Theo tried to pretend the kiss meant nothing, tried to force it from his mind, tried to bury it beneath layers of denial so thick that even he could almost convince himself it hadn't happened, but the truth was impossible to ignore. He could feel the difference in every breath, in every glance, in every space between them that now felt too tight, too charged, too unbearable to exist within without remembering the way her lips had felt against his, the way her body had molded into his as if she had belonged there all along. He told himself it had been a mistake, a moment of weakness, a reaction to fear and adrenaline and exhaustion, nothing more than two people seeking comfort in the wreckage of something neither of them understood, but it was a lie, and he was a fool for thinking he could believe it.
She looked at him differently now, not overtly, not in a way that anyone else would notice, but he noticed. He noticed in the way her gaze lingered just a little too long when she thought he wasn't watching, in the way she seemed to hesitate before stepping too close, before brushing against him the way she used to without a second thought. It wasn't avoidance, wasn't shame, wasn't regret—no, it was something far more dangerous. It was a question left unspoken, a lingering uncertainty, a thread pulled too tight between them, fraying at the edges, waiting to snap.
And gods, it was going to snap.
He felt it in the tension that never seemed to fade, in the unbearable awareness that curled around him like a second skin every time she was near, in the way his own restraint was cracking under the weight of how much he wanted. He hadn't let himself think about it before, hadn't let himself really feel it, but now that he had, now that he knew what her lips tasted like, what her body felt like pressed against his, now that he had had her, even just for a moment, it was impossible to pretend he didn't want more.
He should walk away, should put as much space between them as possible, should swallow down the hunger clawing at his ribs and let this die before it became something he couldn't control. But then there was her, standing there like she always did, standing too close, standing with her eyes flicking to his mouth before she caught herself, standing with her fingers twitching at her sides as if she wasn't sure whether she should reach for him or push him away.
Then he snapped.
One moment he was standing still, holding himself together with fraying edges and sheer willpower, and the next he was moving, stepping forward, closing the space between them until he could see the way her breath caught in her throat, until he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, until he could smell the faint traces of whatever otherworldly scent always clung to her. He shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be pushing, shouldn't be risking everything just for an answer he already knew, but he couldn't stop himself, couldn't fight against the gravity that always pulled him toward her.
He reached out, fingers brushing against the curve of her jaw, tilting her face up just enough so he could see her eyes, so he could see the way her pupils widened, so he could see the part of her that had already made the decision before she even knew there was one to make. His voice was rough when he spoke, low, unsteady, something caught between a demand and a plea.
"Tell me you don't want this, and I'll stop."
The words fell between them like a challenge, heavy and thick with something neither of them could name, something neither of them could pretend didn't exist anymore.
Luna stared at him, unmoving, unblinking, unflinching, her breath slow, measured, as if she was weighing the words, as if she was deciding whether or not she could bring herself to lie. He could see the war behind her eyes, the way her thoughts twisted and tangled, the silent debate waging in the depths of her silver-blue gaze, the conflict that made her breath hitch just slightly before she exhaled in slow, quiet surrender.
It was there, written in every tense muscle, in every small, restrained motion, in the way she gripped the fabric of her dress as if grounding herself, as if trying to tether herself to reason, to caution, to anything other than the inevitable truth pressing down on both of them.
The silence was thick, weighted, so dense it felt suffocating, stretching out between them like a barrier neither of them had the strength to break. The air was electric, charged with something dangerous, something intoxicating, something that burned beneath the surface of their careful restraint, something that had always been there, lurking just beneath every glance, every unspoken word, every moment they had spent too close, too aware, too unwilling to step away. He could feel it in the way his body coiled tight, in the way his pulse pounded against his ribs, in the way his fingers twitched with the need to touch her, to pull her against him, to erase whatever distance still existed between them.
And then, finally—finally—she spoke.
"I don't want you to stop."
Two heartbeats. That was all it took.
Thank God.
He moved before he could think, before he could second-guess, before he could convince himself that he had imagined it. His hands found her waist, firm but careful, gripping her like she was something sacred, something precious, something he wasn't entirely sure he deserved. She let out a small, breathless sound as he lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, her fingers threading into his hair as he carried her to their bed.
There was no hesitation, no uncertainty, just the undeniable pull that had been dragging them toward this moment since the first time he had realized she wasn't just Luna, wasn't just the girl who whispered to the crows and read secrets in the stars, wasn't just his safe place in the chaos—she was everything.
The moment her back hit the mattress, she pulled him down with her, kissing him with a kind of desperate, burning hunger that sent a sharp pulse of need through his entire body. Her lips parted against his, her breath warm, her hands roaming, mapping the planes of his shoulders, his arms, his back, nails scratching lightly against his skin as if she needed to feel every inch of him, as if she wanted to commit him to memory.
He groaned into her mouth, his weight pressing down just enough to make her gasp, to make her arch into him, to make him lose whatever fragile thread of restraint he had left.
His lips found her neck, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat, pausing only to suck lightly at the pulse point that fluttered wildly beneath his tongue. She whimpered, her body reacting instantly, shifting against him, pressing closer, silently pleading for more. He wanted to take his time, wanted to savor every reaction, every shiver, every sigh, wanted to draw this out until she was completely undone beneath him. He traced a path down, his fingers skimming the hem of her dress, his body practically vibrating with need, but still, he held himself back.
With a flick of his wand, the dress vanished, leaving her bare beneath him, her body illuminated by the flickering candlelight, golden and soft, every curve, every inch of her making his breath catch in his throat. He didn't rush, didn't let himself be consumed by the desperation clawing at his chest. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a reverent kiss to her collarbone, then lower, lower, trailing down her ribs, until his lips found the swell of her breast.
His tongue flicked against her nipple, teasing, testing, before he took it into his mouth, sucking gently, savoring the way she gasped, the way her fingers tightened in his hair, the way her hips lifted slightly, seeking friction.
He grinned against her skin, his free hand trailing down her side, gripping her hip, steadying her as he continued his slow, torturous worship of her body. Every sound she made sent another pulse of desire straight to his core, tightening the coil of need low in his stomach, making it nearly impossible to keep himself from giving in completely. But he wanted this, wanted her, wanted to take his time, wanted to draw this out until she was pleading for him, until she was shaking, until there was nothing left between them but this raw, unfiltered want.
He pulled back just slightly, lifting his gaze to meet hers, watching as she blinked down at him, lips parted, eyes dark with heat, with something deeper, something that made his chest tighten.
He smirked, pressing another kiss just below her ribs, voice low, teasing, reverent.
"Patience, baby."
His fingers traced lower, slow, deliberate, teasing, learning, exploring the softness of her, the warmth, the way she reacted to even the lightest touch. He parted her carefully, savoring the way her breath caught, the way her body responded, the way she trembled in his hands. She was already so ready for him, so wet, so achingly perfect, and the realization sent a shudder of need through him, his pulse hammering as he fought to go slow, to take his time, to do this right.
When he finally slid a single finger inside her, she gasped, her back arching ever so slightly, her lips parting in a quiet, helpless moan that made his own breath falter. He watched her, mesmerized, the candlelight flickering over the delicate curve of her throat, the flushed heat of her skin, the way her lashes fluttered as she let herself sink into the sensation. She was breathtaking like this—lost in pleasure, trusting him completely, giving herself over to him without hesitation.
His name slipped from her lips, barely more than a whisper, but it sent a shockwave through him, igniting something deep in his chest, something primal, something he had no hope of controlling. He moved his finger slowly, curling it inside her, finding the places that made her gasp, that made her grip his shoulders tighter, that made her thighs tremble against his sides. His lips found the soft skin of her inner thigh, brushing a lingering kiss there, his free hand soothing over her hip, keeping her grounded, keeping her steady as he learned her, memorized her, adored her.
She reached for him blindly, her hands running over his back, his arms, anywhere she could touch, and he knew—he knew—he was gone, lost in her, in this, in the way she trusted him with every part of herself.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough, reverent, aching with everything he felt for her. "So gorgeous, baby."
Her breath hitched, her legs tensing around him, her body tightening in a way that told him she was close, that she was right there on the edge, and he wanted to give her everything, wanted to watch her come undone because of him, because he had made her feel this way, because she was his and he was hers and nothing else in the world mattered but this.
"Let go," he whispered against her skin, his lips pressing to the delicate curve of her hip, his fingers working her over with devastating precision, his voice a promise, a plea, a prayer. "I've got you, baby. Just let go."
The moment stretched between them, thick with heat, with something indescribable, something raw and unrelenting. His thumb found that sensitive little bundle of nerves, pressing down in slow, teasing circles, his movements precise, deliberate, knowing exactly how to make her gasp, exactly how to make her tremble, exactly how to unravel her piece by piece until she was nothing but sensation, nothing but the soft, breathless sounds that sent a rush of desperate need straight through him.
She gripped the sheets, her knuckles white, her thighs trembling with every delicious, drawn-out movement of his fingers inside her. He could feel her pulse there, could feel the way she clenched around him, the way her body reacted so beautifully to every touch, every press, every curl of his fingers that found that perfect spot deep inside her.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice thick with adoration, with reverence, with something dangerously close to worship, his lips brushing over the soft expanse of her stomach, inching lower, following the curve of her body with unhurried devotion. "Let me make you feel good, baby. Let me take care of you."
He didn't wait for permission, didn't need it, not when he already knew what she wanted, not when she was arching into him, silently begging for more, her body speaking louder than words ever could. He shifted down, positioning himself between her thighs, his breath hot against her most sensitive skin, teasing, promising, holding her wide open beneath him. She was panting now, her chest rising and falling in uneven, desperate breaths, her hands twitching at her sides, as if she didn't know what to do, as if she was barely holding herself together.
Until he licked her.
A slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue, tasting her, savoring her, worshiping her like she was something divine, something meant to be adored, something he would spend the rest of his life learning how to love properly. The first brush of his tongue made her entire body jolt, a sharp inhale leaving her lips, her fingers flying to his hair, tangling in the strands, pulling him closer, holding him there, as if she never wanted him to stop, as if she needed this as much as he did.
The moment she tugged, a desperate, mindless little motion, he groaned against her, the vibration making her whimper, making her thighs squeeze around his head as he flicked his tongue over her again and again, taking his time, learning her, memorizing every sound, every twitch, every plea that slipped past her lips.
And gods, he wanted her to break for him.
His hands smoothed over her thighs, holding her open, keeping her exactly where he wanted her, exactly where she belonged. He buried himself in her, his mouth working her over with slow, devastating precision, his fingers still inside her, curling, pressing, coaxing her closer and closer to that blissful edge, refusing to stop, refusing to let up, refusing to do anything but make her fall apart, make her unravel, make her his in every way that mattered.
Her breath hitched, her body shifting, arching, seeking, desperate for more, desperate for everything, and fuck, he wanted to give it to her, wanted to watch her completely lose herself in his touch, in his mouth, in him.
She was trembling now, every muscle tensed, every nerve alight, her thighs quivering around his head, her grip in his hair tightening, her body caught in that unbearable, torturous space between pleasure and release. He could feel the way she was clenching around his fingers, could feel the way she was so close, right there, teetering on the edge, her body already preparing to shatter. And he wanted it—he wanted to feel it, wanted to push her over, wanted to watch her come undone beneath him, for him, because of him.
"Theo," she gasped, her voice wrecked, desperate, breaking apart in a way that sent fire straight to his spine.
That was it.
That was all he needed.
He sucked hard, curling his fingers just right, applying just the right amount of pressure, his tongue flicking in perfect tandem with the movement of his hands, and then—
She shattered.
A cry tore from her throat, her body arching, her fingers clenching in his hair so tightly it ached, but he didn't care, he loved it, he loved the way she came apart for him, the way she trembled, the way she moaned his name like it was the only thing she could remember. He didn't stop, not until she had wrung every last drop of pleasure from his touch, not until she was nothing but a boneless, blissed-out mess beneath him, not until she was completely his, completely undone, completely perfect.
Only then did he pull back, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her inner thigh, his fingers sliding out of her with infinite care, his hands smoothing over her hips, grounding her, bringing her back, reminding her that he was here, that he wasn't going anywhere, that she was safe, cherished, adored. He moved up, hovering over her, brushing his nose against hers, soft now, gentle now, his lips barely touching hers as he whispered, "You're perfect."
She sighed, exhausted, satisfied, still trying to catch her breath, her hands drifting to his face, cupping his cheeks, her thumb tracing over his jaw in a way that made his chest ache, made his heart squeeze, made him wonder how he ever lived without her. And when she finally opened her eyes, looking up at him with so much trust, so much love, so much quiet, devastating certainty, he knew—he was never letting her go.
~~~
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the motion small but shaking with barely restrained violence. His entire body drew inward like something collapsing under its own weight, every muscle pulled taut beneath skin that suddenly felt too thin to contain him. There was a pressure mounting in his chest—hot, suffocating—something volatile beginning to stir. It wasn't fear. Not exactly. It was something crueler, older, sharper.
And she just watched.
Luna didn't blink, didn't shift, didn't breathe any faster. Her silver-blue eyes held steady on his, unreadable and unrelenting. She stood as if she had already seen the end of this moment play out—already walked through the ruins it would leave behind. There was no hesitation in her. No flicker of doubt. Only the certainty of someone who knew things she had no right to know.
"You weren't sent to kill him to stop him," she said softly, her voice calm, merciless in its clarity. "You were sent to replace him."
The words hit like a spell, and the world tilted on its axis.
The air thickened in his throat, suddenly too dense to breathe, like the atmosphere itself had shifted into something alien—something his lungs were never meant to inhale. His chest locked. His ribs refused to move. There was a cold, inhuman thing slithering down his spine now, sharp as needles and just as precise. He couldn't have heard her right. He couldn't have. Because the alternative—the thing she was saying—was too devastating to fit inside his skull without breaking something wide open.
His heart slammed against his ribs with a brutal, unfamiliar rhythm, as though it no longer recognized the body it lived in.
"That's why it's in you now."
Her voice was quieter this time, almost gentle, but it landed like a curse.
He staggered back a step, breath coming in fast, shallow bursts, like his body was actively rejecting the sound of her voice. Rejecting the meaning behind the words. Rejecting the impossible truth curling like smoke around the edges of his mind. He lifted a hand—half-expecting to see it tremble, half-expecting to find something wrong with it, something that didn't belong to him anymore.
"That's not—" He cut himself off, the words crumbling in his mouth. He swallowed hard. Forced himself to breathe slower, deeper. Forced his body not to splinter beneath the weight of whatever was clawing its way up from the dark.
He looked at her. Really looked.
Searching for a crack. A lie. A mistake. A hint that this was one of her riddles—another cryptic, maddening game of hers that would unravel into nothing if he just waited long enough.
But Luna didn't play games with things like this.
And Luna was never wrong.
The realization hit him like a blade straight through the gut—sharp, burning, immediate—and for one suspended, breathless moment, he couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't fucking breathe. Something inside him buckled. Something primal. Something that knew, deep down, that everything had just changed.
"No," he said, the word dry, flat, scraped raw from his throat. "No, that's not—"
He shook his head, more violently now, as if he could shake the thought out before it rooted too deep. Something frantic was building inside him, rising fast—panic wrapped in fury, rising and rising until he could barely contain it.
"That's not how this works."
Still, she didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't move. She just watched him.
And that—that was what made him snap.
"That's not how this fucking works, Luna!"
The sound of his own voice cracked through the space like a curse, loud and vicious, tearing through the thick silence that had built between them. His breath turned sharp, erratic, and his fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick, his own skin too heavy on his bones.
His thoughts spun fast, too fast, frantic and loud and impossible to hold onto, as if his mind was clawing through every corner of memory, desperately trying to find something—anything—that would prove her wrong, that would make this untrue, that would unravel the terrible thing taking shape in front of him like smoke becoming form. He had killed him. He remembered it with a clarity that didn't allow for questions, didn't leave space for possibility. He remembered the blade in his hand, remembered how it had sliced through flesh, remembered the sound—awful and wet and final—of steel meeting bone. He remembered the weight of the body collapsing beneath him, the way the blood had poured out hot and thick, the way it had soaked into the ground, the way the life had drained from his eyes like someone pulling a plug. He had watched him die. That had been the end. It was supposed to be the end.
And yet.
There had been something else, hadn't there? Something he had noticed in that moment and shoved deep into the vault of denial, something strange, something wrong. That pull in the air when the body hit the ground, not wind, not magic, but a shift—a presence—a sensation like the world had just twitched, like something unseen had taken notice. He had told himself it was adrenaline. Told himself it was shock, or blood loss, or the weight of what he'd just done crashing into his chest. But now, standing here, listening to her speak the truth he had refused to even name, he couldn't lie to himself anymore. It hadn't been his imagination. It hadn't been nothing. It had been real.
And it was still real.
Because he could feel it now—inside him. Crawling beneath his skin, nestled deep where he couldn't reach, where he couldn't fight it, a cold thing with no shape and no voice but too much weight, pressing against his ribs, threading through his spine, coiled like a second pulse beneath his own. His breath stuttered out, shallow and shaking, and his body froze where he stood, chest tight, fists clenched, stomach twisting into something cold and awful and unmistakably alive, because whatever he thought he had buried—whatever he thought he had killed—had not died with that body. It had moved. It had waited. And now it was here. Inside him.
YES—thank you for sticking with me, and I totally get what you mean now. Here's the new version, still emotional and intense and beautifully long, but broken into readable, flowing chunks so it's not just one exhausting block of text:
She stepped forward, slow and careful, like she was approaching something dangerous—something cornered and wounded, half-broken and half-feral. Like she didn't know whether he was going to lash out or collapse at her feet. Every movement she made was quiet, deliberate, patient. Like she already knew what this was. Like she had been here before.
"Theodore," she said softly, her voice maddeningly gentle. Not afraid. Not tentative. Just... knowing. And that made it worse. So much worse.
"No," he snapped, stepping back like her voice had struck him across the face. His breath caught, sharp and uneven. "Don't say my name like that. Don't look at me like that."
She tilted her head, just slightly. Calm. Curious. Her eyes soft in a way that made something inside him want to break. "Like what?" she asked.
"Like I'm something else," he spat, his voice low and raw, his chest rising and falling like he couldn't get enough air. His hands trembled at his sides. His nails bit into his palms. "Like I'm—like you see something. I don't want you to."
She didn't argue. She didn't deny it. She didn't flinch or apologize or try to make it easier.
And that—fuck, that was the worst part.
Because if she'd just lied, if she had said he was imagining things, if she had rolled her eyes and told him he was being dramatic or paranoid, maybe he could have believed it. Maybe he could have kept pretending. Maybe he could have clung to the version of himself that still felt real.
But she didn't.
She just looked at him. Quiet. Steady. Unshaken.
And that meant it was true.
His throat constricted so suddenly it was like something invisible had wrapped around it, coiling tighter with each ragged inhale, his vision narrowing at the edges, a creeping tunnel of shadows crawling in from the corners of the room as panic clawed up from somewhere deep in his chest, sharp and relentless and deafening, like static behind his eyes, like the echo of a scream he couldn't get out. His breath came fast, too fast, staggered and uneven, and his limbs felt too heavy and too light all at once, that awful sensation of needing to move but not knowing how, of needing to run but being trapped in his own skin. He had to get out. He had to get out. He had to leave this room, this house, this moment—he had to escape the unbearable weight pressing down on him from all directions, the sense that he was being watched from inside himself, like something was curled up behind his ribs and breathing with him, and every second he stayed here was another second he might come completely undone.
He didn't make it past the doorway.
Because Luna's voice—sweet, maddening Luna, who never raised her voice, who never used force, who never demanded anything—sliced through the thick air like a lightning bolt, like a hex whispered with too much power behind it, like something sacred being shattered. Her voice wasn't soft this time. It wasn't gentle or dreamy or laced with that ethereal detachment that usually wrapped around her like a shield. No, this voice was fire and iron and fury and grief, and it hit him like a blow to the chest.
"YOU ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE."
It wasn't a suggestion. It wasn't a plea. It wasn't a whisper meant to lure him back—it was a command. A spell. A curse. A goddamned incantation so potent that even the house reacted to it, the walls groaning as though they'd been struck, the very air vibrating with the power of her words. Somewhere down the corridor, a door creaked open, an old hinge shrieking like it had been woken from a long slumber, and the sound of footsteps followed—hurried, heavy, the kind of footsteps that only came from people who knew that war lived in silence before it broke loose.
Blaise appeared first, disheveled but sharp, shirtless and barefoot but somehow already assessing the threat, eyes dark and wide as they swept over the room, landing first on Theo's clenched fists, then on Luna's trembling figure, and back again, a flicker of confusion flashing across his features before his voice came low and careful, a question laced with concern but taut with tension.
"Mate... what happened?"
It should have been a simple question. But in Theo's ears, it echoed like a death sentence, like someone had placed a noose around his neck and asked if he wanted to tighten it himself. There were too many answers and none that made sense. Too many truths he hadn't said aloud, and only one person in the room willing to say them for him.
And she did.
Luna turned, her expression unreadable except for the way her eyes burned like silver fire, like the moon had slipped down from the sky and crawled into her chest, like every truth she had swallowed for him was now spilling free. Her pale hair was wild, tangled from stress or sleep or fury, and her hands were trembling at her sides, fingers curled like she wanted to cast something but couldn't bear to do it.
When she spoke, her voice was steady. Cold. Final.
"Theodore is being haunted by a Skinwalker spirit," she said, each word slow and exact, sharp as splinters. "And he refuses to accept that."
The silence that followed wasn't silence at all—it was a vacuum, a thick, crushing stillness that pressed in from all sides, pressing against his lungs, his ribs, the fragile boundary between thought and collapse. The air shifted, turned heavier, darker, like whatever thing had burrowed inside him was now fully awake, fully listening, fully amused. Something unseen curled its fingers around the base of his spine, and Theo swore he could feel it smirking, like it had been waiting for someone else to speak its name out loud.
Everyone was staring at him now.
And it wasn't suspicion. It wasn't doubt.
It was confirmation.
Pansy moved first. No hesitation, no mockery, no cutting joke at the ready. Just silence. Just movement. She stepped forward and gently looped an arm around Luna's shoulders, her touch soft but grounding, like she had known this moment was coming and had simply been waiting for the right time to pull Luna back from it. Her voice came low, soothing, the same way someone might speak to a child who had just seen too much.
"Okay, my love," she murmured. "Come to my room, yeah?"
Luna didn't argue. She didn't look away, not at first. Her gaze remained locked with Theo's for a heartbeat longer—just one. But in that single second, he felt everything. He felt the ache in her chest, the fear twisting at the edges of her calm, the fury she was swallowing down on his behalf. He felt the part of her that had wanted to fight for him and the part that was exhausted from trying.
And then she turned.
Pansy led her away with careful steps, disappearing into the dark hallway, the soft click of a door closing behind them echoing like a full stop on a sentence Theo didn't know how to finish.
Of course—here is your expanded version of those sentences, written with immersive pacing, emotional weight, and a steady build-up of atmosphere and internal conflict, while keeping it cleanly readable and emotionally tense:
He stood there, motionless, like something ancient and brittle had fused his limbs to the floor, his breath shallow, chest tight, the sound of his own name still echoing in the back of his mind—not as a comfort, not as a tether to reality, but like a curse spoken in some long-forgotten language, a mark that had already taken hold. It lingered in the air like smoke, like blood in water, staining the space around him with the heaviness of something that could not be undone.
And then, through the silence thick enough to drown in, Blaise stepped forward—slowly, deliberately, each footfall precise, weighted, like he was approaching a wounded animal or a landmine, posture calm but radiating tension in every careful movement. He didn't reach for him. Didn't speak right away. Just watched, measured, eyes narrowing with the sharp, quiet calculation of someone who had fought in too many battles to ever take instability lightly.
Theo still didn't move—couldn't move, wouldn't move—because something about this moment had shifted the gravity of the room, made it feel like his body wasn't entirely his anymore, like he was being held together by fraying threads and the sheer force of denial alone. Every muscle in him was taut, clenched, locked beneath his skin as if bracing for impact, but the impact never came—only Blaise's voice.
And it was calm. Careful. Measured in that infuriating Zabini way, smooth around the edges but with something darker underneath, something that sounded too much like a verdict.
"We need to do a ritual."
The words landed heavily in the room, like a stone dropped into water, rippling out until they hit something invisible and unforgiving inside Theo's chest. His jaw clenched immediately, so hard it ached, the sting of his fingernails digging into the raw centers of his palms the only thing grounding him, the only thing anchoring him to the moment, the only reminder that he was still here, still whole, still in control—barely.
Across the room, Neville let out a tired breath, the kind that sounded like it had been waiting to escape for hours. He dragged his fingers through his hair, his other hand rubbing at his temples in quiet frustration, before he finally nodded, as if they had just passed the point of no return.
"If you agree," he said gently, glancing at Theo, "I'll get the herbs."
But Theo didn't agree.
He didn't nod. He didn't speak. He didn't move at all.
Because agreeing would mean he believed it. That it was real. That something was inside him. That Luna had been right. That the shadows weren't just shadows. That every nightmare, every whisper, every moment of disassociation and dread had been leading here.
But he didn't refuse either.
Because refusing meant the same thing.
Because to refuse would be to give it power.
Because to refuse would be to acknowledge the truth.
~~~
The room was soaked in the kind of atmosphere that felt too dense to breathe, thick with the acrid, curling scent of burning herbs that drifted in heavy plumes through the dim candlelit air, the smoke moving like something alive, like something ancient, dragging itself slowly across the ceiling beams and pooling in the corners as though hiding from what was coming, and with every inhale, the scent sank deeper into the lungs, earthy and bitter and heady with a magic older than language, older than ritual, older than the flesh and bone that had gathered there to perform it, pressing down on them like invisible hands, curling around their shoulders like the weight of something not just watching—but waiting.
The safehouse itself had been hollowed out for this, every inch of the room stripped back to its bones with a kind of reverent desperation, every soft thing removed, every symbol of comfort or civilization erased, the windows blocked with layers of dark fabric that swallowed the outside world, the walls bare and breathing with the hush of candlelight, every mirror veiled in thick cloth or painted black with ash and ink, every reflective surface extinguished like a threat—because they knew, they all knew, that if whatever was inside of Theo looked back, if it caught its own reflection, it would mean something irreversible, something dangerous, something none of them were prepared to face.
And at the center of it all, motionless except for the visible rise and fall of his chest that stuttered ever so slightly with each breath, Theo sat cross-legged on the bare floor, his hands clenched so tightly against his knees that the joints of his fingers had gone pale with tension, the tendons standing out against his skin like wires pulled taut, his spine held straight with an effort that looked more like defiance than discipline, his shoulders squared and jaw locked, every muscle in his body coiled with a kind of pressure that felt less like resolve and more like a trap waiting to spring, and though his expression remained composed, grim, silent—there was something wild behind his eyes, something barely leashed, something feral and too aware of itself, something that spoke to the thing he had buried deep, the thing none of them had dared to name.
He didn't want to be here.
Not like this.
Not on his knees in a room that smelled like old fire and dread, surrounded by people he trusted but couldn't protect, not with the memory of what he had done still living under his skin like a splinter of poisoned wood he couldn't dig out.
He didn't want to admit that this was necessary, didn't want to acknowledge that something had taken root inside him that night, something wrong, something that didn't belong, something that moved when he didn't, something that breathed even when he held his breath, something that had been crawling just beneath his skin, stretching in the spaces between his ribs, settling into the hollows of his thoughts like mold that grew in the dark, and yet—the moment Luna stepped behind him, silent, steady, unwavering—he felt something give.
Not break.
Just give.
Because she was close, so close he could feel her presence brushing against the back of his neck like warmth through fog, so close that when her fingers—cool and certain—rested gently on his shoulder, the cold that had been crawling up his spine for days, the chill that no fire could reach, retreated just slightly, just enough to let him breathe without flinching, just enough to remind him that he hadn't lost everything yet.
Near the edge of the ritual circle, Neville moved with a quiet focus that bordered on reverence, kneeling beside a shallow, blackened bowl that held a mix of smoking herbs, the coals within glowing orange-red like tiny buried suns, the air shimmering above them in rippling waves, his movements careful, practiced, the kind of careful that came from knowing just how dangerous the magic was when done wrong—not because he feared failure, but because he respected the weight of what they were about to try, because he had done rituals like this before, had burned herbs and drawn circles and chanted names in the dark, but never for this, never for something like this, never for something that might not be just a spirit, never for something that might be crawling into the soul of someone he called a friend.
He scattered the crushed sage and dried rowan in deliberate arcs around the circle, fingers dusted in ash and resin, lips tight, eyes narrowed, brow creased with a tension that belied the steadiness of his hands, and though he didn't speak, his every movement said what none of them wanted to say aloud—that this wasn't just about expelling something dark from Theo.
This was about seeing what was left behind.
Across from Theo, her legs crossed and her posture casual but alert like a predator pretending to lounge, Pansy sat with a kind of coiled tension that could've been mistaken for indifference by anyone who didn't know her, her sharp eyes watching every twitch of Theo's hands, every flicker of his mouth, every tremble of his shoulders like she was reading the movements as warnings, like she knew the signs of fear too intimately not to see them now. Her lips were pressed into a line so tight it looked carved there, her jaw set, her whole body wound like a blade kept just barely in its sheath—and though she didn't believe in spirits the way Luna did, didn't believe in rituals the way Neville did, didn't let her thoughts bend toward mysticism or prophecy or anything that couldn't be solved with a hex and a sharp smile, she was here.
Because she knew fear.
She knew what it looked like when someone was losing the fight against themselves.
Absolutely—here is your scene rewritten with extreme length and vivid horror-focused language, keeping it terrifying, immersive, and emotionally intense while maintaining flowing readability without splitting into short sentences:
Blaise was the first to speak, and when he did, it was not the casual drawl Theo had grown used to hearing, not the sardonic commentary of a man who always had one hand in his pocket and the other halfway to trouble—it was something quieter, something heavier, something spoken with the reverent caution of someone stepping into a sacred place that could not be disturbed, as if the air between them had become holy ground or cursed soil, as if saying the wrong thing would crack open the floor beneath their feet and send them all plummeting into something far older, far darker, and far more unforgiving than any of them were prepared to face, and so when Blaise's voice finally broke the silence, low and deliberate and edged with unease, it carried weight like a blade drawn in a temple, like something dangerous and irreversible, and the words came slowly, like even he didn't want to hear them spoken aloud—"This isn't about fighting it, mate," he said, his eyes locked on Theo like he already knew what would come next, "this is about recognizing what's inside you... naming it... weakening it."
And Theo, who had spent the last hour trying to keep his breathing even and his hands from trembling, swallowed hard against the dry, sandpaper-tightness of his throat, his pulse dragging sluggishly against his ribs like something was trying to crawl its way out, because the very idea of acknowledging it, of giving it form, of letting it bloom in the center of his mind where it could stretch and writhe and root itself into his thoughts like rot beneath floorboards—it made his stomach turn and his vision tilt, it made his skin itch like it no longer fit right, it made him want to reach for a knife and carve out whatever part of him had become this, because admitting it existed meant admitting that he wasn't alone in his own body anymore, meant admitting that something had slithered into the hollow spaces of his soul and made itself a home, and gods, gods, gods, he could not bear to give it a name.
Hermione sat just outside the circle, her posture tense but composed, her hands careful and steady as she turned the brittle pages of a weathered, moth-bitten book that reeked of dust and age and the kind of secrets no one should ever dig up, her fingers gliding over the ink like she was memorizing the shape of the words, the runes, the spells that had been etched into its pages long before any of them had ever been born, and she spoke with a certainty that only made the air feel colder, more final, her voice quiet but unyielding as she said, "A name is power," and though she didn't look up, the conviction in her tone cut through the tension like steel through silk, "if we can find its true name, we can sever the connection... a Skinwalker can't exist without the identity it stole."
But Theo barely heard her.
Because Luna was moving again.
Because Luna, silent and soft and terrifying in her certainty, had stepped forward from the shadows like something summoned, and then knelt behind him with the kind of gentleness that shouldn't have felt so powerful, with her presence wrapping around him like the last breath before drowning, and her hands hovered just above his shoulders like she could feel the cold inside him, like she could taste the war he was fighting beneath his skin, and when she leaned close—so close he could feel the warmth of her breath ghosting over the nape of his neck—her voice broke through the haze of fear like a spell etched into bone, and she whispered, soft but unshakable, "Close your eyes, Theodore."
And he did.
Not because he trusted the process.
Not because he believed this would work.
But because it was Luna, and if he had to fall apart in front of anyone, if he had to unravel down to the rawest, bloodiest pieces of himself, it would be in front of her.
Neville threw another fistful of herbs into the burning bowl, and the flames answered immediately, flaring with a sudden, violent hiss that spat sparks into the circle, the smoke thickening into something darker now, more suffocating, curling low like fog made of breath and memory and decay, the scent shifting into something heavy and metallic, something that clung to the back of the throat like blood and salt and time, and suddenly it felt like the room had shrunk, like the walls were too close, too tight, like they were being pulled into a space that didn't exist on any map.
Blaise uncorked a small vial with his teeth, and the sound it made—wet and sharp—sent a jolt through Theo's spine as the dark liquid inside poured into the center of the ritual, pooling thickly, slowly, like blood but wrong, like ink with a pulse, glistening under the candlelight in a way that made the pit of Theo's stomach lurch, because it didn't reflect anything, not the flames, not the circle, not even the people around it—it absorbed instead, devouring light, devouring presence, devouring the sense of self.
And then Luna's hands pressed to his shoulders—not forcefully, not like she was restraining him, but like she was anchoring him to the earth, tethering him to the here and now, her palms warm against his skin as she whispered, "Breathe," and he obeyed, because he had to, because the air was starting to turn too thick to draw in without help, and because her voice was the only thing that sounded human anymore.
Neville began to speak, his voice dipping into a cadence that didn't belong to this century, didn't belong to this house, didn't belong to this plane of existence, and the words—sharp and curling and wet with meaning—slithered into the air like vines, like serpents, like the cracking of glass underfoot in a forgotten church, and the smoke twisted with them, dancing between syllables, reacting as if it understood, as if it had been waiting to hear this language again.
The candles flickered.
The shadows twitched.
Theo's breath hitched.
And something inside him moved.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Physically.
Something stirred inside his ribcage with the slow, deliberate crawl of something that had been coiled for too long, something that had been resting not because it was dormant—but because it had been waiting for the exact right moment to wake, and the second it shifted, Theo felt it—an undeniable, gut-churning certainty that this thing had never left, had never died, had never gone, that it had been hiding inside him since the moment he killed it, feeding off his fear, his guilt, his denial, burrowing deeper every time he tried to pretend he was fine.
And then—
It spoke.
Not out loud, not in the air around them, but inside him, inside his skull, inside his ribs, like its voice had bypassed sound entirely and etched itself directly into the marrow of his bones, and the words came slow, mocking, hollow, familiar in a way that made him want to scream, and it said:
"You wear me well."
Theo lurched forward as if struck, his body convulsing violently, breath tearing out of him in a strangled gasp, his hands clawing at the floor, at his own skin, at anything that might let him out of this body, out of this moment, out of this horror, but Luna's grip didn't loosen, didn't waver, her hands still firm on his shoulders, still grounding him, still whispering to him even though the rest of the room had gone silent from the shock of his scream.
"Stay with me," she said, her voice steady, louder now, slicing through the ringing in his ears, through the static building in his mind, through the white-hot terror in his chest. "Stay here. Stay with me."
And gods, he tried.
He tried to hold onto her voice, tried to breathe through the panic, through the weight pressing down on his chest, tried to remind himself that he was still Theo, that he was still here, that he hadn't been taken, not fully, not yet—but it wasn't letting go, it wasn't backing down, it was still there, coiling tighter, pressing closer, dragging its claws down the inside of his mind as Neville's voice grew louder, as the smoke pulsed and the shadows danced, and the circle throbbed like a heartbeat made of old magic and older monsters.
And then it spoke again.
"This was always the plan."
"You were always meant to be me."
No.
No.
No.
Theo's hands curled into fists so tightly that his nails broke the skin of his palms, the sharp sting anchoring him, grounding him, giving him just enough control to grit his teeth and force out the only words he had left, the only thing he could offer in defiance, the only weapon he still owned—
"Get. The fuck. Out."
The candles extinguished all at once.
The room plunged into blackness.
And through the silence, thin and cold and sharp as a blade slipped between ribs, came a single whisper that wasn't his, wasn't Luna's, wasn't anyone's, and it said—
"Not yet."
And then—
Nothing.
Just the sudden, jarring quiet of a room holding its breath.
And Theo collapsing forward.
And Luna catching him before he hit the ground.
Absolutely—here's your scene rewritten to be extremely long, emotionally immersive, deeply internal, and carefully readable with rich sensory and emotional layering:
The first thing he became aware of was her voice—not his surroundings, not the weight of his limbs, not the faint echo of pain still vibrating through his chest like a tuning fork left too close to the edge—but her voice, low and steady and impossibly soft, the kind of sound that didn't demand his attention but rather called to something in him, something ancient and tired and curled in on itself, something that recognized her tone as a place to land. It was warmth distilled into sound, a lifeline thrown into the darkness, a tether woven from safety and familiarity and something impossibly tender that he didn't think he had the right to crave but did, desperately, shamefully, completely. It didn't come as a shout or a command, didn't cut through the silence like a blade—it slipped beneath it like water, like breath, like a balm, and as it reached him, he could feel the tension in his chest begin to loosen by degrees, feel the jagged edges of whatever had been clawing at him dull just slightly.
"It's okay, darling. You are okay. Look at me."
The words wrapped around him like a spell, something sacred and binding, something that tethered him not just to the moment, but to her, to the strange and terrifying safety she had become. His eyelids were heavy, leaden with the weight of whatever had just happened—of whatever thing had tried to drag him under—but the command was in her tone, gentle and firm and unshakable, and so he obeyed, not because he wanted to, not because he had the strength to, but because it was her, and if she was speaking to him, if she was telling him he was still here, still breathing, still real, then maybe he was. Maybe he could be.
He forced his eyes open with effort, with something that felt like breaking the surface of too-deep water after too long beneath it, and the world was not right—not yet. Everything was blurry at the edges, flickering like flame-glow through smoke, like reality was still rearranging itself around him, still choosing whether or not to let him back in. The shadows were too thick, the light too thin, the colors too muted and shifting. But her—gods, her—she was in focus. She was the only thing that was.
Kneeling beside him, her hair loose and soft around her shoulders like it had slipped from its braid in the chaos, her silver-blue eyes locked on him with a steadiness that bordered on supernatural, as if she were the moon itself, unmoved by the tides, unmoved by the storm, the one celestial body that refused to turn away. She was smiling—not the wide, teasing grin she offered when she was poking fun at him, not the sly little smirk she used when she knew she was right—but something small, reassuring, the kind of smile that said you're here, you're safe, you made it back, even when he didn't feel like he had. She looked like she'd been waiting for him, like she had never once considered he wouldn't come back, like she had made herself a home in this exact moment, in this exact breath, and had simply sat there until he arrived.
His lips parted, but the sound that emerged was ragged, broken, raw around the edges like it had to climb through shards of glass to get out. "Baby..." he rasped, unsure if he meant it as a question or a plea or a confession or some aching combination of all three. He swallowed hard, tried again, his voice trembling with something fragile. "What happened?"
There was the barest flicker of amusement in her eyes—something fond and exhausted and gently exasperated, like he'd asked a silly question but she loved him too much to say so—and she reached out without hesitation, her hand brushing against his forehead, fingers threading into his hair, sweeping the damp strands away from his skin with the kind of touch that felt like it might break him open. He leaned into it before he could stop himself, helpless and aching and undone beneath the gentleness of her palm.
"You fainted a little," she murmured, as if it were the most mundane thing in the world, as if he hadn't just descended into the screaming void of his own psyche and clawed his way back up through blood and bone and ancient magic.
Fainted. A little.
As if he hadn't felt the full weight of himself slip away into something cold and howling and other, as if he hadn't felt hands closing around his mind like a coffin lid, as if he hadn't stood on the edge of oblivion and heard it whisper his name like a lullaby. As if something hadn't tried to take him.
His chest burned—not from exertion, not from pain, but from the sheer unfamiliarity of breathing, like he had forgotten how to do it somewhere along the way and was relearning now with lungs that didn't quite belong to him. His body felt foreign, his limbs sluggish and too far away, his skin oversensitized and stretched too thin across a skeleton that no longer fit—but she was still touching him, still smoothing her hand down the side of his face, still watching him like he was something precious and breakable and real, and that was enough.
"You were out for minutes," she added, her tone still calm, still impossibly patient, like time had folded in on itself, like it didn't matter how long he had been gone because he was back, because she had brought him back.
Only minutes.
It felt like days.
It felt like centuries.
It felt like he had been gone long enough for the world to forget his name.
But she hadn't forgotten.
She was still here.
Her voice threaded through the haze again, softer now, like the last embers of a fire catching against cold air. "It's okay."
It didn't feel okay. His bones felt hollow. His skin felt too tight. His mouth was dry and his head was a battlefield. But gods, he believed her. Because she was the only thing he had to believe in.
"I'm here."
Those two words settled something deep inside him, something trembling and terrified and trying not to scream, and he clenched his jaw against the wave of emotion that threatened to crash over him, forced himself to take another breath, forced himself to keep his gaze locked on hers even when it hurt, even when the weight of being seen like this was almost too much to bear. She hadn't looked away. Not once. Not when he broke. Not when he screamed. Not when whatever-it-was tried to crawl through his throat and make a home in his body.
She had stayed.
She had fought.
And now she was looking at him like he was still Theo, like he was still himself, like he was worth saving.
She was still kneeling beside him, close enough for her breath to ghost across his skin, close enough for the scent of her to seep into his lungs, close enough that he could feel her pulse—slow, steady, alive—like an anchor against the storm still churning in the back of his mind. And gods, he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve her. But he wasn't strong enough to turn away from it either.
Not when she was all he had left to hold onto.