Life with a newborn was a beautiful kind of chaos, the sort that stripped you bare and left you raw, but gave back something even more profound in return. For Theo and Luna, time had folded in on itself. Days melted into nights without clear borders, the hours marked only by the rhythm of Lysander's cries and the soft shuffle of footsteps across the nursery floor.
Everything about their world had changed. Their conversations were now whispered in the dark, their meals half-eaten and forgotten on counters, their sleep reduced to short, broken intervals that never quite refreshed them. And still, there was magic in it. Not the loud, triumphant kind that lit up the sky, but something quieter. The magic of a yawn so small it made your chest ache. The weight of a baby's head resting on your shoulder. The sound of Luna singing in the darkness when the rest of the world had gone still.
Theo had always been alert, cautious, the sort of man who noticed everything. But fatherhood had sharpened that instinct into something fierce. He woke at the slightest noise, hand already reaching for his wand, eyes scanning the shadows of the nursery before his mind even caught up. He watched the rise and fall of Lysander's chest like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. Sleep, when it came at all, never lasted. Not for long.
Luna carried her exhaustion like she carried everything else—quietly and with grace. She moved through those long nights as if they belonged to her. Her voice, soft and steady, wrapped around the baby like a lullaby. She never complained, never broke. Even when her shoulders drooped and her eyelids fluttered, she was still the calm in the center of it all. Theo often watched her from the doorway, his arms crossed and his chest aching with something too big to name.
The manor adjusted in its own way. The house-elves, intuitive and precise, shifted their routines to match the needs of the household's newest and smallest resident. Bottles warmed themselves. Blankets refolded without a word. Lamps dimmed at just the right moment. Even the old wooden floors seemed to creak more softly now, as if they too had learned to tiptoe around the baby's light sleep.
Friends dropped in when they could. Pansy arrived like a hurricane, always dressed to perfection, arms full of gifts that sparkled with unnecessary enchantments. Theo gave her grief for it, but he secretly liked seeing the silver rattle she brought resting in the crib. Neville came with quieter offerings—strong tea, a pot of calming herbs for the bath, a promise to babysit once they could trust anyone else with their son.
Despite the bone-deep fatigue that clung to Theo like a second skin, despite the way every moment seemed to blur into the next with no pause or relief, he would not have traded a second of it. He watched Lysander with a devotion that surprised even himself. Every blink, every tiny noise, every stretch of those impossibly small fingers felt like a miracle. He would sit in the nursery for hours, letting his son's breathing anchor him, letting the sound of Luna's voice soothe the sharp edges of his mind.
And always, it came back to her. Luna. She had become the center of their quiet universe, the constant Theo didn't even know he needed until she was there beside him. In the soft light of the nursery, with her arms full of their son and her hair falling loose around her shoulders, she looked like something sacred. Something worth worshipping.
He never said it out loud. Not when she was so tired. Not when the house was so quiet. But he thought it every time he looked at her.
Thank you. For him. For this. For staying.
But there were moments when the weight of it all crept up on him, slow and quiet, like a fog settling in around the edges of his mind. It usually happened at night, in the stillness between feedings, when the world outside their windows had gone to sleep and the only light came from the dim glow of a floating lamp in the corner of the nursery. He would sit beside Luna without speaking, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers tangled in his hair, and just watch her.
She would be in the rocking chair, her arms wrapped around their son, humming something soft and wordless as she swayed gently back and forth. Her hair would fall in loose waves over her shoulders, her nightdress wrinkled, her eyelids heavy with sleep she hadn't been allowed to have. And still, her hands never trembled. Still, her voice never broke. She held Lysander like he was something precious, something holy, and the way she looked at him made Theo feel like he was witnessing a kind of magic no spell could ever replicate.
"Are we doing this right?" he had murmured once, the question barely louder than a breath. He hadn't meant to say it out loud. It had just slipped out, fragile and unsure, cracked open by the weight of his own fear.
She looked up at him then, not surprised, not shaken. Just calm. Just Luna. And she smiled, not her usual dreamy kind, but something quieter, gentler, something that said I hear you. I understand.
"We love him," she whispered, pressing her lips to Lysander's soft crown. "That's all he needs."
He hadn't answered. Couldn't, really. There had been a lump in his throat, too big to swallow, too tender to speak around. So instead, he had reached out and placed a hand over hers, just to feel the warmth of her skin and the life they had made together resting between them.
And in that moment, for all the chaos and exhaustion and doubt that colored their days, Theo had never been more certain of anything. They were a family. Not a perfect one, not always steady or prepared, but something real. Something strong. And they would find their way forward, even if they had to stumble through the dark to do it.
Because they were together. And because love, for all its softness, had turned out to be the strongest thing they had.
~~~~~~
The nursery glowed softly, the warm light from the enchanted night-lantern casting slow, swaying shadows along the pale blue walls. Everything was still, the silence wrapping around the room like a held breath. The manor felt too quiet without Luna's presence. No gentle footsteps in the hallway. No hum of a lullaby drifting in from another room. Just the occasional rustle of the trees outside, the faint crackle of the warding runes, and the hiccuping coos of their baby.
Luna was out with Pansy and Ginny. Theo had insisted. She deserved an evening where she wasn't covered in milk and spit-up, where she didn't have to rock back and forth until her knees ached or try to remember the last time she'd eaten a full meal sitting down. She'd kissed his cheek before she left and told him he'd be fine. That Lysander already adored him. That he just needed to breathe.
He was now rethinking everything.
Lysander gurgled from the changing table, legs kicking rhythmically in the air, clearly pleased with himself. Theo stood over him with the expression of a man preparing for battle, sleeves rolled up, wand tucked behind his ear, and a stack of supplies beside him that resembled more of a siege kit than anything parental.
"Alright, my little love," he said, speaking more to himself than to the squirming baby, "let's try not to kill each other tonight."
He peeled back the tiny buttons on the onesie and opened the diaper, only to immediately gag. "Oh. Sweet Circe." He reeled backward, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. "What in the absolute bloody hell have you been eating? You live on milk. How is this possible?"
Lysander responded with a delighted squeal and a kick to Theo's stomach.
"Betrayal," Theo muttered. "I raise you. I clothe you. I have literally sacrificed my sleep and my dignity for you, and this is how you repay me."
The wipes were at his left. He reached for one. Then another. Then gave up and took the whole pack. There was no such thing as too many. With cautious precision, he lifted the baby's legs, trying to slide the clean nappy underneath. That's when Lysander chose to twist his entire body sideways like a tiny possessed eel, nearly flinging himself off the table.
Theo lunged, catching him awkwardly under one arm. "Stop that! Merlin's beard, how are you this strong? You weigh less than my wand holster."
Lysander shrieked joyfully, clearly thrilled with the chaos he had created.
Theo, now one hand short, tried to wrestle the soiled diaper into the bin without losing control of his child or stepping in something unfortunate. He misjudged. The diaper hit the floor with a wet, splattering sound that made him groan aloud.
"I trained under curse-breakers," he said to no one, voice high and mildly hysterical. "I have fought goblins, Luna. Actual goblins with actual weapons. And here I am, elbow-deep in… whatever this is."
He was sweating now. Not just from the heat of the room or the effort of juggling a slippery infant, but from sheer, abject panic. The clean diaper was on sideways. Lysander had kicked one sock halfway across the room. The wipes had formed a clump and refused to separate. He had somehow gotten something brown on the sleeve of his shirt, and he wasn't brave enough to find out what.
It took him another full minute to finally fasten the diaper correctly, though he did it with the kind of unearned confidence that most wizards used when bluffing in poker.
"There," he said, breathless but triumphant. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Lysander promptly spat up down his father's chest.
Theo looked down at the warm trail soaking into his shirt, then stared back at his son, who was now blinking up at him with wide, innocent eyes.
"I am going to drink so much firewhisky when your mother gets home."
Lysander yawned in response.
And still, somehow, despite the mess and the exhaustion and the slow unraveling of what remained of his composure, Theo felt something bloom inside his chest. Something quiet and huge. Something like love.
He picked up the baby, holding him close, gently rubbing circles across his back. Lysander sighed into his neck, tiny fingers clutching the collar of Theo's ruined shirt. It was ridiculous, how such a small weight could feel so right in his arms.
"You are my greatest victory," Theo whispered, pressing his lips to the soft crown of his son's head. "And I still don't know how I survived before you."
By the time Theo managed to fasten the new diaper and coax Lysander back into his onesie, he felt like he had just completed a battle he hadn't trained for. A duel, maybe, fought with one hand tied behind his back and a squirming, giggling opponent who somehow managed to win without lifting a finger.
He stepped back, arms slightly raised, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. The onesie was buttoned a little off-center, and the diaper tab looked vaguely suspicious, but the baby was clean, dressed, and not screaming. That counted as a victory in his book.
"There," he muttered, gathering Lysander into his arms with a mix of exhaustion and pride. "You, my tiny son, are a menace."
Lysander blinked up at him, perfectly serene, and let out a gurgle that sounded dangerously close to a laugh.
Theo carried him to the rocking chair and sank down slowly, his muscles sighing in relief. The nursery was quiet again, bathed in warm lamplight, the chaos of the diaper debacle already softening into memory. He held his son close, pressing a kiss to the top of his downy head, and felt a stillness settle into his chest. Lysander curled into him like he belonged there, small and trusting and warm. For a moment, Theo simply rocked, breathing in the soft scent of powder and milk, feeling the strange and fragile magic of it all.
When Luna returned sometime after midnight, the house was quiet. She stepped inside, her heels already dangling from one hand, her silvery dress wrinkled and her hair slightly mussed. Her eyes found him immediately.
Theo was standing in the living room barefoot, still in his shirt and trousers from earlier, though the sleeves were rumpled and the top button was undone. The moment he saw her, something in his chest loosened. He hadn't realized how much tension he'd been holding until that second.
"You're home," he said softly, eyes drinking her in.
Luna smiled as she crossed the room, her steps quick and light, and without warning she leapt into his arms. He caught her instinctively, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her with ease. She smelled like champagne and summer night air, her laughter still caught in her voice.
"It was perfect," she whispered, pressing her face into his neck. "We stayed out too long. Ginny made us dance. Pansy cried during dessert. I think she's going to be insufferably happy."
Theo smiled into her hair, holding her tighter. "Good. You deserved a night like that."
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands slipping up to cradle his face. Her thumbs brushed gently across the curve of his cheek, and her eyes were full of something softer than words.
"You alright?" she asked quietly. "How was it?"
Theo snorted. "I changed a diaper. I think I aged ten years."
Luna laughed, then leaned in to kiss him, slow and sweet, her lips tasting faintly of wine. "And Lysander?"
"Asleep," Theo murmured, leaning his forehead against hers. "Eventually. After nearly flinging himself off the table, smearing half the contents of his nappy on my hand, and making me question every life decision that brought me to this moment."
She smiled, her fingers slipping through his hair. "You did it, though."
"I did," he said, voice rougher now. "He's alright. And I didn't drop him. Or cry. Much."
"You're amazing," she said simply, like it was a fact that didn't need embellishment.
Theo kissed her again, softer this time, as if sealing a promise between them. Then he let out a quiet laugh against her lips. "I think I need a drink. Or ten."
Her kisses grew deeper, unhurried and hungry, her breath warm against his skin. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him shiver. There was a looseness in her movements, a slight sway in her hips that spoke of the wine and laughter still humming in her bloodstream.
He could feel her—really feel her—melting into him, pressing closer like she was trying to become part of him. Her lips grazed his jaw, soft and insistent, and her voice, when it came, was a breath against his ear.
"My love," he murmured, threading his arms around her waist to steady them both, "you're drunk."
She didn't even pretend to argue. "So?" she whispered, nuzzling into the curve of his neck, her hands slipping under his shirt, warm and daring. "I still want you."
His body reacted before his mind did, a low, involuntary groan escaping him as she pressed herself fully against him. Her words curled around him like smoke, thick with want, and he had to shut his eyes for a second just to breathe through it.
He wanted her too. Always had. Always would. But he knew this softness in her voice, knew how wine made her bold and needy and just a little reckless. And he wanted her to feel safe, not just desired.
He tilted her chin gently, searching her eyes. They were wide and glazed with heat, but something in them was softer too, something vulnerable just beneath the surface.
"My moon," he said quietly, brushing his thumb over her cheek, "you've had a long night. Let me take care of you."
She pouted, the barest curl of her lower lip, and he nearly caved. Her hands moved again, slow and purposeful, gliding down his chest until her fingertips found the edge of his waistband. "Then take care of me," she whispered. "Let me feel your mouth and fingers. Let me come for you."
His breath hitched, a sharp exhale he couldn't hold back. The ache she stirred in him was immediate and deep, all-consuming. She knew what she was doing, and she knew exactly how to ask for it.
He growled low in his throat, his hands sliding down to grip her hips, pulling her hard against him. His restraint cracked, not in a burst, but in a quiet, inevitable surrender.
"Come here," he said roughly, his mouth already moving toward hers again. His voice was thick with heat, rough at the edges, heavy with everything he was no longer willing to hold back.
Luna grinned, stepping back just enough to let him undress her, his hands quick and eager as he slid her jeans down her legs. She stepped out of them, her bare skin illuminated by the dim firelight, utterly breathtaking.
Then, with deliberate slowness, she climbed onto the couch, straddling his face, her thighs bracketing his head. She threaded her fingers through his hair, tilting his face up to meet hers.
"Taste me, my love," she ordered, her voice breathless, heavy with need. "Lick me and make me cum."
Theo groaned, gripping her hips as he pulled her down onto his mouth, eager to devour her, to drown in the intoxicating sweetness of his wife.
He didn't need to be told twice. His hands gripped her thighs, fingers pressing into the soft curves of her body as he pulled her closer. His tongue traced a slow, deliberate path through her wet heat, savoring the taste of her, drinking her in like a man starved. She was already dripping, her arousal slick against his lips, and he groaned, the vibrations sending a shiver through her body.
She gasped, her fingers threading through his dark hair, tugging him closer, wordlessly urging him on. He loved this—loved the way she responded to him, the way her breath hitched at every flick of his tongue. He could feel the tension coiling inside her, the way her thighs trembled around his head, and it only drove him further, his desire to please her overriding everything else.
"Yes, just like that," she moaned, rolling her hips against his mouth, chasing the pleasure he was so desperate to give her.
Theo hummed against her, sliding two fingers inside her with ease, curling them just right, his tongue flicking against her clit in perfect rhythm. Her moans grew louder, her breathing ragged as he worked her toward the edge. She was so sensitive, so responsive, and it made his chest tighten with pride. He was the only one who got to see her like this, to feel her like this, to know every secret her body had to offer.
"Theo—" she gasped, her voice breaking as she shattered beneath him, her orgasm crashing over her in waves. He didn't stop, his tongue still lapping at her, dragging out every last aftershock, prolonging her pleasure until she was left boneless, her body sinking into the couch.
When she finally looked down at him, her silvery eyes were dazed, heavy-lidded with satisfaction, her lips parted as she tried to catch her breath. And Merlin, if she wasn't the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"You're insatiable," she murmured, her voice thick with pleasure, her fingers brushing against his flushed cheek.
He smirked, licking his lips before crawling up her body, his weight pressing against her in a way that made her shiver. "Only for you, my love."
She hummed, but her hands were already moving, fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt. He let her undress him, her touch soft but purposeful, her nails lightly scraping against his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
"My moon," he started, but the words caught in his throat as she slipped her fingers into the waistband of his trousers, palming him through the fabric, her touch making his breath hitch.
She pushed him back against the couch, straddling him, her body still warm and soft from her release. "Now," she murmured, her lips tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "Let me take care of you."
His head fell back as she slid lower, her fingers wrapping around his thick length, stroking him slowly, teasingly. He was already hard, aching for her, and she knew it. She always knew.
Luna pressed soft kisses to his stomach, working her way lower, her touch both reverent and maddening. His breath stuttered when she finally licked a long stripe up his cock, her tongue warm and wet and so, so perfect.
"Luna—" he groaned, his hips bucking slightly as she took him into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head before sucking him deep.
His fingers found her hair, threading through the silky strands, his grip tightening as she set a slow, torturous pace. She was deliberate, taking her time, her mouth a hot, wet heaven around him. Every flick of her tongue, every hollowing of her cheeks sent sparks of pleasure racing through his body.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he panted, his head falling back against the cushions. She hummed in response, the vibration sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight to his spine.
He was already close, the coil in his stomach winding impossibly tight, but he didn't want it to end. He wanted to savor this, to bask in the way she worshipped him with her mouth, the way she took him deeper, her throat tightening around him.
But she wasn't letting up. If anything, she was relentless, her hands gripping his thighs as she took him as deep as she could, swallowing around him in a way that made him curse under his breath.
"Luna, I'm going to—"
She didn't stop. She wanted this, wanted all of him, and that realization alone sent him over the edge. His entire body tensed as his orgasm tore through him, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he spilled into her waiting mouth.
She swallowed every drop, her tongue still swirling around him as he shuddered beneath her. When she finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, glistening, her eyes dark with satisfaction.
Theo was still catching his breath, his pulse pounding in his ears as she climbed back up his body, her bare skin pressing against his. She kissed him, slow and deep, letting him taste himself on her tongue.
"You are trouble," he murmured against her lips, his fingers lazily tracing patterns along her back.
She smirked, resting her head against his chest. "And you love it."
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her hair, his arms tightening around her. "I do."
They stayed like that for a while, tangled together on the couch, the world outside forgotten. The fire flickered in the hearth, casting golden shadows across their bodies, the warmth of the night settling between them.
Luna shifted, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone before nuzzling into his neck. "I think I love you even more when you're like this," she murmured, her fingers lazily stroking his chest.
"Like what?" he asked, amusement tugging at his lips.
"Soft. Content. Completely undone."
He let out a hum of agreement, his hand smoothing up and down her spine in slow, lazy strokes. "That's what you do to me," he admitted, voice thick with emotion. "Every single time."
She smiled against his skin, her breathing evening out as sleep began to pull at her. "Then I suppose I'll just have to keep doing it," she whispered sleepily.
Theo chuckled, holding her closer. "My love, you're going to be the death of me."
She hummed in amusement, already half-asleep in his arms. "A good way to go."
He pressed another kiss to her hair, his heart full, his mind at peace. And as they drifted off together, tangled in each other's warmth, he knew that no matter what the world threw at them, they would always have this—this love, this closeness, this undeniable bond that nothing could ever break.
~~~~~~
Fatherhood, Theo had discovered, wasn't marked by grand gestures or singular triumphs. It lived in the quiet spaces. It was the early mornings when the house was still, and the only sound was the soft, rhythmic breath of his son resting on his chest. It was the way tiny fingers wrapped around his own without hesitation, like instinct, like trust, like love he hadn't earned but would spend the rest of his life trying to deserve.
There was nothing particularly heroic about it. No applause, no medals. Just a thousand quiet acts of devotion. The way he paced the nursery in the middle of the night, whispering nonsense songs with a voice too tired to carry a tune. The way he held Lysander a little closer when the world outside felt too loud, too sharp. The way he learned to read the difference between a hungry cry and one that simply asked to be held.
Lysander had upended everything. His presence had swept through Theo's carefully structured world, not like a storm, but like spring. Softening things. Shifting priorities. Pulling warmth from places Theo hadn't even known existed. There were moments when he looked down at his son's face and felt something so vast and staggering it left him breathless, something that reached into the deepest parts of him and rewrote everything he thought he understood about love.
He had prepared for the logistics. He had read the books. He had made lists. None of it had warned him about this—the way a single look from those impossibly wide, impossibly trusting eyes could undo him completely.
And yet, he wouldn't change a single thing. This quiet devotion, this fierce, unrelenting tenderness—it had become the rhythm of his days. And he carried it like a vow, silent and unspoken, etched into his bones.
One quiet afternoon, when Lysander was about three months old, Theo wrapped him carefully into the sling they'd been using lately. It was one of those warm, slow days where the air felt thick with stillness, and the garden outside the manor seemed to hum with quiet life. These walks had become their rhythm. Luna would take a moment to sleep, and Theo would slip away with their son pressed close to his chest, the two of them moving through the garden like some secret being carried forward.
Lysander's head rested just beneath Theo's chin, his tiny breaths warm and steady against his skin. Theo's hand rested over his back, thumb gently brushing across the soft fabric of his onesie as they walked along the worn stone path, beneath branches that filtered the light in soft golden fragments. He didn't rush. There was something sacred about these walks—something he never quite put into words, but felt deep in his bones.
"Alright, little one," he murmured, not quite sure if Lysander was awake or dozing. "We're coming up on your mum's favorite spot."
He paused beside the wildflower patch Luna had fussed over weeks ago. The moonflowers were growing tall now, all lean green stems and pale blossoms waiting for dusk. He bent slightly to show them off, just in case Lysander was looking.
"She made me plant these," he said quietly. "Moonflowers. Said they bloom only when the rest of the world goes quiet. Said they remind her of you."
There was no real response, only a soft coo and the twitch of a tiny hand against his chest, but it was enough. Theo smiled, his breath catching on something he couldn't name. He straightened up and kept walking, voice barely above a whisper now.
"You're going to grow up with so much love you won't know what to do with it," he said, his throat suddenly tight. "Not the kind that demands something in return. Just love. Steady and real and yours to keep."
The words came out heavier than he expected. His jaw clenched. He stared ahead at the garden path, his fingers gently shifting to support the small weight nestled against him.
"I don't care what name you carry," he went on, more to himself than anything. "You don't have to live in the shadow of anything. Not mine, not anyone's. You'll never have to wonder if you're enough. Because you are. Just as you are."
The trees rustled softly above them. A breeze moved through the garden like a breath held and released. And standing there beneath the branches, with his son's heart beating against his own, Theo felt something inside him settle.
He was no longer just the man who had survived his past. He was someone's father. Luna's partner. And that, quietly, without ceremony, meant everything.
He couldn't help himself. Lysander had become the center of his world without warning, without resistance, like gravity pulling him into a new orbit he never wanted to escape. Every conversation found its way back to him. Every passing thought, every idle silence filled itself with images of small fists curled in sleep or the bright, bubbling laughter that burst from Lysander's chest when Theo made ridiculous faces just to hear it again.
He spoke of him constantly, with no care for how sentimental it might sound. He told anyone who would listen about the way Lysander kicked his legs when excited, the gummy smile he gave when he saw Theo walk into the room, the way he reached up, eyes wide and trusting, like his father was the entire sky.
But it wasn't just Lysander who lived in his every word. It was Luna, too. Always Luna. She had become the still point in a life that had once spun too fast, too sharp, too cold. He spoke of her the way others spoke of stars or sacred places. Not in grand, sweeping gestures, but in quiet certainties. She was the reason he got up in the morning with something close to peace in his chest. She was the reason he had come to believe that the good things in life were not just real, but meant for him too.
Sometimes he would catch himself staring at her when she wasn't looking. When she was bent over the crib, humming softly as she adjusted Lysander's blankets. When she laughed at something absurd Pansy had said in the group chat. When she curled beside him in the dark and reached for his hand in sleep. And in those moments, something inside him would ache with gratitude so vast it felt impossible to contain.
Looking down at his son one afternoon, Lysander warm and sleeping against his chest, Theo felt it again. That quiet, earth-deep truth. This was it. This was the meaning of everything he had ever fought for. Not legacy. Not revenge. Not survival.
This.
A baby's breath rising and falling in rhythm with his own. A home filled with laughter. A woman who saw through every scar and still chose him. Fatherhood hadn't just happened to him. It had claimed him, settled into his bones, wrapped itself around his heart until there was no part of him untouched by it.
And for the first time in his life, he didn't feel hollow.
It had become second nature by now. Even the simplest errands transformed into a stage for Theo Nott's favorite performance: Husband, Father, and Unapologetic Bragger. He could be picking out lemons or standing in line at the apothecary, and somehow, within minutes, the conversation would turn to Lysander's latest milestones or Luna's quiet brilliance.
He wasn't subtle about it, either.
"Have I told you about my son?" he would ask brightly, his grin disarming, the kind that made strangers feel like they'd already missed half the story.
The shopkeeper, often a poor soul who had simply asked if he wanted a paper bag, would blink, caught in the crossfire. "Er—not yet, sir."
Theo took that as a personal invitation.
"He's brilliant. Three months old and already reaching for books. Actual books. He's got this toy phoenix that sings, but no, he goes for the leather-bound Transfiguration primer every single time. Clearly a Ravenclaw in the making."
He would shift the shopping basket to his other arm, warming to his subject like a man telling the tale of a heroic quest.
"And Luna," he continued, voice softening without losing its shine, "she's extraordinary. You should see her with him. It's like she was made to be his mother. She sings to him and he listens like he understands every word. I watch them together and I just... I don't know how I got this lucky."
He paused, the weight of his own words catching him off guard. Then, just as quickly, he smiled again, as if embarrassed by the crack in his own armor. "Sorry. You were probably just trying to sell me carrots."
By now, Luna would have wandered into the next stand, pretending to study the fruit selection while casting him a sideways glance. She didn't try to interrupt anymore. She knew better. This was who he had become—a man who lived for his family and made no apologies for the way they undid him.
As she returned with a bunch of grapes in hand, she raised an eyebrow and said casually, "If I ever go missing, I won't need a spell to find you. I'll just follow the sound of you telling strangers how brilliant we are."
Theo turned toward her, utterly unbothered by the teasing. "Good," he said, brushing a kiss to her temple. "That way, you'll never be far from home."
And then, as if he had not just spilled his entire heart to the grocer, he turned back to the poor vendor and added cheerfully, "He's got my eyes, you know. Same exact shape. It's a little concerning, actually. He's already devastatingly handsome."
The vendor said nothing, just handed him the change with the resigned patience of someone who knew they had stumbled into the path of something unstoppable and maybe a little holy.
Luna watched them, her smile softer now, the kind that curled at the edges with something deeper. She didn't say it aloud, but she thought it every time she saw him like this—glowing, hopelessly besotted, full to the brim with love.
He had once been a boy who believed he was made for war. Now, he spoke of moonflowers and lullabies to strangers, and she loved him more for it.
~~~~~~
Theo practically exploded into Draco's study, the door swinging open so forcefully it nearly rebounded off the wall. Lysander was cradled in his arms like the crown jewel of wizarding society, and Theo's face was glowing with the kind of excitement usually reserved for actual historical discoveries.
"Draco, look!" he declared, as if he had just unlocked the secrets of the universe. "One tiny tooth! Right there!" He pointed frantically at Lysander's drooly little mouth, his expression a mixture of awe and unbridled joy.
Draco, who had been peacefully reviewing documents behind his mahogany desk, exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I am looking, Theodore," he drawled, barely lifting his gaze from the parchment. "And yet, despite my keen eyesight, I remain unimpressed.
Theo ignored him entirely. "No, no, you're not getting it," he insisted, shifting Lysander in his arms as if better angling him would somehow make Draco appreciate the gravity of the situation. "You have to really look, mate. Here—just—Granger!" He suddenly bellowed toward the hallway. "Get in here! I need a qualified opinion!"
Draco's head snapped up, his entire body tensing with irritation. "Do not summon my wife like a bloody house-elf," he hissed, his tone positively lethal.
But before Theo could even attempt to defend himself, Hermione entered the room at a brisk pace, clearly having heard the commotion. "What now?" she asked, an amused smirk playing at her lips, her arms crossed as she surveyed the scene.
Theo turned to her with the energy of a man unveiling an ancient prophecy. "Look, Granger," he said, practically thrusting Lysander toward her. "He's teething! See?! The tiniest little tooth, right there."
Hermione leaned in, her expression shifting from mild exasperation to genuine delight as she caught sight of the tiny pearly white barely poking through Lysander's gums. "Oh, look at that!" she cooed, reaching out to ruffle the baby's soft tufts of hair. "Well done, Lysander. You're growing up so fast, aren't you?"
Theo beamed, as if she had just awarded Lysander the Order of Merlin, First Class.
Draco, despite himself, sighed and reached out, plucking Lysander from Theo's arms with the kind of grace that suggested he had been forced into fatherly roles far too often for his liking. The baby cooed and grabbed at the collar of Draco's robes, blinking up at him with big, trusting eyes.
Draco scowled at Theo. "This little prince is growing up too fast," he muttered, though his grip was firm, his thumb absently brushing against Lysander's chubby cheek.
Theo, who was already reveling in fatherly pride, somehow managed to turn it up another notch. "Isn't he? And look at him—so perfect, so advanced. I bet he'll be casting spells before he's one."
Hermione snorted, shaking her head. "Yes, Theo, I'm sure he'll be dueling in the backyard by Christmas
Draco handed Lysander back with a smirk. "With you as his father? He's going to need somebody to make sure he doesn't become completely unbearable."
Theo grinned, utterly unbothered. "That's what Luna's for."
~~~~~~
Theo had developed a deeply unfortunate habit of barging into people's homes without warning, a habit made worse by the fact that he now had a child to brandish as both excuse and spectacle. Today, he arrived like a storm—no knock, no preamble—just a flurry of frantic footsteps and the door flung wide.
"Ginevra!" he cried, voice already trembling on the edge of hysteria. "Emergency!"
Ginny, curled comfortably on the sofa with a blanket over her lap and a novel in her hands, barely looked up. Her eyes flicked to Theo, who stood in the middle of the room cradling Lysander like a wounded soldier, his face flushed with urgency.
"What now?" she asked, sighing as she set her book aside.
Theo turned toward her with the gravity of a man who had witnessed unspeakable horrors. "He's hurt," he said, his voice dropping as he extended Lysander toward her. "Look. Look at his knee."
Ginny leaned forward with exaggerated patience and squinted at the baby's leg. "Is that... a scratch?"
"A scrape ," Theo corrected, clutching Lysander tighter. "There was blood. Blood, Ginny. From my son."
Blaise, lounging on the armchair nearby, raised his glass without so much as glancing over. "He crawls now, doesn't he? Crawlers meet floors. Floors win. Welcome to parenting."
Theo stared at him, affronted. "It's his first injury, Blaise."
Blaise finally turned his head. "That you've noticed. I promise you he's survived worse under Luna's watch. You just weren't there to have a breakdown about it."
Ginny stood and crossed the room, placing a steadying hand on Theo's shoulder. "You're being dramatic."
"He bled," Theo repeated, scandalized. "There was a red mark. I saw it."
Lysander, as if to undermine the entire argument, let out a delighted squeal and grabbed for Blaise's shirt buttons, utterly content and not at all bothered by his supposed trauma.
"He's not even upset," Blaise pointed out, grinning down at the baby. "Look at him. Valiant little knight. Took a blow to the leg and still finds the strength to flirt with my cufflinks."
Theo looked between the two of them, eyes wide with disbelief. "You're both monsters," he muttered. "Heartless, cynical monsters."
Ginny gently pried Lysander from Theo's arms and bounced him on her hip. "He's fine, Theo. It's a scratch. Maybe try not acting like he lost a limb."
"I didn't say he lost a limb," Theo said stiffly. "But this is how it starts. A scrape, a bruise, a fall down the stairs—"
"Don't even finish that sentence," Ginny warned.
Theo sighed dramatically and dragged a hand down his face. "Fine. You're all clearly too desensitized to the suffering of children."
Blaise smirked over the rim of his glass. "We just know a paper cut when we see one."
Ginny kissed the top of Lysander's head and handed him back with a small smile. "You're a good dad, Theo. Overprotective as hell, but good."
Theo clutched his son to his chest and grumbled, "Well, someone has to care."
Blaise raised his glass in mock salute. "And when the apocalypse comes in the form of a scraped knee, we'll be the first to apologize."
Theo glared, then paused, thoughtful. "I brought biscuits," he said after a beat. "But I'm not giving you any."
Blaise stretched out his legs and smirked. "Fine by me. I'm more of a wine man anyway. Next time, bring a bottle."
Theo narrowed his eyes. "Next time, you'll get a lecture about baby-proofing every surface in this house."
Ginny sat back down with her book, already shaking her head. "Please don't. I'm begging you. Just sit down and be normal for five minutes."
Theo considered this, kissed the top of Lysander's head again, then sat—still holding the baby like a priceless artifact. "Five minutes. But if he bumps into anything, we're leaving."
"You'll be back tomorrow," Blaise said flatly, raising his glass again.
And he was right.
~~~~~~
Pansy was going to lose her mind if Theo didn't stop hovering over that baby like some unhinged mother dragon in designer robes. Every time she visited for their weekly catch-up, which typically involved wine, gossip, and at least one spirited debate, Theo managed to derail the entire afternoon with some fresh, utterly deranged concern about Lysander's health, sleep schedule, or bowel movements. And today was no bloody exception.
She had been mid-sentence, describing in vivid, theatrical detail the logistical nightmare that was her upcoming dinner party, when Theo suddenly gasped like he'd seen a ghost, leapt to his feet, and clutched Lysander to his chest like the child had moments to live.
Pansy stopped talking. Her head turned slowly. One brow arched. She rubbed her temples, took a deep breath, and reminded herself that murder was technically illegal.
"Theodore," she said flatly, her voice low and dangerously calm. "If you interrupt me again with another ridiculous Lysander emergency, I will strangle you. And if you die, I will raise him myself. Poorly. On purpose."
Theo, entirely unbothered by the threat of death and negligent godparenting, turned to her with wide, frantic eyes.
"But Pansy," he whispered, full of breathless horror, "his tummy aches."
Pansy blinked once. Then again.
Theo adjusted his hold on Lysander, now rocking him gently like the baby might shatter if he stopped for even a second. "It's bad. He's been fussing all day. What if something's wrong? What if it's the start of some rare magical condition? What if—"
"He's fine," Luna said without looking up from her book. Her voice was calm and clear, like someone who had said these exact words more times than she could count. "Babies get fussy. That's what they do."
Theo kept bouncing, undeterred. "But what if this isn't normal fussiness? What if it's the beginning of something worse?"
Pansy snapped.
She sprang up, arms flying. Her expression landed somewhere between "I'm about to scream" and "I need stronger wine."
"For Merlin's sake, Theodore, get a grip." She gestured wildly at Luna, then back at him. "Your wife, who literally grew him inside her, is telling you he's fine. I, who don't even like most children, am telling you he's fine. The only person panicking here is you."
Luna let out a small, amused laugh, and finally looked up from her page. Her gaze softened. "You do tend to spiral a bit," she said, voice full of affection.
Theo looked between them, visibly torn between his anxiety and the overwhelming evidence that his son was, in fact, not dying of abdominal distress. He glanced down at Lysander, who was fast asleep on his chest, completely unbothered by the chaos swirling around him.
"You really think he's alright?" Theo asked, quieter now. He sounded like someone who had just delivered a moving eulogy only to find the person alive and well.
Pansy gave him a long, exasperated look. "No, Theo. I don't think. I know. Now sit down and shut up so I can finish telling Luna how I accidentally uninvited Daphne Greengrass and then pretended it was on purpose."
Theo let out a heavy, theatrical sigh and perched on the arm of Luna's chair, still cradling Lysander like a sacred relic.
"Fine," he said with reluctant dignity. "But if his tummy aches again, I'm going straight to St. Mungo's."
Luna reached up and gave his hand a soft squeeze. Her voice was all silk and sunlight. "You're a good father. But he's fine, my love. You can breathe now."
Pansy flopped back into her seat, victorious. She tossed her hair, retrieved her wine, and rolled her eyes for good measure.
"Thank Salazar," she muttered. "Now. About the scandal at the Ministry. You are not ready. There was a centaur, a cursed quill, and three different types of magical contraceptives involved."
Theo blinked. "Do I even want to know?"
"No," Pansy replied, smirking. "But you're going to hear it anyway."