That night, as he lay in bed, his mind refused to quiet. The memory of their kiss in the kitchen played over and over again, a slow-burning reel of warmth and wonder. His heart still raced at the thought of it—at the way her lips had molded so perfectly against his, at the softness of her touch, at the knowledge that she had wanted it just as much as he had.
The manor was cloaked in silence, save for the rustling of the wind through the trees and the distant call of an owl. He should have been able to sleep, but instead, he lay there, his thoughts tangled in her, in them, in the possibilities that lay ahead.
Then, the door creaked open.
His breath caught as he sat up, eyes adjusting to the dim glow from the hallway. And there she was.
She stood framed in the doorway, her hair cascading over her shoulders, her presence as effortless as moonlight.
"There are too many Nargles in my room," she said softly, her voice laced with that quiet, knowing serenity that always managed to unnerve and enchant him at once. "Can I stay here?"
His pulse stuttered, his body locking in place. "Y-Yes," he managed, his throat suddenly dry. "Of course."
The words left him before he had even processed them, before he had fully understood what this meant. Scrambling for control, he swallowed hard and gestured to the sofa by the fire. "I can sleep there if you'd prefer the bed."
She tilted her head, a small, bemused smile gracing her lips. "No, Theodore," she said gently. "I would like to sleep with you."
His stomach clenched, anticipation coiling deep in his core.
He hesitated only for a fraction of a second before shifting to make space for her in the vast bed. She moved forward, unhurried, slipping beneath the covers as though she had always belonged there. And perhaps she had.
Lying beside her felt impossibly intimate, more so than all the hesitant touches and stolen glances that had led them here. The warmth of her seeped into his skin, the soft rustle of fabric and the steady rhythm of her breathing the only sounds in the room.
He turned to face her, their noses almost brushing, his voice hushed. "Are you comfortable?"
She nodded, her expression open and unguarded. "Yes. Very much so. Thank you."
His name on her lips sent a shiver through him.
For the first time in years—perhaps in his entire life—he felt content. Truly, deeply content. Not just safe, not just relieved, but whole. As though she had filled a hollow space inside him that he hadn't realized was empty until she had stepped inside it.
"Goodnight, Luna," he whispered, feeling the words settle in the quiet space between them.
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she lifted her hand to his face, her fingers tracing the sharp angles of his jaw with a tenderness that sent his pulse skyrocketing. And then, without hesitation, she leaned in and kissed him.
A slow, soft press of lips—light as a feather, yet impossibly grounding.
He exhaled sharply, his body losing its tension in an instant as she deepened the kiss, as if to silence any lingering doubt. His hands found her waist, hesitantly at first, but when she pressed closer, when she sighed against his mouth, he gripped her tighter, pulling her flush against him.
The world outside ceased to exist. There was only her—only the delicate sweep of her fingers down his chest, only the intoxicating scent of vanilla and lavender that clung to her skin, only the way she moved with quiet confidence, her touch setting fire to every nerve in his body.
She unbuttoned his shirt, her lips following the path of each exposed inch of skin. He shuddered beneath her touch, his breath hitching as she traced his collarbone, his ribs, his stomach with reverent precision. Every kiss she pressed to his skin felt like a whispered promise, a devotion written in touch rather than words.
He was utterly undone, reduced to breathless, trembling silence as she explored him with careful hands and knowing lips. He had imagined this moment a thousand times, but nothing—nothing—had prepared him for the sheer intensity of feeling that flooded his senses.
She hovered above him, watching him with quiet amusement, her fingers grazing his flushed skin. "You're so beautiful, Theodore," she murmured, as if the thought had just occurred to her, as if it were an undeniable truth that had to be spoken aloud.
His breath came ragged now, his hands gripping the sheets as she continued her slow, unhurried worship of him. His mind swam, torn between wanting to savor every second of this moment and the unbearable need to pull her even closer, to give her every part of himself in return.
For all his confidence in battle, his sharp intellect, and his ability to navigate the treacherous world of pureblood politics, Theodore Nott found himself utterly undone by the woman in his arms.
He had never been touched like this before. Never been wanted like this before. And when she whispered his name again, low and reverent, he knew—with absolute certainty—that there would never be anyone else for him but her.
Her hands explored his body with deliberate slowness, as though committing every inch of him to memory. Each caress ignited something deep within him, a fire that had been smoldering for too long. She traced the sharp lines of his collarbone, the smooth planes of his chest, her fingertips mapping his skin like a sacred text. His breath hitched when she pressed her lips against his throat, her warm breath sending shivers down his spine.
His hands twitched at his sides, unsure where to place them, how to touch her without ruining the delicate perfection of this moment. But she guided him, easing his hesitancy with soft sighs and gentle hands, encouraging him to let go.
"Luna," he rasped, her name tumbling from his lips like a prayer. He cupped her face, fingers threading through the silk of her hair, and pulled her into a kiss.
It was slow, deep, and all-consuming. She tasted like honey and warmth, like something he never knew he needed but would now crave for the rest of his life. He poured everything into that kiss—his longing, his devotion, the years he had spent wanting her but never believing he could have her.
She pressed closer, their bodies fitting together as though the universe had crafted them to be this way. The fabric of her nightgown was soft beneath his fingertips, but he wanted to feel her—really feel her. The realization made his pulse hammer against his ribs, his breaths coming quicker as she pulled away just enough to look at him.
"You don't have to be nervous," she murmured, her voice thick with affection, her eyes shining with warmth and mischief. "I'm yours. As you are mine."
Something in him shattered at those words, something ancient and restrained. He had never known love in its purest form—not like this. His hands moved of their own accord, skimming down her back, gripping the curve of her waist as he laid her back against the pillows.
She was breathtaking beneath him, her golden hair splayed across his sheets like liquid moonlight, her lips kiss-swollen, her body welcoming. He ran his fingers down the delicate curve of her thigh, his touch reverent, awed by the way she responded to him—soft sighs, slight arches, the way her breath hitched every time his lips found a new place to worship.
He wanted to take his time, to explore every part of her, to learn what made her tremble, what made her sigh, what made her cling to him with that dreamy, blissful expression he was quickly becoming addicted to.
And Merlin, she was just as eager to discover him. Her hands roamed freely, her lips tracing heated patterns across his skin, her touch both tender and demanding. Every sound he made was met with encouragement, with whispered praise that made his heart stutter in his chest.
When their bodies finally joined, it was not rushed or clumsy—it was poetry, a slow and aching unraveling of two souls colliding in a way that felt both inevitable and infinite. He gasped at the sensation, at the way she held him, the way she whispered his name like it was a secret only she was meant to know.
The world outside ceased to exist. There was only this—their whispered confessions, their bodies entwined, the rhythmic pulse of their hearts beating in tandem.
And when they finally collapsed together, breathless and tangled beneath the covers, he pressed a kiss to her temple, his fingers lazily tracing patterns across her bare shoulder.
"That," he murmured, voice still raw with wonder, "was…"
She smiled, utterly content, her fingers brushing against his jaw. "Perfect."
He exhaled a laugh, pulling her closer, their limbs tangling effortlessly. He had never felt more at peace, more whole.
The thought struck him then, as he held her in the quiet of the night—he had spent so many years believing love was a distant dream, something unattainable for someone like him.
But here she was.
His wife.
His love.
His Luna.
And he would spend the rest of his days proving that no force in the universe—not fate, not war, not even the gods themselves—could ever take her from him.
~~~~~~
As days bled seamlessly into weeks and weeks stretched into months, they fell into a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing—a life woven together with quiet intimacy and unexpected joy. What had begun as an arrangement born of obligation had transformed into something far greater, a partnership neither had anticipated but both had come to cherish deeply.
He found a thousand ways to express what words could never quite capture. He poured every ounce of unspoken devotion into the small, everyday gestures—a beautifully wrapped book he knew she would love, a bouquet of wildflowers gathered from the meadow simply because their colors reminded him of her, a handwritten note tucked into the folds of her robe, waiting to be discovered like a secret meant only for her. He orchestrated candlelit dinners beneath a sky dusted with stars, ensuring that every flickering flame mirrored the warmth she had brought into his life.
And each time, without fail, her eyes would light up in that way that sent his heart into a freefall. The gentle curve of her lips, the soft lilt of her laughter—those were his greatest rewards, the sweetest victories.
She embraced his affections with the effortless grace that was so uniquely hers, receiving each act of love not with expectation, but with gratitude. She never sought grand declarations, nor did she need them; for Luna, love existed in the spaces between words, in the weight of a lingering glance, in the comfort of a shared silence.
And so, they built a life together—not with grand gestures alone, but with the quiet moments that whispered of forever.
Evenings were spent curled up in front of the fire, books resting on their laps as they traded theories about magic and the mysteries of the universe. They took long, meandering walks through sun-dappled woods, her hand occasionally slipping into his, their fingers brushing like an unspoken promise. When they wandered through meadows bursting with wildflowers, she would tuck delicate blooms behind his ear with a teasing smile, while he—ever enamored—watched her dance barefoot through the grass, utterly spellbound by the woman fate had placed in his arms.
She found his notes tucked between the pages of her books, scrawled in elegant, looping script—confessions of admiration, quiet affirmations of love, tender musings that left her heart fluttering. She cherished them, pressing them between the pages like pressed flowers, collecting them as one might collect glimpses of the soul.
Nott Manor, once a place of cold shadows and silent halls, had been transformed by her presence. Laughter now echoed in spaces where only solitude had once reigned. The dark, looming walls were softened by the warmth she brought into them, and where there had once been emptiness, there was now the sound of life.
Despite his initial hesitations—his fear that he was too broken, too inexperienced in the ways of love—he came to understand that perfection was never what she sought from him. She didn't need grand declarations of undying devotion or flawless words of romance. She only needed him. Honest, open, vulnerable.
And in return, she gave him something he had never dared to hope for—peace. Belonging.
Together, they created something extraordinary. Not a love forged in fire and desperate passion, but a love that grew steadily, like ivy weaving its way up the stone walls of their home—strong, unshakable, a part of them both.
It was not just a life they shared, but a story they were writing together—one filled with stolen glances, whispered secrets, and a future painted in the soft, golden hues of something endless.
~~~~~~
It was well past midnight when he finally returned home, the weight of the day pressing down on him like an iron cloak. His once-pristine shirt was now ruined, the deep red of dried and fresh blood stark against the pale fabric, a grim testament to the battles he had fought. He hadn't stopped to change, hadn't even considered it—all that mattered was getting back to her.
And there she was, standing at the entrance as she always did, her very presence anchoring him when everything else felt like it was slipping away. But tonight, the moment her gaze fell upon him, something in her serene expression fractured. Worry crept into her features, softening the usual calm she carried like armor.
"My Sun, what happened?" Her voice, usually a melody of quiet confidence, wavered slightly, betraying the distress she tried to conceal.
He forced a smile, an attempt to ease her worry, though he knew the state of him left little room for reassurance. "It's nothing, my moon. Just a scratch." His tone was light, dismissive, but even he could hear the exhaustion threading through it.
Her eyes, impossibly knowing, remained fixed on him, scanning the blood-soaked fabric, the tension in his posture, the way his fingers twitched as if still bracing for a fight. "A scratch doesn't leave this much blood, Theodore," she countered gently, stepping closer, her touch already reaching for the truth he tried to keep from her.
A sigh slipped from him, the weight of it settling deep in his chest. "It looks worse than it is, I swear." He raked a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to hold onto his crumbling facade. "I've had worse."
She took another step forward, closing the last bit of space between them. He could feel her warmth now, grounding him in a way he hadn't realized he needed. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, fingers brushing over fabric and skin with a tenderness that made something in his chest ache. "You don't have to do this," she murmured, her voice steady yet infinitely soft. "Not with me. Let me help you."
The sincerity in her words undid him more than any wound ever could. He had been trained to endure pain, to bear his burdens in silence, but she was asking—no, pleading—to share the weight.
He hesitated, caught in the limbo between habit and the undeniable truth that he wanted—needed—to let her in. But the way she looked at him, with quiet determination and something deeper, something more profound, made it impossible to refuse.
"Alright," he conceded at last, his voice quieter now, softened by the acceptance of her care.
She guided him inside, her hand never leaving his arm, the touch small yet reassuring, a silent promise that he wasn't alone in this. They walked together through the halls of the manor, the grandeur of their surroundings fading into irrelevance against the warmth of her presence beside him.
When they reached their room, she coaxed him to sit at the edge of the bed, her movements fluid, unhurried, carrying a kind of certainty that soothed him more than he expected. Without a word, she fetched a basin of warm water and a cloth, the steady rhythm of her care weaving an unspoken intimacy between them.
As she knelt before him, dabbing the cloth against his skin with meticulous gentleness, he couldn't take his eyes off her. There was strength in her touch—not the forceful kind, but the kind that rebuilt rather than destroyed, the kind that whispered, You are safe now.
"You don't have to worry about me," he murmured, his voice tinged with something raw as he winced slightly under her careful ministrations.
She didn't respond immediately, merely continued her task with quiet focus, her fingers brushing over his skin in ways that made his pulse unsteady for reasons that had nothing to do with pain.
The room was silent except for the occasional sharp inhale he couldn't suppress and the sound of water dripping back into the basin. He let himself sink into the moment, into the safety of her hands, the way she touched him like he was something precious, not just another soldier sent out to be bloodied and broken.
As she worked, he watched her, drinking in every detail—the way her brows knit together in concentration, the way her lips parted slightly in thought, the way the candlelight flickered in the depths of her eyes. It struck him then, how deeply he loved her. How utterly his she felt, even though she had never been something to be claimed.
Something about the thought unnerved him.
His gaze drifted, settling on the door, on the memory of her standing there each night, waiting for him without fail.
He frowned slightly, his gaze searching hers for an answer he wasn't sure he was ready to hear. "My moon, why do you always wait for me at the door?" His voice was quieter now, laced with something unspoken, something fragile.
Her deep, knowing eyes met his, filled with that quiet Luna-like wisdom that always seemed to stretch beyond the confines of reality. She tilted her head slightly, considering his question, weighing her words with the same delicate care she gave to everything she touched. "Waiting is better than wondering," she finally said, her calm tone carrying a gravity that made his chest tighten. "Better than the uncertainty of whether you'll come home at all."
Something in him cracked at that.
"Uncertainty?" he echoed, stepping closer, unable to stop himself from reaching for her. His hand cupped her cheek, his touch gentle but desperate, as if grounding himself in her presence could will away the unthinkable. "I promise you, I'll always come home. Why would you ever think otherwise?"
She covered his hand with her own, her fingers light but firm, steady in a way that made his breath hitch. "Theodore," she murmured, her voice like the softest wind through the trees, "there may come a day when you don't return. And while I accept that possibility, until then, I will always be here, waiting for you."
Her words settled into the space between them, thick with meaning, heavy with the kind of quiet acceptance that terrified him. A chill rippled through his spine—not from fear, but from the sheer weight of her understanding. She had always seen the world differently, grasping the invisible threads of fate and consequence in a way no one else could. And in this moment, he realized just how deeply she knew the risks he took, the life he led, and the cruel unpredictability that could rip them apart in an instant.
He had always thought of her patience as a form of love, but now he understood—it was strength.
His heart swelled with a mix of admiration and sorrow, an ache he didn't know how to put into words. "You're remarkable, you know that?" he whispered, his thumb brushing against her cheek, as if memorizing the softness of her skin, as if holding her like this could somehow change fate.
She smiled softly, something wistful in the curve of her lips. "And you're brave," she replied, her voice light yet unwavering. "It's what makes you who you are."
He shook his head slightly, his jaw clenching. Brave. The word felt wrong on his tongue. Brave implied choice. But he hadn't chosen this life—not in the way that mattered. He hadn't chosen to be someone who left her waiting, who forced her to wonder if the night would steal him away forever. He had simply learned to survive, to fight because there had never been another option.
And yet, here she was, waiting for him—not because she had to, but because she chose to.
That thought alone made his chest ache.
A lump formed in his throat as he exhaled slowly, then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into the warmth of his embrace. He needed to feel her against him, solid and real, something tangible in the face of the shadows that always lurked at the edge of his life. "I don't plan on going anywhere," he murmured into her hair, his voice thick with emotion, resolute despite the weight pressing against his ribs. "Not for a long time."
She melted into him, her arms slipping around his waist, holding him just as tightly, as if she, too, was trying to anchor them in this moment. "I know," she whispered against his chest, her breath warm, her heartbeat steady. "But the world has its own plans. All we can do is cherish the time we have… and I choose to spend mine waiting for you."
He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing the lump in his throat, willing himself to keep breathing through the ache of her words.
She knew.
She knew in ways he wished she didn't.
She understood the unspoken things, the realities he tried to shield her from, the brutal truths that he fought to pretend didn't exist when he was in her arms. And yet, despite it all, she stood here, unwavering, accepting him and the life he led without hesitation.
He held her tighter, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender and something uniquely her.
He didn't deserve her patience, her trust, her love. But Merlin help him, he would do everything in his power to be worthy of it.
As they stood wrapped in each other's warmth, a silent vow took root inside him.
He would come home.
No matter the trials ahead, no matter the battles that waited for him beyond these walls, he would return to her. To his moon.
For as long as she waited, he would always have a reason to fight, a reason to survive.
And in her presence, in the quiet certainty of her love, he found his purpose—a light to guide him through even the darkest nights.
~~~~~~
The sun filtered gently through the windows of Nott Manor, casting a warm, golden glow over the sitting room where they spent their afternoon together. The peaceful atmosphere felt like a sanctuary from the outside world, a rare moment where they could simply exist with one another. Yet, beneath the calm surface, an undercurrent of worry simmered that neither could fully ignore.
She had been unwell for several days. It had started as a mild queasiness, easily dismissed as a fleeting stomach bug, but it had since deepened into something more persistent. He observed her carefully, noting how she would occasionally press a hand to her stomach, her brow furrowing in discomfort despite her efforts to maintain her serene demeanor.
His concern grew like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon. A gnawing worry twisted in his gut, relentless and unsettling. He felt helpless; there were no words of comfort or remedies to offer, no mother to turn to for advice or sister to seek guidance from. The uncertainty was a different kind of terror. He could face danger without flinching, yet the sight of her in pain struck him with a vulnerability he hadn't anticipated.
As they sat together, the golden afternoon light casting a warm glow over the room, he felt utterly powerless for the first time in his life. His heart clenched painfully as he watched her, taking in the way she pressed a hand to her stomach every so often, the way fatigue clung to the edges of her normally serene expression. He had seen her bright, otherworldly glow dim over the past few days, replaced by a quiet exhaustion that she refused to acknowledge.
He wanted—needed—to do something, anything to make it better, to take whatever was afflicting her and bear it himself. But fear kept him frozen. What if this wasn't just a fleeting illness? What if it was something serious, something he couldn't fight or fix? His entire life had been spent learning how to anticipate threats, how to prepare, how to strike first. But this? This was unknown territory, and it was unraveling him thread by thread.
His fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair, his knuckles turning white. He wasn't accustomed to this kind of helplessness, and he hated it.
"My moon," he finally said, his voice low, edged with the weight of his mounting dread. "You've been feeling unwell for days now. I think we should call a healer."
She looked up at him then, her expression unreadable, her hands resting gently in her lap. There was still that unwavering calm about her, as if nothing in the world could truly rattle her. But he knew her. He knew her silences as well as he knew the stars. She was holding something back, dismissing her discomfort as something insignificant, something that didn't warrant worry.
"It's just a stomach bug," she said, her lips curving into a small, reassuring smile, though there was an unmistakable weariness in her voice. "I'm sure it will pass soon."
His jaw clenched, frustration twisting in his chest. "And what if it doesn't?" he pressed, unable to contain the sharp edge in his voice. He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to soften. "Luna, what if it's something more? I—I don't know what to do, sugar. I can handle a battlefield…of paperwork, but this? Watching you like this and not knowing how to fix it?" He exhaled shakily. "I'm terrified."
His admission lingered between them, raw and vulnerable. The weight of it settled heavily on his shoulders. He had spent years crafting the image of a man who was always in control, always prepared. Yet here he was, utterly undone by something as simple—and as terrifying—as not knowing.
She reached out then, her fingers finding his, her touch featherlight yet grounding. He stared at their intertwined hands, the warmth of her skin against his a stark contrast to the cold fear wrapping around his ribs.
"Theo," she murmured, her voice like the steadying lull of ocean waves. "I know you're scared. But I promise you, I'm alright."
He squeezed her hand, but the words did little to ease the ache lodged in his chest. His thumb brushed absently over the back of her hand, as if memorizing the feeling, as if trying to hold onto her. "What if it's not just a bug?" he asked again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how to help you. I don't have anyone to ask—no mother, no sister. I don't know what's normal. And I—I can't lose you."
Her expression softened, a quiet understanding settling into the depths of her eyes. He had never spoken about it before, never let himself linger on the absence of a family he could turn to for guidance. But with her, there was no need for pretense. She saw him—the real him—even in his most unguarded moments.
"You don't have to have all the answers," she reassured, her fingers tightening around his. "We'll figure it out together. You don't have to carry this alone, my love."
His throat tightened at the way she said it—we'll figure it out together. She said it like it was a certainty, like it was a given, like there was never a question that she would be by his side, no matter what.
"You really believe that?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Of course," she said simply, her gaze unwavering. "No matter what this is, no matter what happens, we will face it together."
And just like that, the tension in his chest loosened—not completely, but enough for him to breathe again. He wasn't alone in this. He never had been, not since the moment she had stepped into his life.
His free hand lifted, fingers brushing over her cheek as if she might disappear if he didn't anchor her to him somehow. "You really are something else, my moon," he murmured, shaking his head in quiet disbelief.
A teasing glimmer flickered in her gaze. "I know," she quipped, her lips curving into a playful smile.
Despite himself, he let out a breath of something that almost sounded like a laugh. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of it.
Yet, beneath the warmth of her reassurance, beneath the lightness of their exchanged smiles, something loomed in the distance—something neither of them could see yet, something that would change everything.
As they sat in the quiet of the manor, the golden afternoon light wrapping around them, he allowed himself to believe—just for a little while—that this was merely a passing sickness..
~~~~~~
Today was different. The weight that had settled in her bones for days had finally lifted, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she felt like herself again. The dull fatigue that had clung to her like morning mist had evaporated, replaced by a quiet energy humming beneath her skin. The discomfort that had once tethered her to slow, measured movements had eased, and a familiar lightness had returned to her step.
As she ascended the stairs to her private wing, the realization settled deeper within her, like a whisper carried on the wind. The clarity that had eluded her in the haze of exhaustion had arrived in full force today, bringing with it a truth she could no longer ignore. The signs had been there all along—the lingering queasiness, the warmth that coursed through her body at odd moments, the quiet knowing that had begun to bloom in the depths of her intuition.
She had always trusted her instincts. They had never led her astray before, and now, they were speaking to her in a voice too strong to dismiss.
Once within the sanctuary of her chambers, she moved with quiet purpose, her heart thudding steadily against her ribs. She retrieved her wand with steady fingers and reached for a small bundle of herbs from the neatly arranged shelves that lined the far wall. There were more precise methods available, of course—modern diagnostic spells that could confirm her suspicions in an instant—but Luna had always believed in the balance of magic and nature, in listening to the earth as much as she listened to the spellwork woven into the fabric of their world.
Taking a deep breath, she positioned herself near the warm glow of candlelight and murmured the incantation, her wand tracing slow, deliberate circles over her abdomen. The spell responded almost instantly, its golden light flickering to life, wrapping around her like the first rays of dawn. Her heart pounded as she watched the magic settle, the glow pulsing in quiet affirmation.
But Luna had always been one for certainty, for layers of proof that spoke beyond simple flashes of magic. She turned her attention to the herbs she had gathered, carefully selecting the ones she knew would answer the question lingering in her mind. She worked methodically, her movements graceful and precise as she brewed a simple infusion—one designed to reveal the most sacred of truths.
The aroma of the tea filled the air, earthy and warm, carrying a sense of peace that wrapped around her like a familiar embrace. She lifted the cup to her lips, taking a slow, measured sip, allowing the liquid to seep into her senses, to merge with the very essence of her being.
And then—she felt it.
A quiet, undeniable warmth spread through her, beginning in her core and radiating outward, filling every inch of her with an awareness so profound it left her breathless. It wasn't just the herbs or the spell. It was something deeper, something ancient, something that had already begun to weave itself into the very fabric of her soul.
She opened her eyes, her breath catching in her throat.
It was real.
It was true.
She was pregnant.
She sat on the edge of her bed, hands resting gently against her abdomen, as the weight of the moment settled over her. A deep breath filled her lungs, shaky but full of quiet reverence, as an emotion unlike anything she had ever experienced washed through her. It was overwhelming yet profoundly beautiful, a discovery that felt less like a surprise and more like something written in the stars long before she had even realized it.
A soft smile bloomed on her lips, her fingers brushing over the place where life had begun to take root. She had spent her entire existence attuned to the world's mysteries, believing in the unseen, trusting in the whispers of the universe. But this—this—was something entirely new. A different kind of magic, one more powerful than anything she had ever encountered.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the realization settle into her bones. She was going to be a mother. And he—her beautiful, protective, utterly devoted Theodore—was going to be a father.
Her heart swelled at the thought of him, of the way he had watched her with unmasked concern for days, his worry bleeding into every glance, every touch. How his hands had hovered near her without ever pressuring, how his voice had softened even when laced with fear. He had felt this before she had even known, his love manifesting as unrelenting protectiveness. And now, when she told him the truth, she knew he would feel everything all at once—joy, panic, awe.
He would overthink, just as he always did. He would worry about whether he would be enough, whether he could protect her, protect their child. But she already knew the answer. He was enough—he always had been. And together, they would navigate this unknown road as they had navigated everything else: side by side, unwavering in their devotion to each other.
A quiet chuckle escaped her lips, the sheer rightness of it all sending a shiver of warmth down her spine. She had never needed certainty to embrace something—had never feared the unknown—but this? This was something she embraced with her entire heart.
With renewed resolve, she rose to her feet, a steady determination settling into her every step. She had to tell him. She wanted to tell him, to see the moment realization dawned in his eyes, to watch as the depth of his love made itself known in all the ways only he could express.
As she made her way down the grand staircase, her smile only grew, glowing with the quiet, unshakable joy of a new beginning.
~~~~~~
Her excitement crackled in the air as she moved through the manor, her heart a symphony of anticipation. Every step carried the weight of something extraordinary, something life-altering. This wasn't just another evening—this was the night she would tell him their world was about to change forever.
From the moment she woke that morning, she had been in a flurry of careful preparation, her mind spinning with ideas on how to make the moment as special as the news itself. It had to be perfect. She wanted him to feel the enormity of it, the joy, the love, the future they were about to step into together. And so, with unwavering determination, she decided to prepare a dinner unlike any other—a feast, a celebration, something infused with all the warmth and love she felt inside.
The house-elves had tried to take over, their small hands eager to relieve her of any effort. But she had stood her ground, her voice soft but resolute.
"I can do it," she had assured them with a gentle smile as one attempted to take a bowl of freshly mixed dough from her hands. "This is something I want to do."
They exchanged worried glances, their concern for her health evident in the way they hovered. They had seen her pale in the past days, noticed the subtle fatigue she had tried to mask. Their instinct was to protect, to keep her from exerting herself. But she wasn't simply preparing a meal—she was weaving a memory, crafting a moment that would live in their hearts forever.
"I promise," she continued, her tone patient but unwavering, "if I need help, I will ask."
Reluctantly, they relented, stepping back just enough to allow her to work while still lingering nearby, ensuring she was never without assistance should she change her mind.
With her sleeves rolled up and her heart set, she poured herself into every detail. She prepared Theo's favorite dishes with care, her hands moving with practiced ease as she measured, stirred, and tasted. The kitchen was filled with the rich, comforting aromas of slow-roasted meats, fragrant herbs, and warm, freshly baked bread. Each ingredient was chosen with love, every dish prepared with the sole purpose of making him feel cherished.
But she didn't stop at the meal. This was bigger than just dinner—this was the beginning of something new, something beautiful. And so, she turned her attention to the manor itself, determined to make the very walls reflect the joy blooming within her.
She spent the afternoon decorating, weaving garlands of ivy and fresh flowers along the grand staircase, their fragrant petals filling the air with a sweet, earthy perfume. Candles were placed in careful clusters, their golden glow chasing away the usual starkness of the manor, transforming the space into something warm, inviting—something that felt like home.
By the time evening arrived, the transformation was complete. The dining room, often imposing with its long mahogany table and towering windows, had been softened into something magical. The finest china gleamed under the soft flicker of candlelight, polished silver reflecting the golden hues dancing across the table. At the center, nestled among the flickering flames, was an arrangement of wildflowers, their colors bold and untamed, a perfect reflection of the life she now carried within her.
She stepped back, her breath catching as she took it all in. The manor had never felt like this before—not when she had first arrived, not even when she had slowly begun making it her own. Tonight, it was a place of love, of promise, of family.
Everything was perfect. All that was left was for him to come home.
She pressed a hand lightly against her stomach, a secret smile curling at the corners of her lips. Soon, he would know. Soon, she would see the moment realization dawned in his eyes, see his world shift in the same way hers had.
Taking a steadying breath, she turned toward the door, her heart racing with anticipation. Tonight, she would give him the greatest gift of all.
As the familiar creak of the front door echoed through the manor, her heart fluttered with anticipation. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before lighting the final few candles, their golden glow casting a soft warmth over the carefully arranged space. Tonight, she would share the most beautiful secret she had ever carried, the one that would change their lives forever. With a bright, love-filled smile, she made her way to the entrance, eager to see the man who had unknowingly become the center of her universe.
The moment he stepped inside, he paused, his keen eyes sweeping over the transformed space. The usual austere solemnity of Nott Manor had been replaced with something entirely different—something warm, inviting, and undeniably enchanting. Flowers and garlands adorned the dark wooden walls, their delicate blooms vibrant against the grandeur of the manor, filling the air with their gentle fragrance. Candlelight flickered from every corner, dancing across the polished floors and casting a golden glow over the evening. But more than the decorations, it was the intoxicating aroma of a carefully prepared feast that truly made him stop in his tracks.
His heart pounded in his chest as he took it all in, a strange but welcome warmth settling in his bones. This wasn't just a dinner. This was something more.
"This looks incredible, my moon," he murmured, his voice touched with awe as his gaze finally landed on her, standing before him like a vision. The soft candlelight illuminated her features, making her look even more ethereal than usual. It was moments like these that made him feel utterly unworthy of her. "What's the occasion?"
Her smile deepened, a playful glint flickering in her luminous eyes. "It's something special," she said, taking his hand, her fingers lacing effortlessly with his. "Something just for us."
The moment their hands touched, a shiver ran down his spine. The anticipation in her voice, the mysterious twinkle in her gaze—it was enough to set his pulse racing. He allowed her to lead him to the dining room, where the breathtaking transformation continued.
Dinner was perfection, and he could hardly contain his amazement. Every dish, from the expertly seasoned roast to the delicately arranged sides, was a masterpiece. He had always known she was exceptional, but this—this was something else entirely.
Between bites, he found himself gushing, unable to help the sheer admiration spilling from his lips. "This is unbelievable, sugar," he marveled, shaking his head as he looked at her, utterly captivated. "You've outdone yourself. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."
She only smiled, her expression unreadable but full of something soft and knowing. As much as he adored her, there was something else beneath the surface tonight—something unsaid, something waiting to be revealed.
When dinner was finished, she stood, moving with that effortless grace that always left him breathless. Without a word, she gestured for him to follow her, her fingers brushing against his as she led him into the living room.
The fire in the hearth crackled warmly, bathing the room in golden light, the cozy intimacy of the space pulling them closer together. His heart pounded harder now, the quiet between them charged with an energy he couldn't quite place. He had spent years mastering the art of reading people, but with her, it was different—she was a mystery he would never tire of unraveling.
She turned to face him, and the shift in her expression made his breath catch. Gone was the playful secrecy—now, there was something deeper, something that made his very bones vibrate with anticipation.
"Theodore Nott," she began, her voice steady yet filled with a quiet emotion that sent a shiver down his spine. She took a small step closer, her fingers pressing lightly against his. "I'm extremely happy to inform you that I'm expecting a baby."
For a moment, the world stopped.
The words floated between them, gentle yet weighted with a significance that felt almost unreal. He stared at her, his mind struggling to catch up, his breath stolen straight from his lungs.
"Y-you're…" he tried, his voice breaking in his disbelief. His throat tightened as he blinked rapidly, as if the reality of what she had just said would settle in if he only processed it long enough. "A baby? We… we're going to have a baby?"
Every one of his wildest, most possessive fantasies had just become reality—she was carrying his child, undeniable proof that she belonged to him in every way. The thought of her, round with his baby, made something primal snap inside him, a desperate need coiling low in his gut, demanding that he claim her all over again.
She nodded, her lips curling into a gentle, knowing smile, her gaze warm and unwavering as she watched the realization crash over him like a tidal wave. The moment stretched between them, charged with an emotion so profound it stole the very breath from his lungs.
His knees nearly gave out beneath him, and he reached for the back of a nearby chair, his grip tightening as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality. "Merlin's beard, Luna," he rasped, his voice raw with disbelief. His hand trembled as he pressed it to his forehead, his wide eyes locked onto hers, searching, desperate. "A baby? You're carrying my—our child?" The words barely made it past his lips, his mind reeling, his heart hammering in his chest.
His entire world tilted on its axis. His breath came in short, uneven gasps, a sharp contrast to the quiet certainty in her expression. "I can't—I don't—Luna, I'm not ready for this," he admitted, panic lacing his every word, his voice cracking under the sheer weight of it all. "How am I supposed to—? I don't know how to be—"
She stepped forward without hesitation, closing the distance between them, her presence grounding him in a way nothing else ever could. She reached out, her delicate fingers brushing against his arm, a featherlight touch that sent warmth spreading through his body. "Theodore," she murmured, her voice calm, steady, certain. "It's alright. You don't have to have all the answers right now. We'll figure this out. Together."
He looked at her then—really looked at her. At the unwavering love in her eyes, the quiet confidence in her posture, the serenity that had always drawn him in like a moth to a flame. And gods, how he wanted to believe her. But the fear was suffocating, pressing against his ribs, clawing at his throat.
"I never thought—" He swallowed thickly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Luna, I've never even imagined being someone's father. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be good enough for this—for you."
Her hand slid into his, fingers weaving together like they had always belonged that way. "You are good enough," she said, without a trace of doubt. "And you'll learn. Just like we've learned everything else—side by side."
Something in him cracked, something that had been locked away for years—maybe even his whole life. The fear was still there, coiling in his chest, but so was she. She was here, offering him a future he had never dared to dream of. And despite everything—despite the uncertainty, the inexperience, the deep-rooted fear that he would somehow ruin this—there was no universe in which he would let her do this alone.
"Together," he echoed, his voice still shaking, but steadier now. He lifted her hand, pressing it to his lips, lingering there as if making an unspoken vow. "We'll do this together."
As he gazed into her luminous eyes, something shifted inside him. A purpose, fierce and undeniable, took root in his chest, intertwining with the love he had never been able to fully put into words. And in this moment—standing in the soft glow of candlelight, with her hand in his and the weight of their future pressing upon them—he finally understood.
There was nothing he wouldn't do for her. For them.
~~~~~~
The morning light seeped gently into the manor, stretching golden fingers across the grand halls and creeping into their shared sanctuary. The world stirred slowly, but he awoke with a start, his breath catching in his throat as the weight of the night before settled into his chest. The revelation of her pregnancy had hit him with the force of a lightning strike, a truth so monumental it still felt unreal. Yet as his pulse steadied and his thoughts aligned, a singular certainty rooted itself within him—everything had changed.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his mind a chaotic storm of thoughts and emotions. Father. The word rang in his head, foreign and terrifying, yet laced with an exhilarating sort of wonder. His heart pounded not from fear, but from the overwhelming surge of something raw and primal. An unshakable need had taken root inside him—a fierce protectiveness, an insatiable longing to be near her, to safeguard her, to revel in the reality that she carried his child.
He wasn't the same man who had walked into their home the night before. The shift was undeniable, searing through him with unrelenting intensity. When he finally rose, he moved with purpose, no hesitation in his steps as he sought her out. Distance felt unbearable now; the idea of even a single room separating them was an affront to the possessive hunger gnawing at his chest. He needed her in his sight, needed to touch her, to assure himself that she was real and that she was his.
Following the soft sounds of morning, he found her in the kitchen, moving with an effortless grace as she prepared breakfast. The sight of her stole the very air from his lungs. How had he never noticed the quiet divinity in her movements? The glow of the morning sun kissed her skin, casting her in an ethereal light, and for a moment, he could do nothing but stand there, mesmerized. His wife. His moon. The mother of his child.
The realization sent a shudder through him, his body thrumming with an urgency he couldn't contain. He crossed the room in mere strides, his hands finding her before he could think better of it. One palm pressed against the small of her back, the other found her shoulder as he leaned in, his lips brushing her cheek with reverence.
"Good morning, my moon," he murmured, his voice rich with emotion, a hint of hushed awe beneath the words. "You look radiant today."
She turned to him, her serene smile stealing what little breath he had left. There was an understanding in her gaze, as if she could feel the storm raging within him, and yet she remained so effortlessly composed. "Good morning," she greeted, tilting her head slightly. "I'm glad you're up early."
He didn't move away. If anything, his hands only tightened their hold, his fingers tracing small, absentminded patterns against the fabric of her dress. "I have to be close to you," he admitted, his voice lower now, hushed as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile magic of this moment. "I don't think I could bear being apart from you. Not now."
She laughed softly, the sound melodic, laced with affectionate amusement. "I'm right here, Theodore. You don't have to hover."
His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness that belied the sheer intensity pulsing beneath his skin. "I do," he countered, his gaze tracing every inch of her face as if committing her to memory. "Everything feels different now. You're different. We're different. I just... I need to be near you, to know you're alright."
Throughout breakfast, his presence was an unrelenting force—hovering, lingering, touching. Every chance he got, his fingers brushed against hers, his palm found the small of her back, his knuckles traced her wrist. He was wholly consumed by her, unable to look away, unable to be anywhere but right by her side.
She had always been his universe. But now, she was everything—his home, his heart, the center of his world.
As she moved around the kitchen, tending to the lingering tasks of the morning, he shadowed her every step, as if afraid she might disappear if he let her out of his sight. It was almost comical, the way he hovered so closely, his movements mirroring hers with unwavering attentiveness. Every time she reached for something, his hand was there first. Every dish she tried to put away, he intercepted. Every flicker of effort she made was met with his immediate offer to do it for her.
"Is there anything else I can do?" he asked for what felt like the hundredth time, his voice laced with an earnestness so sweet it made her heart ache.
She turned to him, a soft smile playing at her lips, her expression warm and patient. "You're doing more than enough, Theodore. Just being here with me means everything."
His gaze softened, his hand finding hers in a gentle but firm hold. There was something raw in the way he looked at her now, something reverent, as though she had suddenly become the most fragile and precious thing in the world. "I just want to make sure everything is perfect for you and our baby," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "I want to be the best husband and father I can be."
Her fingers curled around his, her own heart swelling with quiet joy. "You already are," she assured him, squeezing his hand in return. "And we'll figure out the rest together."
But despite her reassurances, he couldn't bring himself to step away. Every moment spent near her felt vital, as though some primal instinct had awakened within him overnight, demanding he remain close, remain present, protect.
As the morning stretched into afternoon, he found her in the kitchen again, her hands busy with the quiet rhythm of preparing lunch. The domestic simplicity of it all sent a wave of warmth through him, but it was overshadowed by something far more insistent—an uncontainable mix of pride, possessiveness, and sheer, unfiltered adoration.
A slow smirk curved his lips as he stepped behind her, his voice low and teasing as he spoke. "So," he drawled, his arms looping loosely around her waist, "you're having my baby, are you?"
She glanced over her shoulder, a knowing smile already forming as her eyes sparkled with amusement. "It seems that way, my Sun," she replied, the affection in her voice as effortless as breathing.
The words sent a thrill down his spine, something dark and heady curling in his stomach. My baby. My Luna. The thought of her carrying his child, of her body nurturing something they had created together, stirred a deep, visceral need in him.
Before she could react, he swept her off her feet, lifting her with ease and setting her down onto the cool marble of the kitchen counter. She gasped in surprise, but the sound melted into laughter as she tilted her head back, utterly delighted by his sudden enthusiasm.
He stepped between her legs, pressing himself close, his hands resting on either side of her, caging her in as his eyes roved over her face. "You have no idea what this means to me," he whispered, his lips hovering just inches from hers.
She cupped his face, her touch featherlight, yet grounding. "I think I do," she murmured, her voice full of knowing.
That was all the permission he needed. He kissed her, slow and deep, pouring every ounce of his devotion into the connection. His hands found her waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of her dress as if he needed to anchor himself to her, to this. She responded with equal fervor, her arms winding around his neck, drawing him even closer.
When they finally parted, their breaths mingling in the small space between them, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes half-lidded with something dangerously close to worship.
"I can't believe how lucky I am," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "To have you. To have this."
Her smile was pure radiance, her fingers trailing softly down his cheek. "And I'm lucky to have you," she whispered.
His gaze drifted lower, catching the subtle way her hand came to rest on her belly. The sight struck him like a lightning bolt—his child was in there. His entire world, growing beneath her palm.
His own hand covered hers, his touch reverent as his thumb traced lazy circles over the soft fabric that separated him from the life they had created together.
"You're so beautiful, Luna," he breathed, his voice thick with desire, his fingers pressing just a little firmer against her stomach, needing to feel something.
She tilted her head, smiling softly. "I'm glad you think so."
"I know so," he corrected, his voice dropping to something rougher, hungrier.
He kissed her again, slow and deep, his lips molding to hers with a hunger that had only grown since the moment he first touched her. His hands roamed over her body, relearning every curve, every soft plane of skin, as if he could never truly have enough of her. But tonight was different. Tonight, she wasn't just his wife—she was carrying his child, a living, breathing piece of the love they had built together. The thought made something raw and possessive stir deep within him, an unshakable need to worship her, to claim her all over again.
"I want you, my Sun," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.
His cock twitched in response, already hard and aching for her. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark with desire, his expression unreadable except for the sheer intensity burning beneath the surface.
"I want you too, more than you could ever know," he murmured, his voice rough with restraint.
He captured her lips once more, this time with a slow, consuming intensity, his tongue sweeping into her mouth in a dance that left them both breathless. She moaned against him, her body arching into his as her hands slid beneath his shirt, nails scraping lightly over his skin, igniting every nerve in his body.
His hands found her breasts, thumbs grazing over her nipples through the fabric of her dress, making her gasp. Her back arched, pressing herself more firmly into his touch, and he groaned at the way she responded so effortlessly to him.
"Theo," she breathed, her fingers gripping his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing him just as much as he needed her.
He trailed kisses down the curve of her neck, nipping and sucking gently, relishing the way her breath hitched with every movement. When his hands slid lower, tracing the gentle swell of her belly, he paused for just a moment, overwhelmed by the sheer reverence of what lay beneath his fingertips.
His wife. His entire universe.
Then, without another word, he slipped his hand beneath the waistband of her knickers, finding her already drenched for him.
"Fuck, my moon," he groaned against her skin. "You're so wet for me."
Her only response was a soft, breathless moan as his fingers began to stroke her, slow and deliberate, teasing her until she was trembling against him.
"Yes, Theo—just like that," she gasped, her hips bucking into his touch, chasing the pleasure he so willingly gave her.
His name on her lips, the way she writhed against him—it was almost too much. His cock throbbed with need, desperate to be inside her, to lose himself in the woman he adored.
"I need you, love," he rasped, his forehead resting against hers, his breath uneven. "I need to feel you."
She nodded, her eyes dark with unspoken longing. "Then take me," she whispered. "I'm yours, always."
That was all the permission he needed.
In one swift movement, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to their bed, laying her down as if she were the most precious thing in the world—because to him, she was. He undressed her slowly, savoring the sight of her, his fingers brushing over her skin in reverence. And when he finally pressed himself against her, bare and burning with need, he kissed her with all the love, the devotion, and the fierce adoration he had never quite been able to put into words.
"My sun," she breathed, wrapping her legs around his waist as he aligned himself with her, the heat of her body drawing him in.
He sank into her in one deep, slow thrust, swallowing her gasp with his lips. He groaned, his hands gripping her hips, holding her close as he filled her completely. She was perfect—so warm, so tight, and his.
His pace started slow, deliberate, as if he was trying to memorize the way she felt around him. But she was just as desperate, just as lost in him as he was in her, and soon, her nails were digging into his back, her body arching into him as she urged him to move faster.
"Oh, gods, Theo," she gasped, her voice shaking with pleasure.
He growled in response, his rhythm quickening, his hands moving between them to find her clit, rubbing tight, teasing circles as he drove into her over and over again.
Her body tensed beneath him, her breathing ragged, and he knew she was close. He pressed his forehead to hers, his voice hoarse as he whispered, "Come for me, my love. Let me feel you."
With one final stroke, she shattered beneath him, crying out his name as pleasure wracked her entire body. The way she clenched around him, pulling him even deeper, sent him hurtling over the edge right after her, his release spilling inside her as he groaned her name into her neck.
For a long moment, neither of them moved, tangled together in the aftershocks of their passion, their breaths mingling, their hearts pounding in sync.
Then, finally, he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his fingers brushing damp strands of hair from her face. She was radiant, her cheeks flushed, her lips kiss-swollen, her eyes filled with something deeper than lust—something he had only ever seen reflected in her when she looked at him like this.
He swallowed hard, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of his emotions, and instead of saying what he had always struggled to put into words, he leaned in and kissed her, slow and lingering, pouring every unspoken promise into the press of his lips.
When they finally parted, she smiled up at him, her fingers tracing lazy patterns across his back. "I think you have a pregnancy kink," she murmured, amusement dancing in her voice.
He groaned, burying his face in her neck, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him. "Maybe," he admitted, his voice muffled against her skin. "But only when it's you carrying my child."
She laughed softly, wrapping her arms around him, holding him close. "Then I suppose we're both very lucky."
He kissed her again, his hands splayed possessively over her belly, his mind already filled with dreams of the future—their future.
And for the first time in his life, Theodore Nott had everything he had ever wanted.