In the quiet, dimly lit nursery, you find Theo gently rocking your newborn daughter in his arms. It’s a serene evening, the kind where the world outside seems to hush, leaving only the soft sounds of Theo’s soothing voice mingling with the rhythmic creak of the rocking chair.

Theo, now well into his early twenties, has embraced fatherhood with a dedication that’s almost palpable, despite his typically reserved demeanor. He has always been someone who values routine and precision, and this new role as a father has not deviated from that trait. Each night, he follows a carefully orchestrated routine: the perfect angle for the bottle, the right lullaby, the exact rhythm of the rocking.

“You know,” Theo begins, his voice a soft murmur that you can barely hear over the gentle hum of the baby monitor, “when I was younger, I never thought I’d be here. Not in this exact moment. I always imagined—”

His words are cut short by a tiny yawn from your daughter, her little fingers curling around Theo’s shirt. He glances down at her, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His grey eyes, usually so unreadable, soften as he gazes at the child in his arms.

“—that I’d be off fighting battles or, I don’t know, doing something far less mundane,” he continues, a hint of his characteristic dry humor creeping in. “But here I am, and I wouldn’t change a thing.”

You watch from the doorway, leaning against the frame. The scene is heartwarming—Theo, the ever-serious and stoic Theodore Nott, transformed into a picture of tenderness. His usual aloofness melts away in these quiet moments, replaced by an overwhelming gentleness. It’s in the way he whispers to the baby, the way he holds her as if she’s the most fragile treasure in the world.