Luna was in the final stretch of her pregnancy, and there was nothing poetic about it. No soft glow. No dreamy serenity. She was at the very end, and she was finished with it.
Finished in a way that felt ancient and dramatic, as if she were carrying a small planet inside her and its pull was dragging her spine into surrender. Every movement demanded strategy. Turning in bed required planning. Standing up felt like a personal triumph. Sitting down again came with a small, undignified groan she no longer bothered to hide.
Her patience had worn down to almost nothing. If one more person dared to tilt their head and ask, "how are you feeling?" in that careful, chirpy tone, she was certain she would hex them on instinct. Friend, stranger, house-elf. She did not discriminate. Concern felt like an insult. Cheerfulness felt like a threat.
Her body no longer belonged to her in any familiar way. It felt swollen and tight, skin stretched to its limit, joints aching as though they had been borrowed from someone decades older. There was always something. A sharp tug low in her belly. A flicker of nausea returning just when she thought it had passed. A heaviness in her hips that made walking feel like wading through water.
She described herself often and without mercy. A sun-warmed melon left too long on the vine. A wobbling constellation struggling to stay aligned. Bloated. Breathless. On the verge of tears or violence, sometimes both. A sentimental lullaby had once sent her into a spiral that included sobbing, shouting, and threatening to burn the wireless in under three minutes.
Theo had made the mistake, just once, of telling her she still looked radiant. Ethereal. Like his Luna.
She had turned her head very slowly at that, eyes narrowing with dangerous precision. The look alone had been enough to silence him for days. He never repeated the compliment out loud. He did not need to. His face betrayed him every time. That softening in his gaze, that overwhelming, ridiculous adoration. It made her want to snap at him and kiss him at the same time.
Everything irritated her. Every creaking hinge. Every flicker of light. A sock left out of place felt like sabotage. The world seemed louder than it had ever been. Sharper. Less forgiving.
And yet.
Beneath the frustration and the swollen ankles and the unpredictable tears, there was something steady. Something fierce. She felt the weight of the child inside her with a kind of quiet awe. A small, living presence that shifted and pressed and reminded her, constantly, that this exhaustion had purpose.
Somewhere under the sharp edges of her temper lived a love so deep it startled her. Even now, when she was certain she might scream at the sky for existing too brightly, she knew she would endure all of it again if it meant holding that tiny soul in her arms.
She was miserable. She was swollen. She was one poorly timed question away from committing minor magical assault.
And she was already completely in love.
Theodore? Oh, Theodore was obsessed—more than obsessed, beyond reason, bordering on clinical, certifiably ridiculous levels of devotion that would've been amusing if it weren't also vaguely suffocating and, somehow, still a little endearing.
Theodore had always been protective. That much was part of him. But in these final weeks of her pregnancy, something in him had tipped into another category entirely.
Obsessed did not quite cover it. He watched her the way other men watched battlefields. If she shifted in her chair, even slightly, his head snapped toward her. A small adjustment of her hip. A quiet roll of her shoulders. He reacted to all of it as though the furniture itself had personally offended him. His eyes fixed on her with sharp focus, ready to intervene against whatever invisible threat might be daring to inconvenience his wife.
If she sighed, he appeared with a pillow already fluffed. A blanket arranged. A cup of tea balanced carefully in his hands. Sometimes a tall glass of cucumber water with exactly three sprigs of mint floating at the top, because he had read somewhere that mint might help with swelling and had taken the information as sacred instruction.
If she groaned, even softly, he descended with urgent energy. His hands hovered just above her skin, never touching until she allowed it. His voice dipped low and earnest. "Do you need something? Tell me what you need." He asked it as though she might request the relocation of mountains and he would begin immediately.
There was no moderation in him. He did not wait to see if she could manage on her own. He made executive decisions she had not approved.
Once, she had simply shifted on the sofa, trying to find a better angle for her aching hips. She had not even stood up. Before her feet had properly touched the floor, he had lifted her clean off the cushions, arms wrapping around her with determined urgency.
One moment she was adjusting herself. The next she was in the air, glaring down at him as he strode toward the bedroom with singular focus.
"Theo, I was just trying to get more comfortable," she had said through clenched teeth, her tone sharp and dangerous as she squirmed in his arms.
"You shouldn't have to try to get comfortable," he replied without hesitation. His voice carried full conviction, as though the very concept offended him. His grip did not loosen. His expression remained set, protective to the point of absurdity.
She had glared at him with all the heat she could muster, the kind of look that would have made most people retreat instantly. Theo did not retreat.
And that was the part that unsettled her most. He was entirely aware of how excessive he was, and he did not care.
Some days it made her want to scream into the nearest pillow.
Other days it made her want to pull him down by the collar and kiss him until neither of them remembered what they had been arguing about.
Lysander had been relocated with impressive efficiency. Officially, it was a "very important sleepover mission" at the Malfoy residence. In reality, it was a carefully executed evacuation.
Draco had attempted to decline exactly once. Luna had looked at him. He had reconsidered.
Their son was now enjoying himself immensely in a house far calmer than Nott Manor had been in recent days. He was being indulged, fed extravagant desserts, and treated like visiting royalty. The arrangement suited everyone.
This had not been a dramatic, spur of the moment decision. It had been planned. Deliberate. Luna had reached a point where her own nerves felt stretched to breaking, and she knew it. Late pregnancy had stripped her of patience. Her magic, usually soft and fluid, pulsed through the manor in restless currents. The walls felt charged. Even the chandeliers seemed cautious.
She had grown tired of the commentary weeks ago. The suggestions about names. The constant touching of her stomach. The gentle reminders to rest. The careful questions about whether she should be walking. Today she had no tolerance left for any of it.
She moved through the house in leggings and one of Theo's oversized jumpers, hair caught somewhere between tidy and chaotic. Her eyes held a wild brightness that warned against interference. She carried the weight of exhaustion and the weight of impending birth at the same time, and both were showing.
The house responded accordingly.
And Theodore Nott was navigating this terrain with the fragile confidence of a man very aware he was in danger.
He was careful with his steps. Careful with his tone. Careful with his breathing. Every offer of assistance was measured. Every glance assessed. He had learned quickly that even well intentioned concern could be interpreted as an offense.
The space between helpful and infuriating had become perilously narrow.
Luna had already raised her voice at him fifty-two times. She had counted. The tally sat clearly in her mind. It was not even nine in the morning.
Which meant there was still a great deal of day left.
Theo knew this. He moved through the manor with quiet determination, adjusting cushions, refilling water glasses, attempting small acts of service in the hope that one of them might land safely.
Luna, meanwhile, stood at the edge of her own frayed temper, daring the world to challenge her.
Somewhere in the middle of it all sat a simple truth.
She was exhausted. He was devoted. The baby was coming.
And until that happened, the household existed in a state of tense, loving, slightly explosive anticipation.
Her breakdown had started before dawn.
All she had wanted was to sit up. To shift herself into a position where she could breathe without feeling crushed. It was a simple intention. Move. Adjust. Exist more comfortably for a moment.
The second she stirred, Theodore reacted as if she had announced she was about to sprint off a cliff.
He was upright instantly, sheets thrown aside, eyes wide with panic. One leg was already off the bed. His hands reached for her before she had even managed to lift her head properly.
"What do you need? I'll get it for you," he said, urgency threading through every word.
She blinked at him through exhaustion and irritation. Her back ached. Her lungs felt crowded. She rasped the answer with as little patience as she could muster. "To sit up."
It should have been simple.
Instead, he intervened. He slid one arm behind her back, the other under her elbow, lifting her carefully as though she might shatter. His touch was gentle. It was also infuriating.
She was heavily pregnant, yes. She was not made of porcelain.
Her fingers wrapped around his wrist. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to make a point. "Theodore," she said through clenched teeth, "stop touching me."
He froze for a second. Then he adjusted his grip, still hovering, still close.
Theo genuinely believed he was helping. He believed his constant presence, his hands ready to steady her, his soft reassurances and scattered kisses were what she needed.
He followed her through the house like a shadow that refused to detach. If she turned, his hand found the small of her back. If she paused, his lips brushed her temple. If she shifted direction, he was already there, watching.
By midday she had told him off thirty-seven times. She was counting. Not for entertainment. For survival.
He stayed near her as if distance itself was dangerous. She could not cross a room without sensing him just behind her shoulder. She could not speak without feeling his palm drift toward her belly, as if confirming she was still there.
At one point she stood in the conservatory and stared at a potted plant with intense focus. She assessed its size. Its weight. The distance between her and Theo. It was a brief, vivid consideration. She abandoned it before it could become action.
Theo did not notice the internal debate. He was too busy stepping up behind her, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her neck.
"You look radiant," he murmured, as if this were a perfectly safe thing to say.
She closed her eyes.
He was seconds away from spontaneous combustion and had no idea.
By eight o'clock, Luna had moved beyond irritation. Beyond hormones. Beyond exhaustion. She was convinced Theodore was doing this deliberately. There was no other explanation. A man who could plan complex operations across continents could not possibly be this unaware in his own home.
She had yelled at him for kissing her. She had snapped at him with the sharp edge of someone who had already endured forty-seven kisses that day and could not tolerate one more brush of lips against her skin.
She had yelled at him for hovering while she reached for her tea. Tea she had summoned herself. Prepared herself. Poured herself. He had appeared at her side the moment her fingers touched the cup, ready to assist as though lifting porcelain required a rescue plan.
She had even yelled at him for breathing too loudly while she tried to nap. He had responded by adjusting the blanket over her legs and pressing another gentle kiss to her forehead, as if she had not just threatened to throttle him with it.
And still he lowered himself onto the sofa beside her and sighed. A long, dramatic sigh, as though he were the one enduring hardship. As though devotion were a burden he carried heroically.
Then he leaned in again and pressed yet another slow kiss to her temple.
That was it.
"Are you incapable of existing without breathing directly on me?!" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to slice through the room.
The silence that followed felt immediate and heavy. Theo blinked at her, lips still parted from the kiss, confusion spreading across his face in a way that only made it worse. He tilted his head, brow furrowed, as if he truly could not understand how this moment had gone wrong.
She leaned forward slightly, eyes blazing. "Answer wisely, Theodore," she said, low and controlled, "because I am one spell away from making you experience a level of discomfort that will make you weep for the Cruciatus Curse."
And he smirked.
Actually smirked.
"You love me too much to hex me, Moonbeam," he murmured, voice slow and smug, as though that logic would shield him. Then he leaned in again, brushing his lips beneath her jaw with maddening tenderness.
Then she said, in a voice almost serene, "Bobsy, bring me my wand."
A small yelp echoed from the hallway. Tiny footsteps fled at alarming speed.
Theo did not hesitate this time. He moved fast. Faster than she had seen him move in weeks. The smirk vanished as instinct took over.
He bolted.
Because even in all his foolish confidence, even wrapped in devotion and stubborn affection, he understood when survival required retreat.
Getting ready for bed was nothing short of an ordeal, a nightly battle that Theo had learned to navigate with the caution of a man tiptoeing through a field of cursed runes. He had been reckless once, early in the pregnancy, when he still believed he had rights in his own home, when he still thought he could suggest things like let me help you, my love or maybe you should get some rest.
Those foolish, naive days were long behind him. Now, he had evolved, adapted, learned. He knew better than to speak when she sighed dramatically as she struggled to pull one of his shirts over her head, he knew better than to offer assistance when she glared at her own swollen feet as if they had personally betrayed her, and most of all, he knew better than to even breathe too loudly when she huffed and puffed her way under the blankets, muttering curses under her breath about how her life was ruined and how he was solely responsible for it.
So he sat there. Silent. Bouncing his foot like a child begging for sweets, antsy, restless, his knee bobbing up and down with a nervous energy that refused to be contained.
Because unlike Lysander, who only ever wanted sugar, Theo wanted something far sweeter. Something he ached for, burned for, something that he had been denied again and again in favor of back rubs and foot massages and fetching snacks from the kitchen at all hours of the night.
He wanted her.
He wanted to sink into her, to feel her wrapped around him, to taste her on his tongue, to drink her in like she was the only thing keeping him alive. He needed her, and yet here he was, starving, suffering, denied access to the very thing he craved most. It was unfair. It was cruel. And worst of all, she knew it.
She turned her head to look at him, her silver-blue eyes narrowing in pure unfiltered disgust, her entire face twisting as if he were something filthy, something obscene, something that needed to be exterminated immediately.
And oh, fuck, he loved it.
Her fury, her impatience, her sharp, cutting glare—it only made him want her more.
"What do you want?" she snapped, her voice sharp and merciless, cutting through the heavy silence of the room like a blade pressed against his throat.
Theo swallowed thickly, the lump in his throat making it nearly impossible to speak. His body was betraying him, his fingers curling into the sheets, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his mouth parting, but no words coming out.
"Nothing…" he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper, though they both knew it was a lie.
Luna bristled, her eyes flashing dangerously, her lips curling in something that was not quite a smirk, but not quite anger either.
"Tell me."
His pulse skyrocketed.
His hands tightened on the sheets.
His body throbbed with the sheer force of his need.
It all came spilling out like a dam had finally collapsed inside him.
"YOU!" he burst out, his voice hoarse, desperate, shaking. "I WANT YOU! I NEED YOU! I NEED TO TASTE YOU!" His breathing was uneven, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with unfiltered, unrestrained longing. "Please, please, pleaaaaseeeeeeee—"
He was a mess, an absolute disaster of a man, a pathetic little thing, undone by her, wrecked by her, and she just stared at him.
And then she smirked.
She adored it. She lived for his suffering. She relished in his obsession. And Merlin help him, he would burn for her.
Luna moved slowly, as if she had all the time in the world, as if she wanted him to suffer, as if the way his breath hitched and his fingers twitched at his sides fed something deep inside her.
She knew what she was doing to him, she knew the effect she had, and she dragged it out, savoring every second, watching with sharp, calculating amusement as the composure he fought so hard to maintain crumbled at her feet.
He was so easy, wasn't he? So predictable in his desire for her, so pathetically enthralled by the mere idea of touching her, tasting her, devouring her. And he thought he was dangerous. He thought he was the one people feared. But in this room, in this bed, with her—he was nothing but a man reduced to his basest, most primal form, trembling, aching, waiting.
She moved lazily, stretching her limbs like a spoiled cat, her silver-blue eyes flicking over him with the kind of slow, deliberate gaze that made him feel completely exposed, as if she were peeling him apart piece by piece. And then, as if sensing just how much torment he could endure before he snapped, she lifted her hips, the hem of her nightgown dragging painfully slowly up her thighs, teasing the barest glimpse of soft, pale skin beneath before shifting back down again.
His whole body locked up.
It was cruel, the way she played with him, the way she made his own anticipation work against him. The longer she stretched this out, the more he burned, the more he ached, the closer he got to breaking apart entirely.
And then, just as he felt his restraint begin to fray at the edges, just as he thought he might explode from the sheer force of wanting her, she reached out and touched his face.
Her fingers skimmed over his jawline, feather-light, tracing the stubble there as if she were considering him, as if she were deciding whether or not he was worthy of whatever came next.
And then, with that maddening, devastating voice of hers, she whispered, "The love of my life is begging… begging for me?"
He shuddered.
"Yes," he rasped, barely able to form the word, barely able to think beyond the white-hot need pounding through his veins. It wasn't even a word at this point—it was a surrender, an offering, an admission that he was hers to do with as she pleased.
Her lips curled into something wicked, something pleased, something that told him she had no intention of making this easy for him. "If you beg more," she murmured, her nails dragging so lightly down his throat, pausing right over the spot where his pulse thundered beneath her touch, "you can have it."
He begged, pleaded, prayed, words spilling from his mouth without thought, without pride, without dignity. He had none of that left anyway. Not when it came to her. Not when she held him like this, dangling him over the edge of something so unbearable, so desperate, that he would have done anything to make her end his suffering.
And oh, she knew it.
She knew she owned him.
She watched him unravel, watched the way his hands fisted in the sheets, the way his lips parted in wordless desperation, the way his entire body strained toward her like he was on the verge of collapse.
Only then—only when she had wrung every last bit of control from him, when she had left him a shaking, ruined mess, when his voice was nothing more than a whisper of desperate prayers on her skin, when his hands trembled with the force of his restraint, only then did she finally grant him mercy, finally open herself to him, finally give him the permission that he had been dying for.
And it was like something inside him snapped, like the thin thread of his control frayed and burned in an instant, like he had been holding himself back for too long, teetering on the edge of madness, and now, with her spread before him, her breath coming in soft, hitched gasps, her body pulsing with anticipation—he was free.
He did not rush. No, he was too obsessed with her for that, too entranced by the way her skin shivered beneath his touch, by the way she was already panting, already falling apart before he had even touched her properly. He needed to take his time, needed to make sure she felt just how much he worshipped her, how much he lived for this, how much he would burn for her.
He started slow, dragging his lips across the smooth expanse of her thigh, teasing, lingering, breathing her in as if he could commit every inch of her to memory, as if the scent of her, the warmth of her, the taste of her skin was something he could never get enough of. And he couldn't. He never could. He never would.
His hands were firm but reverent as they slid up her body, fingers splaying against her waist, his touch leaving trails of fire wherever he moved. He kissed up her stomach, his lips brushing over the soft swell of her belly, the heat of his mouth lingering on her skin as if he was marking her, as if he wanted her to feel him long after he was done.
He dragged his mouth higher, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to her ribs, the curve of her breast, the delicate skin above her heart, all the while listening to her, watching her, drinking in the way her breath hitched, the way her hands flexed against the sheets, the way her entire body responded to him as if it belonged to him completely.
And when he finally, finally took her nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the sensitive bud, sucking just enough to make her whimper—she arched beneath him, her body offering itself to him, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers tugging, pulling, desperate for more, desperate for anything, and he felt it, felt the way she trembled beneath him, the way her thighs clenched, the way her breath turned ragged, and fuck, she was so close already, so on edge, so ready for him, so perfectly ruined beneath the barest of his touches.
"Look at you," he murmured against her skin, dragging his teeth along her flushed breast, flicking his tongue over the hardened peak again just to feel the way she gasped, just to hear that tiny, helpless sound that made his cock ache. "So sensitive, my little angel… haven't even touched you properly, and you're already falling apart."
She let out a breathy moan, her fingers tightening in his hair as if she needed something to hold onto, as if she was losing herself entirely.
He loved it. He lived for it. But it wasn't enough.
Because he knew her body. He knew every inch of her, every spot that made her tremble, every kiss that made her whimper, every touch that sent her over the edge. He knew what she needed, knew how to make her break, knew that she could take so much more, that she wanted so much more.
So he moved lower, dragging his mouth down, pressing heated, open-mouthed kisses over the swell of her belly, over her navel, down, down, down—until he was exactly where he needed to be, until his breath was hot against the slick heat of her, until she was panting, her thighs trembling around him, her body practically begging for what came next.
And then he put his mouth on her.
She broke. She arched, her entire body shattering with pleasure as his tongue moved against her, slow at first, slow and teasing, tracing deliberate, tormenting patterns that made her whimper, that made her hips jerk, that made her thighs clench around his head as if she couldn't decide whether to pull him closer or push him away. But he wasn't letting her go.
Oh, no. He wasn't done. Not even close.
She came with a cry, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers fisting into it as if she was trying to anchor herself, as if she was trying to hold onto something, anything, as the pleasure crashed through her, as her body shook from the force of it, as she drowned in the intensity of what he was doing to her.
He groaned against her, his tongue lapping up every drop of her pleasure, savoring her, drinking her in, and when she finally collapsed back onto the bed, boneless, ruined, wrecked, he grinned against her skin, licking his lips like a starved man, his voice thick and filthy as he rasped, "My little angel… needy little slut… haven't even fucked you yet, and you've already come for me?"
She let out a breathless sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, her body still shaking with aftershocks, her hands weakly gripping at his shoulders, and he laughed as he moved up her body, pressing his slick, heated mouth to her jaw, to her lips, making her taste herself as he whispered, "Should I stop?"
She turned her face away, still trying to catch her breath, still trying to compose herself, but he wouldn't let her. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him, forcing her to see the hunger in his eyes, the way he was barely holding on to whatever was left of his restraint.
"Why would I?" he murmured, smirking as he trailed his fingers between her still twitching thighs, rubbing slow, teasing circles against her overstimulated clit, watching the way her body shuddered, the way her breath hitched, the way her legs tried to squeeze shut around him but failed. "You think it's embarrassing?"
She let out a soft, wrecked sound, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Wait," he whispered, pressing a teasing kiss to the corner of her mouth, "until I fuck you."
She whimpered.
He grinned.
"Wait," he growled against her lips, pushing her thighs apart again, sliding himself right against her slick, sensitive heat, making them both groan, "until you come on my cock."
Her breath caught.
His grip on her thighs tightened.
And then, with a wicked, filthy smirk, he murmured, "Now that… that would be embarrassing."
~~~~~~
It turned out that what finally pushed her into labor was not a gentle walk or a cup of tea or any of the well meaning advice she had endured for weeks. It was sex. Intense, overwhelming, body unraveling sex delivered by a husband who had clearly decided that if this child was coming, he would personally escort it into the world through sheer dedication.
Theo's hands, Theo's mouth, Theo's voice against her skin. The way he murmured filth and reverence in the same breath. The way he held her hips steady and ruined her until her thoughts scattered. That was what did it.
Afterward, she had fallen asleep boneless against him, his chest warm against her back, the steady rise and fall of his breathing anchoring her. He had quietly changed the sheets with small domestic spells he pretended he barely knew, muttering about freshness and comfort as he tucked her back into bed. Then he had curled around her again, pressing close, whispering sleepy declarations into her hair until she drifted under.
When she woke hours later, dawn was just beginning to blur the windows silver. It took a few seconds to understand what felt wrong.
Her skin was clammy. Her thighs were slick. The sheets beneath her were soaked through.
At first she thought she had lost control of her bladder. She had heard it happened this late in pregnancy. She blinked, embarrassed, still fogged with sleep. But this was different. This was too much. The mattress beneath her felt heavy with it.
Then it clicked.
Her entire body went still. A sharp breath split through her chest as realization caught up.
"Oh, fuck."
Her hands flew to her belly and she screamed, "Theo!"
The door did not open so much as slam inward.
Theo burst into the room, gun already in his hand, eyes wild and searching. Shirtless, barefoot, heart pounding, he looked ready to kill whatever had made her cry out.
"What happened?" he demanded, scanning the room for a threat.
"There's no one here!" Luna snapped, voice climbing as she grabbed a fistful of soaked sheet and held it up. "My water broke! Look at the bed!"
The gun hit the floor with a dull thud.
He stared at the mattress, then at her, the shift in him immediate and absolute.
"Oh fuck—fuck—okay, okay—love—just—fuck." He moved toward her, hands hovering. "Are you in pain? Are you contracting? Are you—do you feel the baby moving? Fuck—"
She caught his wrist mid spiral and pulled him closer. "Theodore," she said through her teeth, "stop panicking and do something useful."
He blinked once, then twice. Then something in him steadied.
He turned and strode toward the master bathroom. She had insisted on delivering at home again. She wanted water, warmth, privacy. He had argued. He had worried. In the end he had built her exactly what she wanted.
Now it was time.
He shouted down the hallway for Bobsy to alert the mediwitch while Luna struggled upright, muttering curses under her breath.
"Shit— okay, okay, I got you," he said as he came back to her side.
Before she could protest, he lifted her into his arms. Solid. Certain. As if she weighed nothing. The room blurred and then shifted as he Apparated them into the master bathroom.
She gasped at the sudden movement, clutching at him as they landed.
The room was ready.
The large birthing tub stood filled with warm water, steam rising gently. Candles flickered along the edges, casting soft gold light over tiled walls. Towels were stacked neatly within reach. Potions and cooling cloths waited exactly where she had instructed.
Despite his fears about hospitals and sterile corridors, despite every anxious argument, he had prepared all of it.
Now the sanctuary felt charged, alive with urgency.
Theo moved immediately. Fast. Efficient. His hands stayed steady even though his heart felt like it might punch straight through his ribs.
He lowered Luna carefully onto the padded bench beside the tub, one arm supporting her back while the other steadied her elbow. As soon as she was settled, his hands moved over her again, quick and careful, checking her shoulders, her arms, the tension in her body.
"Breathe, baby," he murmured, pushing damp strands of hair away from her face. His touch was gentle even though the panic in his eyes had not faded. "You're okay. You're safe. I got you."
She grabbed his arms, fingers digging in as another sensation rippled through her body.
"Theo, I swear to Merlin, if you don't stop hovering like a panicked first-year, I will cut your dick off," she snapped, breath uneven as the first real wave of pain crept closer.
Theo ignored the threat completely.
With a small flick of his hand he sent a silent summons through the manor. Bobsy and the other elves would feel it immediately and come running. Towels, water, cloths, whatever might be needed. In the same motion he sent a quiet alert beyond the room.
Luna had insisted that this birth would happen with just the two of them.
He was still calling the mediwitch waiting outside the door.
Because there was no universe where Theo Nott would risk something going wrong. Not with Luna. Not with their child. Not with the only thing in the entire miserable world that mattered more to him than breathing.
For years he had arranged their lives with careful precision. Every ward placed, every threat removed, every loose end tied off before it could reach her. He had made it his personal mission to keep the darkness that followed him far away from her doorstep.
And now she was here. In labor. Bringing their second child into the world.
And he could not fix a single part of it.
He had fought wars. He had taken lives. He had stood face to face with death and felt nothing stronger than cold focus.
Watching Luna in pain felt worse.
He could not fight this. He could not take it from her. There was no wand, no weapon, no clever plan that could carry this weight for her.
The realization left a hollow, furious feeling in his chest.
And then, as if the moment needed more chaos, the door flew open.
Pansy Parkinson stormed into the room like a general arriving on a battlefield.
Theo barely registered her at first. His attention stayed locked on Luna, on the sweat at her temple, on the way her fingers tightened around his arm as another contraction built. But Pansy made herself impossible to ignore almost immediately.
She planted herself beside Luna and began barking instructions like she had personally delivered half the wizarding population.
Every time Theo shifted even slightly, she threw another insult in his direction.
When he breathed too loudly, she told him to shut the hell up.
When he reached for Luna's shoulder, she swatted his hand away and ordered him to stand somewhere useful.
And then she noticed the gun.
She stared at it like it had personally offended her.
"Stop hovering like an incompetent wanker and for the love of Merlin, put that fucking gun down before you accidentally shoot someone."
That was where Theo's patience snapped.
Because first, he was not hovering. He was protecting.
Second, the gun was staying exactly where it was. Luna was vulnerable and he did not relax his guard just because they were inside their own home. The manor was warded, yes, but Theo trusted paranoia more than security charms.
Parkinson rolled her eyes so dramatically it should have required a license.
She gestured at the weapon like it was some ridiculous fashion accessory.
Something inside Theo went cold.
Maybe he did give her a look dark enough to silence a room full of grown men.
Anyone else would have shut up.
Pansy Parkinson did not.
Instead she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and launched into a stream of insults with impressive creativity.
"Trigger-happy tosser."
"Emotionally constipated psychopath."
"Gun-toting motherfucker with a god complex."
Theo, who had spent nine months in a constant state of quiet dread, who had watched his wife's water break all over their bed less than an hour ago, who had not slept properly since the day Luna told him she was pregnant again, finally reached the end of his patience.
So he lowered the gun.
Not because Parkinson told him to.
Because Luna grabbed his wrist.
Her grip was surprisingly strong as she pulled him down toward her. Her eyes locked onto his, sharp and blazing despite the pain tightening her body.
"Theodore, if you do not put that bloody thing down and get your useless arse over here, I will personally see to it that you never get to put another baby in me again."
Theo froze for a second.
Then he set the gun aside.
Which was how he ended up standing there, unarmed, while Pansy smirked at him like she had just won a personal war.
Her brown eyes dared him to argue.
He did not.
Because Luna's hand was still gripping his hard enough to make his knuckles ache. Because she was in pain. Because she was the only person in existence who could make him obey with a single look.
So he stayed where he was, jaw tight, throwing murderously calm glances at Parkinson while she took charge of the room like some self-appointed goddess of childbirth.
Theo hated her.
Luna squeezed his hand through another contraction and shot Pansy a tired, grateful look.
And in that moment Theo understood with crushing certainty that this was going to be the longest fucking day of his life.
°°°°°°
By the end of it, even Luna had reached her limit.
That alone was impressive. Luna had the patience of a saint. She tolerated Theo at his worst without losing her composure. Very few things in the world could push her to the edge.
Pansy had managed it.
It started with small signs. A tight breath. A quiet sigh. Luna's eyes narrowing each time Pansy leaned too close or launched into another dramatic piece of encouragement that sounded more like a battle speech than anything remotely helpful.
Then came the glares. The clenched jaw. The silence that meant Luna was hanging onto the last threads of her patience.
Pansy, completely oblivious, leaned closer again and began yet another loud speech about breathing and strength and pushing through the pain like some general rallying troops before war.
That was the moment Luna snapped.
"For the love of God, Pansy, get out before I kill you."
The room went silent.
Everyone present understood exactly what that meant.
It was over for Parkinson.
Someone summoned Neville. No one knew who. One moment Pansy was still in the birthing room, pacing and talking like she was personally responsible for delivering the child.
The next moment Neville Longbottom appeared in the doorway.
He looked calm. He also looked exhausted in the particular way of a man who had spent years dealing with this exact kind of chaos.
He simply walked over, took Pansy by the elbow with quiet determination, and began steering her toward the door.
The motion had the energy of a bartender escorting a particularly enthusiastic drunk woman out before she started throwing punches.
"I wasn't finished," Pansy huffed as her heels clicked aggressively along the floor while Neville guided her down the corridor. "Luna needs me, Longbottom. I was helping."
"Helping," Neville repeated flatly.
His voice carried the dryness of a desert. His grip tightened slightly when she tried to twist free.
"Pansy, you're five seconds away from getting thrown out of here. By Luna."
"She wouldn't fucking dare," Pansy scoffed, lifting her chin. "I'm her best friend. She loves me."
"Oh, does she?" Neville asked, arching a deeply unimpressed brow. "Because I specifically recall her threatening your life about thirty seconds ago."
Pansy yanked her arm free as they reached the living room.
"You're being ridiculous. Luna just needed to vent. She appreciates my presence."
"Luna appreciates your presence when you're not acting like you're the one pushing out a child," Neville said.
He guided her toward a plush armchair in the center of the room.
"Now sit. Wait patiently like a good girl."
Pansy froze.
Her mouth dropped open as she spun toward him, hands landing on her hips, dark eyes blazing with outrage.
"Did you just command me like I'm some common peasant?"
Neville sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
It was the gesture of a man already regretting every life choice that had brought him here.
"No, Pansy, I didn't command you. I asked you politely to sit down and behave before Luna personally ensures that your future child is raised without a mother."
Pansy's jaw dropped even further.
Neville stared back at her with the blank patience of a man who had officially run out of energy for this nonsense.
They stood there in silence for several seconds, locked in a stubborn standoff that could have escalated into a duel if someone blinked.
Finally Pansy scoffed loudly and flipped her hair over her shoulder.
"Fine," she snapped.
She marched to the armchair and dropped into it with dramatic force. Her legs crossed sharply, her posture radiating wounded dignity as if this had been her idea the entire time.
Neville watched her settle.
"Good," he said shortly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders now that she was no longer in the birthing room.
Pansy lifted her chin with regal composure.
"I will be having words with Luna when this is over," she informed him primly.
"I'm sure you fucking will," Neville replied.
He didn't even try to hide the exhaustion in his voice.
Pansy narrowed her eyes.
"And you will be apologizing for that tone."
Neville snorted softly and rubbed his temples again before looking at her with the weary expression of a man who had long ago stopped fighting battles he knew he would lose.
"Sure, Bloom. Immediately."
Pansy gasped and clutched her imaginary pearls in outrage.
Neville turned around and walked away.
Because fuck that.
~~~~~~
Theo had spent most of his life convinced his heart had already stretched as far as it possibly could.
He had believed that stubbornly, almost arrogantly. First there had been Luna, with her quiet laughter and strange, silver light way of seeing the world, the woman who had slipped past every wall he had ever built and settled into the broken places of him as if they had always belonged to her. Loving her had already felt like too much for one man to contain. It had cracked him open in ways he had never expected.
Then Lysander had arrived, their wild and brilliant boy who had somehow turned Theodore Nott into a man who cried during lullabies and patiently learned how to braid hair simply because it made his son laugh.
That had felt like the end of it. The absolute limit of what a human heart could hold.
He had been wrong.
The mediwitch placed a tiny bundle into his arms.
Everything inside him broke apart.
Theo's breath left him in a ragged sound as his arms instinctively curved around the fragile weight. The room tilted slightly, the world narrowing until there was only the child in his hands.
This was not simply a baby.
This was Seline Nott.
She lay wrapped in a soft pink blanket, impossibly small, blinking up at him with wide storm-blue eyes that looked so painfully like Luna's that his chest ached. Her tiny fingers flexed against the fabric, her breath soft and uneven as she adjusted to the world.
The tears came before he even realized they were there. At first they slipped quietly down his face, then his shoulders began to shake and the sounds broke from him in uneven breaths he couldn't control. He wept with the helpless abandon of a man who had been holding too much inside for too long.
Theodore Nott had taken lives without hesitation. He had built a reputation on violence and precision and cold control.
None of that mattered now.
Because in his arms was something fragile and sacred and terrifyingly pure.
For every terrible thing he had done, for every sin he carried quietly in his bones, this tiny girl existed anyway. Alive. Perfect. Unaware of the darkness that followed him through the world.
His daughter.
His little moonbeam.
Theo bent his head slowly and pressed a soft kiss to the downy crown of her head. His voice came out rough, almost broken as he whispered against her skin.
"You own me now, little love."
A daughter. The words echoed inside his head like the final line of a spell he had never dared to cast aloud. A daughter was not simply a fact. It was something that reached into the deepest corners of him and pulled every buried emotion to the surface.
His chest tightened painfully as he stared down at her small face. Pale gold hair softened the top of her head, fine lashes resting against pink cheeks. Her breathing was gentle, the quiet rise and fall of her chest so delicate it felt like watching the world inhale for the first time.
Luna was still in the birthing tub, the warm water rippling softly around her. Her body trembled from the exhaustion of labor, her skin pale and damp, her limbs heavy with fatigue. She looked utterly drained.
And yet she was luminous.
Her eyes were bright with something fierce and endless as she watched them. Candlelight flickered across the water and across her face, catching the softness of her expression as she reached out.
Her hand trembled slightly.
She did not need to speak.
Theo understood.
He moved immediately, dropping to his knees beside the tub with the quiet reverence of a man kneeling at an altar. His hands steadied Seline carefully, supporting her tiny head as he leaned forward.
Slowly, gently, he placed their daughter against Luna's chest.
The small body settled instinctively against her mother's skin. Theo adjusted the blanket and guided Seline until she was resting comfortably, warm and safe against the heartbeat that had carried her through every moment of her existence.
Mother and daughter together again.
Theo remained there on his knees beside them, one hand still resting lightly over the baby's back, staring at the two of them as if the entire universe had condensed into that single moment.
The tiny life resting against Luna's chest, so impossibly small and new and alive, or the woman who had carried her here. Luna, who had endured hours of pain and fear and exhaustion, who had faced the raw vulnerability of bringing a child into the world, and who somehow still looked luminous in the soft glow of candlelight.
Theo knelt beside the tub, his gaze moving slowly between them as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing.
"Look at that, my love," he whispered, his voice rough and unsteady, thick with everything he had no words for. His thumb brushed gently along Seline's tiny jaw while his other hand steadied the back of her head as she shifted closer to Luna, instinctively curling toward the sound of her mother's heartbeat. "We made a girl. A baby girl."
Luna had spent hours in agony. Hours of contractions that had bent her in half, hours of shouting at him and threatening violence if he so much as hovered too closely, hours where she had clutched his hand and bitten down hard enough to leave marks that would last for days.
Now she looked down at their daughter and everything in her face softened.
Her lips parted in a quiet breath as if the sight of the baby had stolen the air from her lungs. Her lashes lowered slowly against cheeks still damp with sweat, and her arms curved protectively around the tiny body resting against her chest. Her hands trembled slightly, though her hold remained steady and certain.
She stared down at the child the way someone might look at the night sky for the first time.
"She's gorgeous," Luna whispered, and the raw tenderness in her voice tore straight through him. "Thank you, my Sun. Thank you for this. Thank you so much for this gift of a lifetime."
That was the moment he broke completely.
Theo had always believed he understood the limits of love. He had thought Luna had already claimed every piece of his heart the day she stepped into his life. He had believed that Lysander's birth had been the moment that pushed him to the absolute edge of what he could feel.
Standing here beside the tub, watching Luna cradle their daughter against her chest, he realized how wrong he had been.
Luna sat pale and exhausted in the warm water, candlelight flickering softly across her skin. Their daughter rested against her like a tiny miracle, one small hand flexing against Luna's chest as though she already knew exactly where she belonged.
Theo felt it settle deep in his bones.
They owned him completely.
Every breath he took. Every beat of his heart. Every part of the man he had once been and everything he would become from this moment forward.
It all belonged to them.
He leaned forward slowly and rested his forehead against Luna's temple. Her skin was warm beneath his, familiar and grounding. He breathed her in quietly, the scent of her filling his lungs as his tears slipped free without restraint, disappearing into the damp strands of her hair.
For a long moment he said nothing.
The room was quiet except for the gentle sound of the water and the soft breathing of their daughter.
~~~~~~
Evening faded slowly into night, the house settling into a fragile quiet after the long storm of the day. The bedroom lay dim around them, candles burning low, their soft light trembling against the walls. Theo moved through the room with deliberate care, each step measured, his breathing still uneven despite the calm that had returned.
He approached Luna as though approaching something sacred.
When he lifted her into his arms, his hold remained steady even while his fingers trembled faintly. Exhaustion had softened her completely. She leaned against him without resistance, trusting him in that quiet way she always had.
He carried her to the bed and lowered her carefully onto the mattress. His hands lingered as he adjusted the pillows beneath her shoulders, making sure she rested comfortably. Even through the haze of exhaustion, her eyes lifted toward him. They were heavy but calm.
The trust in that look struck him harder than anything that had happened that day.
He pulled the blankets up around her shoulders and smoothed the fabric with slow movements. Only hours earlier he had watched her body endure pain that left him shaken. He had stood beside her while she roared through contractions, her grip crushing his hand as she fought through the storm of bringing their daughter into the world. Again and again he had whispered her name, powerless in the face of what she endured.
Now she lay quietly in the aftermath.
Moonlight slipped through the curtains and spread across the bed in pale silver. It brushed her cheek and caught in the damp strands of hair near her temple. Her skin still held the faint flush of effort. Her lips trembled slightly as sleep tried to claim her.
Theo stood there longer than he intended, simply watching her.
Once he had believed his heart had reached its limits with her. Every year beside her had deepened his devotion until it felt impossible for it to grow any further. He thought he already understood what it meant to love Luna Lovegood.
Watching her bring their daughter into the world shattered that belief.
Something inside him had opened during those hours. Whatever boundaries once shaped his love had dissolved somewhere between fear and relief and awe. What remained was vast and impossible to measure.
He slipped beneath the covers beside her with quiet care. The mattress shifted slightly as he settled. When his arms wrapped around her, he drew her gently against his chest.
Her body softened immediately into the space beside him.
Her head rested against his shoulder while her breath warmed his throat. The steady rhythm of it pulled at something deep within his chest.
His fingers began moving slowly across her back, tracing small patterns through the fabric of her nightshirt. The movement steadied him. It reminded him she was here. Alive. Safe.
His hand followed the familiar line of her spine and the curve of her shoulder blade. He knew every inch of her by heart, yet he still felt the quiet urge to memorize her again.
The fear never truly left him.
Loving her this deeply carried a quiet terror beneath it. The thought of losing her felt like something that could hollow him out completely.
His voice slipped out in a whisper, softer than breath.
"Between seas, galaxies, and moons… I truly was lucky."
His lips brushed gently against her temple.
"I stepped on the same land as you, walked beneath the same sky, dreamed beneath the same stars, and that alone was a miracle I never dared to ask for."
The words trembled slightly as he continued.
"And if this world ever dares to crush you beneath its weight, if your spirit falters, if your heart begins to splinter under burdens no soul was meant to carry, if your eyes become oceans and you fear you'll drown in the grief of it all, I will be your sand, your anchor, the steady shore upon which your tears will break and vanish. I will be the lighthouse when the skies blacken, when your path disappears beneath storms, when the stars forget your name. I will be the arms that catch you, even when you fall in silence, even when you forget how to call for help. I will be the place you return to, over and over and over again, no matter how far the tide pulls you from me."
His arms tightened slightly around her once the words settled into the quiet of the room.
She rested against him, still and warm, her breathing steady against his chest. Luna remained the same strange and luminous woman who had altered the course of his life the moment she stepped into it. Wild and gentle and impossible all at once.
After a while she stirred.
The movement was small, like the shift of water against a shoreline. Her breath brushed his throat while her body adjusted against his. Theo felt the quiet rhythm of her chest rising and falling, the soft pressure of her hand resting against his ribs. Her fingers curled slightly into his shirt as if holding on to him.
Within that silence he felt her presence again, the calm and the storm wrapped together inside one living heartbeat.
She exhaled softly, her breath warm against his collarbone. Sleep had not taken her fully after all.
Slowly she lifted her head from his chest and looked at him. Her movements carried the weight of exhaustion, though her eyes remained bright and clear. Her fingers rose and traced the line of his jaw with gentle care.
"My sun," she breathed, her voice rough with fatigue and emotion. "You speak like the stars bent just for us, like the heavens arranged this meeting with mercy in mind. As if fate reached down with trembling hands and dared to thread our names together across time."
Her hand drifted to his lips and brushed the edge of his mouth with the back of her knuckles, feeling the faint curve of his smile.
"But I do not believe in fate," she whispered. "Nor in chance. I believe in choice. In every moment we've chosen each other, across lifetimes, across the blood and war and ruin of everything that came before. I believe in that. I believe in us."
Her voice softened further, though the promise within it grew stronger.
"And if the road burns, if I must walk through fire barefoot and blind, I will do so gladly, because I know your hands will be waiting on the other side to catch me. If the sea tries to claim me, to drag me beneath its crushing silence, I will not be afraid, because I know you would follow me into the abyss and tear open the ocean with your bare hands just to find me again."
She pressed closer to him, curling into his chest.
"And if the sky shatters, if the stars fall like ash and the constellations we once dreamed under crumble to dust, I know I will find you in the wreckage. Because no fire, no flood, no wrath of gods or time or death could ever keep me from you. I will crawl through the ruins. I will bleed through the dark. I will whisper your name into the void until the void whispers it back."
Her eyes closed briefly while she breathed him in. When she spoke again her voice was barely louder than breath.
"You say you're lucky, my love, to have walked beside me, but you don't see what I see. You are the ground beneath me, the breath in my lungs, the gravity that keeps me tethered to this world. You are my stars, Theo. My light, my path, my everything. You are not beside me. You are within me. And no matter what storms rise, I will choose you. In this life and every one that follows."
Her fingers tightened slightly in the fabric of his shirt.
"You say you'll be the sand that dries my tears," she murmured softly against his throat, "then I will be the tide that always returns to you, no matter how far I drift, no matter how lost I become. I will find you. I will find you, even in the dark."
When she drew back her gaze met his fully.
"And if the world turns its back on you," she whispered, "I will not. If you fall to your knees, I will kneel beside you. If you break, I will hold your pieces until they fit again. I will carry you, Theodore Nott, the way you've carried me."
Then she kissed him.
The kiss was slow and gentle, something quiet and enduring. When it ended she settled back against his chest, exhaustion finally overtaking her. Her body relaxed in his arms, her breathing gradually evening out.
Wrapped in his embrace, Luna drifted into sleep while the night settled softly around them.