Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Present Day

There were three women in Willis Todd's contacts who could be the mysterious 'S' written on Jason's birth certificate. Who could be Jason's mom.

Sandra Wusan. Sharmin Rose. Shelia Haywood. 

He thought it was Shelia right through her betrayal and his subsequent death, resurrection, and dramatic vengeful return to Gotham. Only now Tim was telling him Shelia lied. And there was one more 'S' in the book.

Sunshine, no last name, no phone number; just a time and an address. Jason could be forgiven for not investigating what he thought was a prostitute his dad messed around with.

Not that he had anything against prostitutes, or that he would've been ashamed to be the son of one, but- Willis mentioned once that Jason's mom was too good for them. It was bewildering at the time, considering he and Catherine fought more often than not, treating each other like trash. But Willis wouldn't have said that about a working girl, no matter what kind of person she was.

"Do...you want to look into-" Tim said.

"No," Jason snapped. Didn't even have to think. 

"Okay," Tim agreed calmly. "Do you want me to look into it?" 

Jason couldn't breathe. He did. He wanted it so bad. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hope, but he had to know.

"Don't tell Bruce," Jason whispered eventually. "Don't- not Dick, or Babs, or anyone."

"I won't," said Tim. Jason swallowed. He thought this was behind him. He thought-

Catherine killed herself, Shelia good as killed them both, Willis got himself killed, Bruce stood by when Jason was killed. It was a track record that spoke for itself. By all rights he should drop this now, before he ended up regretting it. He should tell Tim he changed his mind. He should-

"Thank you, baby bird."

The kid gave him the awkward two-fingered salute he always used when he didn't know how to react. Usually in response to praise or gratitude. Jason bumped shoulders with him, gentle on account that Tim was minuscule, and basically ran away. 

It was a tense week and a half. Jason had nightmares every time he slept and jumped at shadows like he was twelve again. Tim called once to ask what he knew about Willis' movements before he was born. Not much, was the answer, but apparently that was enough for the Boy Detective. 

He showed up at Jason's apartment the next day with a half-empty two liter of Zesti soda and a manic look in his eye. He was wearing his RR reinforced leggings, ratty high-tops, and a massive Superboy hoodie that did not in fact hide the high collar of his uniform. He probably hadn't showered in a week.

Tim Drake everybody, fashion icon and paragon of self-care.

"You need a fucking nap," Jason decided, instead of uselessly lecturing him about endangering his secret identity. 

"What?" Tim looked comically taken back. "Uh, no? I have a lead, Jason!"

Kid almost fell over kicking his shoes off, then used his toes to throw them onto the shoe rack behind him with pinpoint accuracy. He was wearing the athletic compression socks Alfred bought in bulk, which meant there was no excuse for that hole developing in the toe. 

...Okay, no. Jason's heart couldn't take the stress of minding a caffeine-high, sleep-deprived teenager and news about his- about the fourth S. 

"And I have a couch," he said. "Take your armor off, you heathen. I'll grab you some civies."

He did just that, wadding the clothes up and beaning Tim in the face with them as soon as he got back. 

"Eff you," Tim hissed, like a five-year-old. 

"Yeesh. Mind your fucking language, Timothy! You kiss Alfie with that mouth?" Jason laughed at the face he pulled. Tim glared at him and unceremoniously started shucking his clothes. Jason dodged the pants flying at his head and hid the kid's massive fucking bottle of soda while he wrestled with his top. 

"Argh-!"

"Zippers, Boy Idiot," Jason snorted.

Tim flailed, elbows trapped up by his ears. He groped fruitlessly for the hidden zippers on the shoulders, back of the neck and either side of the waist, wriggling like a sad netted fish. 

"Oh my Wonder Woman, you are completely helpless," Jason said, loudly stomping forward so the kid would know he was coming. "Stop squirming."

A few sharp tugs later and Tim emerged from the kevlar, face bright red. He ditched the lightly-padded, sweat-wicking, chafe-reducing bodysuit in favor of Jason's sweatpants and cotton t-shirt. Jason grinned at him but refrained from teasing. He was nice like that. 

"Now that you've escaped that dastardly trap," he teased, making an immediate liar of himself, "take a cat nap. Bird nap, whatever."

"What, you were serious about that?" Tim whined. "I don't want to. I'm totally fi- where's my Zesti?"

Jason squinted at him. "What Zesti?"

"MY ZESTI, jerkface, which was RIGHT HERE two minutes ago!"

He shrugged. "Beats me. You sure you didn't drink it already?"

"Yes!" Tim snarled. "Do not gaslight me, Jason Todd!"

He held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay! I'll give it back once you wake up."

"You're not my dad Jason," Tim snapped. "You don't get to just take my things away and order me around because you think you know what's best for me."

Ohhh-kay, someone had definitely gotten in a fight with Dickiebird recently. Jason wordlessly retrieved the bottle from under the couch. Tim hugged it like a teddy bear but notably, he didn't take a drink.

"Sorry, Timbourine," he said, because he got it. "Big bird on your case?"

"...Yeah," Tim said grudgingly. "Tried to get B to bench me for a few days."

"Damn, really? That's harsh." Overreaction, much?

Tim grunted. "He thought I was working too hard, as usual, but got all freaked out when I wouldn't tell him what I was working on. I think he thinks I'm picking a fight with the League of Assassins or like, overthrowing the government every time I keep a secret."

Jason's pang of guilt lasted until Tim fixed him with a flat look and said,

"Shut up. As if this is the biggest secret I have."

That...was true. He let it slide. 

"Okay. That being said, I really think you could use a nap. You look like shit and just because you can keep going doesn't mean you should. Or that it would make a difference," he added, clocking Tim's mulish look. "I can wait another fucking hour, Timber."

The way Tim studied him made Jason uncomfortably aware of his own messy hair, yesterday's cargo pants, the bags under his eyes. When he gave in, it was probably more for Jason's sake than his own.

"Fine. Sit with me," the brat instructed. Jason rolled his eyes and grabbed his book off the coffee table. He collapsed onto the couch, smirking when Tim yelped and scrambled to get out off the way.

"Jerk," he huffed.

"Baby bird," Jason cooed. Tim whacked him in the leg before tipping over sideways. His head landed on Jason's thigh and he nuzzled forward, digging his forehead into the space between Jason's hip bone and ribs. Tim was the only person Jason knew who slept facing inward on a couch instead of putting his back to the cushions, the psycho. 

Tim reached up and blindly snagged Jason's hand, forcefully guiding it to his hair.

"I was just finding my page," Jason protested with a laugh, holding the book in one hand and obediently stroking Tim's hair with the other. Tim grunted again, really leaning into the Bruce of it, and let his arm flop down. When Jason glanced back the kid was already snoring.

He took a slow, steady inhale and let it out. 

He could wait. He was the one who made Tim sleep; he could wait another seven, eight hours. He wanted his only ally going into this well rested. Tim was more important than an insignificant head start. If it was time sensitive the kid woulda said so. 

All that was the truth, but so was this: Jason was scared. 

"Just a few hours," he whispered to himself. "Just a few more hours."

Chapter Text

Several Years Ago

"Theodore, what are you doing," came the flat, unimpressed, vaguely accented voice of the most annoying witch in the world. 

"Shove off Victoria," Teddy shot back automatically. He twisted around and gave her his best scowl. "And be quiet!"

"What are you doing," Victoire pressed, because she was allergic to both sentences ending in question marks and doing what she was told. 

"If you shut up and get over here I'll tell you," he hissed. "Hurry!"

She hurried, and somehow managed to make it look unhurried. Teddy scooched aside to make room in the alcove and grinned at her. 

"Watch this," he whispered, and tapped his toes three times on a particular stone block. The floor vanished beneath them. Victoire bit off a yelp, grabbing onto the collar of his robes as they dropped. They stuck the landing with only a slight stagger and Teddy laughed. 

"Lumos," he said, lighting the pitch black hidden corridor. 

"Oh," Victoire breathed, letting go of him and spinning in a circle. "I've never seen this one before!"

Teddy grinned. "I was playing hide and seek with Rosalyn, no-spells-allowed. She was taking forever to find me—I think she might have gone off to read. Anyway, I was tapping my feet, and when I hit the third stone from the left, voila!"

"Voilà," she corrected. "Are you going to ask Harry to add it to the Map."

Teddy grinned harder. "That's the best part," he whispered. "Guess where the passage leads!"

Victoire narrowed her eyes. "Somewhere you think will give you an advantage in your one-sided prank war," she stated. 

"The staff quarters!" Teddy exclaimed, grinning even wider. 

"Stop making that face, you look absurd," Victoire said. 

"I'm gonna get her so good this time," Teddy said, ignoring Victoire. "She won't see it coming!" 

"Bet," the most annoying witch in the world said immediately. "Sickle says it won't even touch her."

"A galleon says it'll work," he countered. Victoire scowled at him. 

"Where'd you get a galleon from," she demanded. 

"Harry," Teddy said smugly. 

"Figures," she muttered. "That's such an irresponsible amount of money to give to a twelve year old."

Teddy giggled. "Right? But she's used to it I guess, being rich."

She tilted her head. Teddy was momentarily distracted by the way her silver hair glittered when it fell over her shoulder. "Daddy said it's because she didn't have anyone teach her how money works, so she still carries around buckets of gold just in case."

Teddy frowned. That was kinda sad. He would give Harry an extra big hug later. 

"Oh. Well, if you win I'll give you a galleon, and if I win you'll give me a sickle," he said. 

"Deal," Victoire agreed. They shook on it like professionals and continued down the winding secret passage. It ended behind a one-way mirror in what looked like the staff's common area. The only person inside was the Head of Gryffindor House, sat by the fire with a stack of parchment.

Teddy slumped a little in disappointment. Uncle Neville was great and all, but he was really hoping for Harry to be there. They only had an hour until dinner and he didn't want to waste it all watching the Herbology professor grade papers. 

Wait. 

"We don't write papers for Herbology," Teddy hissed to Victoire. She raised one sharp eyebrow. 

"I bet he's grading Harry's," she said.

Teddy shook his head. "No bet," he said. "Too easy."

Now that he thought about it, he remembered seeing loopy cursive in the margins of Sarah Thomas's essay that didn't match Harry's knife-sharp handwriting. He'd assumed it was one of the upper year TAs but really, it would be just like Harry to shove her boring work off on her friend. 

As if summoned by Teddy's uncharitable thoughts, the door burst open, halting rigidly just before smashing into the wall. Harry stormed through, tall and fierce, covered in muck and leaves, soaking wet. Teddy heard Victoire gasp and was sure his own eyes were wide as dinner plates. 

Before his thoughts could start too far down the path of monster-slaying and dangerous battles, Harry spoke:

"I got your carnivorous tentacle plant," she announced. "Barely ten minutes' hike into the forest, you lazy sod."

Neville rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm so sorry for not wanting to waltz into the Forbidden Forest, during a storm, after a plant that can sense and hides from active magic."

"Forgiven," she granted. "I put it in Greenhouse Five. How're the papers coming along?"

"I have Weasley-Delacour and Lupin's here," he said, making Teddy and Victoire jolt and exchange glances.

"Excellent," Harry said, grabbing for them. Neville pulled back. 

"Honestly Harry, you're dripping wet and filthy," he tsked. "Take a bath first, Godric!"

Harry leaned forward and met his eyes. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, she plucked the papers out of his hand. 

"Real mature," Professor Longbottom muttered. "Professor Potter, everyone."

"Shut it," Harry said amicably, flopping comfortably to the stone floor next to him and pulling a brilliant red and gold quill out of nowhere. She started reading, and Teddy felt fit to burst as she nodded and made approving sounds. If the mirror actually worked like one, he knew he'd see his hair and eyes shifting to match his godmother's coloring. Even Victoire looked a little flushed. 

"My godbabies are brilliant," Harry told Neville, making Victoire beam widely and Teddy duck his face into his hands. 

"I know," he said, then pointedly added: "The rest of your students are quite bright too."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "I know. Just because I don't like to waste hours of my life marking hundreds of the exact same essay in slightly different words doesn't mean I don't pay attention, Neville."

He held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright."

"I care about my students," she insisted, looking genuinely upset. "Every last one."

Now Professor Longbottom looked regretful. "I do know, Harry. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"You think I'm showing favoritism," Harry said, ignoring him. She chewed her lip and scowled at the wall. Teddy winced. Harry had a particular way of looking when she was angry, like she was planning the most painful way to tear you apart. Uncle Ron called it her murder face. It never fazed him or Aunt Mione or Aunt Ginny, but everyone else in the family gave Harry a wide berth when she looked like that. Even Nana Molly.

Neville wasn't fazed either. He put down his quill and parchment and gave Harry his full attention.

"Sometimes yes," he admitted. "You don't neglect any of your students, but the ones that are yours--you'd burn the world for them, and it shows."

"I'd die for any student in this castle," Harry said, gaze not quite focused. "I'd kill for them."

The casual but absolute certainty of the words both chilled Teddy and warmed him to the bone. The sensation increased tenfold when Professor Longbottom said:

"But Teddy and Victoire are the ones you live for."

Harry closed her eyes. "Yeah. If not for them, I don't think I would've made it through the first year after..."

Neville's face crumpled in sympathy. He stretched out and laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. She gripped it tightly, head bowed. Her wild, unbound curls fell into her face but Teddy was horrified to see tears on her warm brown cheeks. He grasped blindly for Victoire and found her reaching back. They clutched each other tightly, unable to move or look away as the strongest wixen in the world broke down in the Hogwarts staff room. 

The worst part, Teddy thought, was that it was so quiet. Harry was a loud person. She talked loudly, she laughed loudly, she liked to stomp when she walked. She didn't enter doors, she burst through them. Harry wore motorcycle jackets and combat boots to formal balls and delighted in making her opinions known, especially if they ran contrary to everybody else's. 

When she cried, it was like an earthquake occuring in utter silence. Harry shook, shoulders heaving outward and spine caving in, shook like she was about to fall to pieces, shook like it was the end of the world and she was the last man standing. But no sound escaped her lips. Not a sniffle or a gasp. 

The crying fit ended as suddenly as it began. Harry slumped against the wall and shook her hair out of her face, wiping her cheeks dry on her sleeve. It left little smears of mud but she either didn't notice or didn't care. Teddy was unsurprised to find his own cheeks wet with empathetic tears. He scrubbed at them with the hand not holding onto Victoire. 

"I miss him so much," Harry croaked. Confusion spiked through him--who did she miss? Of the people who had died in the war, he hadn't thought her this close to any of them--

"Of course you do," Neville whispered. "He's your son."

The floor dropped out from under Teddy's feet, metaphorically this time, but so much more real. 

"Some mother I am," she said. "He's thirteen years old now. Thirteen and I don't even know his name. His face. Where he is, if he's even alive-"

She cut herself off, slamming her palm into the floor with a crack. Harry surged to her feet, looking much more herself with rage spilling from the eerie, pale green of her eyes. 

"Thirteen years and I'm no closer now to finding him than I ever was!" she yelled. She began to pace, boots thudding solidly against stone, arms flashing out in sharp, violent gestures close to her body. Neville just sat, face open and sad, devoid of pity, or fear.

Teddy was afraid.

"I've looked into every magical school in the known world," Harry continued, "and none of their pupils are a match. So either he's a squib, not permitted to attend, or one of the vanishingly rare magical children who slip through the cracks."

Teddy was angry. 

"I have no way of tracking him. No method of ascertaining his state of being. I gave him up! It was for his protection, so Voldemort couldn't find him and use him to control me, I know this, and I couldn't have done differently, but Nev, sometimes I hate myself for it," Harry spat. She raked both hands over her hair, disheveling it even more.

Teddy...

"I just want him to be okay," Harry said. "If he's happy- if he doesn't need or want me- that's fine. I just need to make sure he's alive. That's it."

Teddy was determined.

"I believe that he is," Neville told her. "And I believe you'll find him."

Harry made a noise. Not a laugh or a scoff or even a sob. But it was clear she didn't believe. That was okay.

Teddy believed. Teddy was going to help find his long-lost godbrother and bring him home. Let Merlin have mercy upon who or whatever got in the way, because Edward Lupin and Harriet Potter would not.

Chapter Text

Present Day

Tim woke up after six entire hours, still on the couch with Jay. He wanted to be pissed about it, but Jason really had looked awful. If the big bad Red Hood needed some cuddles but was too emotionally helpless to say so, Tim could swallow his pride and allow him to use Tim's chronic sleep deprivation as an excuse. This was in no part because Tim, too, wanted cuddles. 

No part that could be proven, anyway. 

Whatever.

It was time for a pick-me-up. Tim sat up, grabbed his Zesti, and sagged against Jason's side so he didn't have to concentrate on chugging soda and staying upright at the same time. It was then that Tim realized he had to pee.

"Be right back," he told Jason when he came up for air. One last swig and he shuffled to the bathroom with impeccable grace, took care of his business, and shuffled out feeling 35% more alive. Jason threw a protein bar at him. Tim judged the trajectory, angled his chest just so, and waited. It bounced off him and landed squarely in his open palm. 

Tim yawned. Partly for effect, mostly because he was still waking up. 

Jason scoffed at him, but it was his secretly-entertained scoff, so ha. Point to Tim.

"Okay." Tom yawned again. "Shoot. Um, where's my laptop? I put together a file."

Jason was starting to look tense again but handed Tim his bag. For reasons unrelated to ridiculous notions such as 'touch deprivation' and 'you know humans are social creatures, right Tim?', Tim curled into Jason's side as he pulled out his laptop and started her up. 

"So-"

"I do actually expect you to eat that," Jason interrupted. 

"What?" Eat what? The laptop? His words? 

"The protein bar, dumbass."

Riiight. The protein bar. Tim ripped the foil off and took a bite. 

"Oh for- pick up your damn trash, Timantha! This is not your disaster pad, Diana's sake!" Jason chided. Rolling his eyes, Tim picked the wrapper off the cushion next to him and stuffed it in his pocket. Jason started to frown.

"I'll throw it away later," Tim said, tossing his brother a glare. "Quit stalling. I worked hard on this presentation!"

"What do you mean, presentation?" Jason asked, the sweet summer child. 

"It's a PowerPoint," Tim continued loftily. He did Jason the favor of ignoring his dumb facial expressions as he opened the file. "One of the most useful programs in my arsenal. I've already sent you a copy."

"You created a program you then used to blow up the entire League of Assassins."

"I am aware," Tim said, fighting the urge to smirk. Jason threw his hands up in defeat, but then he said:

"Bites, baby bird. Take more of them."

As if Tim was actually the baby his siblings called him. He considered throwing the protein bar away just to spite him, but the trash can was around a corner and Tim wasn't actually a slob no matter what some people said.

He took a bite, flipping Jay off with the other hand. Nothing if not efficient, he used his extended middle finger to start his precious PowerPoint presentation.

Heh. Say that ten times fast. Precious PowerPoint presentation, precious powapoint pesentation, pessiouspowapoytpeasantion-

Anyway. 

PowerPoint Part One: Fox

"Nineteen years ago on March 18,1996, Edward Todd and Alejandra Rodriguez-Ledesma Todd, your paternal grandparents, were killed by the Falcones in a gang war. They operated a Spanish-Caribbean restaurant called 'La Tormenta', a money laundering front for the Santa Priscan mob. Custody of fifteen year old Willis Todd passed to Eloise Todd, his paternal aunt. Eloise was killed in a home invasion from a blow to the head two months later. Willis proceeded to attack the invader with the bat used to kill his aunt, driving him off. Willis was arrested on suspicion of her murder but was ultimately released into his other aunt's custody, one Amaya Rodriguez-Ledesma."

As he spoke, the screen flashed pictures of Edward, Alejandra and Willis; La Tormenta's brightly painted storefront; Eloise holding a lit Molotov cocktail and grinning wildly; Willis' babyfaced mugshot; Amaya with her fists framing her face like a boxer, showing off bright purple knuckle dusters.

Tim paused for breath, and also to make sure Jason was following. He was, with a neutral look that said he'd heard all this before. That was good. Tim wasn't sure how much Jason knew of his family's history, given how young he was when his father passed. And how much time said father spent in prison.  

"Amaya's job couldn't support them both and Willis began working for the Santa Priscan mob; mainly stealing things, beating up rival goons and occasionally collecting protection money. He also took up the street name Fox and ran a small, unaffiliated gang on the side."

"Fox, huh," Jason echoed. "Damn. Didn't think the old man had a pun like that in him."

Eh?

"A tod is another name for a fox," Jason said, catching Tim's confusion. "Pa had red hair too."

Interesting, but irrelevant. Tim continued.

"In late June of 1997, Willis' crew gained a new member: an Outsider with the street name Sunshine."

Jason's frame shuddered. Tim wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been leaning on him like he was. He pretended not to notice. 

PowerPoint Part Two: Sunshine

The bullet points faded out, replaced with a photograph of several teenagers crowded together in an alley way lit by neon lights from nearby establishments. Jason leaned forward, arm twitching in what was probably an aborted attempt to touch the image. His breath caught.

Tim empathized. He'd had much the same reaction. 

In the center of the group, two people stood out. One was Willis Todd, with his combination of brown skin, auburn curls, and a generous helping of freckles. He was tall, with shoulders that wanted to be broad but weren't fed well enough to make the cut. He stood with who could only be Jason's biological mother; she might as well have been Jay's twin. 

Sunshine was tall, probably brushing six feet, with a riot of inky black hair spiraling around her head. A bone white section of bangs sat above a nasty, fresh-looking scar that zigzagged from her hairline down through one impetuously cocked eyebrow. Pale eyes gleamed over a proud, somewhat hooked nose, though the image quality was too poor to say whether they were blue or green. Sunshine's teeth flashed in a crooked, dangerous grin; teeth that were stark and distinctly pointy-looking against the warmth of her complexion. A beat up leather jacket hung off a wiry, hunger-panged frame. 

"I haven't gotten anything verifiable about her yet," Tim said, clearing his throat. He looked away from the raw, painfully open expression on Jason's face (skin tinted more towards gold than russet, dusted with freckles, Willis Todd's stubborn chin and looser curls, a thicker skunk spot centered on the crown of his head) and clicked over to the next slide. 

"No name, no official documents or other records," he went on. "But what I did find was a witness: Esme Sanchez, the only member of the pictured group still alive and in Gotham. She described Sunshine as, and I quote, 'constantly pissed off, British, had a soft spot for the littles'."

Tim paused, maybe waiting for Jason to react to how exactly like him that sounded. Minus the British thing. Kind of. Did Jason taking after Alfred qualify him as British-adjacent? Would having a British mom?

Jason declined to react. 

Tim moved on. 

"Sanchez hypothesized that she was a runaway or trafficked to Gotham before escaping, and said that Willis and Rodriguez-Ledesma opened their home to her for the time she was here. Sunshine didn't have any prior affiliation to the Santa Priscan mob, or any Gotham elements."

Tim peeked at Jason again. Stone face, clenched fists, steady breathing. 

"I've included Esme Sanchez's info in the notes," he ventured, "in case follow up is necessary."

And a more detailed account of how sweet Fox and Sunshine apparently were on each other. There were some things Tim just wouldn't tell his brother, and 'your parents blew some illegal operation because they kept ducking into alleyways to make out' was among them. 

"Take another bite," Jason said. 

Tim took a bite. 

"Moving on," he said, clicking over to the last set of slides. "Sunshine was last seen on July 30th 1997. Sanchez who says she seemed 'grim but determined, like she didn't think she'd make it out but had to go anyway' when she told the crew she was leaving to 'take care of something'. Willis tried to follow her. Rodriguez-Ledesma answered a knock on the door a few hours later to find him tied up and unconscious with no memory of how he got there. And uh, that...is everything we know mostly for sure about your potential biological mom. So far."

Tim lamely tagged on the last bit, barely resisting the urge to do sardonic jazz hands. That was not appropriate in the current situation. Even Tim knew that much. 

The seconds stretched. 

Jason stood up. Tim yelped and almost tumbled over at the sudden loss of his human body support. 

"Thank you, Tim," he said hoarsely. He met Tim's eyes earnestly, which Tim was sure was horribly awkward for them both, even if Jason didn't seem to have a problem. Tim nodded and flailed a hand briefly in his direction, hoping it looked like cool acknowledgement instead of, you know, socially inept flailing. 

"I'm gonna make dinner," Jason continued, mercifully breaking the stare. "Anything sound good to you?"

Ooh!

"Pizza?" Tim asked hopefully. 

Jason made a face. "What, with the fuckin' artichoke hearts and Canadian bacon?"

"Yeah!" he chirped. 

"Ugh, fine, but only because I have half a gallon of frozen artichoke hearts and I never use them for anything else," Jason allowed, as if he hadn't bought artichoke hearts literally and specifically for this exact thing. Tim basked in his victory. 

"And I'm making salad, Mr I-left-my-spleen-in-the-fucking-desert. You better eat it or I'm never making you greasy shit again."

Salad, ugh.

Tim wallowed in his defeat.

Such were the highs and lows of the vigilante life.

Chapter Text

Several Years Ago

Ginny was secure in her position as the fun aunt. Hermione may have been the smart aunt, Fleur was the scary aunt, Audrey was the chill aunt, Luna the weird aunt, and Angelina the cool aunt, but Ginny was the fun aunt. She was fun, approachable, objectively hilarious, and a professional Quidditch player to boot! In short, the best, and she damn well knew it.

(The uncles didn't count, seeing as they were collectively prats. Harry also didn't count, because she was practically a third parent to the entire nibling population and also everyone's favorite.)

So Ginny was used to the kiddos coming to her with hazardous subjects, little faces bright with an anticipatory kind of not-quite-fear. This was the first time they'd ever approached with such solemn expressions and big, grave eyes. 

"Auntie Geeva, we need to talk to you," Teddy said after breakfast on the first day of Easter break. She knew even before turning around that this was going to be a doozy, if he was bringing out the toddlerhood nicknames. She turned and- yep, his hair was Weasley-red as constellations of freckles cycled slowly across his cheeks. Victoire didn't say anything, but her intense, full-bodied stare all but demanded that Ginny acquiesce. 

"Alright," Ginny said slowly. "Let's have a walk to the creek, then."

Both kids visibly sagged with relief. Even Victoire, who had been restrained and imperious from the moment of her birth. Ginny's curiosity spiked, shadowed by a hint of concern. She hoped they weren't going to ask how babies were made but hey!  Anything short of that would be a breeze!

Fifteen minutes later, perched on damp rocks under a soft drizzle of rain, Ginny ate her words.

"We know Harry had a baby," Victoire began with absolutely no preamble. "We want to know what happened to him."

Teddy gasped and elbowed her, hissing something too quiet for Ginny to make out over the suddenly deafening rush of the creek. Victoire elbowed and hissed right back. Ginny rubbed a hand down her face and tucked a strand of frizzing hair behind her ear. She kind of wished they'd overheard some older years talking about sex.

"Where did you learn about this?" she asked, breaking them out of their back-and-forth. The kiddos turned to look at her guiltily- alright, so Teddy looked guilty, Victoire just looked defiant and vaguely haughty. 

"I found a new secret passage way," Teddy confessed, squirming. "It showed a window into one of the staff rooms. We heard Harry talking about it with Professor Longbottom. We didn't mean to eavesdrop! It just...happened. I'm really sorry." 

He seemed genuinely distressed. Before Ginny could reassure him, Victoire jumped in. 

"Factually, we did nothing wrong," she snapped. "There's nothing in the rules against exploring the castle and there's no way we could have known the conversation would be sensitive, so you would be stupid to get angry and wrong to get us in trouble."

Victoire had a lot of her mother in her; rude, blunt, often abrasive, and loyal down to the very bone. Ginny had to admit, it was cute how protective Victoire was of Teddy. She had a bet going with Charlie that they'd end up dating by the time Victoire was fifteen. 

"Nobody's in trouble and nobody's angry," Ginny said truthfully. She managed a smile, knowing it was sad more than anything. "The baby isn't a secret, really. I'm sure you've noticed Harry doesn't like talking about anything too personal, or painful. Sending Jay away was very personal and very, very painful."

Teddy's head snapped around, exactly like a wolf scenting prey. "Jay?" he asked, nostrils flaring.

"Jay," Victoire repeated intently, as if pressing the syllable into mind and heart. She leaned forward, coiled like she was going to pounce. 

Sometimes, Ginny couldn't believe how damn feral these children were, before she remembered who raised them. A widowed Black witch and Harry Bloody Potter, a veela-blooded Frenchwoman and curse-breaking part-werewolf and Harry Bloody Potter respectively. Then it all made sense. 

"If you're going to learn about this you're going to hear it from Harry," she said firmly. "I promise she won't be mad and you won't get in trouble, okay?"

They thought about it, Teddy nodding slowly and Victoire taking several seconds longer before pursing her lips in acceptance. She looked like a baby duck. Ginny resisted the urge to roll her eyes; one definitely shouldn't mock eleven-year-olds to their faces, no matter how unsettled the subject of their lost Jay made her feel. 

It was a short trip through the orchard to the Quidditch pitch behind the house, where a rudimentary pickup match had already begun. It was Harry and Ron against George and Angelina, all four of them flinging insults and fighting dirty as the quaffle blurred through the air. Literally—mud was going everywhere.

Harry glanced over as they approached. Angie took advantage of her distraction, spiking the quaffle through the goal from practically half the field away. George cheered and Harry yelped, "Oi! Cheater!" while Ron groaned theatrically. Angie tossed her braids over her shoulder and smirked. 

"Eye on the prize, Potter," she teased. "Are you a seeker or what?"

Harry flipped her off, to which Teddy muffled a giggle. Ginny cleared her throat and stepped forward.

"Henriette Liliane Potier," she cried in her most French, pissed off Fleur. Harry reeled sharply in the air, whipping the broom in a circle to locate the source of the voice. Ginny grinned as Harry did a double take and lapsed into a playful scowl. She flew over and landed in front of them, an absent flick of her fingers sending the broom gliding to its place inside the shed. 

"Hello, lovelies," she greeted Teddy and Victoire, scooping them into her customary bear hug and swaying from side to side so that their little feet swung in the air, shoes knocking together gently. She ignored Ginny altogether. "Have you come to kick your Auntie Angie's arse with me?"

Usually, this treatment would elicit a lot more giggling from Teddy and a long suffering sigh or smart remark from Victoire. Instead they clung to her silently. Ginny spotted Victoire's soft, plump little hand tangle in the fabric of Harry's sweatshirt and clench it hard enough that the freckles stood out vividly against bone-white knuckles.

Ginny winced a little. She might have underestimated how much this was affecting the kiddos. Harry met her gaze over the niblings' heads, worried face demanding answers. Were they hurt? In danger? Ginny shook her head reassuringly, then tilted it towards the kids. She made a gesture she hoped conveyed they were okay and had something to talk with her about. Harry must have understood, because she looked down and pressed a kiss to each head of hair tucked against a shoulder. 

"Let's have a cup of tea, yeah?" 

Still carrying two preteens and making it look easy, the absolute giantess, Harry started toward the house. Ginny jogged ahead, George and Angelina touching down to join her at the back door.

"What's wrong?" George demanded. 

"They heard Harry talking with Neville about the baby," she said lowly. He winced and Angie sucked a breath between her teeth.

"Unfortunate timing," she murmured. Ginny nodded. It was. The anniversary was just over a week ago. McGonagall mentioned to mum that Harry had been withdrawing again, putting off marking coursework and seeking out small dangers between responsibilities. She hoped like hell this wouldn't reopen old wounds. Harry had been doing so much better since she started teaching, and even more since Teddy reached Hogwarts. 

"I'll let mum know to keep everyone clear of the kitchen," George said. 

"I'll fetch Ron and Hermione, then round up the rest of the littles for a Quidditch lesson," Angie added.

"Thank you," Ginny told them, squeezing each of their arms in lieu of a hug. "I'll stay with Harry."

They split up, a well oiled team. The whole family was now, so used to comforting, supporting and defending one another it felt more like an instinct than the hard-won result of blood, sweat and a whole lot of tears. But it was a damn hard win. 

Ginny filled the kettle and had just set it to heat when the door opened to let Harry and her precious cargo inside. When she bent her knees to set their feet on the floor, Victoire relinquished her grip in favor of sitting on the padded bench that followed the kitchen's outer wall. Teddy refused to let go. Harry adjusted her hold and sat next to Victoire, Teddy curled sideways on her lap. Ginny perched on a stool just across from them.

Harry fussed over Teddy, smoothing his hair down fruitlessly. It had completed its transition from pin straight, classic Weasley ginger into tight, springy black curls. His usual, tawny gold skin was slowly warming and deepening as he adopted Harry's own complexion. Ginny had no doubt that if Teddy looked up his eyes would be the pale, gold-flecked green Lily Evans-Potter had been so famous for. Give it a couple hours and his bone structure would start to shift too. By tomorrow, Teddy would be a miniature replica of Harry in all but gender. In five or so years, he'd be able to change even that if he wanted to. Though by that point the emotion-based, involuntary mimicry would be under control. 

A soft knock at the door frame announced the arrival of Hermione and Ron. Ron pulled a chair from the table as Hermione waddled over and helped her sit before taking a seat himself. Hermione rubbed her pregnant belly absently. They formed a loose triangle between the two of them, Harry with the kids, and Ginny at the counter.

"Aren't we a cheerful bunch," Ron remarked, and though the joke fell flat, it at least got Teddy to look up. He peered around Harry's curly mane, nose and mouth still tucked firmly against her shoulder.

"Hi Uncle Wan. Hi, Aunt Erminee," he mumbled. Victoire just leaned into Harry and glared at the floor like she expected it to produce the answers she wanted, right this instant! Her head rested partly against Teddy's ribs, his calves across her thighs.

The kettle began to whistle before anything else was said. Ginny summoned cups with a wave of her hand, getting up to root through the cupboards for everyone's favored blends. Teas were the only thing in the Burrow's kitchen that never seemed to be in the same spot twice. 

When they all had a cup fixed in front of them, Ginny broached the subject. 

"Harry," she said, picking her words with care even knowing there was no delicate way to do this, no path forward that wouldn't hurt. "Teddy and Victoire accidentally overheard a conversation you had with Neville, where you mentioned your son and your efforts to find him. They wanted to know more about their godbrother, likely want to help with the search, and came to me because they didn't want to upset you talking about it."

Harry had gone stiff as a board, alarming Victoire and spurring Teddy into motion. The boy twisted around so he could throw both arms around Harry's neck and both legs around her trunk, clinging like a koala bear.

"I'm so sorry," he cried. "I'm so sorry your baby had to be hidden and got lost!"

Victoire sprung to her feet and threw herself into the huddle, face screwed up and wet with tears. "We'll help you find him," she declared with an uncharacteristic wobble to her voice. "It'll be okay, Harry!"

Ginny found herself pressing a hand to her mouth in an inane effort to contain her emotions, halfway out of her seat as Harry shuddered, unfroze, and wrapped both children tightly in her arms. 

"Oh Harry," whispered Hermione, bottom lip quivering when Harry broke down in that silent, devastating way of hers. Ron's eyes were equally bright, tear tracks on his cheeks. They held each other's hands tightly. Ron stretched his other hand out to Ginny and she caught it gratefully, leaning on the strength her brother offered.

It was a long time before Harry stopped crying. Teddy hurried to fetch a clean towel from the drawer and run it under cool water before the rest of them could act. He kneeled up on the bench to dab at Harry's blotchy face and swollen eyes with the precision of a surgeon. On Harry's other side, Victoire gently peeled the fine curls at Harry's forehead and temples from clammy skin, smoothing them back into the rest of her hair. She cooed clumsy endearments in French, clearly mimicking Fleur when one of her family was ill.

Through it all, Harry sniffled and blinked wide eyes, apparently dumbfounded by the outpouring of love from two children she'd been loving nonstop from the moment they were born. Ginny's heart swelled with helpless affection until it felt like she would burst and spew mushy feelings and heart-shaped confetti all over the kitchen. She took a sip of tea instead.

Eventually, Harry sniffle-blinked her way out of shock, falling back into the deliberate breathing patterns she'd used as long as Ginny had known her. 

"I...don't know what to say," she admitted, her naturally low voice downright husky after the crying jag. She grimaced and drank some tea herself. 

"What's his name?" Teddy asked at the same time Victoire suggested, "Start with his name."

They exchanged a suspicious glance, not at all used to being on the same page. Harry cracked a painful sort of smile. 

"You'd think that would be the easy part, huh?" she said. "I never named him, not really. I had so many ideas, spent so much time thinking about it. But when he was finally born, all loud and squirmy and warm, I just couldn't. He was real and I- I couldn't have him. I knew if I named him, I'd never be able to let go."

"But...you must have called him something," Teddy protested hesitantly. Ginny knew he was thinking of her slip of the tongue by the creek.

Harry swallowed hard. "I called him Jay," she whispered. "I think...if I'd been able to, his name would have been James. In another life, he would be James Sirius."

She didn't cry again, but the wash of listless resignation was almost worse.

"Well," Victoire fumbled, "I think Jay is a beautiful name! Like a songbird."

"Yeah!" Teddy agreed. "And you love to fly, Harry. It's perfect."

Ginny's chest ached. 

Harry visibly collected herself.

"Thank you, lovelies," she said, squeezing each child briefly before lifting them off the bench like they were still toddlers, plopping them feet-first on the floor. "I think that's enough for right now. I have some things I need to take care of today. Teddy, your Nan and Granddad Weasley are in charge while I'm out. I'll be back tomorrow before supper, but you can always use your mirror to call if there's an emergency, okay?"

"Yes, Harry." Teddy nodded obediently, well used to this spiel.

Harry smiled and brushed the pad of her thumb across his cheek. Ginny could see the pain behind that smile, tucked into the crinkled corners of her eyes and riding the stiff line of her shoulders. 

"Victoire, please give love to your maman and papa for me," she said, smoothing her palm over Victoire's loose sheet of silver-blonde hair.

"I will."

"Okay. I love you both," Harry said, half-turning towards the kitchen side door. She locked eyes with Ginny, nodded to Ron and Hermione, and turned the knob.

"Love you too, Harry! See you tomorrow!"

"Bye Harry, I love you too."

And the mighty Harry Potter fled under the crushing weight of memory and choices past. Ginny breathed out slowly.

"Alright you two, your Aunt Angie is organizing lessons on baby Quidditch for your little cousins out back," Ginny said. "Why don't you go help her make sure none of them fly off, hm?"

The pair nodded silently, aware they were being dismissed but not minding for once. When the door rattled shut behind them, Ginny slumped in her seat and rubbed both hands over her face. 

"Bloody hell," she mumbled. She raised her voice a touch. "You lot can come in now."

A pause, and then most of the adult family came shuffling in from the sitting room. Only Angelina and Charlie were absent, off playing distraction for the children. 

"Is Harry alright?" Mum fretted immediately.

Ginny grimaced and shrugged one shoulder. 

Ron spoke softly, "She's shaken up but didn't seem unstable or anything. I think she's safe to be alone but one of us should still check on her soon."

A slew of relieved breaths and shaky sighs. Percy closed his eyes and leaned against the wall for support. Audrey rubbed his arm. 

"What happened, exactly?" Bill asked. "I know Torie can be...insensitive sometimes. She and Teddy are only kids. Did they say anything...?"

He trailed off. Fleur pursed her lips but didn't argue. 

Ginny told them, lingering on the part where the children did their earnest best to comfort Harry, and the unexpected sweetness Victoire had shown. Bill's worried expression eased into something sad but proud, and Fleur thawed considerably. 

"They are good children," she murmured, accent thickening. 

"Yeah," Ginny agreed. She and Fleur shared a smile, leagues from the antagonistic relationship they'd once had. 

"Do we know where Harry is now?" George asked. He was the most tense out of them all, arms crossed over his chest with his wand spinning between the fingers of his left hand. 

Ginny shook her head, but Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance. 

"Not for sure," Hermione hedged, "but...I expect she's gone to Jay's birthplace."

Percy stiffened. "What? But that's the place where–" he cut himself off, unable to say the words.

"Harry hasn't shown any signs of trying to hurt herself in years," Dad interjected, the deep furrow in his brow belying his own worry. "I don't think she'll do anything ill-advised."

"Someone should go to her," Percy insisted. Without seeming to realize, he touched his wrist where, beneath the sleeve, a ropy scar remained of his own long ago attempt at something ill-advised. 

"I'll go," Mum decided, drawing herself up. "But one of you needs to show me the way."

She looked to Ron and Hermione, the only other two who had been where Jay was born and where, not too much later, Harry reached her lowest point. 

Hermione shrank into herself, looking away. "Not me," she said. "Harry won't want to see me right now."

Ron pulled her to him. "Hey. It's not your fault, Mione."

She sniffled into his chest but wiped her eyes and stepped back. "I know. I'm alright. Go and take Molly to Harry."

He hesitated. Hermione pinned him with a firm look. "Go," she repeated. 

"I'll stay with Hermione," Ginny said. Ron relented, turning to mum. 

"Alright," he said. "Are you ready?"

"Oh! Wait a moment please." Mum rushed around the house, collecting food, blankets, knitting supplies and extra tea. "Okay. Okay, I think that'll do. I'm ready, thank you dear."

He offered his arm to mum, who took it, and they disapparated with a crack. Leaving the rest of them to tend to each other, and ensuring that no one got left behind. 

Chapter Text

Present Day

"How'd you figure Shelia and I aren't related?" Jason found himself asking, halfway through his third slice of homemade pizza. Tim glanced up, mouth full of bacon and artichoke. He both chewed and swallowed before speaking, which Jason privately considered a monumental victory. Used to be, Tim only utilized manners as a conditioned response to being forced into a suit and tie.

"I go through files on the Batcomputer when I'm bored or stuck on a case, filing in empty fields and updating stuff." Tim shrugged jerkily. "It's like...I dunno, busywork while my brain chews on the important stuff so I don't go crazy."

Jason nodded thoughtfully. "I can see the appeal," he admitted. He achieved a similar effect cleaning his guns and running katas, or reading a familiar book. It wasn't until Tim's shoulders eased that Jason realized the baby bird had been expecting Jason to make fun of him. He made a mental note to not poke at that particular soft spot.

"I was going through individual dossiers in alphabetical order," Tim said, referring to the obsessive files Bruce kept on every last person who came in contact with his family. He continued,

"When I got to Haywood, quite a few fields were empty. Blood type, place of birth, high school, stuff like that. I tracked down the missing data and it didn't add up. Haywood's blood type was AB. You're O- and we already had Willis on file as O+, so there was no biological way they could've produced you. I ran a DNA test to be sure, and there was no relation. I checked both Willis and Catherine Todd's DNA too, just to be thorough. Willis is your biological parent. Catherine is not."

Jason's stomach lurched at the notion that, somehow, Catherine had been his birth mom the whole time. It wouldn't suddenly make up for her being an absentee and neglectful, wouldn't somehow make him love her more and resent her less, but...yeah. He set his pizza down, unable to enjoy it further. 

Tim, however, took his time finishing. As soon as he did, Jason leapt on the chance to occupy himself by taking the plates to the sink. He hesitated over his third of a slice of pizza. He wasn't hungry anymore, and frankly pizza wasn't his favorite anyway. Too much cheese. But Jason couldn't bring himself to throw it away, couldn't waste food like that. He knew a third of a slice was not going to be the difference between survival and starvation anymore. But.

Jason had just decided to put the leftovers in a sandwich bag when Tim padded over. He snaked a hand around Jason to grab it. 

"You done with this?" he asked, nonchalant. Jason nodded.

"Cool," Tim said, finishing it in three swift bites. The anxiety twisting Jason's gut eased slightly. He bumped his arm lightly against Tim's, who smiled up at him. 

Jason set about the hand washing, since there weren't enough to warrant using the tiny dishwasher. Even if there was, he probably wouldn't: like the baby bird said, busy work kept his brain from going crazy. Tim hopped up on the counter and started drying.

"The first step is always deeper investigation," Tim said, answering Jason's unspoken question: what next? "It's tricky because this was almost twenty years ago, but I've already set up multiple facial recognition programs searching for an aged-up approximation of Sunshine, just to cover our bases. I doubt it'll turn out a match, with the sheer amount of ground to cover, but you never know."

Jason nodded. Facial recognition was more effective when you knew the area your target was or had been. It was less useful in wholesale manhunts. 

"I've also set up alerts if anyone comes looking for Willis Todd or associates," Tim continued. "I think it would be good to interview Esme Sanchez again, and the final member of their gang, Hiroto Nakamura, who actually got out of Gotham and is currently an editor with Metricks Publishing."

"When?" Jason asked, focusing on the cup he was rinsing with unnecessary care.

"Well," said Tim, "are you doing anything tonight?"

Jason glanced up at him, deadpan. Tim grinned back. He sighed and finished the glass, plopping it on the drying rack for Tim.

"Ah, what the hell," he mumbled. "Like pulling the bullet out of a gunshot wound."

"Best not wait too long," Tim agreed. 

Two and a half hours later, Jason in his civvies and Tim in his Alvin Draper guise were knocking on the door to Esme Sanchez's third story apartment in Burnley. Tim called ahead to let her know they were coming, but it still took several long moments for the woman to open door.

Esme Sanchez was a short, strong boned latina woman, about Bruce's age with square shoulders and and a balanced stance. Though she wasn't much older than forty, a thick stripe of gray wound through her messy braid. Laugh lines surrounded bright, dark eyes. 

Esme looked Jason up and down, clad in his usual scuffed up leather jacket (black, as opposed to Hood's tan) and ripped black jeans, topped off with sturdy black work boots. Both eyebrows raised high, lips pursing.

Jason scowled reflexively.

"Dios mío," she said, glancing between him and Timmy. "¡Ay, you're the reason this one was poking around! You come on in, mijo, though I'm warning you, if you make trouble it's the Hood you'll be answering to."

"Entendido, señora. Gracias," Jason said a little more warmly than intended. It was a huge triumph, that Red Hood made people feel safe enough to let strangers into their homes. That they trusted the threat of his vengeance to be enough to keep them safe, from at least some things. He went down on one knee to remove his boots inside the door, Tim right beside him. Esme nodded approvingly.

"De nada. You got better manners que tu mamá when I met her," she said. A jolt of electricity shot up his spine at the words. He stared at her. Esme nodded again. 

"Sí, she was a piece of work alright. Sooner spit in your face than smile at you." Esme sounded fond, even approving. "A good thing para las chicas en esta ciudad. Sometimes felt like she was as much Gotham as yo, y mi mami raised me from the gutter itself!"

"Tu papi on the other hand," Esme continued, shooing them from the entryway into the sitting room, "was polite as a boy could be...cuando él wasn't knocking teeth out or robbing people blind!"

She cackled a low, raspy smoker's laugh, slapping her knee. They all sat, Tim and Jason on the couch, Esme on a wooden chair she pulled from the kitchen and straddled backwards, crossing her arms over the back. The solid frame was a barrier between her and them. She rested her chin on it and grinned.

"So," she said. "Ask your questions, little Sunshine."

Jason took a moment to center his thoughts, anticipation squirming in his gut. Tim knocked his knee against Jason's thigh. The subtle point of contact was reassuring.

"Why'd you call her that?" Jason started with. Esme laughed again, grinning widely as if this was the best thing to happen all day. 

"You never did see una chica tan como a storm front than her. What else could we call an Outsider stormier than Gotham in spring? Loud, moody, stubborn; that cloud of dark hair con el mechón de white, the loca scar like a bolt of lightning."

Esme gestured to her own gray streak, then at him. There was a slyness in her expression, a quirk of the mouth and twinkle to the eye, that set him on guard. Her next words confirmed the feeling.

"You got that same skunk spot, ¿ey mijo? Qué guapo, no? Entonces...rumor has it the Red Hood has one just like it." Jason kept his face and posture composed. He felt the baby bird shift faux-casually, digging his pointy little knee into the side of Jason's leg, questioning. Jason pressed back, reassuring. 

"I heard that too," Jason said. "Ain't that why people in the alley started bleachin' part of their hair? To make him harder to ID?"

Esme seemed delighted with his response. "Sí, sí. Qué interesante, though, that tú y tu mamá have the same one as Hood, eh?"

Jason shrugged. 

"Vitiligo," he said, pushing his hair back so she could see the chalky patch of skin barely visible beneath his hairline. He flashed the matching pale splotch on the back of his wrist, curling over the jut of the bone and down the base of his thumb. "I heard Red Hood got his because he left a piece of his soul behind to come back from the dead."

Esme hummed and nodded along, eyes and smile still flush with knowing. "Is a good story, mijo. Pero, Red Hood reminds me of her sometimes, you know. I heard him talking poetry with one of our little alley rats a while back. Sunshine liked poetry and learning. She and Hood, they both talk like a scholar, dress like a biker, walk like a soldier."

Talk like a scholar, dress like a biker, walk like a soldier. 

Jason could envision her now, this mysterious woman who gave birth to him, like all he needed to make her real was to know she liked poetry too. But there was no time to ruminate, when Esme Sanchez was still needling him for a reaction.

"Maybe Hood n' I should do a blood test," Jason drawled. "I might like havin' an uncle or a half brother around."

Esme cackled. 

"Ay, mijo, you make me laugh. Entonces...what did you say your name was again?

Jason smiled, all teeth and honesty. 

"I didn't."

Esme laughed again, shaking her head in apparent surrender. Jason's chest ached a little, fond and nostalgic. This kind of banter, sideways looks and pointed questions neither side expected answers to, was quintessential crime alley friendship.

He'd missed it, talking to his people like this without the Hood as a barrier. He should do it more often. It wasn't like he had a civilian identity to endanger, despite Dick's best efforts to convince him to resurrect Jason Wayne. 

"Alright, alright; it was worth a try! What else do you want to know?"

"Were you close?" Jason asked. "Did you know her real name?"

Esme sighed, smile fading. "No mijo, lo siento. The whole gang went by code names. If we already knew each other we pretended not to. Plausible deniability, no? Y tu mamá, she was hiding from something, running from someone. Pienso que—¿ay, what do I know? But I think she was meta."

Jason felt his breath catch slightly. Out of all the things he expected her to say, that wasn't one of them. If his- if Sunshine was metahuman, the search pool just got a whole lot smaller. Jason leaned forward, planting his forearms on his knees. 

"Go on."

"I never saw nothing," Esme cautioned, raising her calloused brown hands in disclaimer. "But Sunshine did things rest of us couldn't. She could get any lock open without breaking it y nadie never managed to sneak up on her, not even Mouse. She was strong, strong enough to haul tu papá around like a sack of potatoes. I think she ran away from meta traffickers."

Jason's jaw clenched. Traffickers. The notion of Sunshine, of his mom, hunted like a commodity made the Pit flare green in his peripheral vision. 

"Is that why she left?" he asked. "Did they catch up with her?" 

"I doubt it," Esme said. "But whatever happened, she knew it was coming. I could see it in her face. Tu papi saw too. After a job I once caught him begging to go along with her. Tu mamá wouldn't have none of that. Said it was her fight: él no puede ayudar. She looked real grim but determined, like she didn't think she'd make it out alive but had to go anyway."

That was near verbatim what Tim had quoted her saying. The Pit flared, stronger this time.

Jason squeezed his eyes shut, let out a breath, and opened them when he was sure the green was gone. "When was the last time you saw her?"

"En julio," Esme said promptly. "July 30th. Lo recuerdo porque she said the 31st was her seventeenth birthday and that she would be an adult. I thought it was funny, that English people say seventeen is adult pero en América y México, adulto es eighteen."

Jason sensed Tim perk up.

"No es correcto," Jason said, in his surprise slipping back into the same easy Spanglish as Esme, the kind he spoke with his parents as a child. "Seventeen no es adulto en England."

"¿De verdad?" Esme sounded surprised. Jason nodded. "Hm. Strange. Sunshine was very sure that bad things would happen cuando ella wasn't una niña anymore."

"What did she say, exactly?" Tim asked, speaking up for the first time. Jason glanced at him. Baby bird was sitting ruler straight, face intent. 

"No lo recuerdo," Esme shrugged. "This was almost twenty years ago, muchacho. I just remember because it was strange."

"Gracias por telling me todo," Jason said. "Is there anything else you can remember about her?"

Esme tilted her head. "Mm...she had a funny scar on the back of her hand. Words. Pensé que it was a white ink tattoo at first. She wore gloves a lot of the time and I never learned what they say. And she was soft on the children. A woman tried to steal su bolsa y Sunshine broke her nose. Un niño lo intentó, and she bought him lunch."

Daringly, she met his eyes. "A lot like our Red Hood, hm?"

Jason smiled blandly. 

"Thank you for your time, señora," he said in the pleasantly vacant tone of bureaucrats everywhere. He pulled a pen and pocket notebook from his jacket and scrawled down the number for one of his civilian-adjacent phones. He stood and offered it to her, Tim at his side.

"Let me know if you remember anything else," he told her. "O si usted necesita ayuda. If you ask, I'll come."

Esme accepted it, standing and walking them to the door. As they put their shoes back on, she regarded him with that knowing smirk, softened by undeniable fondness.

"Of course you will, mijo." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers tracing the gray streak that was growing in brown at the roots. 

"In the alley, we take care of our own."

. . . 

"I can't believe you were made by a civilian. A civilian you never even met before! Somewhere in space, right now, Bruce is preparing a lecture."

"Shut up Timberly. At least I never wore my uniform under street clothes and called it a disguise!"

"That's because your uniform is literally reinforced street clothes. Switching jackets and taking off your gun holsters isn't a disguise either! You don't even dye your lame-ass skunk hair- arg, Jay! Get off!"

"No. Suffer."

Chapter Text

Several Years Ago

Molly loved all her children dearly. She did not love them equally, because equal meant same and her children deserved better than that.

They were all so different: as vibrant, odd, and brilliant as they were infuriating, heartbreaking, and confusing. Each required different things from her, so no, Molly did not dote on Fred and George the way she did Percy, because they would have chafed and resented it. She was firm with Ron because he would take every opportunity to slack off, and thus feel purposeless and undervalued.

Molly wasn't perfect. Far from it, as she was painfully aware. She'd been a bit too firm with Ron, and overly indulgent and overly strict with Ginny in turns. She'd doted excessively on Percy as it turned out, and been much too lenient towards the twins. As for Bill and Charlie, they certainly bore the brunt of her bossing and fretting, before she started to rein herself in and let children learn some things for themselves. 

Molly certainly did not have a favorite, no matter how they joked amongst themselves!

That said...Molly thought she loved Harry best.

Perhaps it was because she didn't raise the girl, with all the mistakes and little pains that came with it. Perhaps it was that Harry had received so little love before Molly met her, so she took extra care. Perhaps it was sweet Harry herself that made the difference, holding to the affection in a way that her other children never had, being loved every moment of their existence. Perhaps they just clicked. 

Perhaps it didn't matter why. 

Molly loved Harry best. It was easy to love her. Simple to do right by her. Straightforward. It came naturally. Molly was good at loving Harry. Her other children, they all clashed in some way. Molly got frustrated, did things she regretted, didn't do other things she ought to have. 

With sad, sweet Harry, all Molly really needed to do was be there.

Ron disapparated. Immediately they were confronted with the sound of a colossal explosion, accompanied by a cloud of debris. Molly's ears rang in the aftermath–except, no. It was a woman's raw, high-pitched scream.

Ah. 

Molly felt some of her seething worry lessen. Harry couldn't be too badly off, if she were still yelling and blowing things up. Ronnie's bunched up muscles relaxed under Molly's hand. 

They glanced at one another, solemn but not without a good share of relief. Molly patted his arm. 

"We'll see you at the Burrow, dearie," she said. "Do tell the others not to wait up."

"Can't make promises, but I'll pass it along," her boy said a little wryly. "And- thanks, mum. Take care of her."

He stepped away and apparated. Molly turned her attention back to her surroundings. She didn't rightly know where they were, seeing not much besides squat hills covered in long grass, tangled with low shrubs and brambles. A rickety-looking fence framed the area, marking the edges of the wards Molly vaguely sensed. 

She planted her hands on her hips and peered into the slowly settling cloud of smoke and dust. She saw Harry now, profile striking as she stalked the perimeter of a sadly neglected vegetable garden. A tiny cottage was just visible behind her. Before her lay a crater at least two meters across, and several smoking piles of rubble. 

As Molly watched, Harry jabbed her wand and the blackened heaps began to squirm together, coalescing into the oversized, unmistakable shape of he-who-must-not– no, of Voldemort, who was long dead and deserving of none of her fear. Another stab of Harry's wand and the image solidified into ugly gray stone.

With a gut-wrenching wail, Harry hurled the massive statue into the air. Before it even reached its peak, she'd nailed it with one, two, three spells. The first a tongue of flame that cracked the stone with its heat, the second a concussive blast that shattered it altogether, and the third a curse dark enough to make Molly purse her lips.

The curse hit the gravelly mass like a bolt of lightning, exploding outward in a ring of concussive force with the sound to match. The thunderclap reverberated in Molly's bones and teeth, not to mention her poor ringing ears. A fine layer of ash floated down as Harry stood, just clutching her wand and panting. 

Just when Molly was about to gently announce her presence, Harry turned on one dragon-hide booted heel and met her gaze. 

"Molly," she said quietly. The rim of red around her eyes, the chapped and nearly gray-brown color of her lips, made Molly's heart sink. 

"Harry dear," she replied, the words rolling off her tongue with the comfort and ease of repetition. She stepped forward, wanting to hurry but knowing better from the haunted cast of the girl's face. As she drew near, Harry's strong frame quivered and swayed toward her. 

"Harry," Molly repeated, emotion welling up thick on her tongue. "Dear, may I touch you?"

The girl hesitated, then shook her head. "No. No, not now."

"Alright," Molly accepted. Studied her again, seeing the way Harry's arms crossed and shoulders hunched, her fingers twitching restlessly. Avoiding Molly's eyes. "Do you want something to do? I've brought my knitting, and Christmas jumpers don't just make themselves." 

"I- yeah," Harry croaked. "Yes."

"Excellent. Can we make use of the cottage or shall we brave the springtime chill?"

Harry hesitated, then blew out a sharp breath. "We might as well go in," she muttered. "I suppose we won't be leaving here til I've spoken about it."

Smart girl, Molly thought. Indeed we won't. 

Inside the cottage was painfully bare, not a whit of decoration or personality. Three wooden chairs and a small table were the sum of the furniture, but Molly brought enough supplies to make them busy turning the front room, at least, into something tolerable. She was relieved to see Harry nibble on some bread and cheese.

"You can work on Ron's," she directed once they were sufficiently comfortable and Harry's hackles had fallen. "You've gotten quite good at chevron stitching."

Harry shot her a pointed look to let Molly know she was being bossy. It was good to see some of her usual cheek. They worked in comfortable quiet, the clack of their needles and quiet popping of the fireplace almost sounding like home. Bar the constant yelling and dozens of stomping feet, of course. It was quite peaceful.

If Harry was to speak, she needed plenty of time and space to sort her words out. The kettle whistled before Harry spoke, and they fixed and shipped and finished their tea. They returned to knitting and still Harry kept her tongue.

Molly let it be. Founders only knew it was worse than useless trying to get that girl to do anything until she decided so.

"You know I don't remember most of it," Harry finally said, scowling down at Ron's jumper. "I don't– Hermione's bloody terrifying with a memory charm."

"I know, love." Molly winced a little. Hermione's poor parents never did remember their daughter, after all her attempts to reverse the spell. She'd been so sure of her ability to restore what was lost. 

"So really there's not much to talk about," she continued, attacking the yarn like- well, like it was trying to pry into her most painful memories. Molly lowered her knitting needles. They clinked quietly as she sat them in her lap but Harry's eyes snapped towards her like she set off a firework. 

"I didn't see Fred die," Molly said, the words like hot coal in her throat, bringing tears to her eyes. She tried to swallow the lump. "I don't have that memory. Dearie, not remembering doesn't make it hurt any less when they're gone."

Harry's face twisted and crumpled. She let her own knitting slip to the floor as she drew her knees to her chest and hid her face in them. One hand flailed out towards Molly, and she caught it with the ease of familiarity. 

"I thought it would be better," she got out, voice cracking like a rock slowly fracturing under unbearable pressure. "I- Tom could get in my head. Once we found out I was pregnant, I begged Hermione to erase my memories of the father. I wouldn't have slept with someone I didn't love, someone who could be used against me. So she did. And once I had Jay, I...I was going to ask her to erase my memories of him, to keep him safe from Tom."

She glanced up at Molly, just a flash of pale green iris and bloodshot whites. She was trembling. The burning lump of coal in Molly's throat grew and spread through her lungs. Somewhere in her mind, Molly was distantly surprised she wasn't exhaling smoke and embers. Most of her, however, was focused on her daughter.

"I couldn't do it," Harry said between gasping, silent sobs that stained her brown skin with ruddy splotches. "I- instead, I had Hermione send him away, somewhere safe. To his father, we think. Then we- all three of us Obliviated each other in turn so we couldn't give Jay up to Tom and his Death Eaters, not ever. We- and- I didn't expect to live, Molly!"

Harry said the last words like she was begging her to understand. She did. Merlin save her, but Molly understood.

"I thought I was going to die," Harry said, calmer now, as if this topic were less fraught. "And- I suppose I did, even if it didn't stick. But Ron and Hermione set something up anyway, a message that would only appear for me if I was still alive in three years. Only, it never came. And now none of us know anything about where Jay was sent, where he is now, nothing."

She looked at Molly again, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "I hope he's loved," she said in such a small voice Molly almost couldn't believe it was coming from her fierce Harry. "I really do."

Molly smiled at her. It was a weak and shaky thing, but honest. "He is," she whispered. "Even if he doesn't know it yet. He is."

Harry fell silent, her words spent even as her feelings continued to churn. She slid from her chair and leaned back against Molly's legs. Molly ran her fingers over her daughter's riot of curls, beginning slowly to isolate and untangle the strands around her forehead and temples.

"Tell me a poem?" Harry asked quietly. Molly's smile gained a little strength. Memories of a dark, scrawny little waif bent over Molly's book of poetry at the kitchen table flashed through her mind. 

"Always, Harry dear." She began to braid Harry's thick, dense hair, the motions as familiar to her now as knitting a Christmas jumper. 

"They tell me life's a journey

That will take me many years

Some days are filled with laughter

And some days are filled with tears

Some days I think my heart will break

That I can't persevere

Some days I have to don a mask

And hide beneath its veneer

Some days I turn and look for you

With thoughts I'd like to share

Some days I just can't understand

The reason you're not there

Some days the sadness leaves me

And my smile will reappear

Some days I close my eyes because

Your memory is so clear

Some days I struggle to go on

Just wishing you were near

Most days I spend in gratitude

That you were ever here."

Molly lapsed into silence. She felt the cool glide of tears down her cheeks, gathering in the wrinkles deepening around her eyes and mouth. She let them fall, unashamed. Similar tracks painted their way down what she could see of Harry's face, glinting in the firelight and orange glow of the sun setting through the drapes. Neither of them spoke for a long, long time. They sat, two mothers in mourning, until darkness fell and it was time to return home. 

Chapter Text

They had a birthday. There were fireworks going off in Tim's head. They had a birth day, a birth month, a birth year; finding Sunshine was going to be CAKE!

Stephanie alert: it was not cake. It was very not cake. It was not even pie.

"Wild goose chase who?" Tim muttered. "Wild geese ain't got nothing on this chase- heckin' dang it!"

Tim came this close to smashing his forehead against the keyboard when his lastest program chimed. No results found. 

"Eff you, you useless piece of junk!" He yanked the laptop closer and typed furiously. If his best programs couldn't find a match on a birth certificate, fine. Tim would just have to do it manually. Muttering to himself, Tim jabbed out commands. 

His search field was currently England, Scotland, the Irelands, Wales, even Australia just in case Esme Sanchez was bad at accents. Secondary programs were trawling through databases from India and South Asia, since that was the region her features drew most strongly from. Once they'd done what they could, the programs would continue searching the digital records of the rest of the world. It would not be a fast process. Even using the Cave system and piggybacking off the Watchtower, even with the highly advanced alien technology Frankensteined into place, that was a lot to comb through. 

Tim at least eliminated all the existing records confirmed not to be Sunshine: biological men, people deceased prior to Sunshine's stint in Gotham (flagged for later review, because deaths could be either temporary or faked), women who didn't fit basic physical parameters (too short, wrong ethnicity, etc).

Then he put in a search for school registrations, immunization and census records, police files, anything he could get his digital claws on. That done, Tim checked the time. 

"Ah, frick nuggets," he cursed, jolting to his feet. He was going to interrogate Hiroto Nakamura about Sunshine that evening. And, wonder of all wonders, Tim had forgotten to take the nap he promised Alfred several hours ago. 

"C'est la vie," Tim decided. "He'll live. Me too, probably."

Though some endeavors required more caffeine than his beloved Zesti could provide. It was a pity that coffee tasted like burned tree bark and took heaps of sweeteners to take the bitter edge off. Maybe Tim should look into caffeinated creamer, skip the middle man altogether. 

A few minutes, several gulps of nasty sludge, and an Alfred-approved protein bar later, Red Robin stepped into the Cave's zeta tube and stepped out into a deserted Metropolis warehouse. He didn't bother with the motorcycles hidden behind the wall panels, instead taking to the rooftops. 

He could do with some exercise. 

Red Robin checked his wrist console to make sure the target was still at the office. Metrics Publishing was a small building for the city in inhabited, only six stories tall and stumpy, like a dwarf amidst a bunch of elves. Nakamura's office was on the fifth floor.

It took a sparse handful of seconds to disable the alarms and set the necessary security cameras on loop. Red shook his head. 

"Metropolis," he scoffed in the back of his throat. He ghosted through the roof access and to the fifth floor without being seen by the handful of employees still wandering about. Nakamura sat at his desk in his little separate office space, typing away at a glowing computer screen in the dim room.

Too darn easy. Red timed his entrance perfectly, turning on the central air and slipping inside at the same time. The slight whoosh of the door was swallowed by the rattle of the ancient cooling system. 

Red bit back a smile, positioning himself in the massive blind spot created by Nakamura's monitor. Long ago, little Tim had been fascinated by the Batclan's ability to appear and disappear at will, half convinced it really was magic, that Gotham swallowed them in her shadows and spit them out elsewhere.

The reality was less glamorous, but way more fun. It took a lot of practice, the situational awareness to take advantage of your environment, and a lot of rushing around. When Batman vanished as Gordon's back was turned, it was really Bruce yeeting himself off the roof or sprinting on tiptoes to hide behind the Batsignal. 

Undignified, maybe, but only if you got caught. 

"Nakamura Hiroto-san," Red Robin said pleasantly, snapping the blinds shut over the window that looked into the rest of the floor. 

Nakamura jumped half a foot in the air, his shocked expression illuminated by the blue light of his screen. In the sudden darkness, the man was blinded by it. He fumbled for his phone. Red plucked it out of his hand. 

"Hush now, none of that," he said cheerfully, putting the phone face down on the desk. He reached out and clicked on the lamp in the corner. Red wanted him caught off guard, not scared witless, after all. 

Nakamura gawked. "You're one of the birds," he said. 

Tim allowed himself a smile, genuinely pleased. Nakamura shrunk back. 

"That is correct," Red chirped. "And today, the birds have a question for you!"

"I swear I'm not involved in anything more illegal than letting grandma use my Disney+ account," he said immediately, hands held so high in surrender his elbows were straight, arms pressed against his ears. "And sometimes I speed up to beat the light when it turns yellow."

Red chuckled. "Relax, Nakamura-kun," he said, using an overly familiar suffix to gauge how Nakamura would react to the condescension. "You're not in trouble."

Nakamura slowly lowered his arms, leaving them hanging loose by his sides. He made no move to go for his phone or the pepper spray attached to his key chain. Red, despite himself, was rather charmed by the lack of fuss. 

"How can I help?" he asked, further endearing himself to Red Robin. 

Red pulled up the group picture of Willis Todd's gang on his wrist console. He projected against at the wall. 

"Is that you?" Red asked, tapping the screen. A red circle appeared around teenaged Nakamura's pimply face. 

Nakamura swallowed. "Yes, it is."

Excellent. 

"Can you name the other individuals in this photograph?"

Nakamura hesitated. "I mean–we didn't share our real names," he said, "but I can tell you what they went by."

"Go on."

"The latina girl in the front is Rumble." Nakamura said, gesturing to Esme Sanchez. "The boy next to her is her brother Sketch."

Ernesto Sanchez, deceased.

"Then Dove, the black kid with the purple dreads."

Josiah Williams, deceased.

"The little white boy with the cigarette burn on his face is Mouse."

Nathan Johnston, deceased. 

"Then, uh, that's me. They called me Vans."

Hiroto Nakamura, indeed wearing ratty, mismatched Vans–one shoe was black and falling apart, and the other was a bloodstained but structurally sound aqua. Red could appreciate such dedication to a look. He also noticed that Nakamura wore stylish black and purple Vans today. 

"In the back, those two giants are Fox–the afro latino boy with freckles and the ginger hair-"

Willis Todd, deceased.

"-and Sunshine, the brown girl with the lightning shaped scar and white streak in her hair."

Jason's mother, unknown. 

"Thank you, Hiroto." Red Robin leaned forward. "Tell me what you know about the girl called Sunshine." 

Nakamura swallowed. "Uh, can I ask why? Red Robin, sir?"

Red Robin studied the man. He was pretty loyal for someone who hadn't seen his ragtag little gang in over a decade. It wasn't like he was in the big leagues where talking would get you killed. Willis Todd was long dead, and though technically a low level member of the Santa Priscan Mob, had run a street gang of unaffiliated misfits. 

Jason Todd had inherited a lot from his father, and a penchant for taking on strays was one of them.

"I don't see how that's your business, Hiroto-kun," he said lightly. "Why the concern?"

"Sunshine is- was- is good people. If she's in trouble–"

"No trouble," Red interrupted. "We just want to find out where she went. It's a...personal matter."

Micro expressions flashed across Nakamura's face–suspicion, confusion, surprise, realization, and finally, understanding. That was interesting. Just what did Nakamura think he understood?

The man nodded furiously. "I understand."

...hm. 

Red Robin leaned forward a little, casual but for his smile. Nakamura leaned back a lot, eyes going wide. 

"You understand?" Red repeated delicately. 

No further fishing was needed. Nakamura's arms snapped up in surrender, fast enough that Red had to reign in an instinctual counterattack. 

"I visit my obaa-san in Gotham every week," Nakamura confessed immediately. "She- um, she lives under the Hood. There's been- rumors? About, uh, the boss lookin' for someone matchin'–I mean, someone matching Sunshine's description."

He hastily reigned in the alley rat accent, returning to a more neutral affectation. Red held eye contact, letting the man sweat for a while. Esme Sanchez, it seemed, had loose lips. 

"What happens under the Hood stays under the Hood, Hiroto-kun," Red said quietly. 

"I know!" the man squeaked. "I just, I ain't no snitch, sir, I just thought since yous work with Hood an' all–"

"That's enough," Red Robin said, cutting him off. "Don't talk about this to anyone except me or Hood himself."

Nakamura was going to get whiplash from how hard he was nodding. 

"Good. Now, proceed with everything you know about Sunshine."

. . .

Tim slid through Jason's window later that night with another cup of dreadful coffee, a new lead on Sunshine...and a slideshow on how better to enforce secrecy among his underlings. Honestly. It was like bat paranoia meant nothing to the man. 

Chapter Text

Several Years Ago

"-due Wednesday on at least three advantages, disadvantages, and limitations of your assigned spell. Remember that you will be sharing your report with the rest of the class! Questions?"

Victoire raised one delicate, plump hand. Harry quirked an eyebrow and nodded at her. 

"I would like to practice my spell before writing the report, but new magic isn't to be used outside class."

It wasn't a question.

"That's correct," Harry said, smiling at her goddaughter with one eyebrow still raised. Victoire's lips pressed together and she flicked her ponytail over her shoulder with a huff, just like an itty bitty Fleur.

"Professor Potter," she grumbled, "can we practice our spells before the reports."

There was an audible lack of question mark at the end of the sentence, but Harry let it slide. 

"Nope," she said cheerfully. Victoire scowled and a handful of other kids groaned or sighed in relief.

"Because," Harry continued, "Wednesday is a double DADA period and we will spend the second half learning whichever spell you lot decide to start with."

The students cheered, but Janae Davis from Ravenclaw raised her hand, face scrunched. 

"We'll learn each of the spells before the end of the year," she told them. Janae lowered her hand, looking satisfied. Harry shot her a wink, to which the Firstie giggled. 

"Any other questions? Then class dismissed!"

The children flowed out of the room in bunches, already chattering and squawking. Victoire, naturally, stayed behind. 

"Aunt Harry-" she began with her hands clasped formally behind her back. 

"Nope," Harry told her. "We're waiting for your other half before we start all this."

Victoire scowled again. "You don't even know what I'm going to say!"

Oh, but Harry did. She'd known this was coming since she let Molly coax her back to the Burrow after her temper tantrum. She didn't know whether to be grateful or irritated that the kids decided to wait until term started to approach her about- about Jay again. 

"Teddy won't be long," she said, not phased by Victoire's attempt to scowl harder, as if her round, freckled little face could even support the expression. She'd grown out of stamping her foot a few years back but Harry half expected her to do it now. 

"It's important," the little witch stressed, and Harry gave her goddaughter a closer look. Stressed was the right word, actually. Victoire's prized silvery hair was secured with a ponytail and a headband. The first part was already a bit odd–like both Fleur and Gabriella, Victoire usually kept it loose, for maximum head-tossing effect.

The headband, however, Harry had only seen when Victoire couldn't stand baby hairs touching her face without getting anxious and frustrated. 

...Now that she was looking for it, Harry noticed her little Firstie wore a turtle neck beneath her uniform and pulled the sleeves down over her hands, like the school robe brushing against her skin was unbearable. 

Dammit. How could Harry be so selfish? She was the adult here. 

"I'm sorry, little dove," she said, crouching down to Victoire's height. "What did you want to say?"

"I- Auntie." She hesitated, then took a deep breath and asked: "What if Jay is dead?"

Victoire asked. Actually asked. Harry squeezed her eyes shut against the pain.

What if her son was dead?

"Then...we'll keep going," Harry whispered, voice hoarse and cracking. "Keep living. And hope that we see him again in the Beyond."

Victoire's breath hitched. "I'm worried about Teddy. He wants to find Jay. It's all he talks about. He thinks that if we find him, it'll fix everything and you won't be sad anymore."

Godric, these kids. She loved them so much it hurt. Even if talking about this–about her baby boy–made her want to run, to throw herself into the forest and search for the Resurrection Stone on hands and knees. To fight anything that got in her way. 

What if her son was dead?

"It's not Teddy's job to fix anything," Harry said gently. "Especially not me. And it's not your job to fix Teddy, sweet girl."

She opened her hand to Victoire, offering, but the Firstie grimaced and leaned away. Harry let her hand drop, not offended in the least. 

"Teddy's got a list," Victoire said quietly. "And charts. Of ideas to find Jay. He wants to show you. Is that alright? Or...or will it just hurt more?"

Harry felt her heart burn. Love, despair, grief, anger, and gratitude all warred inside her. The emotions choked her, crawling up her throat and pressing behind her eyes. 

"I-" her voice broke. She couldn't do this. She couldn't–but Harry was the adult. She was responsible.

Harry licked her lips. 

"It's very sweet that Teddy is trying to help," she rasped. "But yes, Victoire. Sharing his plans with me will hurt. I will ask him not to."

Victoire shook her head, suddenly looking relieved. She stood tall, shoulders back and chin up. "No need, Aunt Harry. I'll tell him. I just needed to make sure I was right, first. Good day."

With that, she spun on her kitten-heeled boot and walked away with the intent, almost predatory, stride that she shared with her mother. Teddy tumbled around the corner and into the room a moment later. Victoire clotheslined him without breaking her stride and dragged her startled best friend out and away by the neck of his robes. 

Harry blinked after them. And couldn't help but laugh. It was either that or cry, and she was sick of tears.