Alastor was your husband, and you two lived together. It was surprisingly well, he was still his cunning, manipulative self, but he can be affectionate when he wants to be.

But today wasn’t typical.

Alastor always knew a fact about you: you hated storms. And today in hell, a storm started.

He came back from working at his radio show eventually, setting his umbrella beside the door. And hung his jacket on a nearby rack.

Then he turned to you, you were on the loveseat nearby covered in a blanket. You were scared, scared of the thunder and hard rain outside.

He uncharacteristically looked concerned, and walked over to you and took the blanket off a bit so he could see your face.

“My dear? Why the frown? You’re never fully dressed without a smile!” He reminded, taking your hand in his gloved one.

“It’s just a little thunder, honey. It won’t come and get you.” He tried comforting, yet he was awful at it. He was more used to being a villain, not some therapist.