The mist didn't settle—it slithered, coiled, crept low and slow across the field like it had a mind of its own, thick and pulsing with unnatural life, so dense it swallowed sound and depth and time until everything beyond a few feet was erased into smothering grey. It crawled up Theo's boots, clung to the fabric of his trousers, sank cold teeth into his skin until it felt like he was walking through something alive, something sentient, something breathing in sync with his every exhale. The field, once open and familiar, had twisted into something hostile, the familiar shapes warped into jagged silhouettes, the long grass rising like the bristles of some buried creature's back, twitching, shifting, writhing against a wind that didn't exist.
He shouldn't have come out here, not alone, not without telling anyone, not without her. It was reckless. Stupid. But something had called to him—some pull that gnawed at the inside of his skull with slow, steady teeth, something old and demanding that refused to let him rest. Whatever it was, whatever had crawled out of that corpse he thought he'd killed, it had followed him here, had dragged its claws through his dreams, had curled around his heartbeat like a chain and tugged him into this open grave of a field with promises it never said aloud.
Theo's breath clouded in the still air, his wand heavy in his grip, his jaw tight with restraint as he forced himself forward, step by step, into the silence that screamed. There were no insects. No owls. Not even the rustle of distant branches. Just the sound of his own heartbeat pounding like a war drum in his ears and the nauseating certainty that something was watching him—something with eyes he couldn't see, something that wanted him to feel this silence, to feel the ache of being prey.
And then the grass moved again, not like wind—not like nature—but like muscle, like breath, like something buried just beneath the surface was shifting, waking, rising, as if the earth itself had grown restless beneath his feet.
He stopped walking.
The weight of the moment pressed into his shoulders like hands, invisible and ice-cold, and the whisper came again—clearer this time, closer, still not a voice but more like thought turned wrong, memory turned inside out, something sliding wet and low along the inside of his mind and curling up behind his eyes.
"Theodore..."
He flinched.
Not because of the name, but because the way it was said didn't belong to anything human. It wasn't just sound—it was sensation, like breath curling down his spine, like fingers trailing across the back of his neck. His entire body seized, instinct screaming at him to run, to get the fuck out, to turn and sprint toward the house like a child fleeing a nightmare—but he didn't move. He couldn't. Because the worst part was, part of him didn't want to. Part of him wanted to stay. Part of him wanted to listen.
Because whatever this thing was, it wasn't just hunting him—it was inside him. It had sunk its claws in deeper than he'd realized. It had found the cracks in his armor and split them wide open, and now it was whispering things in a voice that sounded like his own, like Luna's, like his mother's, like the dead.
He raised his wand.
But the shadows had already begun to thicken. Not from the trees. Not from the mist. But from the grass itself, curling inward like fingers closing into a fist, like the field was exhaling around him, dragging something into form—something thin, tall, bones too long, skin stretched too tight over a shifting frame of jointless limbs and eyes that weren't eyes but pits of something deeper, something vast and cruel and patient.
His wand faltered in his hand.
Because he knew this shape.
It was the thing from his dreams. The thing from the book. The thing he'd buried.
It had come to collect.
Something flickered at the edge of Theo's vision, a shadow slithering along the line between real and not, too quick to catch, too fluid to be anything that belonged in the waking world, moving like oil through the folds of the mist, and he turned sharply toward it, wand already raised, pulse slamming against his throat in violent bursts of panic he couldn't swallow, but the second he moved the shape vanished, swallowed whole by fog that was no longer passive but crawling, thickening, curling higher with each breath he took, dragging itself across the earth like a sentient thing, like a beast with no face but far too many hands, like it knew exactly where to find him, and when he looked behind him the path he'd walked was already gone, already erased, already consumed, and that—gods—that was when the cold certainty hit, that crushing kind of realization that wasn't instinct or fear or paranoia but truth, cold and hard and irreversible.
He was not alone.
He could feel it now, truly feel it, the undeniable pressure of being watched by something that wasn't trying to hide anymore, something that wasn't afraid of him, something that had waited until he was good and alone to make itself known, and it wasn't just watching with eyes or listening with ears—it was there inside the field, inside the ground, inside the fog, it was in the stillness between his heartbeats, it was ancient, patient, utterly wrong, and it didn't move like anything human, didn't think like anything human, and worst of all, it knew him.
And then it whispered again, not from ahead or behind or above but from everywhere, like the mist had grown a mouth, like the very air had been split open to let it crawl through, "You let me in, Theodore," and the sound of his name spoken in that voice—gods, that voice—landed like rot in his mouth, like maggots beneath his skin, like something wet and slick and ancient had wrapped around his spine, and he gritted his teeth, fingers tightening on his wand, his whole body bracing against the sick weight of dread clawing up from his stomach, trying desperately to push down the nausea rising like bile, but it was too late, too far gone, because his name no longer sounded like his, it sounded used, defiled, hollowed out.
He turned again, wild and breathless and burning to see, needing confirmation that this wasn't just madness, that there really was something out here with him, but the field was wrong, the grass was bending toward him like it wanted to reach for him, like it wanted to wrap around his legs and hold him still for something else to arrive, and then he saw it—not a monster, not yet, just a shape at the edge of the mist, still, tall, wrong, its proportions all fractured and stretched, its head tilted far too much to the side, too far for a neck that wasn't broken, too far for a body still living, and it began to step forward.
The earth withered beneath its feet.
Not figuratively.
The grass curled black.
The air warped, pulling inward as if the very world wanted to vomit it back out.
It came closer.
And then—he saw the face.
Not a stranger.
Not some unknowable void.
It was the man he had killed.
Or what was left of him.
Only now the face was wrong, stretched too thin over bone, stitched back together with invisible seams that puckered the skin, lips curled into something that might have once been a smile but now looked like a wound, and its eyes—gods, its eyes—weren't eyes at all, just pits, endless and hollow, drinking in the light of his wand and offering nothing back, and when it spoke again, that mouth barely moved, that jaw didn't shift, it was like something inside the corpse had found a way to speak through it, through meat and memory and decay.
"You were supposed to take my place."
And this time the voice fractured.
It didn't come as one.
It came in layers.
It came in hundreds.
It came in whispers and growls and sobs, all weaving together into a chorus of torment, each one speaking the same words in a hundred different languages, a hundred different tones, male and female and child and monster, as if the voice had been made from every lost soul it had consumed.
"But you failed."
The sound didn't echo.
It clung.
It wrapped around his legs like chains.
It twisted into the roots beneath his feet.
It wormed into his bloodstream.
Something inside him snapped.
His wand lifted before he could think, his grip cracking tight around it, and he fired, fast, vicious, throwing everything he had into the curse, into the need to destroy, to burn, to wipe it from existence, to prove he was still the one with power, still the one in control, still the one with agency—but deep down, even as the spell exploded from his wand in a blinding blaze of magic, he knew.
It wouldn't work. It wasn't that kind of thing.
Because this was no longer a haunting. This was an inheritance.
The thing moved like it had never learned how to be part of the world, not with the rhythm of limbs or the weight of a body, not like anything born from flesh, but like something unformed dragging itself into shape, like a shadow that had peeled itself from the surface of the earth with a wet, reluctant pull, like the mist recoiling from fire only to return twice as thick, like it had never truly been there at all and was only pretending now, a cruel imitation of a thing that might once have had a name.
Theo didn't even have time to process the movement before the world bent at the edges like a torn photograph curling in flame and suddenly it was behind him, not with the sound of footsteps or the warning of breath but with a stillness so absolute that it swallowed sound whole, so when the cold touched the back of his neck, it wasn't the cold of air or night or winter but the cold of something that should not be, the kind of cold that lived in graves, the kind of cold that clung to forgotten places and whispered through the marrow of old bones, the kind of cold that didn't feel like absence but like presence, invasive and choking and ancient.
He spun, his heart a brutal hammer against his ribs, but there was nothing, only the thick fold of mist and the endless, empty dark, until pain exploded through his chest like a curse spoken straight into his blood, not the blunt, surface kind of pain but the tearing, burning kind, like claws made of glass and fire had pierced through his sternum and dragged downward, carving something into him, not just a wound but a mark, a brand, a change.
It wasn't just blood.
It was wrong.
It was rewriting him.
He stumbled, gasping, hand to his chest, fingers pressing against the wet warmth spreading through his shirt, breath stolen from his lungs, body betraying him, muscles failing to respond, the night pressing in too close, too heavy, the world tilting on its axis like gravity had broken, like time had stuttered, like every breath cost more than he could afford.
And then came the laughter, low and guttural, distant but intimate, echoing but somehow inside him too, a sound that rattled through his ribs and curled around his spine, a sound that didn't echo through the field but through his skull, familiar in the way nightmares are, the way old ghosts are, the way things become once they've been with you too long.
"You belong to me now."
It didn't sound like a threat.
It sounded like a contract.
A truth. A prison.
The words weren't just heard—they were felt, scraped into his skin like knives, whispered into the marrow of his bones, wrapped around his name until it didn't feel like his anymore, until his own breath felt borrowed, until he didn't know where he ended and it began.
And something was inside him now.
He felt it.
Something crawling just beneath the surface, writhing beneath his skin, a sick, shifting presence moving through him like a parasite threading itself through a host, like it had found a crack in him and begun to pour through.
No.
No no no no no.
His wand shook in his hand, magic coiled tight in his chest like a scream trying to claw its way out, like every instinct he had was yelling to run, to cast, to burn everything down, but he didn't know if he still could, didn't know if there was still enough of him left untouched, untainted, unclaimed.
Still—he cast.
Not with elegance, not with control, but with desperation, with everything he had, a shield that was less a spell and more a scream, old magic, brutal magic, meant to repel, to protect, to push away anything with dark intent, and it surged out from him in a burst that lit up the field, tearing the mist back, snapping through the air like a whip, a second of space, of silence, of breath.
But then it grinned.
It grinned like it had been waiting for this moment, like the shield was exactly what it wanted, like this was part of the game.
Its lips stretched too far, its face tugged tight like skin over a cage, not quite hiding the thing underneath, like something was pressing forward through a mask made of human, and it took a step forward just as the grass beneath it blackened, curling into ash, the air buckling, the ground refusing to hold it, and Theo's body went rigid, breath frozen, brain screaming that this wasn't real even as every part of him knew that it was.
Because he knew that face.
Or what was left of it.
It was the man he had killed, reshaped, stretched thin and warped, too-long limbs and peeled skin and dead, empty pits for eyes, stitched together with something invisible and held upright by something cruel, something that had never been human, something using that face like a costume, like a joke, like a weapon.
"You let me in."
The sound it made wasn't laughter—it was hunger in the shape of a sound, gurgling and wet, like something laughing with a throat full of blood, like joy warped by rot, like pain that enjoyed itself, like something speaking through the body of a man who hadn't survived.
"You were supposed to take my place."
The words came in a chorus, voices overlapping, splitting, echoing, like a choir of the damned, some screaming, some whispering, some sobbing, all of them speaking through that single, ragged mouth.
"But you failed."
And Theo should have run.
Every part of him screamed to run.
But he didn't.
Because it wasn't finished.
And then, Luna.
The sharp, deafening crack of Apparition sliced through the night like lightning splitting the sky, raw and electric, sending a pulse of energy through the air, forcing the mist to recoil, to shudder, to move. A burst of silver light followed, blinding in the darkness, illuminating the world in a violent flash of something pure, something real, something powerful enough to matter. And then a voice, fierce and unyielding, cutting through the thick, suffocating dread like a blade forged from light itself.
"Theodore!"
The sound of his name hit like a physical force, jerking him back from the edge of something deep and hollow, something waiting to swallow him whole. He turned toward the voice, his body swaying, his balance slipping, his fingers numb around his wand, the pain in his chest flaring white-hot, burning through his nerves, tearing at his flesh. He could barely keep himself upright, barely see, his mind fogged, thick with the sickening presence curling inside of him.
But she was there.
Luna.
Glowing.
Or maybe—maybe it was just his failing vision, just the way his senses were blurring, the way the darkness was pressing in too tightly, the way relief slammed into him with such force that it almost knocked him to his knees. But no—no, she was glowing, not with light, not with magic, but with something more, something terrible, something impossibly strong. She stood in the clearing, real and solid, her wand raised, her hair wild around her face, her entire being radiating something too intense, too sharp, too powerful to be ignored.
The thing hissed.
A sick, slithering sound, something not meant for human throats, something layered and shifting, something that made the ground beneath Theo's feet tremble, made his already weak knees buckle further. The air cracked around it, the mist twisting violently, writhing as if it was alive, as if it was reacting to her, as if it recognized her presence as a threat.
Luna took a step forward.
Theo's legs gave out.
But she caught him before he hit the ground, her arms locking around him, her body a solid force against his, warm and real, the only thing tethering him to the present, to reality, to himself. His breath stuttered, his body too heavy, too drained, his fingers curling weakly into the fabric of her sleeve, clinging, desperate, helpless.
And the last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him whole—
Was her eyes.
Not soft. Not dreamy. Not full of quiet understanding.
Rage.
Fierce. Unrelenting. Deadly.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't shock.
It was something so much worse.
Luna was angry.
And something in the world shifted.
The moment Luna caught him, the world didn't just tilt—it collapsed, spiraling violently, the weight of his own body foreign, unsteady, the pain in his chest burning like a brand seared into his very being. His vision flickered in and out, not just with exhaustion, not just with the overwhelming sensation clawing at his insides, but with something darker, something slithering through his bloodstream, something trying to take root where it did not belong. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his body betraying him, his fingers curling weakly into Luna's robes as if she were the only thing keeping him from slipping into whatever abyss lurked just beneath the surface.
The thing that wore the face of the man he had killed—that thing—still stood there, waiting. Mocking. Not attacking. Not lunging. Not doing anything except watching with that grotesque, wrong expression stretched across its stolen skin, its too-wide grin still carved into the decaying remnants of what had once been a human face. It didn't need to move. It didn't need to do anything else. It had already won. Because whatever had been lurking beneath the surface of that first kill, whatever had been left behind in the wake of Theo's blade cutting through flesh and bone—it had followed him. It had seeped into the cracks of his mind, wormed its way into the hollow spaces between his ribs, waited for its moment to strike. And now, it was inside him.
But then—Luna.
She was solid. Real. Her presence crashed into him like a force of nature, cutting through the haze of agony, shattering the suffocating weight of whatever had wrapped itself around his senses. The second her arms locked around him, the second her breath fanned across his cheek, the second he felt her, Theo knew—if there was anything that could pull him back, it was her.
And she did not hesitate.
Her wand was already moving before his sluggish mind could even process it, a sharp, precise flick of her wrist sending a wave of magic surging toward the creature, white-hot and blinding, burning through the mist like fire through dried leaves, scorching the ground beneath it, igniting the air itself with crackling energy. It wasn't just a spell—it was a warning, a declaration, a line drawn in the earth that said you do not touch him, you do not take him, you do not win.
The thing screeched.
A sound not meant for human ears, a sound that didn't belong in this world, a sound that made Theo's stomach turn, his ribs seize, his skin crawl like something alive slithered just beneath the surface. The air around them cracked, warped, twisted under the pressure of it, the force of something ancient, something unnatural, something that wasn't supposed to exist pressing against the world itself.
It stumbled back.
Its limbs jerked violently, contorting in ways that defied the rules of movement, twisting and snapping, the grin faltering, stretching unnaturally before cracking, before splitting, before peeling back as the magic tore through it. The glowing, jagged lines burned into its flesh, carving through the rotting meat of what had once been a face, exposing something raw, something shifting beneath, something that pulsed like living shadow beneath paper-thin skin.
Theo could feel it.
Not just in front of him. Inside him.
Something crawling, pressing, desperate to cling, desperate to take.
And Luna—
Luna stood like a storm at his back, unwavering, unshaken, her magic still burning, her grip still holding, her very presence a force powerful enough to make even a creature like this hesitate.
But it wouldn't last.
Because this thing—this thing knew something they didn't.
And as it laughed, something inside Theo snapped.
The moment the thing laughed, a jagged, broken sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, Theo knew—they couldn't handle this alone. The skinwalker wasn't just an enemy to be defeated with brute force; it was something else, something old, something that had already sunk its claws into him, something that wouldn't stop until it consumed him.
His fingers twitched, numb from the cold weight of whatever had begun festering inside him, but he forced himself to move. With every ounce of willpower he had left, he reached for his wand, his grip unsteady, his breathing ragged, his vision still flickering like a candle about to snuff out. But Luna's presence beside him anchored him, kept him standing, kept him fighting. He swallowed the fear, forced his magic into motion, and with a strained whisper, he conjured his Patronus.
The silvery light burst from the tip of his wand, cutting through the darkness like a sword, illuminating the mist-choked field with a stark, almost holy glow. His Patronus landed on the ground before them, its eyes sharp, its body coiled as if ready to strike. For a brief moment, the creature lurking in the mist flinched, its form shuddering, its too-wide grin cracking further as if the very light of the Patronus was something it could not withstand. Theo didn't waste the chance.
"Find them," he rasped, voice raw, sending the fox racing toward the safehouse, its luminous form gliding effortlessly through the field, moving faster than any living creature should. It would reach them. It had to.
The creature twisted, its grotesque, stretched-out limbs jerking unnaturally as it watched the Patronus go, its hollowed-out sockets narrowing with something that looked almost like recognition. Then, just as quickly, it snapped its head back toward Theo, its body reforming, its grin growing.
"You think they can stop this?" it rasped, its voice wrong, warped, inside him. "You think they will save you?"
Luna raised her wand. "They don't have to stop it," she said, her voice a cold, cutting thing. "They only have to help me kill you."
The thing lunged.
Luna's spell struck first, a blast of sheer force, sending it staggering backward, its limbs bending the wrong way, its torso splitting and sealing again like something that wasn't flesh. Theo forced his body into motion, his pulse hammering, his instincts screaming at him to run, but he didn't. He wouldn't. He raised his wand again, his hands steady this time, ignoring the searing burn in his chest, ignoring the way his limbs felt too heavy, too wrong. He had to keep fighting.
A distant, thunderous crack echoed across the field.
And then—figures appeared in the distance.
Draco, Hermione, Blaise, Ginevra, Pansy, Neville.
Theo could see them, could feel the moment his Patronus had reached them, had carried his message, had brought them here. They burst into the clearing, their wands already raised, their expressions ranging from confusion to sheer, focused terror as they took in the scene before them.
"What the fuck is that?" Draco's voice rang out, sharp and furious.
"Not now," Theo snapped, pushing himself forward, gritting his teeth as he cast another curse, watching as the thing shrieked when Hermione's spell struck it seconds later.
Luna barely spared them a glance before she snarled, "We need fire. A lot of fire."
Blaise didn't hesitate. His wand swung, and a roaring wave of flames erupted from its tip, consuming the space between them and the creature. The fire reflected off its grotesque, shifting form, casting its elongated limbs in twisted, flickering shadows.
But it laughed.
The fire burned—but it did not consume.
"It won't die like that," Neville shouted, dodging to the side as a gnarled, inhuman limb lashed toward him. "We need something older—something stronger!"
The thing twitched violently, its grotesque limbs jerking as the wounds that should have maimed it sealed over like molten wax, smoothing into place as if the damage had never been inflicted at all. The mist thickened, curling like hungry fingers around its shifting form, pressing closer, swallowing the space between them with unnatural ease. It was rebuilding, remaking itself, rewriting the rules of what should have been possible. This wasn't flesh. This wasn't a living thing. This was something far worse, something that thrived on defying death, something that had already sunk its claws into Theo long before this fight had begun.
Luna's grip on him tightened like a vice, grounding him, commanding him, her voice cutting through the encroaching dark with the kind of unyielding certainty that made the air tremble. "Stand up," she ordered, no hesitation, no room for argument, only raw, unshakable determination.
Theo's breath hitched, his pulse erratic, his body screaming for rest, but he forced himself upright, his muscles locked in defiance of the pain searing through him. His chest ached, the wound pulsing like something alive beneath his skin, the sticky warmth of blood soaking through his shirt, but none of it mattered. Not now. Not when she was still standing beside him, not when that thing was still here, lurking, watching, waiting for him to fall. He swallowed the agony, lifted his wand with trembling fingers, ignoring the way his body protested every movement, ignoring the way something else coiled beneath his skin, clawing at his ribs, waiting for its moment to strike.
He would not let this thing take another step toward her.
The creature moved first.
Fast—too fast—one second it was standing there, shifting, writhing in its unnatural way, and the next it was lunging, its elongated fingers stretching toward him, its mouth tearing open—wider, wider—until there was nothing but a void where its throat should have been, an abyss of blackness that swallowed all light. The air turned frigid. The mist surged forward, dragging itself toward them like something living, reaching, hungry.
Luna's shield snapped into place just before the thing struck.
The impact was a detonation, a shockwave of force so powerful it rattled through Theo's bones, the energy of the barrier crackling like splintering glass as the creature screamed, a high, keening wail that sent agony splintering through his skull. The shield shattered under the pressure, sending Luna stumbling back, her body thrown off balance. Theo reacted before he even thought, moving, stepping between her and the creature, his wand raised, his entire being set on defending her.
"Incendio!"
The fire erupted, an explosion of blinding orange and gold, flames licking hungrily at the mist, curling around the creature's limbs, consuming it. The dry grass ignited instantly, turning the field into a ring of fire, the heat so intense that Theo had to squint against it. For a moment—just a moment—hope clawed at the edges of his mind, the impossible thought that maybe they had done it, maybe fire was the key, maybe it could be burned.
Then the thing laughed.
Not a sound of pain.
A sound of satisfaction.
The flames didn't consume it.
They fed it.
The thing absorbed the fire, drinking it in like it was nothing more than fuel, its shape bending, twisting, glowing with an unholy light. The grotesque, elongated face melted, warping, reforming, shifting into something worse—him.
Theo froze.
The world tilted.
The creature wore his face now, his features stretched into a mockery of his own, his own dark eyes staring back at him from something that was not human, something that should not exist.
It grinned.
And when it spoke, the words slithered between its jagged teeth in a twisted, distorted mimicry of his own voice.
"You should have taken my place."
The moment of hesitation—that single second of horror—cost him everything.
It moved.
Faster than before.
Faster than anything should have been able to.
But it didn't come for him.
It came for her.
Luna barely had time to react before the creature's claws ripped through the air, slashing across her stomach, tearing through the fabric of her robes like parchment, slicing through flesh, sending her body flying backward into the tall grass.
Theo's soul cracked.
"No—NO!"
His vision blurred, his body locked in place, his mind refusing to comprehend what had just happened. His knees nearly buckled under the sheer weight of the terror flooding his system, paralyzing him, choking him, because he had seen it—had felt it—the way she cried out, the way she hit the ground, the way blood bloomed across her stomach, staining her clothes, pooling around her like ink spreading through water.
She wasn't moving.
The air went still.
Theo forgot how to breathe.
Something inside him snapped.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't pain. It wasn't even rage.
It was something deeper, something darker, something that had been waiting, lurking, watching from the moment he had first driven that blade into the man who had not truly been a man.
His pulse slowed.
His breathing evened out.
And then—something else took over.
A pulse of magic rippled outward from his chest, raw, unfiltered, violent, so strong that even the creature staggered, its grotesque form flickering, glitching, like it recognized something in him, like it knew what was happening.
Because it had been waiting for this.
It had always been waiting for this.
Theo moved.
The air around him cracked with static, the energy in his veins warping, shifting, turning into something that did not belong to him, something that had been lying dormant, waiting for the right moment to take him.
The moment he saw her on the ground, all the air in Theo's lungs vanished, replaced by a raw, visceral panic that clawed its way up his throat and wrapped around his ribs like a vice. His legs moved before his mind caught up, the world blurring at the edges as he sprinted toward her, his heartbeat hammering so violently it felt like it might crack through his chest. The scene before him was worse than anything his nightmares had conjured—Luna, too still, her body crumpled in the tall grass, her fingers pressing desperately against the deep, jagged gashes torn across her stomach, her blood pooling beneath her, staining the earth, soaking into it as if the ground itself was drinking her in. Her lips parted, but no sound came, her breath sharp and shallow, her skin already too pale.
His mind snapped.
Something inside him broke.
Something that could never be put back together.
The thing still stood there, its form flickering at the edges like static, still wearing his face, still staring at him with that same cold, knowing smile.
"Look what you did," it rasped, its voice warping, twisting, shifting into something not entirely human, something that slithered into his ears like oil, something that seeped into his bones.
"Look how weak you are."
Theo didn't think.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't care about the consequences.
His magic detonated, raw and violent, surging outward in a shockwave so powerful it cracked the very air around him, sending a rippling force through the field, bending the grass, shaking the trees, making the earth itself tremble beneath his feet. The thing screeched, its form flickering wildly, its limbs jerking, spasming, writhing as the weight of Theo's fury slammed into it, crushing it, forcing it back.
But Theo wasn't done.
It had touched her.
It had hurt her.
And for that, it would burn.
He advanced, his wand steady, his rage blinding, a lethal force that ran deeper than magic itself.
"You don't get to have me."
The thing twisted, its mouth stretching too wide, its stolen features melting in and out of focus as it tried to retreat, as it tried to slip back into the dark.
Theo struck again.
"You don't get to touch her."
The spell hit like a hammer, another crushing burst of power that sent the creature skidding backward, its form cracking, splintering, the darkness that made it unraveling at the edges, fraying, coming apart.
Theo stalked closer, his voice low, sharp, deadly.
"And you will not—"
Another spell.
Another shockwave of destruction that ripped through the air.
"Take her from me."
The final strike landed.
The creature collapsed.
Its form disintegrated.
Piece by piece, it unraveled, the darkness breaking apart, peeling away into nothingness, dissolving like smoke, until there was silence.
Theo's chest heaved.
His vision blurred at the edges.
The fire in his veins still raged.
But then—Luna.
His heart seized, his breath catching in his throat as he whirled around, his legs nearly giving out beneath him as he dropped to his knees beside her, his hands already hovering over the wounds, his fingers trembling, his mind spiraling as he took in the sickening amount of blood, as he saw the way her lashes fluttered, the way her lips were stained red, the way her fingers twitched like she was trying—struggling—to reach for him.
"No—no, no, no—you stay awake, you hear me?"
His hands pressed against the wound, his magic sparking wildly, untamed, erratic, fueled by nothing but raw, desperate need.
"You're going to be fine, you hear me?"
His voice cracked, shattered, but he didn't care.
"You're going to be fine, baby, just stay with me—"
And then—
Her hand.
Shaking, weak, but still so stubborn.
Her fingers curled around his wrist, barely holding on, but grounding him, anchoring him, stopping him from slipping into something darker, something beyond saving.
Theo choked on a breath, his other hand shaking as he brushed bloodstained strands of hair from her forehead, his grip tightening around her as if holding her would be enough to keep her here.
"Please," he whispered, wrecked, broken, every ounce of control he had ever built crumbling beneath the sheer, devastating terror of losing her.
"Please don't leave me."
The thing refused to die. Again and again, it shattered under the force of his spells, only to pull itself back together, reshaping, reforming, twisting into something new, something worse, something that wore his face. It was like fighting a nightmare that had no end, a thing that existed outside the laws of life and death, outside reason, outside sanity. Every time he struck it down, it came back stronger, and every time it did, Theo could feel something inside himself weakening. His hands trembled against the weight of his own power, his vision blurred at the edges, his breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as his heart slammed a wild, frantic rhythm against his ribs, a beat that was not entirely his own. There was something in him now, inside him, curling through his veins like smoke, sinking its claws into the very fabric of his being, and the longer this fight dragged on, the harder it became to tell where he ended and the thing in front of him began.
The air was thick with the taste of magic, the scent of burning grass, the sharp tang of his own blood still clinging to his skin. The field around him stretched wide, endless, the mist creeping along the ground like it had purpose, like it had sentience, like it was watching. There was no end to this. No escape. No logic to cling to. The thing was playing with him, testing him, waiting for something—for him to break.
And then the voice came again.
"You feel it, don't you?"
A whisper. A rasp. A sound that slithered through the wind, through the cracks in his mind, through the places where his defenses had already begun to fray. It wasn't just a voice. It was a presence. It was inside him now, deeper than before, clawing at his thoughts, at his magic, at the parts of himself he had always kept locked away. It was feeding on him, growing stronger with every second, with every spell, with every thought that entertained the possibility that it might already be too late.
Theo gritted his teeth, his jaw locking so tightly it ached, his grip on his wand strangling as he forced himself to stay grounded, to fight.
The whisper laughed.
You are not fighting me, Theo. You are becoming me.
His body lurched, a cold dread slamming through him as if something had physically shoved him back, as if his own mind was recoiling from the truth it had tried so hard to ignore. His knees nearly buckled, his pulse erratic, his breath catching in his throat as a wave of nausea rolled through him. He did feel it. He had felt it from the very beginning, from the moment the first wrong thing had slithered into his skin, from the moment he had realized that the man he had killed had never been just a man. The creeping sense of unraveling, of losing himself, of something inside him breaking apart piece by piece only to be rebuilt into something else, something not entirely his, something wrong. His magic felt heavier, like it belonged to something else, like it was waiting for him to stop resisting, waiting for him to accept.
And then he heard it—her.
"Theo!"
Luna's voice was sharp, real, cutting through the thick fog in his mind like a blade, slicing through the tendrils of whatever was trying to consume him. She was still there. Still standing. Still fighting. He could feel her magic in the air, steady and unshaken, could feel her presence anchoring him to the moment, to reality, to himself.
The thing smiled.
"She cannot save you."
His head snapped up, and the creature—wearing him—was already stepping forward, its expression a perfect mockery of his own, twisted at the edges, its features warped just enough to not be human. Its limbs twitched, its eyes hollow, its mouth stretching into something unnatural, something that didn't belong on his face, something that wanted to claim it forever.
Theo's breath came short, sharp, his chest tight as the thing opened its arms, its voice soft now, coaxing, welcoming him into something he didn't understand—something he didn't want to understand. The ground beneath him pulsed, the air hummed with something dark and old, something reaching for him, pulling him in.
He was slipping.
It wanted him.
And for the first time—he felt himself wanting it back.
"This is who you are now."
The weight of the words settled over him like chains, heavy, suffocating, final. This is who you are now. It slithered through his mind, coiling around his ribs, tightening its grip, sinking its claws into the cracks that had already begun to splinter inside him. His body seized, his legs locked, his fingers twitched, his breath hitched in his throat as something beneath his skin moved, something that wasn't his own, something ancient and hungry. His vision flickered, fractured at the edges, the world tilting dangerously, and for the briefest, most terrifying moment—he wasn't sure if he was looking at the creature standing before him, or if he was the creature. The boundary between himself and it was dissolving, blurring into nothing, unraveling at the seams. His heart slammed against his ribs in protest, a desperate, frantic rhythm that was still his own, still fighting to stay his own—but for how much longer?
And then—Luna.
She shouldn't have been there. He hadn't even seen her move, hadn't realized she had left her place, hadn't realized she had thrown herself between him and whatever was dragging him under. But suddenly, she was there, right there, standing before him, in front of him, her hands reaching up, her fingers curling around his face, pressing against his skin with a warmth that was real, that was human, that was his. His breath stilled, the wretched, gnawing thing inside him lurched, recoiling just slightly, just enough for him to register the feeling of her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, the gentle press of her palms against his jaw, the way her body was trembling—not in fear, never in fear—but in determination. She was holding onto him like she was the only thing tethering him to the world, like he was the one who needed saving, like he was the thing slipping away.
"Theo," she whispered, her voice nothing more than a breath, a single thread of sound in the vast emptiness around them, yet somehow it was louder than the whispers in his head, louder than the wind screaming through the deadened field, louder than the wrongness still pressing in from all sides. "You are still here."
His world stilled.
She was looking at him—not the monster standing before them, not the grotesque, twisted version of himself that had been trying to crawl its way into existence, not the lingering remnants of whatever power had tried to pull him under. She was looking at him, the way she always had, the way she always would, with something deeper than trust, deeper than certainty, deeper than anything he had ever known in his miserable, haunted life. She saw past the shadows curling around him, past the war waging inside him, past the darkness wrapping itself around his magic, trying to claim it for its own. She saw him—and he didn't deserve it.
His hands trembled, his entire body caught in the throes of something he couldn't control, something beyond magic, beyond curses, beyond anything tangible. He wanted to pull away. He wanted to warn her, to tell her to run, to get as far away from him as she could before it was too late, before he wasn't himself anymore. But he couldn't move, couldn't break away, couldn't do anything but hold still beneath the weight of her hands, beneath the force of her gaze, beneath the unshakable belief she had in him.
"You have to come back to me," she whispered, and for the first time, her voice cracked, just slightly, just enough for the breath in his chest to shatter alongside it. "Please, Theo."
A violent shudder tore through him, deeper than anything before, something shifting, something breaking.
She was injured. She was still bleeding. He could feel it in the way she swayed on her feet, in the way her grip on him was just a little weaker than usual, in the way her fingers trembled against his skin, in the way her breath was uneven, in the way her robes were still torn where the thing had torn into her. But she was here. She had chosen to stand here, in front of him, despite everything, despite this, despite him.
Her thumbs brushed against his skin again, softer this time, like she was trying to ground him, like she was afraid he would slip through her fingers if she let go, like he was something worth saving. She wasn't afraid. She should be. She should be running, she should be fighting, she should be doing anything but this. But she stayed. She held him. And in that moment, something inside him snapped.
The darkness hesitated.
The force pulling at him wavered.
The grip tightening around his magic loosened, just slightly, just enough for him to breathe, just enough for him to recognize the steady, undeniable pulse of his own heartbeat, still slamming, still fighting, still his. The thing inside him—the thing that had wanted to make a home in his skin—feared her.
Because he was still here.
Because she was still here.
Because he refused to let her go.
He inhaled sharply, his grip on his wand tightening, his magic realigning, raw and violent and unyielding, but his. The force that had threatened to consume him was pushed back, locked away, beaten into submission by something stronger, something more dangerous—himself. The earth trembled beneath them, the air crackled with residual energy, but the battle had already been won. Not through spells, not through power, not through anything except her.
His arms snapped around her, pulling her flush against his body, his face buried in her hair as he let out a shuddering breath, his entire body still shaking, still reeling, still trying to comprehend what the hell had just happened. She gasped slightly at the force of it, but she didn't resist, didn't hesitate, didn't falter. She held onto him just as tightly, her fingers gripping the torn fabric of his shirt, clutching him like he was the only thing keeping her upright, like she had never once doubted he would come back.
"You're okay," she murmured, her lips brushing against his throat, her voice unshaken, her heartbeat steady against his.
A fractured laugh slipped from his lips, something hollow, something wrecked, something that was neither amusement nor relief but something too raw to name. His grip on her tightened, his forehead pressing against hers, his breath uneven as he breathed her in, as he let the world settle into something real again, something that belonged to him.
"Yeah," he rasped, his voice rough, his hands still trembling as they curled around her waist, refusing to let go. "I'm here."
The thing was gone.
For now.
But as long as she was here, as long as she kept looking at him like that, touching him like that, believing in him like that—it would never win.