in the corner of the pub, the largest bottle of whisky they had placed before him, untouched. The glass beside it remained dry, his fingers merely resting on its rim as he stared at the amber liquid inside the bottle, as though willing it to offer him answers it would never give.
The noise around him faded into a distant murmur—muffled laughter, clinking glasses, a dartboard being struck, the low hum of conversation—but none of it reached him. His mind was elsewhere, spinning in circles, trying to make sense of everything. His heart pounded in his chest, not from rage, though he was certainly angry, but from a deep, aching confusion.
He couldn’t believe it. A witch. His wife was a witch. It sounded like something out of a children’s fairy tale. Some old superstition told around firesides or mocked in Sunday papers. And yet, it was real. Eileen had told him the truth—tearfully, quietly, carefully—as if afraid that the truth itself might break them.
And perhaps it had. He’d stormed out of the house without saying a word. Not out of hatred. Not really. It wasn’t even betrayal he felt, not in the usual sense. It was fear. And shame. He hadn’t known how to respond, hadn’t even tried to understand. He’d simply left.
Was he truly angry with her? Or was he more angry with himself—for being so small, so closed-minded, so human?
He let out a sigh and dragged a hand down his face, the stubble rough against his palm. The house—small, crumbling, paint peeling from the walls—was never meant to be permanent. They were planning to leave Spinner’s End behind. He had promised her that. Once he won his first few cases and earned a proper wage, they’d move to the countryside. Somewhere with trees and sky and space for a child to run. A cottage, perhaps, with ivy creeping up the bricks and a little fireplace that never quite stopped smoking in the winter.
They’d talked about it for months. They’d even picked out names. A son or a daughter—it didn’t matter. He was going to be the kind of father his own never was. Tobias had grown up in a home filled with shouting and smashed glass, with bruises left unexplained and police visits swept under the rug. His parents—both lost to drink and drugs—had barely noticed when he left home.
But he had noticed. And he had vowed he would never become them.
He would not raise a hand to Eileen. He would not scream or disappear into a bottle like his father had. He would not curse the child for crying or punish them for existing. No—his child, magical or not, would know love. Unquestionable, unconditional love. They would have bedtime stories, scraped knees kissed better, warm breakfasts before school. They would never have to wonder if they were wanted. He’d make sure of it.
Tobias looked back at the bottle one final time. Then, with quiet finality, he stood up. He placed a few notes on the counter—enough to pay for the drink, though he hadn’t touched a drop—and left without another word.
The air outside was cool and smelled faintly of rain. It had been drizzling earlier, and the pavement glistened under the streetlights. For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing in the night. Then, he turned—not towards home, not yet—but towards the offices a few streets away. The firm had taken a chance on him, a man from Spinner’s End with a rough past and no connections. Tomorrow would be his first official day working cases on his own.
He reached the modest brick building and unlocked the side entrance with his new key, flicking on the lights as he stepped inside. The familiar scent of old paper, ink, and stale coffee met him, oddly comforting. It was silent, but not oppressively so. The kind of silence that invited focus.
Tobias slipped off his coat and settled at his desk. The folder for his first case sat neatly in the centre, the corner slightly dog-eared from where he’d nervously flipped through it a dozen times already.
He opened it now, not with panic, but with purpose. The client was a man wrongfully dismissed from his job—nothing flashy, nothing complex, but still a man in need of help. A man who deserved a voice. And Tobias would be that voice.
He sharpened his pencil, smoothed down a sheet of paper, and began to make notes. Hours passed unnoticed. He read every detail, cross-referenced legal precedents, highlighted inconsistencies in the employer’s claims. He built his argument line by line, his confidence growing with each stroke of the pen. This—this was what he was meant to do.
By the time the sun began to rise, casting pale gold light through the dusty blinds, Tobias had not only outlined his strategy but had drafted an entire opening statement. His hands ached, his back was stiff, but he felt something he hadn’t in hours—hope.
He glanced at a photograph on his desk—one of him and Eileen, taken before everything had become complicated. She was laughing in it, genuinely, her eyes crinkling at the corners. He stared at it for a long time.
He wasn’t going to lose her. Not because of fear. Not because of ignorance. She had trusted him with her truth. Now it was his turn to rise to it.
Tobias Snape was not a perfect man. But he was not his father. And tomorrow, he would return home—not to apologise for being human, but to show her that he had chosen to be better.
And perhaps, just perhaps, she might still believe in him.
The sun had fully risen by the time Tobias stepped out of the office, his coat slung over his shoulder, tie loosened, and eyes bleary with fatigue. But his heart felt steadier than it had in hours. The crisp morning air bit at his skin as he made his way back to Spinner’s End, the streets still quiet save for the occasional milkman or the rustling of newspapers tossed onto front steps.
As he approached the house—that house, falling apart at the edges with its leaky roof and draughty windows—his steps slowed. The curtains were still drawn, and everything seemed still. Had she cried herself to sleep? Had she packed her things? Was she angry? Frightened?
He couldn’t blame her if she was. He had walked out when she needed him most.
Tobias reached the front door and stood there a moment, the key cold in his hand. He stared at the flaking paint on the doorframe, at the crack that had formed in the corner of the window months ago. He took a breath, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
The silence was immediate, almost oppressive. The air inside was heavy, stale from the night. The familiar scent of old furniture, damp wood, and Eileen’s favourite tea blend lingered in the air. He shut the door behind him softly.
The sitting room was empty. The old armchair where he usually slouched after work sat untouched. A book—one of Eileen’s—was resting on the side table, spine-up.
He heard movement from the kitchen. The clink of a teacup, a cupboard closing. Carefully, quietly, he stepped through the narrow hallway and into the small kitchen.
Eileen was there, her back to him, standing at the counter in her dressing gown, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Her hair was tied back messily, and her posture was tense—too straight, too still. She knew he was there. She just didn’t say anything.
Tobias swallowed hard, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. “Eileen…”
She turned slowly, her face pale, eyes rimmed with red. But she didn’t look angry—only tired. Wounded.
He took a step closer. “I didn’t drink it,” he said softly. “I went to the office. I spent the night working through my first case. I… I needed to think.”
Still, she said nothing, only watching him as though trying to decide whether she could still trust him.
“I was scared,” he admitted, voice quiet. “Not of you—just… of what it meant. Of how much I don’t understand. I shouldn’t have walked out. That wasn’t fair on you.”
Her eyes shimmered, but she blinked quickly, holding herself together. “You didn’t say a word. You just… left.”
“I know.” He stepped closer again, now only a few feet from her. “But I came back. And I’m not going anywhere.”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small envelope—his statement draft for the upcoming case. “I worked on this all night. I kept thinking… if I’m going to fight for strangers, I should bloody well be fighting for my own family first.”
Eileen looked down at the envelope, then back at him. “Do you mean it?”
“With everything I’ve got,” he said. “I don’t care if our child grows up with magic or not. I don’t care if I never understand half of what you are. I love you, Eileen. And I’ll learn. I’ll try. I just… I want to be better. For you. For the baby.”
A long silence followed. She seemed to weigh every word he said. Then, slowly, she set her tea down and crossed the room. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, and he held her just as firmly in return. A kind of quiet passed between them, not the tense silence from earlier, but a soft, fragile truce—a beginning.
“I’m scared too,” she murmured against his chest. “But I want this to work.”
“It will,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “We’ll leave this place behind, Eileen. We’ll build the life we talked about. And I’ll never walk out on you again.”
They stood there in the little kitchen, wrapped in each other’s arms, as the first proper sunlight in days filtered through the thin curtains. For the first time in a long while, Tobias Snape truly believed he could rewrite the story that had been written for him—and give his child the kind of beginning he never had.
The moment between them lingered for a while—Eileen’s arms around his waist, his chin resting lightly atop her head. But eventually, the weight of the world began to shift back into place. Reality came knocking, as it always did.
Tobias drew back gently. “I need to get back to the office,” he murmured.
Eileen nodded, stepping away. Her expression had shifted back into something more composed—cooler, not distant, but carefully measured. That was always how she was: not one for big emotions, not outwardly. She had a quiet intensity to her, a sort of still strength. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her in the first place. Where others might have shouted or wept, Eileen held her ground in silence, spine straight, eyes sharp.
“I won’t be late home,” he added quickly, as he reached for his coat. “And… I’ll pick something up for dinner. Something warm.”
She gave him a small nod, her mouth twitching at the corner—not quite a smile, but close. “Make sure you eat something too, Tobias,” she said softly. “You can’t win cases on tea and nerves alone.”
He paused, one hand on the doorframe, and glanced back at her. “That sounded dangerously close to affection.”
She arched a brow. “Don’t push your luck.”
There was a flicker of amusement between them before he stepped out into the brisk morning air.
The legal offices of Chapman, Rooks & Delaney weren’t anything grand. Just a narrow two-storey brick building wedged between a bakery and a newsagent, the wooden sign above the door slightly faded with age. Inside, the scent of paper, ink, and stale coffee hung in the air like wallpaper. The floors creaked. The paint on the skirting boards was chipped. But to Tobias, it felt like opportunity.
He arrived just before nine, hair combed, shirt pressed, shoes polished to a respectable shine. Sleep-deprived though he was, he held his head high. This was the start of something new.
As he stepped into the main office space, he was greeted by the receptionist, a wiry older woman named Mrs. Penn, who had a habit of sniffing disapprovingly at everyone—clients and solicitors alike.
“You’re on time,” she remarked, as though this was somehow suspicious.
“Good morning to you too,” Tobias said with a polite nod, and made his way to his desk.
It was a modest corner near the back, with a drawer that stuck slightly and a lamp that flickered when turned on. Still, it was his. He hung his coat on the rack, rolled up his sleeves, and sat down. The folder from the night before still sat there—his first case. Wrongful dismissal. Nothing flashy, but real. A man with a family who’d been sacked unfairly from a factory job after twelve years of loyal service.
He flipped the file open, making a few notes. He’d already spent hours poring over the details, but now he viewed it with fresher eyes, sharper focus. He marked inconsistencies, highlighted witness statements, and jotted down potential lines of questioning. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work, and it mattered.
Around mid-morning, one of the senior partners, Mr. Rooks, stopped by his desk. Rooks was tall, silver-haired, and had the air of a man who was permanently unimpressed. He looked Tobias up and down.
“Snape, is it?” he said, folding his arms. “You’re the one from Spinner’s End.”
Tobias didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir.”
Rooks grunted. “Bit rough round the edges, but Chapman says you’ve got bite. We’ll see.”
Tobias met his gaze evenly. “You will, sir.”
Rooks gave a short nod and moved on, leaving Tobias with a strange sense of pride beneath his exhaustion. He was being watched—but he expected that. He’d come from nothing, from broken glass and back alleys and shouting matches in the night. People like Rooks didn’t expect much from men like him.
But he’d prove them wrong.
As the day wore on, Tobias met two of the junior solicitors—Andrew, who was friendly and far too chatty, and Margaret, who wore horn-rimmed glasses and had the unnerving ability to memorise entire legal texts. They gave him the office gossip—who to avoid, who liked what tea, which clerks were lazy, which partners played favourites.
“Stay on Chapman’s good side,” Margaret advised, peering over her glasses. “He’s the only one who’ll stand up for you if Rooks starts breathing down your neck.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Tobias said.
“Also,” Andrew chimed in, “don’t use the third toilet on the left. The pipe’s cursed.”
Tobias blinked. “Cursed?”
“Er—figuratively,” Andrew added quickly, though he looked slightly rattled.
For a moment, Tobias felt a strange twinge in his chest. Magic. It had already slipped into his thoughts again, unbidden. But he pushed it aside. This wasn’t about that. This was his world. His space. The one thing he knew how to control.
By the afternoon, he’d submitted his draft statement to Chapman, who gave him a gruff nod of approval. “You write like a man with something to prove,” he said.
Tobias straightened. “I suppose I am.”
“Good. Just don’t burn yourself out trying to save the world. There’s no glory in martyrdom.”
As the sun began to dip behind the buildings, Tobias leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. His head ached from reading, but it was the kind of ache that came with effort, not stress. He looked around the dimming office, the stacks of files, the quiet ticking of the wall clock.
This was it. His first real day as a solicitor. No bottle, no shouting, no running away.
He packed up slowly, pulling on his coat and slipping the file back into his bag. As he passed Mrs. Penn on the way out, she gave him a curious look.
“You’ll be back tomorrow then?”
Tobias paused. “Of course.”
She gave a sniff, as though that too was suspicious, but nodded.
And as he stepped out into the cool evening air, Tobias felt something deep inside him settle. He had stood at the edge of a familiar cliff the night before. But he hadn’t jumped.
He had chosen the harder path.
He had chosen different.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe—just maybe—that was enough.