Summary:
Hermione gets kidnapped and brutally attacked. Scene is not written in this fanfiction.
Notes:
I'm so sorry in advance. There is no comfort waiting in this chapter.
Neville Longbottom is still the husband of the century.
And if you're in need of the smallest flicker of warmth—Pansy and Crookshanks share an emotional support moment that honestly deserves its own award. Let them have it. They've earned something that feels close to peace.
The past few days felt like the kind of life she had once believed belonged only to other people, people untouched by the sharpness of expectation or the shadows of old loyalties. Peace had always seemed like a luxury to her, something that might brush past her fingertips for a moment before slipping away again. Yet somehow, in the quiet of their home, she had found herself wrapped in it. Every morning carried a softness she had never known, a sense of calm that settled into the corners of their life and made her wonder if the universe was finally offering her a reprieve.
She cherished every moment. She cherished the way he reached for her hand without thinking, the way he tugged her close in passing when he walked behind her, the way their laughter had begun to fill the house again.
She cherished the quiet nights when they sprawled across the sofa and talked about nothing important, tangled up in blankets, legs brushing. She cherished the mornings when he pressed half-awake kisses to her shoulder before pulling her back beneath the covers as if the day could wait. Their marriage had always been rich and complicated, but lately it had unfolded like a gentle tide, steady and warm, rising around her until she did not know how she had ever lived without it.
In that warmth, she had returned to an old pastime she adored with ridiculous enthusiasm. At this very moment, she was knee-deep in fabrics, needles, sketches, and an array of ribbons that spilled across the carpet like fallen petals.
She was designing an entirely new wardrobe for Lady Lemongrass, a task she approached with the same seriousness most people reserved for battle preparations. Lady sat upon the chaise as if she were a queen receiving ceremonial honors, her belly round, her snout slightly wrinkled, her eyes half-closed in a blend of confusion and mild irritation.
"Stay still, my darling," Pansy murmured as she attempted to loop the tape measure around Lady's middle. "If this gown is to have the dramatic sweep I intend, I need precision."
Lady responded by shifting her weight in a slow, unimpressed slide that deposited her sideways, legs sticking out like a disgruntled potato. The sight coaxed a quiet laugh from Pansy. The pug's level of theatrics often rivaled her own.
She eased back, holding the tape against the air as she contemplated her options. Brocade had the sort of presence befitting a lady of standing, yet velvet held a depth of color that made her positively giddy. Gold-thread embroidery would elevate either choice, though she wondered if pearls would be too bold. No, pearls were never too bold. The question was whether Lady's neck could comfortably support them without collapsing like a small, glamorous soufflé.
She reached for the gold-thread fabric, fingertips brushing its smooth surface.
And then the air in the room changed.
Before she could place the sensation, the room brightened with a sudden burst of silver. The light gathered itself into form, delicate and luminous, until Luna's unicorn Patronus stood in the center of the room, hooves planted firmly, mane flowing in a silent, ethereal breeze.
The unicorn bowed its head, and Luna's voice carried forth with startling clarity.
"MALFOY PENTHOUSE. NOW. URGENT!"
The words were sharp as breaking glass. They tore through her like icy water, washing away every bit of warmth that had filled her chest moments before. She had heard panic in Luna's voice before, but this was something else, something raw and urgent, something that clawed at her ribs.
Her thoughts spiraled violently, leaping to the darkest possibilities. Draco bleeding on the floor. Hermione not breathing. A shattered ward line. Aurors. Blood on white tile. A child's cry. Something broken that could never be fixed.
She stood so quickly that Lady slid backward in a confused heap of fluff and wrinkles. The pug let out a startled grunt as she toppled over the cushions, tiny paws wiggling helplessly in the air. Pansy barely noticed. The spool of fabric rolled from her hand. The tape measure slipped off the chaise and coiled like a dead snake on the carpet.
Her mind was already racing ahead.
~~~~~~
The Malfoy Penthouse was a grand and luxurious space, but tonight it was filled with a frantic energy as Draco, Theo, Blaise, Pansy and Ginny scattered in every direction, their urgency palpable.
Draco's heart pounded in his chest as he turned the corner of the living room. The mess in the room told a story of struggle—a toppled vase, broken glass, and scattered books. The sight only fueled his growing panic.
"My love!" he called out, his voice echoing off the marble floors and high ceilings. "Hermione, where are you?"
Blaise was already in the kitchen, opening drawers and rifling through the cabinets. "She could have left a note or something!" he shouted back, though it was clear that nothing of the sort had been left behind.
Ginny raced into the study, her eyes darting over the desk and bookshelves. "She has to have left something behind!" Her voice trembled as she picked up a half-empty cup of tea, hoping for some clue, but finding only the cold dregs of the drink.
Theo, meanwhile, had moved to the hallway, his eyes scanning for any sign of Hermione's presence. He checked every room, from the guest bedrooms to the library, but the penthouse remained eerily silent.
Draco!" Ginny's voice rang out from the living room. "Come here!
Draco rushed into the room, his eyes catching the sight of a small, silver ribbon caught on the edge of a coffee table. He knelt down, his fingers gently brushing against it. "This must be from the gift she received earlier."
Theo joined them, his face grim. "A portkey. She was taken somewhere."
Blaise came in from the kitchen, his face reflecting the same worry. "If she was taken against her will, Dobbiamo trovarla!"
Draco's eyes were fierce as he looked around the room. "We need to search for any trace of where the portkey might have taken her."
"Look for anything unusual," Theo said, moving to inspect the area where Hermione's things were scattered. "Anything that could give us a clue."
Ginny bent down, her fingers brushing over the edge of the broken vase. "There's something in the rubble here." She carefully extracted a small piece of parchment from beneath the shards of ceramic.
Draco took the parchment from her, his hands trembling slightly as he unfolded it. The delicate paper rustled softly in the tense silence of the room.
As he read the cryptic message aloud, his brow furrowed in concentration. "For the diamond in the world of gold." Draco's voice was low and troubled, the weight of the words hanging in the air.
Blaise's eyes narrowed as he thought furiously. "What the fuck does that mean?" he muttered, frustration evident in his tone.
Ginny's eyes widened as realization dawned on her. "It's Hermione—the Golden Girl!" Her voice trembled with a mix of hope and fear.
Theo's gaze was intense, his mind racing to connect the dots. "Draco, think quickly! What diamond? Who's diamond?" he demanded, his urgency clear.
"That fucking bitch!" Draco yelled, his rage palpable as he slammed his fist against the wall. "Karkaroff's whore! The last time we saw her, she was dripping in diamonds, like she's turning trash into treasure!"
He took a deep breath, his anger only partly abated. "Of course! It was all an act to make herself look more valuable, more important than she really is."
"Ginny looked at him with a mix of fear and curiosity. "What are you saying, Draco?
"Draco's eyes flashed with grim realization. "Karkaroff's wife is the key. She flaunted those diamonds as though they were her badge of honor, her way of claiming a false superiority. If the message refers to a diamond, then it must be her connection to the diamonds she showed off."
His face was set in a hard line as he continued, "Diamonds and drugs, they're both symbols of black market trade, of contraband and corruption."
His eyes burned with frustration. "Karkaroff was accusing us of selling low-quality drugs last time we met. But it wasn't the truth—it was a trap designed to mislead us."
Ginny's eyes widened, a mix of horror and disbelief crossing her face. "Drugs? Ferret, what are you talking about?
Blaise's shoulders slumped, a deep sorrow in his eyes. "Mia cara, I'm afraid the world we live in is far darker than you ever imagined. I'm so sorry you had to learn it like this."
Her eyes widened in shock, her body frozen in place. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place with a sickening clarity. The luxury they enjoyed had come at a steep price, and the strange hours, the bloodstained clothes, now made a brutal, horrifying sense."Blaise!" Ginny's voice was sharp, filled with indignation. "We will deal with this later. For now, Draco, you need to use the soul bond to locate Hermione!"
Draco's jaw tightened with determination. He whispered, "Uruz." A beautiful rune appeared in the room like a holographic projection, its light casting an ethereal glow.
"Uruz, the mother of manifestation, please show me where Hermione Granger-Malfoy is," Draco commanded, his voice ringing with urgency.
The rune glowed a soft pink, swirling and shifting until it displayed a vision of a dark dungeon. Hermione's terrified face filled the projection, her mouth open in a silent scream.
Draco's heart clenched at the sight. "Hold on, Hermione," he whispered fiercely. "I'm coming."
"Ginerva!" Draco barked at Ginny. "Get Potter here and get us a portkey."
"There is no need for that," Theo interjected.
Before anyone could react, Theo gathered them into a tight circle. With a swift, practiced motion, he apparated them directly to the Nott Manor basement.
He rushed to a cabinet filled with objects and pulled out a piece that looked like reading glasses. Without missing a beat, he ran to another cabinet and flung it open with a rush of motion, revealing an arsenal of guns, knives, and wands.
"Merlin," Ginny breathed, momentarily speechless at the sight.
Draco, ever the pragmatist, grabbed a wand and a sleek, silver knife. "We need to move quickly," he said, his voice low and urgent.
"Mia cara," Blaise said in a low voice, his eyes locking onto Ginny's. "At this exact moment, I need you. I need the fire that burns inside your Gryffindor heart. You must fight with every weapon you have."
Ginny nodded, her posture shifting from that of a trophy wife to a determined warrior. She kicked off her high heels and Accio'd a set of comfortable clothes from Luna's closet. Within seconds, she was ready, her eyes fierce with resolve.
Draco gave her an approving nod.
~~~~~~
Hermione had been kidnapped. Gone. Taken from them in the span of a breath.
Pansy staggered backward, her vision swimming. The walls seemed to close in around her, pressing in with a force that made breathing feel impossible. She reached out blindly, her hand finding the coffee table, her fingers curling around the edge like it was the only solid thing in a world that had begun to tilt.
The room spun around her. Her pulse roared in her ears. Every inhale felt shallow and frantic, as though her lungs no longer remembered how to do something as basic as breathing. Her heart pounded against her ribs in a violent, uneven rhythm that felt foreign to her body. Hermione was gone. Hermione was gone. Hermione was gone.
She whispered the words, though her voice cracked under them. Speaking them felt like dragging shards of glass across her tongue.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only unleashed the images she had been trying so desperately to keep at bay.
Hermione's warm smile. Hermione's hands, always in motion. Hermione's laugh, the one that curled around the ribs and brought light to the darkest room. Hermione brushing Crookshanks' fur away from her face. Hermione reading by the fire in that ridiculous oversized sweater. Hermione hugging her after dinner, so tight and so genuine it always left Pansy a little breathless.
Gone.
Her grip slipped.
The table did not save her.
Her legs buckled, and she crashed to her knees, the sound sharp and unforgiving in the quiet room. The pain shot up through her bones, but she barely felt it. A sob ripped through her, brutal enough to tear the breath from her lungs. Her hands braced against the floor, fingers splayed, trembling. The polished wood blurred through her tears as her chest contracted around a sound she did not know she was capable of making.
Her scream never left her mouth, but she felt it. Felt it thrashing inside her. Felt it clawing against her ribs, begging to be released. Tears streamed down her cheeks in relentless torrents, hot and stinging, falling with a speed she could not control. Her throat ached from the effort of holding herself together, though she had already shattered.
Her shoulders shook. Her whole body trembled.
Hermione was gone. And Pansy had done nothing. She had stood in this room, oblivious, playing dressmaker for a spoiled pug while her friend needed her. While her friend was being taken to gods knew where. While Hermione was alone and afraid and calling for someone who never came. Calling for her.
She folded forward until her forehead touched the floor. Her fingers curled against the boards, nails scraping. The grief was so sharp it almost felt like a second pair of hands, digging into her ribs and prying them apart. Her sobs echoed through the room, spilling out of her in broken waves that left her dizzy.
And then she heard it.
A small sound. Barely there. A shuffling against fabric, hesitant and fragile.
She lifted her head, her breath faltering.
A ginger shape emerged from the shadows beneath the sofa. Slow at first. Careful. His tail low. His ears flattened. Crookshanks paused, watching her with wide, trembling eyes.
He came closer, inch by inch, until he reached her. He pressed his warm body against her thigh with a force that surprised her, as though he had been trying to be brave but had run out of courage the moment the apartment fell silent. His fur was warm, almost feverishly so, and when she touched him, she felt his little heart thudding wildly beneath her palm.
He was shaking.
Crookshanks, the stubborn one. The small king of the house. The cat who bristled at strangers and stole blankets and had declared war on every sock Draco owned.
He was shaking. His little body vibrating with a fear he did not know how to understand.
Pansy's breath broke on a whimper. She scooped him into her arms, pulling him close. He climbed into her lap with desperate urgency and pressed his face against her shoulder, making a small, wounded sound that felt like it split her heart straight through the center.
"Oh sweetheart," she whispered, her voice shredded. "Oh, my love. I know."
He burrowed deeper into her, crying in his own way, his body trembling against hers as though he too felt the hole Hermione had left behind.
Pansy curled around him, rocking slightly, unable to stop the movement. Her fingers moved through his fur, clinging to something, anything, that still felt alive in this nightmare.
"She should be here," she choked out, her voice so soft it was almost a ghost. "She should be here with you. With us."
Crookshanks let out a tiny mewl, broken and confused. He pawed at her shoulder, then pressed his head beneath her chin, seeking warmth, seeking her, seeking her heartbeat, the one thing in this moment that was not falling apart.
Pansy tightened her hold around him.
He had lost his person.
Pansy had lost her friend.
And the space where Hermione should have been felt impossibly large.
Pansy drew in a shaking breath, then another, her tears still falling, though the frantic edge of the sobs began to settle into something quieter. Something colder. Something sharper. Crookshanks' trembling eased when she held him tighter. His small body relaxed just enough to rest his head against her chest.
He needed her.
Hermione needed her too.
Hermione needed the version of Pansy who would tear a world apart to bring her home.
Pansy wiped her wet cheek against the ginger fur of the cat pressed against her, then whispered into his ear:
"We are going to get her back. I swear it. I swear it on everything I have left."
Crookshanks let out a soft, wounded sound and nuzzled closer.
Pansy held him tighter.
She would not fail Hermione again. Not one more time.
Her hands trembled as she wiped her cheeks with the back of her sleeve. The fabric came away damp, streaked with the remnants of a grief she had not yet fully survived. Her breath still hitched in uneven bursts, and her body shook, but the shaking had changed. This was not the trembling of someone collapsing. This was the trembling of someone rising.
She could not drown in this. She refused to drown in this.
Hermione was not a friend she could lose, not a figure who simply drifted in and out of her life. Hermione was a part of her. A fixed point. A constant. A sister in every way that mattered. And Pansy Parkinson did not abandon her people. She did not surrender. She did not allow the world to take what belonged to her without a fight that echoed through the graves of anyone foolish enough to stand in her way.
She pressed a kiss to the top of Crookshanks' head, her lips brushing his warm fur. "You need to come with me," she whispered. Her voice wavered, but the core of it held. "We have to find her. We have to. She cannot be alone right now."
Crookshanks made a small, broken noise, a sound that lived somewhere between a cry and a plea. He curled against her chest, burying himself into the fabric of her dress as though trying to disappear from a world that had suddenly become terrifying. His whiskers scraped against her collarbone, his breath warm and uneven. His tiny heart beat rapidly against her ribs, and that alone nearly tore her open again.
He trusted her. He was placing his whole trembling world in her hands.
She tightened her arms around him and made her promise in the quiet of the room, a vow forged from something deeper than words. She would not fail him. She would not fail Hermione. She would not stop until Hermione was back where she belonged. Safe. Breathing. Whole.
Pansy pushed herself from the floor. Her knees wobbled at first, still unsteady from the collapse, but she steadied herself with a slow inhale.
She shifted Crookshanks to her hip, her fingers stroking behind his ear in a gesture that soothed them both. Her gaze swept the room, absorbing every overturned cushion, every broken object, every sign that their world had already begun to fracture.
She hated this part. The part where she admitted she could not do it alone. The taste of reliance settled bitterly on her tongue, but she swallowed it. Pride had no place in war. And this was war now.
She needed them.
Draco, who would rip stone from the earth to find his wife.
Blaise, who would track blood across continents to retrieve someone he loved.
Theo, who carried violence like a second shadow.
Ginny, who would fight with the ferocity of a wildfire.
The grief curled inward, folding itself into a smaller shape. The fear sank deeper, buried just enough to let her breathe. But the rage rose like a tide.
She kissed the top of his head again. "Come on, Crooks. We will find her. I swear it."
He answered with a soft sound that lodged itself in her heart.
The bond Neville and Pansy snapped tight in his chest. Neville felt it before he understood it, a pull that was both familiar and unbearably sharp.
His breath caught as the sensation spread through him, a deep vibration that settled beneath his ribs.
Pansy was hurting. Not anxious. Not startled. Hurting.
He felt her grief like a bruise blooming under his skin. He felt her panic as a choking pressure around his throat.
He had always known her emotions, had sensed her shifts like weather changes brushing against the edge of his mind, but this was different. This was a storm. Raw and violent and suffocating. And it terrified him.
There were no words for the instinct that followed. He moved without thinking, letting the bond guide him through the familiar path of apparition. The world lurched and twisted, and then he was standing in the Malfoy penthouse.
And everything inside him shattered.
She was on the floor.
His Pansy, the woman who met the world with lifted chin and sharp tongue, the woman who steadied him without even trying, was crumpled on her knees as though the ground had given way beneath her.
Her body shook with violent, broken sobs. Her shoulders heaved. Her hands clawed at the floor. Her whole frame curled in on itself like she was trying to make herself smaller so the grief would not crush her.
And all he could think was that he had never seen her like this. Not even in her darkest confessions. Not like this. Never like this.
He said her name quietly, almost reverently. "Pansy."
Her head jerked up with a gasp, her face streaked with tears, eyes red and wild with terror. For a long heartbeat she just stared at him, her breath hitching in short, painful bursts. It was the look of someone who had been drowning and suddenly found something solid to cling to.
Then she broke all over again.
She sobbed harder, the sound tearing out of her as if her heart had split open. Her body folded forward, her arms tightening around the trembling cat in her lap.
Crookshanks let out a frightened cry but did not flee. The cat pressed his face to her chest, as though trying to merge with her, to offer what comfort he could.
Neville dropped to his knees beside her so fast he did not feel the impact. "Pansy. My love. I am here."
She did not respond. Her breaths came too fast, too sharp, her chest rising in frantic jolts. She was losing control of her breathing, drifting into the kind of panic that could send a person spiraling until their body simply collapsed.
"Look at me," he said softly, trying to keep his voice level. "Pansy, look at me."
Her eyes darted everywhere except toward him. She was trapped inside her fear, inside the horror of whatever had happened.
"Hermione," she finally managed, the word cracking in half as it left her throat. "They. Kidnapped. Hermione."
The world tilted.
Neville felt the words strike him like a blow, knocking the air from his lungs. Hermione. His friend. His family. One of the people who had stood with him through everything. Gone. Taken. The room suddenly felt smaller, darker, colder.
But he could not fall apart. Not now. She needed him. Every instinct in him screamed to be strong for her.
"Where are the others?" he asked, forcing his voice to steady, though it came out rough and thin.
"They went to find her," she sobbed, hugging Crookshanks closer again. "They left without me. Neville, someone has her. Some bitch has her. What if she hurts her. What if she is hurting her right now."
She choked on the last words and dissolved again, her breath hitching painfully.
He could not bear it. He lifted his hands, cupping her face gently, trying to guide her eyes to his. "Pansy, breathe. Breathe with me."
But she shook her head, struggling for air, her panic rising too fast.
"Listen to me," he said, leaning closer. "We will find her. Do you understand me. Draco will tear the sky apart to get to her."
"But what if. What if they are too late," she cried, her voice splintering. "Neville, I cannot lose her. I cannot."
His heart clenched so hard he thought it might break apart. He pressed his forehead to hers, forcing her into his breathing rhythm, his hands smoothing her hair back.
"No more what ifs," he whispered. "Not right now. I need you with me. You hear me. Not out there in your fear. Here. With me."
Her sobs quieted a fraction, though her breath still came unevenly.
He glanced down at the cat crushed between them. "Baby. You are squeezing him too tight."
She flinched, loosening her grip immediately and stroking his fur in apology. Crookshanks made a small sound, softer this time, leaning into her hand with a tremor of trust.
"He needs to come with me," she whispered, her voice still shaking. "Neville, I cannot leave him behind. He will be alone. I cannot leave him again."
"Then he comes with us," Neville said without hesitation.
Something inside her loosened at that, just enough for her to draw a fuller breath. He guided her through it slowly, patiently, counting the beats in his head.
In. Hold. Out.
Again.
And again.
Her trembling eased. Her breaths no longer wheezed. Her eyes grew clearer, though grief still lingered behind the lashes like a bruise.
He brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping away the tear trails. "We will find her, Parky. You are not walking into this alone. I am right here."
Her eyes closed for a moment, as if she was letting his voice hold her upright.
"Okay," she whispered.
His throat tightened. Her trust felt heavy in his hands, sacred.
She shifted Crookshanks more securely in her arms and rose on unsteady legs. Neville stood with her, his hand at her back, steadying her until she found her footing.
Her grief had not vanished, but something else moved beneath it now. Something sharper. Something that reminded him that his wife was not only wounded but furious.
"We have to go," she said. Her voice was still hoarse, still lined with tears, but there was steel beneath it now. "Neville, we have to find her. Now."
He reached for her hand and squeezed it once.
"Then let us go," he said.
Together, they stepped out of the room.
Together, they walked into the darkness waiting for them.
~~~~~~
With an unyielding grip on her wrist and a surge of determination that left no room for doubt, Neville pulled her into his side and turned into the crushing squeeze of Apparition.
The world twisted violently around them, turning color into a blur and sound into a muffled roar. Magic wrapped tight around their bodies, pulling them through a brief tunnel of pressure that seemed to squeeze the breath from their lungs.
Then it was over.
They landed inside their home, the familiar space materializing around them with a quiet pop. The silence that greeted them felt wrong. It pressed in from every wall, heavy and still, as though the house itself was holding its breath, unsure whether to comfort them or collapse beneath the weight of everything they had brought back with them.
She stood frozen where she had landed, arms curled protectively around Crookshanks, her entire body trembling beneath the strain of her grief. The cat hid his face against her collarbone, his small chest rising in rapid, shallow breaths that matched her own. His golden eyes darted toward her, searching for the calm she could not offer him.
The sight tore something inside Neville.
He had seen her angry. He had seen her frightened. He had even seen her cry. But this was different. This was the kind of despair that hollowed a person out from the inside, leaving only raw nerves and shaking limbs behind. The kind of grief that did not make a sound at first because the body had forgotten how to breathe.
He moved slowly toward her, careful not to startle her. He reached out and touched her arm, letting his fingers glide gently along her sleeve in rhythmic sweeps.
"Shh," he murmured. His breath brushed softly against her cheek. "You are safe here. It is alright. I am with you."
It was not alright. They both knew that. But she needed something solid in this moment, something that did not crack beneath her hands.
Crookshanks burrowed deeper beneath her chin, letting out a quiet, pitiful sound. He tucked his head under her jaw as though trying to shield her from whatever had broken her. Pansy pressed her cheek against his fur, soaking in the small warmth his trembling body provided. It was fragile comfort, but it was the only thing keeping her from collapsing again.
Time drifted. Minutes stretched until they felt like hours. She sank onto the couch, curling around the cat with a protective desperation, and Neville stayed beside her. His hand never left her arm. He whispered nothing. He asked nothing. He simply existed with her in the silence, steady and patient, watching the small tremors ripple through her body as grief pushed her toward the brink again and again.
And then the world cracked open.
A sharp crack tore through the stillness, the sound violent in the quiet room.
Theo.
His apparition slammed into the space like a shockwave. One moment the room was empty. The next, he stood there, shoulders rigid, eyes cold and burning with urgency.
She shot upright, Crookshanks clinging to her dress as her body launched forward on instinct.
"Theo," she gasped. Her voice carried every ounce of fear she had been trying not to drown in. "Theo, what is it. What happened. Tell me."
He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the tension carved into his jaw, the faint tremor jerking at the corner of his mouth. Theo Nott did not tremble. Something was terribly wrong.
"Pansy," he said. His voice struck the air with sharp precision, cutting through the room until it reached her like a command. "Listen to me."
She nodded, though her body wavered. She felt sick. She felt the floor dipping beneath her as though the house had tilted.
"Please," she whispered. "Please just say it."
Theo inhaled slowly, as if drawing air into lungs that did not want to move.
"Hermione was attacked," he said.
She blinked, waiting for the rest. Some word to soften it. Some explanation. Some reassurance.
Theo's jaw worked once.
"Brutally."
The word detonated inside her chest.
Her breath vanished. Her heartbeat stumbled. Her legs gave out from under her, sending her crashing to the floor before either man could reach her.
Pain shot up her knees, sharp and immediate, but she barely felt it. Her hands pressed flat to the ground as a sound rose inside her throat that did not feel like it came from her at all. A small, broken sound, the first crack in a dam that had already been stretched far beyond its limit.
Brutally.
Hermione.
Her Hermione.
She folded over herself, shaking in violent waves, her breath coming in small, panicked gasps that did not fill her lungs. Crookshanks scrambled to adjust, his claws catching lightly in her blouse as he pressed his head under her chin, mewling desperately.
She could not breathe.
She could not think.
Her friend was hurt. Not just hurt. Attacked. The word echoed behind her ribs, jagged and relentless. It tore into her until she felt her entire chest collapse inward.
"LISTEN TO ME, PANSY."
Theo's voice snapped through her panic like a lash. The sound pulled her out of the suffocating dark just enough to hear the frantic pounding of footsteps. She felt Neville beside her in the next second, his hands on her shoulders, grounding her.
"I am listening," Neville said to Theo, his voice low and tight. "Tell us."
Theo swallowed, and for the first time since arriving, his eyes showed fear.
"I need you to go to Nott Manor," he said. "You need to get Lysander. Bring him here. Do not let him out of your sight. Keep him safe."
The name hit her like another blow.
Lysander.
The tiny boy who had clung to her hair with chubby fists and laughed whenever she exaggerated a story for him. The boy who trusted her. The boy she adored.
Theo's gaze softened briefly when he spoke his son's name. It was the kind of softness that came from terror. It was the kind of fear that only parents carried. But when he looked at them again, all softness vanished.
"I need my son alive," he said. "Right now."
"Yes," Neville said before the sentence fully finished. "We will leave immediately."
Pansy lifted her tear-stained face, every breath thin and painful.
"What about Hermione," she asked, her voice frayed and small.
Theo closed his eyes for a single second. When he opened them, something raw flickered behind the hardness.
"Luna is operating on her now," he said gently.
The words lodged in her heart like metal.
Surgery.
Hermione was hurt badly enough that Luna had no other choice.
Pansy covered her mouth with trembling fingers, fighting the sob rising through her chest. She could not fall apart again. Not now. Not when Lysander was in danger. Not when they had a task that mattered more than anything else.
She forced herself to stand on legs that did not feel like her own. Her breath came in uneven pulls, but there was a new strength beneath them now. A terrible, trembling determination.
"We will go," she said, her voice hoarse but steady.
Theo nodded once. The faintest flicker of relief crossed his face.
"Be quick," he said. "Whoever did this is not finished."
Neville pressed a gentle hand to her back, guiding her toward the door. His touch was warm and steady.
Together, they stepped forward.
~~~~~~
With a sharp crack, the world around them folded inward, then stretched itself back out, and in the space of a breath they were standing in the grand foyer of Nott Manor.
The marble columns rose like sentinels. The gilded chandeliers glittered with cold light. Their footsteps echoed across the polished floor in a rhythm that felt too loud for the fear pounding in their chests.
The manor had always been imposing, but today it felt like something else. A fortress. A final line of defense. A place where innocence still slept, unaware of the night sharpening its teeth beyond the walls.
Pansy did not hesitate. She tore away from Neville with a breath that hitched painfully in her throat and sprinted toward the sweeping staircase. Her heart beat so wildly she thought she might taste blood. Lysander. Lysander. The name sounded in her mind like a prayer and a warning at once.
Every second felt like a lifetime. Every shadow looked like a threat. Her mind raced ahead of her feet, conjuring horrors that tightened her chest until every inhale became a small battle.
She reached the top of the staircase, and for a moment she froze. A faint splash drifted down the hallway, light and playful, the kind of sound that did not belong in nights like this. Her breath caught. She turned toward the nursery, pushed the door open with a force that sent it slamming against the wall, and braced herself.
The fear inside her collided with something else entirely.
There, in the porcelain tub set on a cushioned mat, sat Lysander. His little legs kicked in the warm water, sending droplets flying in every direction. He giggled at his own chaos, cheeks rosy, curls soaked, completely oblivious to the darkness hunting the world outside.
Beside him sat Bobsy, perched so carefully on the edge of the tub that her toes did not touch the floor. She worked soap into Lysander's hair with tiny hands, his brow furrowed in concentration as if the entire universe hinged on getting the suds just right.
The sight almost brought her to her knees.
There was still light in the world. Still innocence. Still laughter. It lived here, inside this small bathroom filled with lavender bubbles and tiny splashes. For one fragile heartbeat, the contrast nearly broke her.
The world was falling apart, and here was a child who did not even know how to be afraid yet.
"Bobsy," she called, her voice tight and sharper than she intended. "Bobsy, look at me."
The elf flinched, his ears twitching. He turned toward her with wide, round eyes, his hands freezing mid-lather.
"Missus," she squeaked, his voice filled with surprise and worry. "Master sent you?"
She moved closer, swallowing hard. "Yes. He sent us. We need to take Lysander. Now."
At the word need, Bobsy's small shoulders stiffened. Fear widened her eyes until they gleamed like glass.
"Little Master is in danger?" she whispered, wringing his hands with frantic worry.
Neville stepped into the room, his presence warm and steady. He knelt beside the elf, placing a gentle hand on her trembling shoulder.
"We will not let anything happen to him," Neville said, calm and certain. "We are taking him somewhere safe."
Bobsy nodded, though her lower lip wobbled. He looked between them and the child in the tub as though he might dissolve with the weight of it.
Pansy kneeled besideBobsy, her movement slow, deliberate. She reached for Bobsy's hands and held them in her own, her grip firm and steady.
"I need you to be brave for me," she murmured, her voice soft for the first time since she had arrived. "You are the only one I trust to do this."
The little elf sucked in a breath. Her chin quivered but she nodded rapidly, determination pushing through his fear.
"Yes, Missus. Bobsy will be brave," she vowed with a voice that trembled. "Bobsy will do her best."
She gave her hands a warm squeeze before turning to Lysander, who had paused mid-splash, staring up at her with bright, curious eyes. His innocence hit her like a blow to the chest.
"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered as she lifted him gently from the water. Warm droplets rolled down her arms as he curled his tiny body against her, his head nuzzling under her chin. His small arms wrapped around her neck in a way that made her throat tighten painfully.
She kissed his curls, breathing in the lavender scent. She wanted to stay like this forever. She wanted to freeze time. But the world would not allow it.
She leaned back enough to see his face. "I need a kiss," she whispered, her voice fragile. "Only one. For comfort."
Lysander giggled, then pressed his little mouth to her cheek with all the enthusiasm in his small body. The sloppy warmth of it nearly undid her. Tears pricked at her eyes. She tucked him closer, as if he might slip away if she loosened her hold even for a second.
She turned to Bobsy, gathering her strength again.
"We need the house protected," she said. "All the strongest spells you know. Every door. Every window. Every entry point."
Bobsy stood up on shaking legs. "Yes, Missus. Bobsy will protect the house."
She met his gaze with seriousness that left no room for doubt. "Promise me."
"Bobsy promises," he whispered, pressing a hand to his chest. "Bobsy will protect it. Then Bobsy will come to you."
She pulled the elf into a hug, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his wrinkled head. "Good," she murmured. "You are a verybrave girl."
Her eyes filled with tears as she nodded. Then, with a loud pop, she vanished from the room.
Pansy turned toward Neville, Lysander pressed tight against her chest. The child's small fingers clutched the fabric of her dress as if he understood the urgency around him. Neville's gaze locked with hers.
Every word he might have said lived in the look he gave her. Pride. Love. A grief he was swallowing down for the sake of this moment. A silent promise that he would follow her anywhere she needed to go.
She shifted Lysander to her hip and reached for Neville's hand.
One last glance at the nursery. One last look at the place where innocence still lingered.
~~~~~~
As they landed home, a thin breath of relief swept through her, more reflex than comfort. The familiar walls greeted her with their soft glow, the warm scent of lavender candles still lingering in the air from earlier that evening. None of it soothed her. The house felt both too quiet and too alive, as if holding its breath with her, waiting for the next awful thing.
Then she heard it. The rapid click of tiny paws racing across the floorboards.
Lady burst into view, her little body wobbling with each excited step, her curled tail wagging so hard it seemed to shake her entire frame. She pressed herself against Pansy's legs with a whine that was far too soft for the panic swirling in Pansy's chest. The pug pawed at her dress, as if trying to climb her, desperate to be closer.
Right behind her came Crookshanks, slipping into the room with the quiet grace only a frightened cat could manage. His golden eyes tracked Pansy with a sharp, unblinking focus. The deep purring rumbling from his chest was not contentment. It was concern. A sound he only made when he sensed something was wrong.
She should have found comfort in them. In their warmth and loyalty. Instead her heart twisted painfully, because their presence only reminded her of who was missing.
Hermione should have been here. Sitting on this couch. Laughing softly while fussing with Lady's ribbon or teasing Crookshanks for glaring at everyone he disliked. Instead she was somewhere cold and dark, and Pansy had no idea if she was still breathing.
She swallowed hard and forced her hands steady.
There was no time to crumble. No time to let the grief pull her under. They had Lysander. They needed to protect him. And they needed to plan. Every second spent wishing for calm was a second Hermione might not have.
Pansy pulled her wand with a shaky exhale and drew the nursery furniture back into its place. The pieces glided across the room with an eerie smoothness, each one settling where it belonged. The bassinet drifted into the corner beneath the window. The blankets folded themselves with crisp precision. The changing table clicked softly as it aligned itself.
She knew these motions by heart. She had done them a hundred times before, sometimes humming, sometimes laughing, sometimes whispering to Lysander while Neville teased her from the doorway. Tonight her hands moved like she was performing a ritual meant to keep her sane.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She set Lysander on the changing table, brushing back a damp curl from his forehead. He blinked up at her with the pure trust only a baby could hold, unfazed by the urgency in the room. His little fingers curled around the collar of her dress, seeking warmth. She bent low and pressed a long kiss to his forehead, breathing in the scent of lavender soap that clung to him.
He deserved more than fear. He deserved a childhood untouched by shadows.
"I know, my loves," she whispered, glancing down at the animals huddled near her feet. Lady leaned her warm little body against Pansy's ankle, her tail slowing in a soft sweep. Crookshanks entwined himself around Pansy's leg, head butting firmly against her calf. Their presence wrapped around her like a fragile shield against the storm clawing inside her.
Lady barked once, thin but determined. Crookshanks purred louder, anchoring the moment with something solid.
Pansy's throat tightened.
She wanted to sit down and cry. She wanted to run into the night and tear the world apart until Hermione was safe.
She wanted to be the version of herself she had promised to become. A protector. A wife. A Godmother. Someone strong enough to stand between the people she loved and any threat that dared approach them.
"Let me help you, my love."
Neville's voice carried across the room, soft but steady, and it cut through the fog in her mind. He stepped closer, the weight of the night carved into the lines of his face. There was a tenderness in his expression that nearly brought her to her knees. He was carrying this too. Every beat of fear. Every rush of dread. Every echo of loss.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he lifted a hand gently.
"Please go and make me a whiskey."
She stared at him.
Whiskey.
Her mind struggled to understand, to reconcile the simplicity of the
She crossed the room to the cabinet, her movements slow at first, then steadier as the routine took over. She reached for the crystal decanter. The amber liquid caught the light and glowed softly. She poured with practiced care, the clink of glass against glass sharp in the stillness.
It was almost ridiculous, the normalcy of it. Yet somehow, it steadied her heartbeat. Only slightly, but enough.
When she turned back, Neville had already changed Lysander into soft cotton clothes, wrapping him gently and placing him into the bassinet. His movements were careful, reverent even. Seeing him like that always struck something deep in her. He had a tenderness that lived beneath his instinct to protect. A tenderness he only ever showed to the ones he loved.
She handed him the glass.
"There you go, Nevie."
He took it with a small nod, but instead of drinking, he lifted the glass toward her.
"Thank you, darling," he said gently. "Now drink it."
Her brows knit, confusion flickering through the exhaustion dulling her eyes. "What?"
"I would give you a calming draught if I thought you needed it," he said, his tone firm but kind. "But I need you sharp. Just a sip. Enough to stop your hands from shaking."
She opened her mouth to argue. To claim she was fine. To insist she did not need anything.
But her hands betrayed her, curling into fists at her sides, trembling faintly.
Neville's voice softened again. "My bloom. I need you here with me. I cannot carry this night without you. And you cannot carry it without breathing first."
He glanced toward the bassinet, then back to her.
"We need to be strong for Ly. And for Hermione."
Her throat tightened as she lifted the glass. The whiskey burned its way down, warm and sharp, and for a moment her chest eased. Just enough.
Neville watched her with a quiet relief she did not fully understand until she felt her breath settle.
He reached out and brushed his thumb along her cheek. "Good. Just a sip. That is all you needed."
She set the glass aside and sank onto the couch, running her hand through Lady's fur. The little pug curled against her lap, letting out a soft sigh as if sensing her heart had steadied ever so slightly. Crookshanks climbed up beside her, pressing his weight against her hip, his purring deepening into a steady, grounding hum.
Neville waited a moment, allowing the stillness to settle.
~~~~~~
She cradled Lysander against her chest, letting the gentle rhythm of his breathing soothe the jagged edges of her heart. His tiny body pressed against her as if he sensed her distress and wished, in his small and trusting way, to anchor her. His warmth seeped through her clothes, soft and steady, a fragile reminder that not every corner of the world had turned cruel.
Curled up protectively on the baby's chest, Crooks purred in slow, even waves. The low hum vibrated through her arms and ribs, creating a quiet cocoon of comfort around them both.
He rarely offered such closeness unless something was very wrong. Tonight, he lay over Lysander like a guardian, his golden eyes opening every so often to check that she was still there.
Lady nestled against her hip, pressing her small body with such earnest determination that tears stung behind Pansy's eyes. The little pug did not understand the complexity of grief or fear, but she understood when her family hurt. She understood that Pansy needed her.
With these two at her side and Lysander warm in her arms, the exhaustion finally broke through the adrenaline that had carried her this far. Her body sagged, her mind drifted, and the weight of everything that had happened pressed down until she could no longer resist sleep. She sank into the dark, grateful for the few moments of forgetfulness it offered.
She did not know how long she slept. Only that a soft murmur tugged her back to consciousness, gentle and quiet, like someone calling her name through a heavy fog.
Her eyes fluttered open.
The room was dim, lit only by the low flicker of the sconces along the wall. Shadows stretched long across the floor, bending and shifting with each movement of the fire.
Lysander remained asleep against her, his small fist tucked beneath his chin. Crooks rested protectively over him, his eyes half-open and alert. Lady had moved, pressing her head to Pansy's thigh as if sensing that she was needed again.
The murmured voices came into sharper focus, soft but intense, like people trying not to wake a child while discussing the end of the world.
She sat up slowly, her mind still foggy, and blinked toward the figures before her.
Theo stood only a few feet away, holding Lysander in his arms now. His posture was tense, every muscle pulled tight as if he were barely holding himself together. T
he sight struck something deep in her chest. Theo was many things. Controlled. Calculated. Relentless. Tonight, he looked like a man fraying at the seams. His hair was disheveled, his breaths uneven, his shoulders bowing beneath a weight she could not even begin to imagine.
Neville stood opposite him, arms crossed but not in judgment. This was how he stood when bracing for bad news, when he needed to be steady for someone else. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed him. They were sharp with worry, sharp with grief, sharp with the knowledge that whatever Theo was about to say would carve its mark on all of them.
Theo's voice trembled when he finally spoke.
"She is alive. My Luna saved her."
The words hit Pansy like a blow to the chest. Relief and anguish collided so violently that her breath caught somewhere between a sob and a prayer. Her eyes welled with tears that she had no strength to stop.
"Thank Merlin," she whispered, pressing a hand to her mouth. The words trembled, torn between gratitude and heartbreak. Hermione lived. She was still in this world. But something inside her warned that survival was not the same as safety, not the same as being whole.
Theo shifted slightly, and the dim light revealed what she had not noticed before.
His shirt was soaked. Dark. Thick. Crimson.
Her own pulse stuttered. For a moment, she could not speak, could not breathe, could not do anything except stare at the terrible stain that clung to him like a shadow.
Theo's expression hardened as he followed her gaze.
"Jelena is dead," he said simply, his voice stripped of emotion. "She cannot hurt Hermione anymore."
Something ugly and sharp twisted inside Pansy. A dark satisfaction flared in her chest, brief and bitter, because she had wanted that woman dead too. But the satisfaction died just as quickly, drowning beneath the ache that had taken root in her since the moment Hermione disappeared.
"I hope she rots," Pansy murmured, her voice low and shaking with fury. "After everything she did, I hope she rots."
"She will," Theo replied, but his voice had lost its edge. His shoulders dropped slightly, and for the first time since he arrived, he looked tired. Truly tired. As if he were holding himself upright by force.
Then his next words tore another piece from her chest.
"Hermione is in a medical coma. Luna had to do skull surgery."
The world seemed to tilt.
The air around her thinned. Her lungs tightened. The room spun in slow, heavy circles.
Skull surgery.
Medical coma.
She let out a small, broken sound, something between a gasp and a cry, and pressed her hand to her forehead as her vision blurred. She had braced herself for pain, prepared herself for injury, but not this. Not a thought so stark, so cold, so close to loss.
She turned slightly toward Neville, needing something real to hold on to. His jaw was clenched, his throat working around words he could not force out. His fists were tight at his sides, and for a moment she thought he might break, right there in the quiet of their home. But he held steady. For her. For Theo. For Hermione.
Theo continued after a moment, and his voice softened, gentler than she expected.
"Pansy. I need to be honest with you. You cannot visit her in your state."
The words struck her like a slap. Not because they were cruel, but because they were true.
She wanted to fight him. She wanted to scream that she needed to see Hermione with her own eyes, that she needed to be there as proof that her friend still existed in this world. But she knew what she would do if she walked into that hospital room right now. She would collapse. She would break. And Hermione would not be saved by her breaking.
A tight sob escaped her throat as she nodded.
"I understand," she whispered, even though the words burned all the way down.
Theo took a small breath and shifted Lysander in his arms, brushing a hand over the child's soft curls. The gesture was gentle, tender, almost reverent. When he spoke again, his voice cracked at the edges.
"I need the two of you to take care of him for now."
Neville stepped forward before she could respond, his voice steady, his expression unwavering.
"It is an honor," he said simply. No hesitation. No doubt. Only the full weight of his loyalty laid bare.
Theo closed his eyes briefly, gratitude flickering across his face in a way that made Pansy's chest tighten even more. He trusted them with his child. He trusted them with the most precious thing in his life while he stood on the edge of losing his wife.
Her gaze dropped to Lysander's peaceful face, his little fingers curled against Theo's shirt, unaware of the blood and grief staining the world around him. He deserved safety. He deserved love. And she would give him that. She and Neville both would.
"We will take care of him," she said, her voice steadier now, rising from some deeper place inside her. "We will do everything he needs."
Theo nodded, and for a brief moment, the fierce, unbreakable Nott façade cracked. He looked like a man who had spent every drop of strength he possessed and was running on something else now. Love. Fear. Duty.
He turned to go, but she reached out.
"Theo," she said quietly. "Please keep us updated. On everything. We will be here for her. And for you. We are family."
His throat bobbed as he nodded. "I will, Pans."
He glanced at Neville, then at Lysander one last time, pressing a kiss to the top of the child's head before placing him carefully in Neville's arms.
Then he left, the sound of the door closing behind him far too soft for the weight it carried.
Silence filled the room once more.
Pansy looked down at Lysander, safe and warm in Neville's hold, and her chest tightened with a fierce and aching determination.
This was why they fought. This was why they survived the worst parts of the world.
Innocence. Love. Family.
She met Neville's gaze, and he nodded, understanding her without needing a single word.
They would protect him.
Notes:
This chapter asked a lot of these characters. Of me. Of you. Thank you for walking through this fire with them. The next one will hurt. But it'll also heal. Hold on.
We're not done yet.
—See you in Chapter 14. ♡