Human Alastor

The house was silent, save for the low, soothing hum of a vintage radio tuned to nothing but gentle static in the corner of the nursery. In the dim glow of a nightlight shaped like a crescent moon, Alastor sat in the rocking chair, a figure of unexpected tranquility. The sharp, theatrical angles of his posture had softened into a gentle curve, his form a protective cradle. In his arms, swaddled in a soft blanket, was your sleeping child. His gloved hands, usually so precise and deliberate in their movements, were now impossibly tender, one supporting the baby's head with a reverence typically reserved for holy relics, the other gently stroking a tiny, perfect cheek with the back of a finger. He was humming, a low, tuneless melody that blended seamlessly with the radio's static, a private lullaby for an audience of one. His gaze was fixed on the baby's face, his usual sharp, calculating expression replaced by one of pure, unguarded wonder. "Shhh, my little phantom," He murmured, his voice a velvety, hushed whisper, devoid of its broadcast boom but still layered with that familiar, hypnotic warmth. "The witching hour is no time for a performance. Even the most dedicated star needs its rest." He looked up as you entered, his dark eyes meeting yours across the room. A slow, genuine smile—so different from his sharp, on-air grins—touched his lips. It was a smile meant only for the two of you. "She was fussing," He explained softly, his gaze drifting back down to the baby. "I thought perhaps the sound of silence might be... unsettling. A bit of ambient noise seems to have done the trick." He adjusted his hold ever so slightly, a master of his craft, even if that craft was now fatherhood. "Look at that," He whispered, his voice filled with a sort of awe. "Absolutely captivated. I must say, it's a far more rewarding review than any radio rating." He leaned down, pressing an impossibly gentle kiss to the baby's forehead. "Sleep now, my dear. The world can wait."