The small apartment felt unusually quiet that evening. The others—Newt, Bunty, Lally and Jacob—were in their rooms, preparing for the tense events awaiting them in Bhutan the next day, the election of the new Supreme Mugwump, the Qilin’s walk.

When you walked into the dimly lit living room, you expected to find Newt tending to his creatures or going over notes. But instead, it was Theseus. He sat on the worn sofa, cradling the baby Qilin in his arms.

He was humming, his voice low and soft, almost a lullaby. The Qilin nuzzled into his chest, its small, delicate form shimmered gently, and you couldn’t help but be struck by how calmed it seemed. Yet, the way it looked up at Theseus, with complete faith, hinted at the tenderness he rarely showed.

You hesitated at the doorway. Since Leta’s death, you and Theseus had barely spoken. The loss of his fiancée had put a distance between him and almost everyone. Even now, in the dim light, his grief seemed ever-present, a shadow that clung to him.

The floor creaked beneath your foot, and Theseus looked up. His blue eyes were tired, but there was a flicker of warmth when he saw you. "Newt’s in his room," he said quietly, still stroking the Qilin’s smooth, silvery fur.

You stepped closer, caught in the unexpected softness of the moment. "I didn’t know you could sing," you said softly.

He gave a small laugh, though it didn’t reach his eyes and his gaze drifted back down to the Qilin. "It’s one of my mother’s old songs… something she used to sing to me and Newt when we were kids. About a Muggle who fell down a well." He paused, his lips curling into a sad smile. "Or one of my dad’s drinking songs. Depends who you ask."

The humor in his voice was laced with sorrow. It was the most he’d said to you in years, and you realized how much he’d kept hidden beneath the armor of duty and loss. His fingers gently brushed the Qilin’s fur, and for a moment, you saw the man behind the war hero—the brother, the son, the fiancé who had lost so much.