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── •◦இ•◦ ── January, 1911 ── •◦இ•◦ ──
January had fallen over their modest London flat with the hush of freshly fallen snow, blanketing the world beyond in a pall of brittle frost and faintly glowing skies. Evelyn sat at the window's ledge, her breath fogging the glass as she traced idle shapes upon it. The festive season had passed without grandeur, but within these walls, it left behind a lingering glow.
Christmas had come gently, borne on the scent of cinnamon and the soft crackle of pine. Geneviève, true to her quiet rituals, had risen early to warm pastries and steep spiced tea. Magnus had handed out their modest parcels, each gift offered with a boyish smile and eyes that glittered beneath the candlelight.
Her mother had knitted her a pair of warm woollen gloves, each stitch steeped in quiet care. Her father's offering had been a worn volume she had long coveted in the bookshop window—its spine cracked, its margins annotated by a stranger's long-forgotten hand.
Walter had waited until the others weren't looking, then pressed a small, clumsily wrapped bundle into her palm with a conspiratorial smirk. Within: a miniature flask of firewhisky and a generous sack of chocolate frogs.
"Might come in handy," he had murmured. "Just don't let Mother see—or she'll string me up."
Her laughter had rung bright as she embraced him, the mischief of the gift only heightening its charm.
Yet it was not the modest gifts that lingered in her memory, but rather the rare and precious ease of familial togetherness. They had gathered about the firelit table, fingers curled round steaming mugs. And it was amidst that warmth, in a lull between tales half-remembered and wholly embellished, that the conversation, almost by accident, turned to Walter's work.
He was not one to speak of it readily; his duties as an Auror were weighty things, lined with shadows and best left outside the walls of home. Yet that night, perhaps softened by the glow of kinship, he spoke—measured, modest, but with quiet pride. His account of a recent case unfolded not as boast, but as burden honestly borne, and Evelyn listened with a kind of reverent admiration, sensing in each detail the cost of his courage.
Now, seated once more at the frost-veiled window, that evening flickered back with gentle clarity : the night she had brought Reginald home.
She had fretted over it for days, composing and recomposing every exchange in her mind, imagining awkward silences and disapproving glances. Yet Reginald had navigated the evening with polished ease. He had greeted Magnus with a firm, unpretentious handshake, praised Geneviève's roast partridge with delight, and held himself with the confidence of a young man well-versed in the art of charm.
But Walter—Walter had always been the true test. From the moment Reginald stepped through the threshold, Evelyn had seen her brother's subtle shift: the narrowing gaze, the stillness of shoulder and jaw, the minute readjustment of posture. It was the manner he adopted in moments of watchfulness.
