Forsaken Bloodlines {HP x GOT}

Chapter 6.8: Missions

I'm currently planning to make a new fanfic for when I finish this book and connect it to the ending of Forsaken Bloodlines. If you paid attention to a previous chapter, I left a clue for the theme of my next fanfic. :)) Happy Reading!!

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Snow fell in quiet sheets across London, dusting the windowsills and chimney tops of 12 Grimmauld Place. The cold crept through the ancient walls, no matter how many warming charms were cast. A fire crackled weakly in the hearth of the drawing room, but its warmth did little to lift the mood.

It was Christmas.

But it didn't feel like it.

The tree in the corner was half-decorated—Molly had insisted on putting it up—but the baubles looked more like tired memories than festive cheer. No music played. No laughter echoed in the halls. Most days, the house was filled with silence and shadows.

Lyanna sat curled up in an armchair by the fire, her long silver hair tucked beneath a fur-lined shawl. Her fingers clutched a steaming cup of tea, untouched and now lukewarm. Her eyes, tinged with violet and rimmed with fatigue, stared into the flames, watching them dance and die.

Tom sat nearby, flipping through a tattered book of magical theory, though his gaze had barely moved past the same page for the last ten minutes.

There had been no word from Harry, Ron, or Hermione in weeks. Months. Not since their return to the Wizarding World.

"I wonder if they're still alive," Lyanna murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Tom looked up. "They are," he said without hesitation.

Lyanna gave him a skeptical glance, but his eyes held firm. "You don't know that."

"I do," he said simply, and returned to his book.

It wasn't arrogance—it was hope. And right now, hope was rare enough to be cherished, no matter how stubborn it sounded.

Lyanna sighed, her hand tightening around the cup. "It's been months, Tom. Months without word. I know they're clever, but... no sign, no Patronus, no whisper through the network."

"They're in hiding. Maybe moving around too much to risk it."

"Or maybe..." she started, but couldn't finish the thought. She let it fade into the crackling fire.

Tom closed the book and crossed the room to her, kneeling in front of the chair. "You can't start imagining the worst," he said softly. "You know they wouldn't give up without a fight."

She studied his face. Strong, composed, but softened over time. 

"We've done nothing since we returned," Lyanna said, her voice low. "We've stayed here, waiting. Plotting. Planning. But it's all theory. We're wasting time while Voldemort grows stronger."

"You're not wasting time," Tom said. "You're still breathing. That's more than most."

She gave a weak smile. "A poetic way of saying we're losing."

"No," he said firmly. "It means we're alive. And that means we still have a chance."

Across the room, the table remained untouched—maps, marked plans, lists of allies and known Death Eaters strewn across its surface. They had a plan. They had a strategy. But the question that hung in the air like fog was: when?