Pale light washes across the crib, the armchair with the cashmere throw you always steal, the small shelf of enchanted plush toys that chirp softly in rotation.

On the wall, a watercolor of the manor gardens. Soft greens, hazy lavender.

Draco is leaning over the crib, one hand braced on the carved mahogany edge, the other reaching in — slow, careful — to brush the back of his fingers against Callidora’s cheek.

She blinks up at him. Gray eyes, like his. Unfocused but alert.

He smiles. Soft. Private.

Doesn’t know you’re watching yet.

Doesn’t seem to notice anything beyond the tiny fist reaching for his finger.