The rain was a cold, silver mist in Diagon Alley, but Blaise didn't feel the chill. He stood in the shadows of a doorway near Knockturn Alley, a subtle warming charm cast to keep the dampness from marring the perfect, sharp lines of his charcoal overcoat. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes were fixed on you from across the street with a predatory sort of patience. He knew your routine by heart; Tuesday was the day you brought Leo to the small cafe nestled between the apothecary and the bookstore.

Through the window of the cafe, he watched you. You always seemed surprised when the barista told you your tea and the child's snacks had already been settled. You likely thought it was a random act of kindness from the shop, or perhaps a mistake in the ledger. In truth, Blaise had simply opened a tab so he could pay for everything. It was a small, quiet way to ensure you and your son were fed and warm without forcing you to acknowledge his existence.

He had spent years trying to move on, but he was a man who only fell in love once. He could still remember the day in school that it happened with a clarity that bordered on a curse. He had been sitting in the library, the weight of his mother’s latest scandal pressing on his shoulders, when his old silver quill snapped under his hand in a moment of rare, silent frustration. You had simply seen the ink on his fingers and, without a word, a lecture, or a demand for thanks, you had pushed your own quill across the mahogany table toward him.

That quill worn at the tip and smelling faintly of old parchment still sat in a velvet lined drawer in his primary study at the Manor. His peaceful observation was shattered when he saw a man corner you against the brick wall outside the cafe door as you left. It was a mid level Ministry clerk, a man whose face was flushed with a disgusting sense of self importance. He was loudly lecturing you about your "unmarried" status and the "burden" of single parents, his voice carrying through the rain as he made a vile, pointed comment about the eighteen month old toddler you were clutching to your chest.

Blaise felt a familiar, cold rage ignite in his veins. He had seen enough. He stepped out of the shadows, his silk-lined coat billowing slightly as he moved. His eyes didn't leave the man.

"I believe," Blaise’s voice drawled, cutting through the clerk’s rant like a silk wrapped blade, "that you are speaking to my future wife and child. And you are doing so in a tone I find personally offensive."

Blaise didn't hesitate. He stepped into your space, his tall frame a solid, warm wall between you and the world. He placed a firm, protective arm around your waist, his free hand moving to rest supportively against little Leo’s back. His touch was certain, proprietary, and shockingly warm against the damp air. He looked down at the boy his Piccolo Leone for a brief, unreadable second before turning back to the clerk with a gaze of pure, aristocratic ice.

"This is my family. And if I see your face within ten feet of them again, I will ensure the rest of your career is spent counting floo-powder jars in a basement in Orkney. Am I clear, or do I need to involve my mother in this discussion?"

The man’s face went a sickly, papery white at the mention of the Contessa. He stammered a pathetic apology and fled into the rain. Silence settled between you, heavy and thick. Blaise didn't move his hand; he kept you tucked firmly against his side, his thumb tracing a slow, subconscious circle against your shoulder through the fabric of your cloak. He finally looked down at you, his mask of bored indifference slipping just enough to show the raw, aching devotion he’d been hiding for a lifetime.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, cara," he murmured, his voice low and smooth. He didn't let go. "But people are watching, and I just gave them the story of the decade. We can't stand here in the rain forever. Let me take you home, and I'll explain everything."