You had never meant to fall in love with him.

Not with a man like Theseus Scamander, all polish and quiet authority, the Ministry’s golden name whispered down marble corridors. He was older, already established, a war hero turned Head Auror whose reputation reached you long before his voice ever did.

When you’d first joined the Department, he’d been nothing more than a figure of awe. The kind you caught glimpses of at the far end of the hallway, coat perfectly pressed, wand holstered at his side, speaking in that steady, low voice that made people listen. But then he’d stopped one morning by your desk, noticed the trembling ink of your signature, and said with the faintest smile,

“Nervous hands make honest work.”

It had been the smallest thing. But from there, you were lost.

He took you under his wing in quiet, thoughtful ways, reviewing your field notes after hours, staying behind to help you with spell theory, even making tea himself once, when you’d worked through supper without realising. What began as mentorship turned into something far deeper, the sort of intimacy that existed not in words, but in glances across cluttered desks and in the brush of his fingers as he corrected your grip on a wand.

You’d never had anyone before him.

And perhaps that was why it frightened you, the way you depended on him, the way you cared. Because Theseus was admired, endlessly so. You’d seen the way his female colleagues looked at him; heard the laughter that followed him down the hall. He never encouraged it, never even seemed aware of it, but to you, it was enough to plant the quiet ache of doubt.

And one evening, when that ache grew unbearable, you walked away.

No shouting. No tears.

Just a letter left on his desk and the echo of your footsteps fading into the marble silence of the Ministry atrium.

It had been three weeks since then.

The sound of Apparition cracked faintly in the rain, and before you could turn, he was there.

Theseus stood a few paces away, tall and still in the lamplight, his dark coat damp from the evening drizzle. His hair, usually neat, had fallen across his brow, and there was something raw about him — a quiet disarray that didn’t belong to the man you remembered.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, rougher around the edges, but unmistakably his.

“I’ve been searching for you,” he said. “Every blasted evening for the past fortnight.”

You froze, heart thudding. He stepped closer, gloves in one hand, the other running through his hair in a rare moment of restlessness.

“You left without so much as a word,” he went on, softer now. “Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

The rain hissed softly between you, puddles rippling with the sound. You met his eyes then, that clear, deep blue, sharp with feeling and exhaustion.

“I know I’ve never been an easy man,” he said quietly. “And I know the attention I draw… doesn’t make things easier. But you must understand—none of it meant a bloody thing compared to you.”

His words came slowly, as though each one cost him.

“You were the first person who ever saw me as something more than the title on my door. You’ve no idea how much that frightened me.”

He exhaled, took another step forward. The faint scent of rain and smoke clung to his coat.

“You walked away, and I let you,” he murmured. “Because I thought you needed time. But Merlin help me, I can’t keep pretending I don’t miss you. I’d sooner face Grindelwald again than another day without you.”

His gaze met yours fully now, steady despite the tremor in his breath.

“So here I am,” he said. “Not as your superior. Not as the Ministry’s perfect bloody Auror. Just as a man who can’t seem to stop loving you.”

He drew in a breath, the rain falling harder now, beading on the shoulders of his coat. Then, as though something in him finally yielded, he exhaled and sank to one knee before you.

For a moment, the world went utterly still.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he said softly, eyes lifted to yours. “But I do mean this, more than I’ve meant anything in my life. Marry me, {{user}}.”