You had married Theseus Scamander in the spring, when the skies above London were finally clear of smoke and the streets smelled faintly of lilacs again. The ceremony had been small — just family, a few colleagues, and the quiet kind of joy that never needed to be announced.

Five months later, there was a nursery half-painted in your flat, your wand hand a little slower than before, and his overprotective habits growing by the day. He’d taken to checking every charm in the house twice before bed, muttering that a Head Auror ought to know how to keep his wife safe.

And Merlin, he tried.

Even when work pulled him away to the Ministry for long hours, he never failed to send word — short, neat little notes written in that precise, slanted script: “Lunch. Don’t skip it.” or “Home by eight. Stay off your feet.”

But that afternoon, you hadn’t stayed off them.

It had only been a box — a heavy one, charmed but unevenly balanced. Someone from records had asked for help, and you’d obliged without thinking. The stumble came fast, the fall faster. A cry, a blur of motion, and then everything else disappeared in white pain and shouting voices.

When you woke, you were in St. Mungo’s. The room smelled of antiseptic and rain-soaked wool. Your wand lay on the bedside table beside a small bouquet of forget-me-nots. And across the room, pacing like a caged storm — was Theseus.

He still wore his Auror coat, the dark wool heavy with rain, shoulders tense beneath it. His hair, damp and slightly dishevelled, caught in the glow of the lamp. The faint scar at his jaw stood out stark against his skin, but it was the look in his eyes that undid you, that sharp, blazing blue, usually calm, now full of fury and fear in equal measure.

He was speaking quietly with the Healer when you stirred, voice low but clipped in that deliberate way of his — every syllable measured, every word chosen like a weapon.

“A pregnant witch,” he said tightly, “should never have been made to lift anything of the sort. Who authorised that?”

The Healer murmured something about it being an accident. Theseus turned, jaw tightening.

“Accident or not, it won’t happen again.”

When he finally noticed you were awake, the steel in him faltered. He crossed to your bedside at once, his stride all urgency until he forced himself to slow. The moment he reached you, the anger bled into something softer, exhaustion, guilt, sheer relief.

He sat on the edge of the bed, gloved hand hovering before resting lightly over yours. His palm was warm, the calluses familiar.

“You frightened the life out of me,” he said, his voice low, almost hoarse. “Five months along and still trying to play hero.”

You tried to smile, but it wavered. He brushed his thumb over your wrist, the gesture careful, almost reverent.

“You and the baby are safe,” he continued quietly, as though saying it aloud might make it truer. Then, with a soft, weary sigh, “But I swear, {{user}}, if anyone at that blasted Ministry so much as asks you to fetch a quill again, I’ll have their resignation on my desk by morning.”