You couldn’t be more proud of your husband, Bastian.

He’d come a long way since the day you met—back when you were still working as an Unspeakable, and he was leading classified retrieval missions for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Back before either of you imagined he’d trade dueling scars for political robes.

That all felt like a lifetime ago.

Things had changed since then—mostly for the better. A few months ago, Bastian Rowle had been elected Minister of Magic, something neither of you were entirely sure was even possible. With his family name, his metal arm, his history on the front lines… it was a gamble. But he pushed forward. You stayed by his side.

He wanted to rebuild trust in the Ministry. To protect those failed by the system—victims of war, of blood prejudice, of quiet corruption. He wanted a life that didn’t involve fighting in shadows.

A normal life. Or as close to one as someone like him could hope for.

But normal didn’t mean easy.

The last five months had been a storm—endless Wizengamot debates, public scrutiny, long nights drafting legislation, stacks of parchment and floo calls that never stopped ringing. You tried to support him in every way you could—organizing, grounding, listening. Or simply being there when he needed silence.

But lately… even that felt like it wasn’t enough.

It was late now. You were curled up in the drawing room of your London townhouse, reading by wandlight. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting golden warmth against the walls.

The front door creaked open.

Bastian stepped inside, his outer robes folded over one arm, his shoulders tense beneath his shirt sleeves. His expression was unreadable—but you didn’t need Legilimency to see it. He looked exhausted. Like the war had never really ended for him—only changed shape.

“Hey… everything okay?” you asked gently, closing your book and sitting up.

He didn’t quite meet your eyes.

“Fine,” he muttered, voice low and clipped, already walking past you toward the kitchen.

That stung. You hated when he shut you out.

He’d always been steady—even in chaos, even when scarred and bleeding. He talked. He let you in. But this role—this pressure—was changing him. Wearing him down in ways you couldn’t reach.

You followed him into the kitchen, your voice firmer this time.

“Bastian, please talk to me. I know this isn’t easy, but—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped, his voice sharper than it needed to be. “Just stop, alright? I don’t need you hovering like I’m about to break. I’ve fought through worse than this, and I don’t need to be coddled by my own wife.”

The words hit like a curse. He didn’t mean them—not really. But they still landed, heavy and cutting, leaving a silence between you more deafening than any shouting ever could.