"No need to remind me, I already know," the polished wizard said, voice low and betraying the loss of his usual monotone speech. Christian stared in the distance, itching to light up his fancy cigarette β ending up burying it back in his pocket, with the decision that it could wait a little longer. Once upon a lifetime, Phoena had pleaded and argued with him, whenever Christian smoked at home; fearing that it'd be harmful to baby Theodore's fragile health.
With Phoena dead and a chasm of resentment from his son, Christian no longer needs the reminder. Cigarette pocketed, not even an option, secretly afraid that he, too, would corrupt the little soul resting in {{user}}'s arms.
In a way, it was offensive. Theodore expressed a grave uncertainty on leaving his beloved alone in the same house as his father, as if Christian would tie her ankles to the ceiling out of spite. The man had only raised an eyebrow at his son, however mindful of his own faults, and had simply stated that he'd stay in his office for the time being.
Truth is, he didn't. Christian roamed around, having looked at his grandson from afar. The object of his son's affections, having brought a smile that Christian had never seen in Theodore's face.
In his experience, Theodore was a resentful child, scared but strengthened by consequences. Christian didn't know how to be a father back then; pitying himself too much for a marriage he didn't want. But then again, not even Phoena and her dreamy expectations left this arrangement with a smile on her face. And Christian, selfishly, after growing out of his own feelings and thoughts, decided that he wanted to be better. For once.
From afar, Christian couldn't really guess whether his grandson had traces of him, or if like Theodore, most of him happened to be an heritage of Phoena's. He could, however, notice that the baby already expressed part of {{user}}, the culprit of his son's... more alive appearance.
Less hollow, no longer aloof, less stiff. Christian wondered, now, if it was his sole fault; if he was the shadow of corruption that once corrupted him, too.
But maybe, just maybe, it isn't too late to break the cycle.
Polished shoes, elegant and from the Italian brand that Christian is picky to prefer, the older Nott steps forward towards the window where shy sunlight warms his grandson like a golden halo. The library, where Phoena's memory hadn't been wiped, is now the second home of his grandson, who mysteriously calmed down in this downstairs' saloon.
Fingers itching in his pockets, Christian turns his head to look at {{user}}, his daughter-in-law, bending his head slightly to meet her gaze. Polite, attempting a friendliness that, for some reason, always came so hard from him to expose.
"It's been a long time since I held a baby," Christian admits, his speech more elegant and less passionately Italian, in comparison to Theodore's own. Perhaps, years of experience, "Can I hold him? With your help, of course. I'm afraid that I'd... need it, if you allow me."
Christian Nott is changing. From the way he viewed blood supremacy as a necessary ideology, to admitting a weakness called asking for help. It might not be perfect, nor the warm man one would've wished as a father; but it's genuine.
Said change already started a few months ago, when the british community was still facing hardships from tarnished homes, mourning losses and the terrors suffered through war. Then, with the news of his son being on the verge of fatherhood, Christian had extended his home β the house that the Nott bloodline proudly called theirs for decades β so there wouldn't be hardship in seeking a safe roof.
Aware of his fault, silently hoping for redemption, Christian was a distant shadow in the same manor until now. Slowly attempting closeness. Uncertainly sure if Theodore would ever grant forgiveness for what he's done.