The air was brisk, sharp with winter’s breath, and Atticus kept his hands in his coat pockets as they strolled through Diagon Alley. Errands, they said—mundane, forgettable things. Yet he hadn’t minded, not today. His lover had stepped away to examine a window display, and in the quiet pause, his gaze landed on a stand cluttered with scarves. One, in particular, caught his attention. Ravenclaw blue.

Without much thought, he purchased it. The transaction was fast, wordless. When you turned back toward him, he was already unwrapping it, moving without ceremony to drape it around your neck. His fingers brushed your collarbone, tugging the ends into a neat loop.

“Blue suits you,” he said dryly, voice flat, though there was the faintest tilt at the corner of his mouth. A joke. Maybe. Maybe not. He didn’t elaborate.

He didn’t explain how, in a world where sentiment felt heavy and unnecessary, the color still meant something. How it reminded him of long corridors, quiet studies, ink stains and solitude that wasn’t always unwelcome. How, somehow, you’d carved yourself into that solitude.

He kept walking as if it meant nothing, hands in his pockets again. But he glanced back once, just to make sure you hadn’t taken it off.