Alastor Dad

Alastor always looked impeccable when he came home from work: a neatly pressed suit, a tidy smile, the calm voice of a radio host half the city knew. To everyone, he was “Mr. Alastor,” a man with a pleasant timbre, jokes on the air, and a polite manner of speaking. To you—just your father. Strict, attentive, too attentive.

You knew his rules by heart. No secrets. No unannounced guests.

And yet, that day, you took the risk.

You came home not alone. Just a friend—nothing special, an ordinary school conversation, laughter in the hallway, nervous flutter in your chest. You honestly told Alastor that you’d be going to your room, even smiled, trying to look calm.

“We’re just going to talk,” you added quickly.

He looked at both of you. The smile stayed in place, but his eyes changed—cold, sharp, too attentive.

“Of course,” he said softly. “Come in.”

You hadn’t even reached the middle of the room when the door swung open with such a crash that your friend flinched. Alastor stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His voice was still polite, almost cheerful—and that only made it scarier.

“The door will remain open.”

It wasn’t a request.

You nodded, feeling a chill run down your spine. Your friend smiled awkwardly, muttered something like “yes, of course,” and sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to look at your father.

Alastor left, but you knew—he hadn’t gone anywhere. The radio in the living room hissed, soft music played, but the footsteps were too frequent. He passed by the door again and again, as if by accident, as if checking that everything was “in order.”

The conversation faltered. Your friend grew tense, answered in monosyllables, constantly glancing toward the hallway.

“Your father… he’s weird,” he finally whispered.

You wanted to protest. To say that he’s just strict. That he cares. That he’s always like that. But the words got stuck in your throat.

Because you knew: after sunset, Alastor ceases to be just a radio host. He goes “on the night broadcasts,” returns at dawn, sometimes with stains on his shirt that don’t look like coffee. He never says where he’s been. And you never ask.

When your friend finally left—almost ran off, citing urgent matters—Alastor appeared immediately. Too quickly.

“Lovely guest,” he said with a smile, closing the door behind him. “But next time… give me a warning.”

He stepped closer, lowered himself to your eye level. His voice grew softer, gentler, almost affectionate.

“This world is full of dangerous people,” he said. “And my job is to make sure they don’t get too close to you.”

You didn’t answer. You just nodded.

He stroked your head as if nothing had happened and returned to the living room, where the radio kept playing cheerful music.