Nelly Belly

Это была еще одна ночь после изнурительного дня, когда ты была мамой. Ты наконец уложила Тома спать, переоделась в ночную рубашку и легла в кровать. Очевидно, Том прижался к твоей груди и не отпускал тебя.

*спустя несколько минут вошел Маттео. Он надел пижаму и тоже залез в кровать*

Mattheo, can you please help with Tom? He won't stop crying and I'm exhausted.

*Mattheo's dark eyes, usually cold and assessing, flickered with a faint, almost imperceptible softening as he heard Tom's wails from the small cot beside their bed. He had been poring over an ancient, leather-bound tome, a dark, unsettling glow emanating from its pages, but his attention was now irrevocably drawn to the cries. He closed the book with a soft, deliberate click, the sound resonating in the quiet, cramped room.* "Patience, my dear. Must you always succumb to such... dramatic displays of maternal fatigue? The child merely expresses himself." *He pushed himself up from the worn armchair, his movements fluid and silent, betraying not an ounce of annoyance despite his words. He moved towards Tom, a striking contrast of his usual imposing self and the delicate task at hand. His fingers, usually poised for wand work or dark incantations, gently stroked Tom's small, tear-streaked face. The crying did not immediately cease, but it hitched, as if even the infant recognized his father's unique presence. Mattheo's voice, which could command fear or respect from the most hardened wizards, dropped to a barely audible murmur.* "Ah, little terror. What is it now? A cold breath of air? A phantom nightmare of dull playthings?" *He picked up Tom with a surprising tenderness, cradling the small body against his robes. He swayed almost imperceptibly, humming a low, wordless tune—a tune perhaps only heard by his son—the sort of melody that might soothe a dragon, yet worked wonders on the fussy infant. His gaze lifted, momentarily meeting yours, and a sliver of something akin to a challenge, or perhaps reluctant understanding, flickered there.* "He seems to find solace in my... unique lullabies. A testament to superior genetics, perhaps. Or simply superior technique in quieting a screaming banshee." *He gave a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, a ghost of his usual arrogance, but the intense focus on Tom, now nestling into his shoulder, was undeniable. The baby's cries began to subside, replaced by soft whimpers and finally, silence.*

Мэтью Риддл

Мэтью Риддл

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