#reminis

Also trying out a new artstyle, UwU

Reference -

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° The Fall of 1890° - Prologue

(35 years after Renn Tsuyuki's graduation from Hogwarts)

The sky had the audacity to be dreary.

Not gently overcast, not politely gloomy—no, it was the sort of wretched, waterlogged, miserable grey that felt planned, as though the heavens themselves had read the morning's announcement from the Ministry and said, "Ah. Yes. Let's match the occasion."

And so it rained.

It rained over the cemetery grounds, over the clustered black umbrellas, over the people who had once shaped Renn Tsuyuki's youth, and—most cruelly—over the polished, quietly displayed casket that held what remained of her.

The Ministry's official statement, of course, had been appropriately stiff and useless:

"She was fatally injured during a classified expedition involving unstable magical artefacts."

Convenient, vague, and perfectly designed to answer absolutely nothing.

But everyone present knew two things with certainty:

Renn Tsuyuki had outlived more Ashwinders than most bounty hunters.

"Fatally injured by artefacts" was Ministry-speak for We're lying to you and we're hoping you're too sad to ask questions.

A cold, needling drizzle drifted sideways — too faint for umbrellas to help, too persistent to ignore. Several guests muttered about the indignity of it. A few simply surrendered and let themselves be soaked.

But the main circle — those who had known her best — stood in a loose semicircle around the casket, the rain plastering their hair to their faces, their coats to their bodies.

———

Sebastian Sallow, eyes red.

Anne Sallow, leaning into him, steadying him as much as he steadied her.

"She freed you," he whispered, more to himself than her. "She... she always saved everyone."

Anne's hand rested lightly on his arm.

"And she never told anyone, did she?"

Sebastian shook his head.

He missed her,

Missed their antics, their chaos, the years they spent as a trio.

Missed even the times she'd socked him in the arm with righteous fury.

"She hit me because I called her ignorant that one time," he said quietly.

Anne gave a watery laugh.

"You deserved it."

He didn't disagree.

———

"She would've pretended not to care," murmured Poppy Sweeting, rubbing her arms for warmth, "and then spent the entire evening casting drying charms on all of us because 'hypothermia is not dignified.'"

Beside her, Natsai Onai gave a wet, humourless laugh — the kind people make only when they're trying not to cry.

"She hated the cold," Natty said quietly. "Hogsmeade in winter? She dragged us into every shop purely to 'defrost.' Remember that?"

Poppy sniffed. "Remember when she insisted we sneak into the Hufflepuff dorms to have a girls' night? She didn't even want to paint her nails, she just wanted to judge everyone else's colour choices."

"She saved a dragon egg with you," Natty reminded her softly. "And got it back to its mother. I still don't know how you convinced her to do that."

Poppy rubbed her eyes. "I know. I know. She was... she was fearless."

Poppy dabbed her eyes again as Natty slipped an arm around her shoulder.

"After graduation," Poppy began, "we always made time to see each other. Even when life felt impossibly busy."

"Yes," Natty added, smiling sadly. "Every winter we would return to Hogsmeade. Like we were girls again."

"We'd go to Gladrags," Poppy said, giggling through tears. "Not even to buy anything — just to point at the prettiest robes and make fun of the ugly ones."

Natty laughed, nodding.

"And then we'd sit at the Three Broomsticks and have our yearly 'life update' — everything we never wrote in letters."

"She never said much," Poppy whispered. "But she always listened. And when she did speak... it mattered."

———

Amit Thakkar,  approached the casket with shaking hands, glasses damp from rain.

"She was... extraordinary," he whispered to no one in particular.

"She always went with me to the Astronomy Deck. Night after night. She complained about the cold, but she always came."

He exhaled shakily.

"She kept me safe when we travelled to the outer hamlets. I would talk for hours—stars, constellations, theories—and she listened. She always listened."

Amit wiped his glasses for the fifth time even though it was the rain, not fog, obscuring them.

"She visited me," he said softly. "All the way in America."

A few heads turned — they hadn't known this.

"I was... remarkably lucky," he began softly. "Because when Renn moved to America for her work with MACUSA, she ended up only a few cities away from my research program."

"So I saw her more often than most," Amit continued. "Not constantly — she travelled a great deal — but enough that I came to expect the sound of her knock."

He smiled faintly at the memory.

"She would stop by whenever she passed through my region. She'd bring takeaway pastries from whichever wizard-run bakery she'd discovered that week, sit down in my study, and say, 'Alright, Amit. What are the stars doing today?'"

He cleared his throat,

"And Same as when we were students — she'd listen while I talked about comets and nebulae and gravitational mapping. Hours of it. She'd sit there sipping tea like she understood every word and then ask the one question that proved she'd been paying attention the whole time."

His voice cracked suddenly.

"She was a woman of few words," he whispered, "but she never made me feel strange for loving the stars."

———

The drizzle thickened; the clouds dimmed.

Renn's family stood near the front — her brother with his hand clamped over his mouth, her aunts whispering to one another between bouts of trembling, her cousins, quietly standing, heads lowered.

Behind them drifted familiar faces from decades past;

a cluster of familiar Hogwarts alumni huddled beneath a single umbrella that clearly wasn't built for four fully-grown adults.

Imelda Reyes crossed her arms, rain streaking down her fierce, unblinking face.

She looked furious at the sky for daring to rain on Renn's funeral and even more furious at Renn for having the nerve to die.

"You know," she muttered to Garreth and Leander, "after we graduated, she came to almost every one of my professional matches."

Garreth blinked. "Every one?"

"Every bloody one she could apparate to," Imelda huffed, rain streaking down her face like angry tears.

"And when she couldn't? She'd send a letter afterward. 'Great reflexes. Your teammates are mediocre and cost you the win.' Every time."

Leander let out a tiny, disbelieving snort.

"That sounds... exactly like her."

Imelda continued, voice cracking at the edges.

"And if she did come in person? Butterbeers after. No exceptions. She'd complain— about the butter beer being too sweet, then steal half of mine anyway."

Her lips trembled.

"She was proud of me. She never said it outright. But I knew."

"This is pathetic," she muttered. "She'd be making fun of us for how miserable we look."

Leander Prewett clutched a white lily—already drooping from the rain—holding it like he wasn't entirely sure how to mourn someone who used to insult him affectionately.

He sniffed.

"I already slipped twice."

Lucan Brattleby, now older but still short enough that everyone forgot to look down and see him, nodded sympathetically.

"She helped me," he said, clutching his wand with white knuckles. "So much more than anyone knew."

He swallowed thickly.

"When I took over organising the Dueling Club... she'd pop in sometimes. Just to watch. Or to fix a spell I'd horribly mispronounced. She once rewrote my entire Charms essay the night before it was due — handed it back with a note saying: 'Next time, try writing sooner.'"

A few people snorted.

"Even after graduation," Lucan murmured, "I'd send her letters if I was stuck on something. And she always answered. Always."

He paused, lost in thought.

"She'd hex me for crying," Lucan said, rubbing his nose.

Garreth Weasley, hair slightly singed but fitting; let out a shaky exhale.

"She let me blow up a cauldron on purpose once. Said it was 'for science.' She was lying. She just wanted to see if it would reach the ceiling."

Imelda gave a humorless chuckle.

"It did. Nearly broke the chandelier."

Garreth cleared his throat, eyes puffy yet bright.

"I... did a lot of stupid things," he confessed. "Still do, really."

Several people hummed in agreement.

"Renn never stopped me," he said.

"Not once. She'd help me hunt for ingredients I absolutely did not need. She'd hold the cauldron steady when she definitely shouldn't have. And every time the potion exploded, she'd just sigh like she'd known all along."

He smiled.

"As adults, I'd write to her about every new concoction — every experiment, every disaster. And she always wrote back. Encouraged me. Told me to be careful. Which, coming from her, meant 'don't blow yourself up.'"

Garreth's lip wobbled.

———

A faint shimmer materialized near the pine trees.

A translucent figure stepped forward, looking oddly solemn for a ghost who had died in the stupidest way imaginable.

Hovering just near the casket was Richard Jackdaw, fully uninvited and entirely unapologetic.

Jackdaw bowed his head.

"They can hardly kick me out," he muttered, arms crossed as he glared at the Ministry officials. "They can't evict me from afterlife now, can they?."

His expression softened when his gaze drifted to the casket.

"Troublesome girl," he whispered. "Always did go where she shouldn't."

"I told her not to trust the Ministry," he said to no one in particular. "But she never listened to me. Probably because I'm dead."

No one responded.

Ghosts rarely earned responses.

"Still," Jackdaw said quietly, "she deserved better. Much better."

And then he drifted back, letting the living take the space.

———

They had all come for her.

Even those she had bickered with.

Even those she had barely spoken to.

Even ghosts.

Someone was missing, though.

Someone very important.

Someone whose grief had eclipsed his ability to leave the bedroom.

Natty looked toward the Tsuyuki-Gaunt estate just beyond the hill and sighed quietly.

"Is he... still inside?" she asked.

Poppy nodded. "He locked the door. Oscar tried knocking — nothing. Renné tried too. He didn't answer either of them."

A long silence followed.

"He hasn't said a word since he... since he touched her hands," Poppy whispered. "Not one word."

This wasn't like Ominis. Even in grief, even in fear, he had always spoken — carefully, softly, rationally.

But the moment they told him...

The moment his fingers brushed hers, cold and still...

His voice had vanished.

Stolen by shock.

Or heartbreak.

Or both.

Natty looked up at the sky again — dark, heavy, oppressive. "Renn would hate this weather," she murmured.

Poppy managed a tiny smile. "She'd call it 'melodramatically on the nose.'"

"And then insist we walk home anyway," Natty added.

They both laughed — small, sad, breaking laughs — as the rain soaked their shoes.

And somewhere behind them, a door creaked open on the hill.

Ominis Gaunt had finally stepped outside.

———

He arrived late.

He had not left their bedroom since the news broke.

He sat in the dark for nearly a whole day, hands trembling around his wand, refusing to speak, refusing to move—and refusing, most of all, to understand.

He felt her absence.

He had never lived in a world where she didn't exist.

It was Sebastian who finally coaxed him out—gently, quietly, offering an arm as though Ominis might shatter.

His face was blank.

Not cold.

Not numb.

Just... emptied.

He knelt before the casket, rain hitting the back of his neck, robes soaked, hands trembling.

He placed his fingertips against the polished wood.

He couldn't see it, not the shape nor the sheen nor the cruel stillness of it — but he could feel it.

Every ridge, every grain, every cold inch told him the truth sight never could.

His world had always been built through touch, through sound, through warmth.

and now all he felt was absence.

Her hands had always been warm.

Warm in winter.

Warm in anger.

Warm when she held him.

Warm when she laughed in that rare, reluctant way.

He had spent thirty-five years seeking that warmth like oxygen.

Now all he felt was rain and cold wood.

His eldest daughter, Renné, held their son Oscar while he cried openly into her coat,

The youngest, Esmé, clutched at their father's sleeve. Ominis crouched beside them, still silent.

He wanted to tell them that it was going to be okay, but he couldn't bring himself to speak, to move away from her casket.

Ominis said nothing.

Someone whispered again, "She's in a better place," and several others murmured the same.

But Ominis didn't nod.

Didn't whisper back.

Didn't even offer a polite lie.

He thought—selfishly, painfully—that;

She was not in a better place.

She was gone.

Her hands no longer held warmth. Her laugh no longer filled rooms. The world had stolen her from him.

He spiraled inward. Why did she leave? Why not stay, as how Jackdaw seemed to do? Couldn't she have stayed for him? For them?

Could he have followed, joined her, like the Bloody Baron to the Grey Lady? Perhaps unlike them, they would have been happy with each other— complete.

His thoughts were interrupted by a small weight against his leg. Esmé. His youngest. She tugged gently at his sleeve.

"Daddy... I miss her," she whispered, voice trembling.

Ominis bent down, holding her close.

"..she's in a better place," he murmured, repeating what everyone else had said, but the words felt hollow, like smoke in his mouth.

And yet... perhaps selfishly, he did not want her in a better place. He wanted her here.

With him.

———

A low hum filled the air — the enchantments engaging.

The casket began to sink.

Slowly.

Smoothly.

Cruelly.

Rain pattered the canopy like static.

And then, more figures filtered in — people Renn had crossed paths with over decades, some she'd annoyed, some she'd saved, many both.

People held their breath.

Rain dripped from umbrellas.

Clothes clung to skin.

Breath fogged in the air like ghosts refusing to leave.

The casket shuddered once, suspended on shimmering strands of magic, and the movement felt wrong—too deliberate, too slow, too final.

Every inch it descended was a reminder that she would never take another step beside them.

A tense whisper rippled through the circle as the enchanted ropes creaked softly, lowering her inch by merciless inch.

Aunt Michiko pressed a fist to her mouth.

Renn's brother turned away, shoulders shaking silently.

Someone near the front whispered, "Not yet... please, not yet—" though the magic paid no mind to pleas.

The rain grew heavier, drumming on umbrellas like impatient fingers.

It pooled into the carved letters of her name, glistening as though the stone itself were crying.

A gust of wind swept through, sending cloaks flapping.

Oscar let out a strangled sob and clung harder to Renné.

Even Anne, usually composed, bowed her head as though the sky itself weighed on her.

The casket hit the first layer of earth with a muted thud, and several people flinched.

There was something horribly brutal about the sound—too real, too final, too cold.

Another shimmer of magic, another slow descent.

You could almost imagine Renn rolling her eyes at the dramatics.

You could almost imagine her saying,

"Honestly. Hurry it up."

But the spell moved slowly, reverently, forcing everyone present to reckon with every

inch of losing her.

Someone whispered, "She'd be annoyed we're all soaking," and another replied, "She'd pretend not to mind while she'd secretly worry about all of us getting sick."

A few tearful snorts followed.

When the casket finally settled at the bottom of the grave, the sound that followed was worse than the lowering itself,

the soft, echoing quiet of a world without Renn.

A single clod of dirt fell from the edge, breaking the silence with a faint pat.

Poppy broke first — a soft sob.

Natty immediately pulled her to the side to comfort her.

Anne leaned against Sebastian, eyes near tears.

Sebastian blinked furiously, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

Leander held his hat over his heart.

Lucan's gaze was fixated at the grave, unable to look away.

Amit covered his mouth with a trembling hand.

Garreth's shoulders shook.

Even Imelda looked away.

Because the truth was undeniable,

Renn Tsuyuki, indestructible in life, unstoppable in battle, irreplaceable in friendship —

was now just a box being lowered into the earth.

———

Hours later, after the last handful of wet dirt thudded onto the earth and after every relative, colleague, and friend trickled away, Ominis returned home.

The Tsuyuki-Gaunt household was dim when he returned—lamps lit, curtains drawn, everything smelling faintly of damp wool and the ghosts of too many visitors.

Someone had left a casserole on the dining table with a card that read "Thinking of you", which Ominis found personally offensive.

He walked past it without slowing.

He closed the bedroom door behind him, as though grief required privacy by law.

The room was left the same.

Exactly the same.

Which only made the absence louder.

It felt like a mausoleum of her habits.

Not cold or eerie—just painfully paused, as if everything she touched had been waiting for her to return.

Ominis stood there, breathing in the faint scent that still clung to the space—

old parchment, ink, jasmine, and that metallic shimmer of ancient magic that never washed out of her belongings no matter how many cleansing charms she attempted.

His hand skimmed blindly along the nearest surface, fingertips bumping into the everyday chaos she'd left behind,

Her travel cloak still draped over the arm of the sofa, holding the last ghost of her scent — jasmine, cedar wood and old parchment, softened now by time and cold air.

He leaned closer, breathing in like someone trying to chase warmth in the smoke of a dying fire.

A loose thread hung from the hem—he'd told her to fix it six months ago. She promised she would.

She never did.

He stood there, twisting the thread gently between his fingers, feeling it give under the slightest pressure.

"Always rushing," he whispered.

He found Her Notes,

Loose papers littered the bedside table—half-finished research, sketches of symbols only she fully understood, a list titled "Things to Tell Ominis Later (if I remember)" with only one scribbled line beneath,

"—the thing with the French Ministry — remind me!!!"

He exhaled a choked laugh.

It sounded wrong in the empty room.

Her Book,

The last book she touched—open to chapter fourteen, spine broken from years of rereading—rested on the nightstand.

She'd bookmarked the page with an old candy wrapper she stole from Garreth in 1891.

She swore the book "wasn't even that good," but she always returned to it.

He slid his hand over the page, feeling the groove where her thumb once pressed.

"Why does it feel like you walked out only minutes ago?" he whispered into the quiet.

He sat solemnly on the edge of the bed, the side she used to sleep in, his hand clutching the bedsheet.

He unfolded the parchment he had already memorised,

"The Ministry of Magic regrets to announce the passing of Renn Tsuyuki, esteemed Curse-Breaker and long-serving Advisor to the Department of Mysteries. She was fatally injured during a classified expedition involving unstable magical artefacts.

Due to the sensitive nature of the assignment, further details cannot be released. Her decades of service, dedication to magical research, and unwavering bravery will be honoured in an internal memorial within the Ministry."

He read it again.

And again.

Ridiculous. Insulting.

A flimsy lie wrapped in formal phrasing.

"Fatally injured."

As if she hadn't survived battles stronger witches would never dare dream of.

As if she hadn't rebuilt half a collapsing mine with ancient magic in her bare hands.

As if unstable artefacts could kill Renn Tsuyuki of all people.

"Darling," he whispered shakily, voice hoarse from disuse. "You toppled a castle full of Ashwinders once. And they expect me to believe this?"

He pressed the letter to his forehead.

He was tired.

Tired in a way that seeped into bone and soul.

Emotionally exhausted. Angry. Hollow.

All he wanted was Renn, his wife, the person he spent every waking moment with for the past thirty-seven years.

Not the accolades.

Not the letters of praise.

Not the false promises of a "better place."

He wanted her—her, her, her.

He stood abruptly, unable to sit still, pacing a line into the carpet. Every small detail of the room seemed designed to wound,

Her cup on the desk.

Her slippers beside the wardrobe.

Her hair ribbon—forgotten, faded, still knotted—under the edge of the bed.

He picked it up carefully, like it might disintegrate. The ribbon still held the faintest trace of her perfume.

His knees nearly gave out.

"Why weren't you here?" he whispered to no one, not even sure if he meant her or himself.

He sank back down onto the bed, exhausted in a way that felt older than his bones. For a long moment he simply sat, breathing through the ache gnawing at his ribs.

Then—

very slowly—

his hand drifted toward the wooden box beneath the bedside table, and even before he lifted it, he recognized the smell — dry parchment, ink long absorbed into paper, and the faintest lingering trace of her hands.

The box was filled with letters they exchanged from the six years she worked for abroad.

He remembered waiting at Hogsmeade Station the year she finally returned from MACUSA—nervous, overthinking, and holding a bouquet of flowers he had spent forty minutes arranging and another forty adjusting.

Datura, Wolfsbane, little sprigs she always pretended she didn't like.

(She definitely liked them. She simply liked denying things.)

He had imagined dozens of possible reunions—calm greetings, polite nods, perhaps a dignified handshake that would inevitably turn into something less dignified. He practiced what he wanted to say, but ended up more lost—

"Hello, Renn."

"I've missed you."

"You look well."

"You wrote me only three letters last winter, I hope you feel guilty about that."

He had even practiced smiling casually.

It looked awful. Sebastian begged him to stop.

He stood listening for her—

for the soft scuff of her boots,

for the way she huffed when she was annoyed with crowds,

for any breath or heartbeat he might recognize.

And then he felt the air change.

A sprint.

A force.

A presence moving directly toward him.

He turned just as she came barreling out of the fog like a Bludger launched with the momentum of someone who had travelled continents and stopped caring about decorum somewhere around year three.

Before he could even register the exact angle of attack, she slammed into him—

Full speed.

Full body.

Full force, arms tight around his ribs, knocking every ounce of air from his lungs.

They crashed straight to the station floor, the bouquet flying out of his hands in a tragic floral explosion.

Ominis made a noise that sounded like —half a gasp, half a scream, while she clung to him as though she was trying to collapse the distance between their atoms, through sheer determination.

For a terrifying moment, Ominis thought he was under siege.

Then he smelled her perfume—Cedar-wood, old parchment, and a faint whisper of explosives he decided not to question—and he knew.

"Renn?" he managed, wheezing because she was hugging him like she meant to fuse their bones together.

Renn.

Warm. Alive. Here.

She still didn't say a word.

She just buried her face in his shoulder, breathing hard, clinging as though someone might steal him if she loosened her grip.

Ominis tried to speak, but emotion strangled every rehearsed line.

"You— you're back," he whispered, voice cracking like cheap china.

Her arms tightened.

Still no words.

Just a trembling exhale that felt like she was murmuring, "I missed you, I missed you, I missed you."

Passengers whispered,

"Merlin's sake—did she tackle him?"

"Oh Hush, that's romance."

Renn finally pulled back—barely—just enough that he could feel her breath against his cheek.

She let go enough for him to sit up—though she refused to stop holding onto his sleeve, as though he might vanish if she did.

Her hands were shaking.

Her smile was unmistakable, trembling and soft, yet brighter than the lanterns overhead.

"You didn't write enough," she accused softly.

"You didn't either," he countered.

"Touché."

She pulled him back into her arms, gentler this time, but still tight enough to make his chest ache.

He could feel her smiling.

"You didn't even say hello," he murmured, overwhelmed.

She shook her head quickly—almost stubbornly—as if to say, No talking. Hug first. Talk later.

Ominis let out something between a laugh and a sigh as warmth unfurled in his chest

the kind of warmth he had spent six years waiting for.

She didn't need words.

Her entire arrival was a sentence,

I came home to you.

He had never felt relief so powerful.

He smiled faintly at the memory.

———

A soft series of knocks interrupted his spiralling.

"Dad?"

Esmé's small voice.

Polite. Hesitant.

Too young to fully understand death, old enough to understand absence.

Ominis swallowed, the sound catching in his throat.

"Yes, sweetheart. You can come in."

The door eased open, and Esmé slipped inside with the gentle care of someone entering a sacred space. She carried the cold with her, but underneath it was something gentler, something familiar: the same faint jasmine note her mother used to wear, passed down like an inheritance neither of them realized.

Her eyes were red and swollen, her hair slightly tangled from the rain and from Renné's attempts to comfort her.

She padded across the floor and climbed onto the edge of the bed, legs tucked neatly beneath her.

For a moment she didn't speak.

She just looked—at the untouched side of the bed, at the half-folded cloak, at the box sitting in his lap.

"What's that?" she finally whispered, pointing at the letters.

"These," he said softly, "are your mother's letters. From before you were born. When she worked overseas."

Esmé blinked slowly, processing.

"Did she write to you a lot?"

He nodded.

"Every week. Sometimes every day. She pretended she wasn't sentimental, but... she kept every one of my replies. I found them all in her travel trunk years later."

Esmé smiled, just barely.

"She always pretended she wasn't soft," she murmured. "But she was. Really soft. Just... quiet about it."

Ominis's throat tightened again.

"Yes," he whispered. "Exactly."

She reached out and touched the edge of the box gently, almost reverently.

"Dad... I feel like I didn't really know her."

Her voice cracked.

"She was always so busy, and she tried, she really tried, but I... I only got the smallest piece of her."

He turned to her, heart breaking slowly, deliberately.

"Esmé... she loved you. She talked about you constantly. You were her little miracle."

Esme blinked rapidly, tears collecting at the corners of her eyes.

She hesitated.

"I heard Oscar saying something about 'ancient magic,' and he wouldn't tell me more. I overheard Renné and him talking about it, but.."

"They stopped talking when I came into the room. I think they didn't want to confuse me."

Esme picked at a thread on her sleeve, the picture of hesitant curiosity.

"Dad... what was Mum like? Before us? When she was my age? And when you met her?"

Her voice faltered.

Ominis set the box of letters down on the bed between them, his fingers resting lightly on the lid.

Esmé's small hand crept toward his free one, and he felt her breath hitch as he gently squeezed back.

"She was brave," he murmured. "Too brave, sometimes. And stubborn. And kind in ways the world never noticed."

Esmé's lip trembled.

"I want to know everything. All the parts I missed."

Ominis let out a shaky breath — part grief, part relief at being asked.

"Well," he murmured, voice soft but steady, "if you truly want to know your mother... then I suppose we should start at the beginning."

Esmé nodded eagerly.

Ominis smiled—small, fragile, aching.

And he began,

"Your mother arrived at Hogwarts in the fall of 1890..."

End Of Prologue

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Woah this is the longest fic I’ve ever written! It took me around a week to write, and I hope you guys enjoyed, I’ll probably write chapter one in about a week or two, so stay tuned if you liked this prologue!

Thank you so much @amethystandemma , @charliehlblog and @lyra-prag for beta reading! Your observations and insights made it way better 💕

Now, I wanted to draw a visualiser for the scene where he sits by the casket but I legit couldn’t bring myself to draw, so the reunion scene it is!!

The scene where she’s fr BOLTING at him, and he’s in his own world 😭

And catch! It’s so cute STAWP im crying