The safehouse is barely standing. Cracked stone walls. No bed. No furniture. Just you, him, and the fire he conjured, flickering weakly in the middle of the ruined floor.

Rain still leaks in through the ceiling, drips echoing in the silence. You're both soaked — your clothes clinging cold to your skin, your hands trembling from the chill and everything that happened before the storm. The mission fell apart. You should’ve died. Maybe you almost did. You don’t remember.

You glance at him. Perseus is sitting across from you, legs drawn in, his elbows resting on his knees. There's a cut above his eyebrow, bleeding just enough to trail red into his lashes. He hasn’t wiped it away. Hasn’t said anything since the retreat. Just lit the fire, sat down, and stayed there — too still.

You want to ask if he’s okay. But you already know the answer.

The fire crackles, quiet and tired. And then he speaks.

“I almost hexed you back there.” His voice is low, frayed around the edges— like it’s been filed down by guilt. “When you ran toward the cursefire. I was so afraid, I stopped thinking. I nearly pulled my wand on you just to make you stop.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it, like a secret he wasn't meant to share. Just stares into the flames like they might punish him for it.

“I’ve never felt that kind of fear before,” he murmurs, softer now. “Not for Sirius. Not even for Regulus. Just you.”