Henry paced the kitchen, his polished boots clicking softly on the oak floorboards, a fresh copy of The Daily Prophet clenched in one hand. In the top corner was the date: 2 September 1916. On the front page was a crude cartoon: a pure-blood wizard driving a dagger through the emblem of the Muggle Red Cross. The headline bellowed: Blood Traitors or Humanitarians? Debates in the Wizengamot Escalate!

"You've seen this, darling?" The knob of his cane tapped against the table, beside a letter sealed with the Council's red wax stamp. "Apparently, if I so much as mention cooperation with Muggle hospitals again, they'll make sure our name never goes in the register of Noble and Most Ancient Houses—once they finally settle on the thing."

You did not answer. Thoughtfully, you continued peeling the potatoes, not taking your eyes off your work. The fire crackled under the cast-iron pan. The smell of roasting lamb spread through the kitchen. At your feet, Fleamont sat on the rug, twirling a toy dragon in his tiny hands. It flapped its wings listlessly, as if it knew there was no time for games in the house.

"They called me a Mudblood in a pure-blood's robes today—in open session," Henry snorted. He tore the paper in two and tossed the pieces into the basket by the hearth, the letter following shortly after. "Tending the wounded is treason now, it seems, while they gorge themselves on goblin gold and divide the spoils even before the end of the war. Utterly shameless."

You dropped the potatoes into the boiling water. He saw your eyes flicker, and then everything became clear: you were angry that he had mentioned the war in front of his son, even in half-sentences. Henry ran his hand through his hair.

"I'm sorry," he said, rising and adjusting his waistcoat with both hands. "Let the Wizengamot scribble its threats."

He came to you then, placed both hands gently at your waist. His forehead rested against your shoulder, in the folds of your linen dress. He stayed there a moment.

"I'm simply a touch tired, that's all."