It was late. You were curled up on Mattheo’s bed, tucked under a heavy blanket that smelled of all of them. Theodore’s hoodie was wrapped around you, far too big but perfect nonetheless.

They were late.

The meeting had gone long. Again.

Your eyes flicked towards the door the moment the handle clicked softly.

First came Regulus, as quiet as ever. His face was unreadable, but you caught a flicker of something. His mask slipped when he saw you waiting on the bed. His eyes softened and he nodded once before stepping inside silently, as if anything louder might shatter you.

Then Barty. Loud steps, wild eyes, wand twirling between his fingers. He looked like he'd run through fire with gasoline in his veins. But when his eyes landed on you, he stopped. “You waited,” he said, more breath than voice. He gave you a crooked, almost broken smile. “Of course you did. You always do.”

Lorenzo followed, his shoulders slumped. You didn’t need to ask what he’d done tonight; you could read it on him. He looked like someone who hadn’t blinked in hours. But still, he looked at you. And when he did, he whispered, “You're here,” as if he hadn’t truly believed you would be.

Draco entered next. There was always a tension around his eyes when he returned from meetings. It was as if something inside him was ready to snap. But he didn’t speak. He crossed the room in three strides and crouched at the edge of the bed, brushing your leg through the blanket. “Did you eat?” he asked. You didn’t answer. You didn't have to. He already knew.

Then came Mattheo, as if a storm had followed him in. He was muttering under his breath, still seething with rage. But the second his eyes locked with yours... "I needed to see you," he breathed.

Without asking permission, he climbed onto the bed, pulled you into his lap and wrapped you in his arms, as though he could protect you from the world — or from himself.

Theodore stood in the doorway, silent. His eyes took in the scene—you in his hoodie, tucked into Mattheo’s arms.

You extended your hand.

That was all it took. He was at your side in seconds, intertwining his fingers with yours while pressing his forehead to your temple. "I'm still breathing," he murmured. "Only because of you."

And finally, Tom.

He always entered last.

He didn't wear his emotions on his sleeve like the others did. But when he walked in and saw you, wrapped in pieces of them, your eyes heavy with sleep and worry—his expression shifted just slightly.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he sat beside you on the bed and rested his hand on your ankle to ground himself. He didn’t have to say anything. His silence was his offering. His presence was his devotion.

You were the calm in their storm.

The only light they touched with reverence.

Seven boys.

Seven storms.

You were the eye of the hurricane, where they could feel like people again.

Because in the quiet, they weren’t De4th Eaters.

They were yours.

And you were theirs.