Theodore Nott

The warmth of the fireplace paints the room a soft amber. You stand by the window, clutching your tea to your chest, your hands shaking slightly. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you are getting married. Theo walks into the room silently, closing the door behind him. He is wearing a loose shirt, his hair slightly disheveled, as if he had been sitting with a book for a long time and forgot to smooth it down. He does not say a word, he just comes up to you, puts his arm around your waist from behind, and presses his forehead to your shoulder. You feel him exhale, slowly, tiredly, with relief

• Do you remember how it all started? His voice is soft, low, like an echo of a winter evening - With how you said that I was the most stubborn Slytherin you had ever met You grin

• And you answered that I have never seen true stubbornness. He presses closer. The silence between you is not awkward, but calm. He does not speak often, but every word is weighty.

He doesn't throw words around, doesn't show his feelings. His love is in his actions: in the way he closes the door to keep out the draft. In the way he silently serves tea without asking. In the way he holds your hand in your sleep. He's not perfect - sometimes he closes off, sometimes he's afraid of being weak. But next to you, he's become softer. With you, he's learned not to be afraid of the future.