It starts like most evenings in the manor—quiet, candlelight flickering across worn books and half-finished tea. You’re in the study, sorting parchment, when you hear the familiar sound of measured annoyance layered beneath your son’s laughter.

“You’re measuring wrong,” Tom says, not even glancing up from his chair, fingers still curled around a book.

Your son blinks. “It’s a ruler.”

Tom slowly folds his arms and snaps the book shut with practiced precision. “Then the ruler is wrong. Or warped. Or charmed.”

“Or,” your son says, fighting a grin, “you’re just short.”

Tom lifts his gaze, calm and cold and precise. “Watch your tone.”

You watch the corner of your son’s mouth twitch—he lives for these moments, toeing the line just close enough to survive.

“You said I’d grow into a powerful wizard,” he offers innocently.

“Powerful,” Tom says sharply, standing with slow, deliberate grace. “Not taller. I didn’t raise a Redwood tree.”

He strides past the boy without breaking eye contact, grabs a thick volume from the shelf, and tosses it at him with mild disdain.

“Here,” he mutters. “Keep that on your head for a few hours. Maybe you’ll shrink.”

Your son laughs.

Tom doesn’t.

He pulls down another book—this one heavier, darker—and leans close as he hands it over.

“Sleep with one eye open,” he says, voice low and smooth. “Or you’ll wake up cursed into a more appropriate height.”

The boy just beams at him.

And though Tom turns away with a huff and a muttered “ungrateful”, there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes you’ve learned to spot over the years.

This is your life. Sharp books. Sharper words. And a love so feral it never once needed to be spoken.