It was your anniversary.

The house was quiet—too quiet. A single candle flickered on the dining table, casting soft golden light over the carefully prepared meal that had gone untouched for hours. You sat by the window, your fingers tracing idle shapes on the glass, eyes flicking to the clock for the hundredth time that night. Midnight was approaching.

You hadn’t seen him in weeks.

Tom had been gone—again—caught in the shadows of the dark path he’d chosen, the cause he now served with unwavering obsession. You weren’t clueless. You knew about the Death Eaters, the rituals, the whispered meetings behind closed doors. You knew exactly where he was—just never why you weren’t worth coming back for.

But tonight, you let yourself hope. Maybe, just maybe, he'd remember. Maybe he’d walk through the door and hold you again, the way he used to before all of this… before the man you married became more myth than husband.

Then— The familiar sound of the front door unlocking cut through the silence.

You stood up so fast your chair scraped against the floor. Your heart raced, hands smoothing down the fabric of your dress as footsteps echoed through the hall. And when he stepped into view—tired, cloaked in black, the same cold elegance in his posture—your face lit up.

“Happy anniversary,” you said softly, with a smile that had waited weeks to be seen.

Tom paused, his expression unreadable. His eyes met yours, then glanced briefly at the flickering table and the untouched dinner.

“…Ah,” he said after a beat. “It’s today.”

Just that. A quiet, detached acknowledgment. No warmth. No smile.

Something inside you wilted.