth beneath his, of the way she had tasted, of the way she hadn't pushed him away. But there wasn't time. They weren't safe. The thing was still out there. And whatever had just happened between them—
That was a different kind of danger altogether.
There was no thought, no hesitation, no self-restraint left in him anymore, only the raw, uncontrollable pull that had been clawing at him for weeks, for months, for longer than he dared to admit. The moment her lips parted in surprise, the second her breath hitched just enough for him to catch, something inside of him snapped, something dark and greedy and aching finally breaking loose from the prison he had forced it into, something that had been waiting for him to stop pretending, to stop denying, to stop fighting against the one thing in this gods-forsaken war-torn world that made sense.
His fingers curled around the back of her neck, firm but not forceful, guiding, needing, the warmth of her skin burning against his palm as he pulled her in, as he closed the remaining inches between them, as his mouth crashed against hers with something that was not soft, was not delicate, was not gentle in the way that love was supposed to be.
There was no patience in the way he kissed her, no teasing, no slow unraveling, no careful exploration, only hunger, only desperation, only the kind of overwhelming need that turned logic into ruin, that burned away all sense of caution, that left him with nothing but the way she tasted, the way she moved, the way she— gods, she wasn't stopping him.
She wasn't pulling away, wasn't breaking the moment, wasn't giving him a single reason to step back, to let this die before it consumed them both. Instead, she gasped softly into his mouth, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, dragging him deeper, letting herself fall into the exact same madness that had ruined him.
Of course. Here's a deeper, more emotionally fraught and extended version of your scene, pushing into Theo's internal spiral, the heat of the moment, and the devastating impact of her pause:
Theo groaned into her mouth, a low, guttural sound that came from somewhere deep inside his chest—half desire, half desperation, entirely unrestrained. It rumbled through him like thunder cracking open something that had been holding far too tightly for far too long, something wild and starved that had no intention of being caged anymore. His hands moved before his brain could catch up, sliding down the warm, delicate curve of her back, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of her shirt, dragging over the soft skin there like it would brand him, like it was already too late to stop. His palms gripped her hips with a hunger that bordered on reverence, with the kind of frantic ache that came from weeks, months—years, maybe—of pretending he didn't need this.
She made a sound—breathless, broken, a little like a whimper—and gods, that was it. That was all it took. He lifted her with a strength that felt effortless, like his body already knew how to carry her, like she was meant to be held by him. Her legs wrapped around his waist like instinct, like muscle memory, like she'd done it a thousand times in some other life, and her body pressed flush against his, soft and hot and impossibly real, her chest rising against his, her hips shifting, grinding in a way that made his vision blur. She arched into him like she couldn't stand the space between them, like she wanted more—wanted him—and fuck, he was unraveling.
His fingers dug into her thighs, into the soft flesh just beneath her arse, grounding himself in the feel of her, in the way her breath hitched when he adjusted his hold. He wasn't thinking anymore. He was all instinct, all need, all feral craving barely held back by shreds of civility he didn't know how much longer he could cling to. His lips left hers in favor of her jaw, dragging down the curve of her throat, planting open-mouthed kisses along the delicate skin there, the heat of his breath ghosting over her pulse. His tongue traced a line beneath her ear, his teeth grazing her just enough to feel her shudder, just enough to know she was falling apart in his arms, just enough to—
Fuck.
Her hands touched his chest. Not in desperation. Not to pull him closer. Not to guide him toward something more. But to stop him.
The pressure wasn't harsh. It wasn't panicked. It wasn't fearful. But it was final. It was gentle and careful and full of too much goddamn meaning. And it was enough.
Everything inside him froze. Like his entire body forgot how to move, how to breathe, how to be. The heat of the moment shattered with a vicious kind of whiplash, as if the tension they'd built between them had snapped too fast, leaving him suspended somewhere between agony and confusion.
His breath caught violently in his throat, lungs stuttering on the sudden stillness, muscles locked so tight he thought he might actually snap in two. His brain struggled through the fog of desire, dragging itself slowly back into control, searching for something steady, something rational, something that didn't hurt like this. But there was nothing. Nothing except her hands, still pressed against his chest. Nothing except the silence ringing in his ears. Nothing except the memory of her body melting into his just seconds ago and the cold truth of that space now widening between them.
He forced himself to set her down, every second of it feeling like pulling glass from beneath his skin. His hands dropped away with an almost painful reluctance, fingers twitching from the sudden absence of her warmth. When he finally looked at her—when he forced himself to see—she was already watching him. Her eyes were wide, unreadable, brimming with something he couldn't quite name, and yet it gutted him all the same. Her breathing was shallow, rapid, almost ragged, and it mirrored his own—two people teetering on the edge of something irreversible, something unspeakable, something neither of them was ready to claim.
The space between them throbbed with tension, a phantom ache in the shape of a kiss that had gone too far. Every inch of his body screamed for her, burned for her, ached with the memory of her lips, her skin, her body yielding to his like they were meant to fall apart together. His pulse was pounding so violently in his ears it was nearly deafening, a roaring tide of want, of need, of please don't let this be the end of it. His fists curled at his sides, nails biting into his palms in a desperate bid for control, for composure, for some fucking anchor that would keep him from reaching for her again.
But she had stopped him.
She had pulled away.
And that was enough.
He would never take what she didn't want to give. He would never be that man. Even if the ache inside him was eating him alive. Even if he could still feel the shape of her pressed against him like an echo he'd never shake. Even if she had almost let him have her. Almost.
Almost was a cruel fucking thing.
But he would survive it.
He always did.
Even if it wrecked him.
Even if this time, it felt like it already had.
Without a word, without waiting for her to say something that would break him more than this already had, Theo turned on his heel and walked out, his body thrumming with too much frustration, too much tension, too much fucking everything. His feet carried him to the bathroom before his mind could even catch up, before the reality of what had just happened could crash down on him, before the weight of his own mistakes could suffocate him completely.
He stripped off his clothes with quick, jerky, desperate movements, not caring that his hands were shaking, not caring that his breath still hadn't evened out, not caring that the burn beneath his skin was getting worse, not better. His body ached in ways he hadn't let himself feel before, ached in ways that had nothing to do with exhaustion, with battle, with war, ached in ways that only she could fix, and yet—she didn't.
He turned the shower on, not even bothering to wait for the water to heat, stepping beneath the icy spray with a sharp inhale, his muscles locking, his fingers digging into his scalp as he pressed his forehead against the cold tiles. He needed to erase this feeling, needed to drown out the echo of her sigh, the warmth of her body, the way she had felt so fucking perfect wrapped around him. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the freezing water sting against his skin, letting it punish him for the line he had crossed, for the way he had lost control, for the fact that he had almost—
Almost.
Gods.
What the fuck had he done?
~~~
Luna chose the easy way out, or at least that's what she told herself as she hurried down the hall, away from the room where Theo still lingered, away from the tension that clung to the walls, away from the unbearable heat of something that had spiraled out of control before she could stop it.
Her bare feet barely made a sound against the wooden floors, her breath uneven, her mind racing, her skin still tingling with the ghost of his touch. She hadn't thought—hadn't let herself think—had only moved on instinct, only let her body carry her to the one place where she knew she would find comfort, where she knew she could escape the weight of whatever had just happened.
The door to Draco and Hermione's room was slightly ajar, the soft glow of candlelight spilling into the hallway, the sound of hushed whispers within telling her they were still awake, still tangled up in whatever quiet moment they had stolen for themselves. She hesitated, her fingers tightening against the doorframe, her chest aching with something she couldn't name, something pressing against the back of her throat, something that felt too much like regret, too much like fear. She hadn't meant to break, hadn't meant to let it get this far, hadn't meant to let her heart slip into something that wasn't safe, that wasn't supposed to be real, that was never meant to be hers.
But the moment she stepped inside, the moment she opened her mouth to speak, she shattered.
"I..." The word barely made it past her lips before the tears started, hot and uncontrollable, slipping down her cheeks before she could stop them, before she could pretend that this wasn't breaking her.
Draco was already pushing himself upright, his sharp gaze immediately scanning her face, assessing, searching, his usual mask of detached arrogance slipping into something softer, something almost concerned. Hermione was faster, already out of bed, already reaching for her, already pulling her close like she had been waiting for this, like she had already known Luna would come running.
"What happened, love?" Draco's voice was careful, even, but there was something under it, something protective, something borderline furious that made Luna's chest tighten further.
She couldn't answer, not yet, not with the way her throat was closing in on itself, not with the way she could still feel the ghost of Theo's hands on her waist, still feel the bruising intensity of the kiss that had unraveled something inside of her. Her breath hitched, and then she was sobbing, silent and raw and shaking as Hermione guided her onto the bed, pulling her against her chest, rocking her gently the way a mother would soothe a frightened child.
Draco exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face, his tension palpable, but he didn't press her, didn't demand answers, simply let the weight of the moment settle.
"Shhh, darling," he murmured after a long pause, his voice quieter now, the sharpness edged out by something she couldn't quite place. "Tell me what happened."
Luna hiccuped, pressing her face into Hermione's shoulder, trying to collect herself, trying to make sense of the words forming on her tongue, but the moment she spoke, the moment the truth slipped free, everything felt heavier.
"We... we saw a skinwalker. And we kissed."
Draco's head snapped up.
"What the fuck?"
Hermione made a strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and an exasperated groan, her grip tightening around Luna's arms as if she was holding back the urge to shake her.
"Oh, gods," Hermione breathed, and not in horror, not in fear, but in something dangerously close to relief. "Finally."
Draco's entire face twisted in betrayal. "Hermione!"
"What?" She shot him a glare, her fingers still rubbing slow, soothing circles into Luna's back as she continued to sniffle against her. "Don't act surprised. We all saw this coming."
Draco groaned loudly, dragging a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath about how he was surrounded by fools.
Hermione ignored him, turning her attention back to Luna, her expression shifting, her focus narrowing, the sharp, analytical part of her mind taking over.
"Skinwalker?" Hermione pressed, her voice more urgent now, the warmth fading into something laced with genuine concern. "Luna... when? How?"
Luna pulled back slightly, wiping her tears on the sleeve of Hermione's nightshirt, her fingers still trembling as she tried to form a coherent response. She could still see it, still hear the way it had spoken to Theo, the way it had moved, the way it had worn a man's skin like a costume. She could still feel the way the air had shifted when it looked at them, still feel the absolute, undeniable wrongness of it.
"We went back," she whispered, voice hoarse, raw, thick with something she couldn't name. "To the place... to the place where Theodore killed the target."
Draco's entire body stiffened.
Luna swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep going, forcing herself to relive it, forcing herself to say the words out loud so they wouldn't fester inside of her.
"But that wasn't the person," she continued, her hands twisting in her lap, her voice shaking despite her best efforts. "It's unnatural, it spoke and moved and attacked us and then this idiot kissed me."
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, his shoulders visibly tense, his breath leaving him in a slow, controlled exhale that did absolutely nothing to hide his irritation.
"Okay, okay, little love," he muttered, shaking his head like he didn't even know where to start. "Take a deep breath. Let's focus on the monster before we get to the fact that you two absolute fucking disasters finally acted on whatever this is."
Luna did as he asked, inhaling shakily, forcing the oxygen into her lungs, forcing herself to focus on what mattered, forcing herself to ignore the way her heart still clenched painfully at the memory of Theo's lips against hers.
Because there were bigger problems than this.
Because if that thing was still out there—
Then none of them were safe.
Hermione reappeared moments later, the weight of the ancient tome she carried making her arms strain as she moved with quiet urgency. The book was thick, bound in worn leather, its edges frayed from centuries of use, the deep brown cover embossed with faded silver lettering that had long since become unreadable. It smelled of parchment and dust, of something ancient, something forgotten, something not meant for the hands of those who sought comfort in logical explanations. She moved quickly, her fingers already flipping through the brittle, yellowed pages with a practiced efficiency, scanning the densely packed script for the section she needed.
The candlelight flickered as she dropped the book onto the bed between them, the heavy thud of it settling against the mattress sending an eerie hush through the room. The pages fluttered under her fingertips, the script handwritten, cramped, some of it in Latin, some in a language Theo didn't immediately recognize. And then—there. She found what she was looking for, the inked title spanning the top of the page in deep, almost sinister lettering. Skinwalkers.
Theo felt something cold slip down his spine, something unpleasant curling at the base of his skull as his eyes traced the word. The drawing beneath it was crude but unmistakable—an inhuman figure, its body contorted in unnatural angles, its limbs elongated, its skin pulled too tightly over the bones beneath. The eyes—too hollow, too dark, too knowing.
Hermione pressed her lips together, her fingers ghosting over the page before she inhaled sharply and began to read aloud, her voice careful, measured, as though speaking the words too loudly would summon something best left undisturbed.
"Skinwalkers, also known as 'Náaldlooshii' in Navajo legend, are shape-shifters, dark witches who have forsaken their humanity for the power to become something else. They are not merely creatures of the night, but beings of forbidden magic, entities that wear the flesh of others like a second skin. Unlike other shapeshifters, a skinwalker does not simply take on the form of an animal or another human—it steals, it corrupts, it consumes."
A chill slithered through the room, subtle but undeniable.
"In most lore, skinwalkers were once human, often witches who committed unspeakable acts to gain their abilities—rituals of sacrifice, of blood, of consuming another's essence in a way that permanently severs the thread of their own mortality. Their power is not natural, not something gifted, but something taken, stolen, twisted into a perversion of what magic was meant to be. To wear another's skin, they must first remove it, carve it from the body of their victim and drape it over themselves like a cloak. Once adorned, they can move, speak, and even mimic the mannerisms of their prey, deceiving those closest to them."
Theo's jaw tightened, his throat dry. He hadn't breathed in too long.
Luna, who had remained quiet as Hermione read, did not look surprised.
"It is said that a skinwalker's transformation is not flawless. Though they may appear identical to the person they impersonate, something is always off. Their eyes, for one, never change—dark, hollow, lacking humanity, always watching with something almost too aware. Their mannerisms can slip, their voices too stretched, too hollow, sometimes layered as if two voices are speaking at once. They can mimic emotions, but they do not feel them, and the longer they wear a stolen skin, the more it begins to rot. They must shed it, discard it, replace it."
Theo forced himself to speak, his voice lower than he intended, rough around the edges. "So you're saying it's not him. It never was."
Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line. "It was never him, Theo. It was a skinwalker wearing him. And now—" her eyes flicked up, sharp, calculating, cold in the way only Hermione Granger could be when she was piecing together a puzzle no one wanted to solve, "—it knows you killed him. And it knows who you are."
Luna tilted her head, her silver-blue eyes reflecting the candlelight in an unnatural way, as if she already understood the gravity of the situation far more than either of them did. She reached out, her fingers brushing along the text, lightly tracing the ancient ink.
"The only way to kill a skinwalker is to call it by its true name. A name stripped of flesh and deception, a name it buried to walk between the living."
Theo exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, feeling the tension coil deeper into his bones. "Right. And where exactly are we supposed to find that?"
Luna's fingers stilled over the page.
Hermione hesitated.
And the answer, thick and heavy in the silence, settled like a curse between them.
The only one who could tell them the name was the skinwalker itself. And all them knew that none of them was ready for that to happen.