Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry Potter had fought a war and won.

But somehow, victory didn’t taste like it was supposed to.

It was bitter, metallic, and heavy on the tongue, like old blood.

The Boy Who Lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, had found his way home after the Battle of Hogwarts with a broken wand, a battered soul, and a baby in his arms.

Teddy Lupin.

Teddy, who had no parents left because Remus and Tonks had laid down their lives with a fierceness that Harry understood too well. Teddy, who grinned and gurgled and cried and cooed, and filled the hollow places inside Harry’s chest where hope used to be.

So Harry left.

He packed up his grief, his guilt, and his stubborn need to protect, and he took Teddy to Number 12, Grimmauld Place — the ancient, creaking Black family home, thick with shadows and memories.

He hid there, away from the Daily Prophet headlines and the Ministry’s offers of medals and meaningless jobs.

He became Teddy’s world, and Teddy became his.

The first few nights after the adoption were the hardest.

Teddy was small — heartbreakingly small — only five months old, with wispy tufts of hair that changed color depending on his mood. His tiny face would scrunch up, and his hair would flash a furious red when he cried, or a soft blue when he slept peacefully in Harry’s arms.

Harry watched him one evening, cradling him gently by the fire in Grimmauld Place, the room quiet but for the occasional crackle of the flames.

"You’re going to be special, Teddy," Harry whispered, brushing a fingertip against Teddy’s downy hair, which shimmered silver in the firelight.

But the world wasn’t kind to "special."

Harry knew that better than anyone.

He swallowed hard, pulling out a small, delicate bracelet from his pocket — a thin band of woven magic-infused silver, charmed carefully by Hermione just days before.

"Just for a little while," Harry murmured. "Just until you’re ready."

He slipped the bracelet carefully around Teddy’s chubby wrist. The instant it clasped, Teddy’s hair and eyes flickered — then settled into a consistent, soft brown, like any ordinary baby.

The magic was subtle — powerful enough that anyone looking at Teddy would see only the same hair, the same eyes, no matter how Teddy’s real abilities tried to shine through.

Only Harry would see the truth.

Teddy shifted, tiny fingers curling around Harry’s thumb, his hair flashing a playful violet for a heartbeat before calming again.

Harry smiled, blinking rapidly against the sudden sting in his eyes.

"I’ll keep you safe," he promised quietly, voice thick.

"No matter what. Always."

The bracelet glinted faintly in the firelight, like a silent guardian around Teddy’s wrist.

And somewhere deep in his chest, Harry felt the first, fragile glimmer of hope take root.

They were safe.

They were together.

It was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the accident — a shimmering, snapping thread of wild magic, a toddler’s first burst of untrained power, a protective spell Harry had cast in desperation — and the world had twisted itself into something unrecognizable.

When Harry opened his eyes, it was January 1979.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

Three months later, Harry Ronald Granger — as he called himself now — stood behind the counter of a small, sleepy café tucked into a rainy London street.

The sign above the door read “Wilson’s Coffee and Cakes” in cheerful hand-painted letters. The bell above the door chimed sweetly whenever someone walked in, and the place smelled perpetually of cinnamon and fresh bread.

Harry liked it here.

He liked the clatter of mugs, the low hum of conversation, the scrape of chairs against the worn wooden floors.

He liked the way Jacob Wilson, the owner, treated him like a regular young bloke down on his luck, not a war hero or a freak.

He liked how Teddy, now nine months old, could sit in a battered high chair in the corner of the kitchen and babble happily to himself while Harry worked.

And whenever Teddy’s hair sometimes shifted colors — from brown to blue to bright, bubblegum pink — the Muggle customers didn’t notice.

Life was quiet.

Almost peaceful.

Which, of course, meant it couldn’t last.

It was a Tuesday when the storm rolled in.

The sky outside the café windows was the color of bruises, the rain coming down in hard, slanted sheets. The bell above the door barely tinkled over the roar of the wind.

Harry glanced up from the coffee he was making — a complicated double shot caramel macchiato with extra foam — just as the door swung open.

A man stepped inside.

He was drenched, rain dripping from the ends of his black hair, the shoulders of his dark overcoat gleaming wetly. He carried himself with a kind of sharp, restless grace, like a blade looking for something to cut.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

Because the man — no, the boy, really, he couldn’t be older than twenty— was handsome in a way that was almost too much.

Pale skin, high cheekbones, a mouth that looked carved out of marble.

And eyes — silver-grey, quick and cutting — that raked across the room before landing on Harry.

For a moment, the world tilted.

The man — boy — frowned slightly, and something flickered across his face. Recognition? Confusion?

Harry quickly looked down, pretending to busy himself wiping the counter.

“Welcome to Wilson’s,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. “You, uh, want to sit down? Dry off a bit?”

The stranger shook his head slightly, scattering droplets of rain.

"I’ll take a coffee," he said, voice low and smooth, a little rough around the edges. "Black. Strong."

Harry nodded, heart hammering.

As he turned to the coffee machine, he heard a soft coo from the kitchen doorway.

Teddy.

Of course. Teddy always picked the worst moments to demand attention.

Harry risked a glance — Teddy was standing, wobbling on chubby legs, gripping the doorframe, hair bright teal today in a halo around his round face.

"Da!" Teddy called happily, throwing up his arms.

The stranger stiffened.

Harry almost dropped the cup.

He forced a smile as he poured the coffee, trying not to look too obvious about checking the stranger out of the corner of his eye.

Tall. Lean. Well-dressed, but in a way that spoke of old money, not new fashion.

Dark hair, sleek and damp, curling slightly at the temples.

And those eyes — cool, assessing.

Dangerous.

Harry slid the coffee across the counter.

"Here you go," he said, then, because he couldn’t help himself, added, "Rough day?"

The stranger’s mouth twitched into something almost like a smile.

"You could say that," he murmured. He picked up the cup, fingers long and elegant, and sipped. His gaze didn’t leave Harry’s face.

"You work here?" the stranger asked, head tilting slightly. "You don’t seem the type."

Harry blinked.

"The type?"

The man shrugged lazily, coat sliding open to reveal a flash of dark green jumper underneath.

"You’ve got the look of someone who’s seen a war," he said casually, as if discussing the weather. "Not someone who pours coffee for a living."

Harry’s stomach twisted.

He forced another laugh, light and easy.

"Maybe I have," he said. "Or maybe I just make a lot of bad coffee."

The stranger chuckled, low and rough. It made Harry’s skin prickle.

"What’s your name?" the man asked.

Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second too long.

"Harry Granger," he said finally, sticking out his hand over the counter.

The stranger looked at it, then at him, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

Then he smiled — sharp and slow — and shook Harry’s hand.

"Regulus Black," he said.

Harry’s heart stopped.

Oh.

Oh no.

Chapter Text

The moment Regulus Black walked out the door with a casual wave and a smirk that could probably melt glaciers, Harry collapsed against the counter and buried his face in his hands.

"Merlin’s bloody socks," he muttered, voice muffled. "I’m doomed."

Teddy, sitting in his high chair and chewing on the ear of a stuffed dragon, looked up at him with wide turquoise eyes and babbled, "Da-da-da!"

Harry peeked between his fingers and gave his godson a look of pure betrayal.

"You’re no help," he grumbled.

Teddy giggled, his hair turning a bright, innocent lemon yellow.

Mocking him. Obviously.

Regulus Black.

Sirius's younger brother.

The same Regulus who, according to every story Harry had ever heard, was a Death Eater — and a dead one, at that.

Except, you know, not dead yet.

Harry paced behind the counter, running both hands through his hair, which only made it stick up more.

"Okay, okay," he muttered. "It’s fine. It’s fine. You’re just...stuck in the past, raising a baby, hiding from magical world, working in a muggle café, and now Sirius’s baby brother is flirting with you. No big deal. Totally fine. Normal Tuesday."

Teddy clapped his hands together and squealed. His hair shimmered through a rainbow of colors before settling on bright pink.

Harry sighed.

"And you," he said, pointing dramatically at Teddy, "need to stop being adorable when I'm having a nervous breakdown."

Teddy responded by blowing a raspberry so loud it echoed.

Regulus came back the next day.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

At first, Harry thought it was coincidence. Maybe Regulus just liked the coffee.

(He was rather particular about how it was brewed.)

But after the fourth visit in a row, Harry had to accept the truth:

Regulus Black was haunting the café.

And — far worse — he was haunting him.

The flirting started subtle: a lingering glance, a smirk when Harry stammered while listing the day's specials, a hand brushing his when passing coins over.

Then it escalated.

One afternoon, as Harry handed Regulus his usual black coffee, the boy leaned in, close enough that Harry caught the faint scent of expensive soap and something darker underneath.

"You know," Regulus drawled, voice low and intimate, "I usually don’t like sweet things. But I might make an exception."

Harry nearly dropped the cup.

Teddy, sitting nearby in his playpen, gave an impressive snort of laughter and promptly turned his hair bright red.

Harry thanked every deity he knows for giving him the idea to make a concealment bracelet for Teddy.

Regulus straightened, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Harry, meanwhile, fought valiantly against the urge to dive headfirst into the coffee machine.

It didn’t help that Harry’s mind kept drifting to darker places whenever he wasn’t frantically focusing on work.

Voldemort was still gathering power in this time.

The Death Eaters were growing stronger every day.

The Horcruxes — those terrible fragments of soul — were still hidden.

Still poisoning the world.

Harry knew too much.

And yet he could do so little.

He had Teddy to protect.

And now, apparently, a dangerously attractive Black brother stalking his coffee shop.

"Maybe I should just... hex him," Harry muttered one night, after closing.

Teddy responded by clapping his hands and letting out a loud "Baa!"

"That's not a no," Harry said, shrugging.

It was two weeks after their first meeting that chaos struck.

(Well, more chaos than usual.)

Harry was behind the counter, trying to wipe down a spill while simultaneously bouncing Teddy on his hip, when the baby let out a triumphant squeal.

A crackle of accidental magic burst through the air.

And whomp — something large and papery slammed onto the counter.

Harry blinked.

It was a worn, battered piece of parchment.

Familiar parchment.

No.

No, no, no.

It couldn’t be—

He unfolded it with trembling fingers.

Words inked themselves across the page in curly, spidery letters:

Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs are proud to present THE MARAUDER'S MAP.

Harry gaped.

Teddy beamed at him proudly, his hair flickering gold.

"You," Harry whispered in awe and horror, "just conjured the Marauder’s Map."

Teddy stuck his tongue out and clapped.

The door chimed.

Harry hastily shoved the map under the counter, probably crumpling it a little, and looked up to see Regulus Black strolling in — soaked from the rain again, hair clinging to his temples, looking altogether too good for Harry’s frazzled nerves.

"Afternoon, sunshine," Regulus purred, sliding onto a barstool.

Harry squeaked.

Actually squeaked.

Teddy squealed in sympathy, his hair now a glowing shade of chartreuse.

Regulus arched an eyebrow, clearly amused at Harry.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," he said smoothly.

"You — uh — it’s just busy," Harry lied badly, flapping a hand at the mostly empty café.

Regulus smirked.

Harry busied himself wiping a perfectly clean spot on the counter, heart hammering against his ribs.

Later that same week, things somehow got worse.

Jacob Wilson, bless his oblivious heart, had left Harry alone in the café during a quiet afternoon shift. The steady drumming of rain against the windows turning the world grey and misty outside. Harry was wiping down the counter with one hand, Teddy babbling in his playpen nearby, clutching a stuffed dragon that occasionally changed color with his mood.

The bell over the door jingled softly.

Harry looked up — and there he was again.

Regulus Black, in all his moody, rain-dampened glory, sauntered in with the kind of confidence that made Harry's stomach twist and his cheeks warm.

"You're early today," Harry said, hoping he sounded casual and not like he was panicking internally.

Regulus shrugged, shedding his damp coat and draping it over a chair.

"Couldn't resist the company," he said smoothly, smirking as he approached the counter.

Harry rolled his eyes and focused on stacking cups, feeling Regulus's gaze linger.

It was becoming a pattern — Regulus would drop in, order coffee he barely touched, and spend most of his time watching Harry with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

"Hey, Granger," Regulus called casually. "Bet you’re hiding something."

Harry stiffened, dropping a spoon with a loud clatter.

"I—what? I'm not hiding anything!" he spluttered, way too quickly.

Regulus chuckled darkly, leaning an elbow on the counter, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.

"No need to panic," he drawled. "You just don’t strike me as the... stay-behind-the-counter, wipe-down-tables type."

Harry fumbled for words, heart hammering.

"I’m just trying to... live quietly."

Regulus tilted his head, studying him with sharp grey eyes.

"Quiet’s overrated," he said lightly. Then, with a glint of challenge:

"Bet you can't even duel a spoon."

Harry blinked.

"What?"

Regulus grinned wickedly — and before Harry could react, Regulus flicked something from his sleeve.

It was subtle — a tiny, almost playful jinx — but Harry felt it, a magical ripple brushing against his legs, trying to trip him.

Acting purely on instinct, Harry snapped his hand out — and a burst of wandless magic snapped the jinx apart midair.

The moment stretched out, frozen.

Regulus straightened slowly, his smirk turning razor sharp.

"You're magical," he said, voice low with something almost like triumph.

Harry felt the blood drain from his face.

"I—I can explain—"

But Regulus had already pulled his wand fully from his coat sleeve, eyes glittering with excitement.

"Come on, barista," he taunted. "Show me what you’ve got."

"No, wait—" Harry tried, stepping back — but a baguette on the counter suddenly sprang to life and launched itself at him.

With a helpless noise, Harry summoned his wand and hasty threw a Shield Charm.

The baguette bounced off and hit a jar of sugar cubes, sending them spinning into the air like fireworks.

Teddy shrieked with laughter from his playpen, clapping his little hands.

Harry stared at Regulus, who looked utterly delighted.

"This means war," Regulus said with mock solemnity.

And with that, the kitchen descended into absolute chaos.

Spoons soared through the air like miniature swords, fencing wildly.

Pastries pirouetted past Harry’s head, enchanted by Regulus's quick wandwork.

Harry, cheeks flaming, retaliated as gently as he could — summoning a dish towel that wrapped itself around Regulus’s waist like a snake.

Regulus let out a bark of laughter and countered by animating the entire breadbasket. Baguettes and croissants floated like missiles, swooping low over Harry’s head.

"Oi!" Harry yelled, ducking and shielding Teddy with his arms. "There’s a baby here!"

Regulus only grinned wider, expertly steering the croissants to miss Teddy by a good few feet.

They danced around the small kitchen, spells ricocheting harmlessly off the walls, until Harry, panting, managed to Summon Regulus’s wand cleanly out of his hand.

Regulus raised both eyebrows, impressed.

Harry stood there, chest heaving, wand trembling slightly in his grip, cheeks flushed crimson.

Teddy clapped and squealed.

For a moment, there was only the sound of rain, and Teddy’s happy giggles.

Regulus slowly straightened his coat, looking entirely too amused.

"So," he said lazily, sauntering closer, hands held up in mock surrender.

"My handsome barista is a wizard after all."

Harry wanted to crawl under the nearest table and die.

"I'm sorry," Harry blurted, cheeks flaming. He practically threw Regulus’s wand back at him. "I didn't mean to— It just happened—"

Regulus caught the wand easily, twirling it between his fingers.

"No apology needed," he said, smirking. "Merlin knows you're better company than the Death Eaters I usually meet."

Harry flinched visibly at the name.

Regulus noticed — his smirk softened into something almost understanding.

"You're not in any trouble," Regulus said more gently. "I'm not about to run to the Ministry."

He paused, glancing over at Teddy, who had fallen asleep with his dragon toy half over his face.

"But... the little one?"

Harry hesitated, then sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah. Teddy’s magical too," he admitted— and then, heart pounding, he carefully unclasped the bracelet from Teddy’s wrist.

Immediately, Teddy’s hair flashed bright turquoise. His eyes gleamed golden.

Regulus’s breath hitched audibly.

Harry bit his lip, half-expecting anger or fear.

Instead, Regulus knelt down, staring at Teddy like he was something holy.

"You’re a Metamorphmagus," he breathed.

Teddy giggled and changed his nose into a tiny pig snout, causing Harry to snort helplessly.

"I — I kept it hidden," Harry said hurriedly. "It's just safer that way — for him."

Regulus didn't look angry.

He looked...awestruck.

Only after a long moment did Regulus glance up, something strange in his eyes.

"Is he...is he a Black?" he asked quietly. "Because Only Blacks are born Metamorphmagi."

Harry’s heart stuttered.

"No!" he said instantly, maybe a little too fast. "No — he's not — I mean — sort of — but not really — it’s complicated—"

Regulus raised an eyebrow in that infuriating way.

Harry flushed.

"But you're not lying," Regulus murmured, almost to himself. "You're just...not telling the whole truth."

Harry opened his mouth, panicked — but Regulus only smiled, slow and wicked.

"I can be patient, darling," he said. "You'll tell me eventually."

Harry was just about to melt into a puddle.

"You duel like a Gryffindor," Regulus said lightly, smirking again. "Very messy. Very loud."

Harry huffed a laugh despite himself.

Regulus leaned closer, voice dropping to a teasing murmur:

"But you’re lucky you’re cute, Granger. Makes up for it."

Harry promptly turned the color of a tomato.

Regulus chuckled wickedly, snagging a sugar cube from the counter and tossing it into his mouth.

Then, with a lazy salute of his wand, he slipped out the door into the rain — leaving Harry staring after him, completely and utterly mortified.

Behind him, Teddy gurgled, his hair turning a soft, mischievous silver.

But even Regulus's charm couldn’t banish the heavier thoughts from Harry’s mind.

That evening, after Teddy had fallen asleep in the little crib Jacob had let them keep in the back, Harry sat alone at a corner table, the Marauder’s Map spread out before him.

He traced his fingers over the tiny names moving across the page.

Dumbledore.

McGonagall.

Slughorn.

Flitwick.

Harry stared at the Map, heart heavy.

He watched the little dots, tiny names trailing across the parchment like drifting stars.

Safe. For now.

Still, unease gnawed at him.

He wasn't supposed to be here — none of this was supposed to happen.

Teddy gave a soft snuffle in his sleep, his tiny hand twitching against the stuffed dragon.

Harry closed his eyes briefly, then looked back down at the map.

The familiar names comforted him and unsettled him all at once.

So many of them were alive now — brilliant and brave and unaware of the future crashing toward them.

And Regulus Black...

Harry tapped the map lightly, murmuring, "Mischief managed," and watched the ink fade.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, exhausted.

Regulus was dangerous in ways Harry hadn’t prepared for — sharp, reckless, magnetic.

And far too curious.

Harry couldn't afford to let him get too close.

Not when the fate of the future — of Teddy — balanced so delicately on secrecy.

Still, the memory of Regulus laughing, wand spinning between his fingers, refusing to judge Teddy, made something deep in Harry's chest ache.

As he walked towards the crib, his thoughts drifted to the afternoon shenanigans.

A wizard duel. In broad daylight. In the Muggle kitchen.

'Merlin’s saggy pants, what was I even thinking?'

Harry sighed, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the front door.

He needed to think. He needed a plan.

He needed — desperately — someone wiser than him to tell him what the hell to do.

Teddy squirmed, reaching one chubby hand toward Harry’s face, his hair flickering between blue and silver.

"Alright, alright," Harry muttered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Let’s get you some dinner, little man."

He turned toward the kitchen — and stopped dead.

Someone was sitting at one of the tables.

Someone who had definitely not been there a moment ago.

The man looked impossibly out of place — long robes the color of midnight, silver hair and beard shining in the soft café lights.

Half-moon spectacles perched on a crooked nose.

Blue eyes that sparkled like stars.

Harry’s mouth went dry.

"Dumbledore," he whispered.

The old man smiled warmly, as if Harry’s shock was the most natural thing in the world.

"Good evening, Harry," Dumbledore said, voice gentle. "And  Mr.Lupin as well, I presume?"

Teddy squealed happily, his hair turning soft gold for a moment.

Harry stumbled forward, heart aching at the sight of the man he had mourned for years now alive, breathing, here.

"But—how—? You—"

He couldn’t get the words out.

Dumbledore chuckled quietly, setting a teacup down on the table with a delicate clink.

"In matters of time," he said, "the impossible is often merely the improbable, delayed."

Harry stared at him.

"I don’t understand," he croaked.

"Nor should you," Dumbledore said kindly, rising to his feet. "You have a heavy burden already, dear boy. The intricacies of fate are not yours to carry alone."

He waved a hand, and the map on the table curled itself up neatly — almost too neatly. Harry didn’t notice the flicker of Dumbledore’s gaze resting on the parchment just a moment too long, or how his fingers twitched faintly behind his back as if restraining himself from pocketing it.

“I’m screwing it all up,” Harry said bitterly. “I got us stuck here. I— I outed myself in front of Regulus. I can’t—”

Dumbledore held up a hand, silencing him with a look so filled with quiet compassion that Harry felt his throat close up.

“You are doing marvelously,” Dumbledore said, and Harry didn’t realize until that moment how much he needed to hear those words.

“You are protecting life. Loving fiercely. Choosing kindness even in fear.”

He stepped closer, his presence somehow filling the small room.

“But beware,” he added, voice softening into something deeper, older. “The river of time is treacherous. Every pebble you toss will ripple outward.”

He let the words hang for a second longer than necessary.

“And sometimes,” he said more quietly, “those ripples will drown things we never intended to lose.”

Harry frowned slightly, but nodded anyway.

“What should I do?”

Dumbledore smiled — the same frustratingly cryptic smile Harry remembered from years ago — and tapped a long, bony finger against Harry’s forehead.

“Listen to your instincts. Guard your heart. Trust your choices.”

He glanced down at Teddy, whose tiny face was peaceful against Harry’s shoulder.

“And perhaps,” Dumbledore added, voice barely a whisper, “trust that not all those who seem lost are beyond saving.”

Then his gaze flicked briefly — very briefly — toward the spot where Regulus had stood earlier that day. His eyes darkened just for a fraction of a second.

Harry barely noticed. But something about the way Dumbledore’s smile sharpened slightly before fading… didn’t quite sit right.

A gust of wind stirred the napkins on the tables.

And when Harry blinked —

Dumbledore was gone.

Only the faint scent of lemon sherbet lingered in the air.

Teddy made a small, contented sigh, nuzzling closer to Harry's chest.

Harry stood there, heart pounding, feeling both terribly small and impossibly large at the same time.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed midnight.

And outside, in the storm-soaked streets, something ancient shifted — something waiting, watching, ready.

Harry tightened his arms around Teddy and stared into the rain-soaked darkness.

Albus Dumbledore was an old man.

Ninety-eight, to be exact — though there were days he felt older than the castle walls around him. And perhaps, in some quiet, magical way, he was.

He had seen too much. Joy. Tragedy. Love. Power. The kind of power that warps good men. He had made choices that others would call cruel. Cowardly. Manipulative.

But he had always done what he must — for the greater good.

He had loved once. Not in the gentle way people whispered about in poetry, but in the reckless, blinding way that consumes everything in its path. Gellert had been brilliant. Beautiful. Dangerous. And Albus had followed him — until it shattered him.

So when he saw that same flicker of darkness in Tom Riddle’s eyes — that same hunger for control — he acted. Ruthlessly. He built walls around that part of himself. Buried it. And vowed he would not make the same mistake again.

He would protect the world this time. No matter what it cost him.

But lately… something had changed.

Fawkes’s flames had burned hotter than usual. The air in the castle hummed with strange, ancient magic. Wards he hadn't touched in decades surged alive without warning.

And then, there were the whispers — not voices, but a knowing. As if the world itself had begun to speak to him in riddles and instincts. He would think of a student, and moments later, they’d appear. He would consider a spell, and the solution would settle in his mind before he had finished the thought.

Time itself was shifting.

And Albus didn’t like not knowing why.

That evening, he stood at the very edge of the Forbidden Forest. The trees swayed in the wind, old and proud, holding secrets older than men. Moonlight filtered through the branches, pale and silver.

They were waiting for him.

Firenze and Magorian.

Two of the few centaurs who would still speak to a human like him — and only when something dire stirred the stars.

Magorian's tall frame stepped forward first, eyes like polished stone, unreadable and deep.

"The skies have shifted, Dumbledore," he said in his low, rumbling voice. "Mars burns red in the east. Saturn moves too quickly for this time of year. And the Moon… she weeps, though there is no eclipse."

Firenze’s hooves stamped once, a sharp sound in the silence. His gaze was fiercer — colder.

“The balance is broken,” Firenze said, his tone bordering on anger. “Two stars — foreign, hidden, out of place — have fallen into our time.”

Albus’s fingers tightened slightly around his wand. He masked the dread blooming in his chest with a calm smile.

“I assume you mean….”

Magorian nodded once, slow and grave.

“Children born of war,” he said, “carrying the scent of fate and fire. The younger one burns like the moon’s dying breath. And the elder… carries death on his shoulders and love in his hands.”

Albus said nothing. But his mind was already racing. He did not need to ask who they meant. He had felt the magic shift the moment they arrived.

Time travellers.

But how?

'Why now?'

“What danger do they bring?” he asked carefully.

Bane narrowed his eyes. “That depends on you, Dumbledore.”

Magorian stepped beside him. “The stars say the boy has changed paths before. That he was meant to die — and did not. That he was meant to fight — and chose to love instead.”

Albus’s lips thinned.

“And now?” he asked.

“The stars cannot see,” Magorian said. “The ripples are too wide. Every choice he makes now is like thunder in the sky. We cannot read the storm.”

Firenze took a step forward, glaring up at him.

“But if you try to control the storm, old wizard — you will drown.”

The warning echoed in the silence that followed.

Albus looked away toward the castle’s distant lights. It gleamed like a beacon in the night, full of children who trusted him. Who followed him.

Too many pieces were out of place. Tom Riddle was rising. The prophecy was not yet spoken. And now, a child from the future had arrived — a child already broken, already strong, already far too aware.

 What would his presence change?

Albus took a slow breath and nodded once, masking the unease curling in his gut.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “I will… consider what you’ve said.”

Magorian only inclined his head. Firenze snorted, unimpressed.

“You cannot outwit the stars, Dumbledore,” Firenze said sharply. “We tried once. The price is always blood.”

Then, without another word, they turned and trotted back into the forest — their forms swallowed by shadow and mist.

Albus stood there for a long time.

Silent. Thoughtful.

And just a little afraid.

Because for the first time in decades… he wasn’t sure which side of the board he was standing on.

Chapter Text

The bells above the café door tinkled softly as Harry locked up for the night. Rain slashed at the windows, whispering against the glass.

Teddy slept on his shoulder, warm and heavy, his tiny fingers clutching at Harry's collar even in sleep.

Harry leaned back against the door and closed his eyes.

Dumbledore's visit still clung to him like a second skin — electric, unsettling, and somehow comforting.

"Not all those who seem lost are beyond saving."

Those words echoed through Harry’s mind like a song he couldn’t quite remember the lyrics to.

Regulus.

Harry let out a shaky breath. His knees gave out and he slid down the door until he sat on the floor, holding Teddy tighter to his chest.

He wasn’t ready for this.

He wasn’t ready to be a hero again.

He just wanted to be a dad.

The tears came without warning, hot and silent, streaking down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Teddy," he whispered into the baby's hair. "I'm so sorry you got stuck with me. I don't know what I'm doing."

Teddy stirred, letting out a tiny grumble, and lifted one hand to pat Harry’s wet face with clumsy affection.

Harry laughed brokenly, wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of his jumper.

Teddy's hair flashed a gentle blue, the color of skies after a storm.

Then green. Then gold.

"You're trying to cheer me up, aren't you?" Harry said, voice shaking with a watery smile.

Teddy gurgled proudly, like he understood perfectly.

Harry kissed his forehead fiercely.

"You’re brilliant," he whispered. "You’re better than I deserve."

Teddy beamed, gums flashing in a wide, toothless grin.

The next morning, Harry was more exhausted than ever — but somehow lighter too.

The sun had broken through the storm, washing the streets in soft gold. Harry set up the café with Teddy in his carrier against his chest, the baby babbling to himself as Harry moved chairs and polished the counter.

The bell tinkled — and Harry froze, instinctively straightening his apron.

Regulus Black strolled through the door, looking like a sinfully beautiful disaster.

His dark hair was messy from the wind, his robes half-unbuttoned to reveal the collar of a black Muggle T-shirt underneath.

Raindrops clung to his eyelashes.

He spotted Harry instantly and his mouth curved into a slow, devastating smile.

"Morning, sunshine," Regulus drawled.

Harry went bright red.

"Uh — hi — coffee?"

Regulus chuckled and sauntered up to the counter, leaning casually on his elbows.

"You know," he said, voice low and lazy, "I could get addicted to this place."

Harry’s brain promptly short-circuited.

"Uh," he said eloquently.

Teddy squealed and flailed in his carrier, delighted by the new visitor.

Harry jolted, almost dropping a coffee mug.

Regulus laughed — a real, open laugh that made something strange flutter behind Harry’s ribs.

"And here is my little mischief-maker, hmm?" Regulus said, peering at Teddy with clear amusement.

Teddy beamed up at him, his hair flashing silver for a heartbeat — the exact shade of Regulus’s eyes.

Harry mumbled something incoherent and fled to make Regulus’s coffee.

Over the next week, Regulus became a permanent fixture.

He'd swagger in every morning, dripping rain on the floor, ordering ridiculous drinks ("One black coffee. No — wait — make it a caramel latte, heavy on the judgment") and flirting shamelessly with Harry.

Harry could barely form sentences when Regulus winked at him or called him darling in that low, teasing voice.

He dropped spoons. He tripped over chairs. He knocked over the sugar jar twice.

Teddy thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Every time Harry turned bright red and stammered like a schoolgirl, Teddy would giggle uncontrollably, his hair flashing playful colors.

Jacob, the café owner, had started keeping a tally on the chalkboard behind the counter:

"Times Harry Blushes When That Fit Bloke Comes In: 47"

Harry wanted to die of embarrassment.

But...he was also happy. Really, stupidly happy.

And it had been a long time since he’d felt that way.

One night, after Teddy had gone to sleep, Harry sat at the little kitchen table and pulled out an old battered notebook.

He scribbled furiously:

Diary: Malfoy manor (Probably)

Gaunt ring: still in the Gaunt shack (also probably)

Locket: ???

Cup: ???

Diadem: Hogwarts?

And Voldemort himself.

Harry closed his eyes.

"Guard your heart. Trust your instincts."

Dumbledore’s words again.

He didn’t have to do it alone.

Dumbledore was here — alive.

He could help. Maybe they could stop Voldemort before the war destroyed everything.

And...Regulus.

Harry stared at the name he’d written absentmindedly in the margin.

Regulus Arcturus Black.

In his own time, Regulus had died trying to destroy the locket.

Alone. Terrified.

Harry pressed his fist against his chest.

Not this time.

Not if he could help it.

"I’ll save you," he whispered fiercely into the quiet kitchen. "I swear it."

The next morning, Regulus arrived earlier than usual.

Harry was trying to wipe down tables one-handed, balancing Teddy on his hip.

"Need a hand?" Regulus said, smirking.

Harry opened his mouth to refuse — and then Teddy yeeted his bottle across the café with impressive strength, narrowly missing Regulus's head.

Regulus caught it easily with Quidditch reflexes.

Harry gave up.

"Yeah," he said, defeated. "Help would be great."

Regulus stayed all morning, helping Harry clean and keep Teddy entertained.

By the time lunchtime rolled around, Teddy had decided that Regulus was the Best Human Ever.

He reached for him constantly, giggling madly every time Regulus made a ridiculous face.

Harry watched them with a strange tightness in his throat.

Maybe...maybe he could trust this.

Maybe he didn’t have to be alone.

After the last customer left, Harry hesitated — and then, heart pounding, he carefully unclasped the bracelet from Teddy’s wrist.

Immediately, Teddy’s hair flashed bright turquoise. His eyes gleamed golden.

Regulus’s breath hitched audibly.

"Even when i see it, I still have to question myself." He murmured. "After all, 'Metamorphmagi are a considered a myth, nowadays. The last one was around before 2 centuries "

Harry bit his lip.

 Regulus knelt down, staring at Teddy like he was something holy.

"You’re such an adorable baby," he pinched Teddy's cheeks.

Teddy giggled and changed his nose into a tiny pig snout, causing Harry to snort helplessly.

After a long moment, Regulus glanced up, something strange in his eyes.

"I still believe he is a black." Regulus murmured.

Harry’s heart stuttered.

"No!" he said instantly."H-he is not."

Regulus sighed.

Harry flushed.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, darling ."

Harry let out a squeak, face burning.

Later that night, after Harry had tucked Teddy into bed, he sat by the window, staring up at the stars.

The Black family star names glittered overhead — Sirius, Regulus, Andromeda, Bellatrix.

Harry thought of Dumbledore’s words.

"Not all those who seem lost are beyond saving."

He thought of Regulus, sitting cross-legged on the floor with Teddy, making silly faces.

He thought of Regulus’s quicksilver smile, the way his eyes softened when he thought Harry wasn’t looking.

Harry pressed his forehead to the cool glass.

Maybe...this time...they could all find a way home.

Maybe this time, love would be enough.

He closed his eyes.

Somewhere deep inside, a new hope stirred, small but fierce.

And tomorrow — tomorrow would be another day.

Chapter Text

It started with a chocolate cake. Or rather, the desire for one.

Teddy had turned one a month ago. The date had come and gone with quiet simplicity, too much uncertainty and too much fear weighing on Harry's shoulders at the time to even remember it until it was too late. But now, with spring tiptoeing through the streets and hope blooming like the first crocuses, Harry decided to do something about it.

A proper birthday. Belated, but heartfelt.

He wrote a note to Regulus, careful not to sound too eager:

"Small birthday thing for Teddy. Cake and chaos guaranteed. You’re invited. Morning till whenever. Bring sugar."

— H.G.

He got a response within the hour:

"I’m bringing trouble instead. Hope that’s okay."

- R

The day of the party arrived with sunlight splashing across the cozy apartment Harry rented in a tucked-away corner of Muggle London. He had charmed the kitchen to smell faintly of cinnamon and vanilla, and the table was littered with magical paper chains that changed color every time Teddy clapped.

Harry wore his comfiest jumper, one Teddy had once tried to eat. The toddler was bouncing in his enchanted playpen, his hair flashing lavender and teal with excitement.

At precisely ten in the morning, a knock came at the door.

Harry opened it to find Regulus standing there, windswept and breathtaking as usual, with a small box wrapped in silver and navy blue paper.

"For the pup," Regulus said smoothly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

"Pup?"

"You’re not the only one who reads ancient werewolf lore, Granger," Regulus said with a wink. "Open it."

Harry gave him a wary look but unwrapped the gift carefully. Inside was a small stuffed wolf pup, enchantments sewn into its soft fur — the toy let out a low, playful growl as Harry picked it up, then gave a soft whimper and nuzzled into his palm as though asking to be held. It was adorable and lifelike in a mischievous sort of way, and so clearly Teddy that it made Harry’s chest ache.

But the name stuck in his mind — pup.

Harry blinked, then looked up sharply. “Wait. Why would you call him that?” 'How did you know that?'

Regulus smirked. “Because that’s what he is, isn’t he?”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “He’s not a werewolf.”

“I didn’t say he was.” Regulus’s eyes glittered. “But I’ve read Fenrir Greyback’s field notes from the late 60s. I’ve studied blood magic and the rare hereditary traits that come through partial transformations or cursed lineage.”

Harry’s breath caught. “You—”

“I’m saying,” Regulus said calmly, stepping closer, “that Teddy gets twitchy when the full moon rises, even if he doesn’t know why. I’ve seen him growl when startled. His pupils sharpen in dim light. And he’s fascinated by meat — even raw, when you’re not looking.”

Harry turned red. “Okay, I… I did catch him trying to eat raw bacon once.”

Regulus gave a triumphant look.

“But,” Harry said quickly, “he’s not dangerous. He’s just—”

“A child,” Regulus finished softly, his expression turning serious. “A child with inherited traits. Not a curse. Not a threat.”

Harry hesitated, heart racing. “…How long have you suspected?”

“Since the day he sniffed my robes and tried to gnaw on the hem.” Regulus raised an eyebrow. “And then tried to mark his toy territory like a little alpha. It was obvious. But I didn’t say anything because I knew you were protecting him.”

Harry’s hands tightened around the toy. “I had to. People wouldn’t understand. They barely accepted his father…”

“I did accept him,” Regulus said firmly. “I respected him. Anyone who fought like that, lived like that, deserved more than judgment.”

The silence that followed was warm, heavy with truth.

Then the stuffed wolf gave another soft growl and blinked its magical eyes, and Teddy squealed from his playpen, reaching eagerly.

Harry handed the toy over with a small, amazed laugh. “He loves it already.”

"It reminded me of you, honestly," Regulus added, smirking. "Feral. Slightly disheveled. Surprisingly soft."

Harry’s cheeks went scarlet.

The party was small but full of magic.

Regulus helped make the chocolate cake — which meant, mostly, that he sat on the counter eating chocolate chips and offering flirty commentary while Harry did the actual baking.

Teddy crawled around in circles trying to catch enchanted bubbles that sang nursery rhymes.

They sang (off-key), blew out candles (Teddy sneezed on the cake), and took blurry photos with a disposable Muggle camera Harry had found at a corner shop.

Regulus even conjured tiny glowing star projections across the ceiling.

Teddy squealed happily as he tried to grab the floating lights. His hair turned silver again.

Regulus watched him quietly, his face unreadable.

It was late afternoon when Teddy finally fell asleep, curled up in his crib, holding the wolf plush tightly to his chest. The flat fell quiet except for the faint ticking of the Muggle wall clock.

Harry and Regulus sat on the sofa, drinks in hand. The sunlight made Regulus’s lashes look golden.

"He’s perfect," Regulus murmured.

"He is," Harry said softly.

There was a long pause.

Harry cleared his throat. "Regulus... there’s something I need to tell you. About me. About Teddy. About... everything."

Regulus turned, head tilting.

"This sounds ominous."

"Yeah. It is."

So Harry told him.

Not everything at once. He started with James and Lily. With the war that hadn’t ended in 1981. With Voldemort’s survival. With Sirius’s wrongful imprisonment. With Dursleys and cupboards and loneliness. With Hogwarts and Ron and Hermione. With prophecies and death and horcruxes.

Regulus went deathly still when Harry mentioned the locket.

Harry’s voice cracked when he spoke about Sirius’s death. He avoided looking at Regulus then.

And finally, he spoke of the last battle. Of losing everything. Of adopting Teddy and running to Grimmauld Place.

Of the accidental time travel.

The room hung silent.

Regulus stood up.

"So let me get this straight," he said, voice tight. "You’re not just some random wizard with good hair and a mysteriously well-behaved child. You’re from the future? You let me believe — for months — that you were just... ordinary?"

Harry stood quickly. "I didn’t let you believe anything. I just — I didn’t know how to tell you."

"You let me fall for a lie," Regulus snapped.

Harry flinched. "I never lied about who I am. Just... where — and when — I came from."

Regulus paced the room like a caged panther.

"You could’ve told me from the start! You should’ve! I trusted you! I told you things I’ve never told anyone — and you’ve been sitting on this entire alternate timeline like it’s just another secret."

"I was scared!" Harry shouted, finally. "You don’t understand! Everyone I loved is dead. I’m stuck in a past that’s not mine — with a baby who’s the only piece I have left. I couldn’t risk losing that too."

Regulus stared at him, breathing hard.

Harry’s voice dropped. "I didn’t mean to lie. I was just... surviving."

The silence crackled.

Then Regulus turned on his heel and walked out.

The door shut behind him with a final click.

Harry stood frozen.

Then he crumpled onto the couch, covering his face with shaking hands.

He felt like an idiot.

He was an idiot.

How could he have thought this would work? That he could build something here — with Regulus, with anyone — when the foundation of his entire life was a lie?

A soft noise interrupted his spiral.

Teddy.

The baby had woken up. He padded over in tiny footie pajamas and scrambled into Harry’s lap without a word.

Harry tried to smile but it wobbled.

"Sorry, bub," he whispered. "I messed up. Again."

Teddy reached up with one chubby hand and patted Harry’s face, his eyes glowing soft blue.

Then he burbled something unintelligible and pressed his nose to Harry’s cheek in a sloppy, snotty baby kiss.

Harry laughed — broken and tired and grateful.

The stars flickered into existence outside the window.

The storm, it seemed, wasn’t over yet.

Chapter Text

The week that followed Regulus’s dramatic exit was gray in more ways than one.

London’s skies seemed to grieve with Harry, rain falling in a near-constant curtain that tapped at his windows like a persistent regret.

Harry hadn’t seen or heard from Regulus since the fight. Not a letter. Not a visit. Nothing.

Regulus’s angry voice echoed in his head: “You lied to me. For months, Harry.”

Each day crawled by slower than the last.

He tried to focus on Teddy — on the café, on cleaning the flat for the umpteenth time — but his thoughts kept circling back to the same pale face, the same furious eyes, the slam of the door echoing behind him.

It hurt more than it should have.

And that’s what terrified Harry most.

He was falling for Regulus Black.

He, Harry James Potter — perpetually unlucky, emotionally constipated, “please don’t look at me for more than five seconds” — had let his heart fumble into something dangerous and real.

And he didn’t even realize how deep he’d fallen until Regulus stopped showing up.

Teddy tried his best to cheer him up.

The baby would giggle and change his hair to match Harry’s, or stack blocks with solemn importance, only to knock them over with a triumphant squeal.

Once, he transformed his nose into a duck’s beak and waddled around the room like a baby penguin. Harry laughed so hard he cried.

But at night, when Teddy was asleep, the emptiness crept back in.

“I’m sorry, bub,” Harry murmured, hugging him close. “Daddy’s just… being stupid.”

Teddy patted his cheek in sleep and turned his hair into a perfect replica of Regulus’s — silky and dark.

“Not helping,” Harry muttered, eyes stinging.

It was exactly one week to the hour when Regulus knocked on the door.

The rain was relentless.

Harry sat by the window, holding a cup of cold tea, watching water streak down the glass.

Teddy had just fallen asleep on the sofa, a little blanket draped over his tummy. The flat was filled with the quiet sound of his tiny, rhythmic breathing.

Harry padded barefoot to the door and opened it.

There he was.

Soaked from head to toe, hair dripping, coat plastered to his lean frame — and yet Regulus still looked maddeningly good.

His eyes, silver as the moon, locked onto Harry’s.

"Hi," he said.

Harry stared.

"Hi," he croaked back.

They stood in silence for a beat. Then:

“I brought biscuits,” Regulus said solemnly, holding up a soggy paper bag.

Harry blinked. “You’re an idiot.”

“I missed you too,” Regulus replied, a crooked smile playing on his lips.

He stepped inside.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

They argued at first.

Quietly. Bitterly. Tiredly.

“You didn’t tell me who you were. You let me make a fool of myself!”

“I wasn’t trying to trick you, Regulus — I was scared. I’ve lost so many people—”

“You think I haven’t?”

Silence.

Thunder cracked.

Then slowly, like autumn leaves drifting down, came the apologies.

“I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“I should’ve told you the truth sooner.”

“I… missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

And then, just like that —

Regulus stepped closer, eyes unreadable.

Harry’s breath hitched.

“You’ve got biscuit crumbs on your chin,” Harry said, voice too high.

Regulus didn’t answer.

He kissed him instead.

It was a warm, sudden thing — firm lips pressing to Harry’s in the silence of the storm.

Harry squeaked.

Regulus pulled back just far enough to smirk, then leaned in again, this time slower, deeper, more purposeful.

Harry’s brain exploded.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, Harry covered his face with both hands.

"Merlin, You kissed me,” he whispered.

“Twice,” Regulus corrected. “And I’ll do it again if you say yes.”

“Y-yes to what?”

Regulus arched an elegant eyebrow. “To a date, you hopeless disaster.”

Harry nodded, blushing furiously.

Regulus chuckled. "You’re adorable."

Harry whined. "Stop saying things like that."

"Make me."

Teddy, having just woken from his nap, banged his chubby fists on his crib and yelled, “DA-DA!”

Regulus grinned. "Your son’s very supportive."

"He’s one. He supports whoever feeds him pudding."

That night, Regulus insisted on staying over — on the couch.

 “You’re not sleeping in my bed.” Harry squeaked.

“I wasn’t planning to — unless invited." 

Harry groaned at the low, teasing tone.

Regulus ended up staying the night, curled on the couch in soft cotton pajamas he conjured himself, with Teddy insisting on clambering over to “Regi” every ten minutes.

Harry woke in the middle of the night to find both Regulus and Teddy fast asleep, the toddler sprawled across Regulus’s chest like a starfish, Regulus’s hand tangled in his bright green hair.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The next day dawned crisp and clean.

Harry dressed Teddy in a little dragon jumper and bundled him into the pram.

"We’re going out," Regulus said mysteriously. "It’s a surprise."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Only if you count excessive charm as a threat."

Harry rolled his eyes.

The trio went out to the nearby children’s park, Teddy squealing with joy, enraptured by everything — ducks, dogs, leaves, and one unfortunate squirrel he tried to imitate with a furry tail.

Regulus bought too much cotton candy and charmed it into shapes of hippogriffs.

Harry thought his heart might burst.

After an hour or two, Regulus and Harry sat on a bench, sipping takeaway coffee.

Regulus reached over to brush a crumb off Harry’s cheek.

"I want you to meet someone," he said.

Harry blinked. “Right now?”

“She’s not far.”

He hesitated.

Regulus reached for his hand. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Harry looked at Teddy, then back at him. “Yes.”

They walked through quiet London streets until they reached a familiar cottage with ivy curling around the gate.

Harry frowned.

“I know this house…”

Regulus didn’t reply. He simply walked up to the door and knocked.

Moments later, it opened.

And there, framed in the doorway, stood a young woman with kind eyes and rich brown hair.

Harry’s mouth fell open.

“Andromeda?”

She blinked at him, then her gaze fell to the child in his arms.

Her eyes widened.

Regulus stepped forward.

“Andromeda… meet Harry, and Teddy.”

Chapter Text

The first thing Regulus did after slamming Harry's apartment door behind him was Disapparate with a crack loud enough to wake the dead.

He landed on the worn cobblestones of Grimmauld Place with shaking hands and a chest so tight it felt like a curse.

The ancient Black house loomed in front of him like a memory he could never escape.

He didn’t bother knocking. The old wards recognized his magic, and the heavy door creaked open with a reluctant groan.

Inside, the air was stale, the wallpaper peeling, the chandelier coated with dust. Kreacher appeared with a soft pop, his eyes widening slightly before he bowed low.

“Master Regulus,” he rasped.

Regulus waved him away. “Don’t talk to me right now.”

He didn’t mean to sound cruel.

He just couldn’t breathe.

Not with Harry’s voice still echoing in his ears.

Horcruxes. Time travel. Voldemort’s defeat. James and Lily. Sirius…

The words had landed on him like blows. And worse than all of it—worse than the betrayal, the deception—was the unbearable ache in his chest. Because it wasn’t just about lies.

It was about Harry.

And Regulus couldn’t decide if he was furious with him or hopelessly in love.

 Regulus wandered through his childhood home like a ghost, without a care.

He didn’t light the lamps. He didn’t open the curtains. He let the house rot in shadows.

Because that’s what it felt like.

He was seventeen again.

"Do you know what an honor it is to be marked, Regulus?" Orion had said, eyes sharp like broken glass.

"You’re the heir. You’ll make the family proud," his mother had cooed.

He remembered the cold press of the Dark Mark searing into his skin, the smell of burnt flesh, the way his hand had trembled even as he tried to look brave.

He wasn’t brave. Not like Sirius. Sirius had run.

Regulus had stayed.

He’d followed orders. Killed where told. Tortured when commanded. Watched lives shatter under his wand. And he’d hated every second of it.

He’d hated the way his parents had smiled at the bloodstains on his robes.

He’d hated the way Voldemort looked at him like a tool.

And then one day, after a particularly gruesome task involving a half-Muggle family in York, he’d stumbled into a Muggle café in the middle of London, soaked in rain and rage.

And seen him.

Harry Granger.

With messy black hair, too-bright green eyes, and a baby strapped to his chest.

Regulus had frozen. For one, the resemblance to James Potter was uncanny.

For two, he had never wanted to possess someone so badly.

He hadn’t meant to go back the next day.

Or the next.

Or the next.

But he did.

Every day, without fail, he stepped into that too-cheerful café, ordered something sweet, and watched the shy, awkward barista fumble with cups and drop spoons and smile like he didn’t know he was a flame and Regulus a helpless moth.

And then there was the baby.

Teddy.

Who changed his hair color daily and seemed to adore everyone, but especially Regulus.

Regulus, who had never liked children, who had never even held one before, found himself catching Teddy’s toys when they fell, wiping pudding off his cheeks, and making absurd faces just to hear that ridiculous baby giggle.

It was horrifying.

It was addicting.

So he flirted.

He flirted shamelessly.

He used every trick he knew—every smirk, every sultry line, every touch that lingered just long enough.

And Harry—damn him—was oblivious.

Regulus would compliment his eyes and Harry would drop a sugar jar and apologize.

He’d brush Harry’s hand and the man would flush to his ears and offer him a muffin on the house.

Regulus wanted to hex something.

Or kiss Harry.

Probably both.

Then came Teddy’s belated birthday party.

Regulus had shown up early with a neatly wrapped present and a heart he pretended wasn’t pounding.

They’d eaten chocolate cake. They’d laughed. Teddy had climbed onto Regulus’s lap and refused to get down.

It had felt like… something. Something real.

And then, when the sun had begun to set, Harry had told him everything.

Everything.

Time travel. Voldemort. James and Lily. The war.

Sirius.

Dead.

Regulus had listened in stunned silence, his world crumbling with each word.

He felt betrayed.

He felt like a fool.

He felt like he’d fallen in love with a lie.

And so he’d yelled. He’d screamed. He’d accused.

Harry had looked at him with those damn green eyes, so full of guilt and pain, and Regulus had wanted to kiss him and punch him at the same time.

So he’d run.

Like a coward.

Like he always did.

Regulus Black did not rise from his bed for three days.

The heavy velvet curtains of his room in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place stayed drawn, sealing him in suffocating darkness and silence—save for the relentless storm of thoughts inside his own mind.

He didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, reliving every second of that wretched afternoon in Harry’s apartment.

Every word. Every look. Every breath.

He hated himself for shouting. He hated Harry for lying. He hated how much he missed him.

And most of all—he hated that his own death was already written into the stars, etched into the diary of time like a cruel joke. Two or three months. That’s all he would have had if Harry hadn’t told him the truth. A few months before he died alone in a dark cave, waterlogged and wretched, forgotten by time and history.

For a master who never cared.

Voldemort.

He had served that man. Followed him. Killed for him.

And for what?

To die young and unloved? To become a tragic footnote in someone else’s story?

Regulus turned his face into the pillow and screamed.

Kreacher hovered nearby, eyes wide and wrinkled, silently placing food trays by the door only to find them untouched by evening.

“Master Regulus must eat,” the elf murmured brokenly. “Master Regulus is not well.”

Walburga shouted up the stairs twice a day, voice shrill as knives.

“Stop sulking like a petulant child, REGULUS!”

“Your father is DISGUSTED with you!”

Orion didn’t say much. But the look of disdain when he passed the hall said enough.

Regulus ignored them all.

Even his mother’s screeching couldn’t penetrate the weight in his chest.

He kept remembering Harry’s voice—quiet, pained, trembling with truth.

“You died. You died trying to stop him. You died alone, and no one knew.”

It felt like drowning.

And then there was the boy.

Edward Remus Lupin. Teddy.

His great-nephew.

The grandson of the cousin he had once adored. The child of a werewolf and a half-blood.

And yet, impossibly perfect.

Teddy’s laugh haunted him. His hair, bright and green. His little voice calling “Regi!” as he reached for him with sticky hands.

Regulus sobbed.

Not elegant, not composed—the way he had been raised to be.

He cried like a man whose soul had been torn out and shaken in front of him.

On the fourth day, with his hair a mess and his eyes hollowed, Regulus got out of bed.

He didn’t know why.

Now, standing alone in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, Regulus looked at the cracked mirror above the mantel.

He didn’t recognize the man staring back.

He looked tired.

He looked haunted.

He looked in love.

Regulus let out a shaky breath and sat down on the dusty old couch, burying his face in his hands.

He missed Harry.

He missed Teddy.

He missed the smell of coffee and the sound of Harry’s laugh.

And he hated himself for ever leaving.

Regulus looked out the rain-drenched window and made a decision.

He stood up. And dressed. And left.

“Master Regulus?” Kreacher called softly, ears perking.

“I’ll be back.”

He apparated without another word.

The home was small. Cozy. Ivy crawled up the sides and a little rose bush bloomed in the front garden.

He hadn’t seen her in over a decade.

He knocked.

The door opened a crack—and then fully.

Andromeda Tonks.

A bit older. Wiser. Still stunning.

Her expression flickered from confusion to disbelief to something warm and wet-eyed.

“…Regulus?”

His voice cracked.

“Andy.”

And then she hugged him.

No hesitation. No scolding. Just arms around him, familiar and safe, smelling like bergamot and parchment and old family memories.

Regulus collapsed into her.

He wept.

She held him through it.

They sat in her parlor later, mugs of tea cradled between chilled fingers.

“You look like you’ve been hexed backwards,” she said lightly, but her gaze was serious.

“I feel worse,” he murmured.

She raised a brow. “Care to explain why my wayward cousin is currently leaking emotions onto my couch?”

Regulus sipped his tea.

“There’s a man.”

Andromeda’s smile returned. “Well. That explains about seventy percent of the tears.”

Regulus laughed—a brittle sound.

“I yelled at him. I left. I haven’t been back. I… I think I ruined it.”

Her brow furrowed.

“What happened?”

He hesitated.

“I can’t tell you all of it,” he said honestly. “Just know… he’s not who I thought. But he didn’t mean to lie. He had reasons. And I didn’t give him a chance to explain.”

Andromeda studied him. Then stood.

She left the room for a moment and returned with a small girl clinging to her skirts.

Regulus froze.

The girl had wild pink hair and mischievous grey eyes.

“Nymphadora,” Andromeda said gently, “this is your cousin Regulus.”

The girl eyed him. Then grinned.

“You look sad,” she announced.

Regulus let out a startled laugh.

“I am.”

She handed him a biscuit. “Biscuits make it better.”

Regulus’s chest hurt. He stared at the six-year-old version of the woman who would die far too young.

“Thank you, Nymphadora.”

“It’s Tonks,” she said, hands on hips.

Andromeda beamed. “She’s a firecracker. Like Sirius used to be.”

Regulus’s heart twisted.

He visited every day after that.

Tea. Quiet talks. Laughter.

Nymphadora showed him all her books. He even changed his hair colour once to bubblegum pink, to match hers.

Andromeda didn’t pry. But she watched him. Carefully.

Then one day, she dropped the bombshell.

“You need to go see him.”

Regulus stiffened.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“He probably hates me.”

“You don’t know that.”

He stared into his cup.

Andromeda sat beside him.

“Regulus. You deserve happiness. And you’re not going to get it hiding in my kitchen, eating biscuits and sulking.”

“I’m not sulking,” he muttered.

“You are. Handsomely. But still sulking.”

He laughed despite himself.

And then, he nodded.

“Okay.”

That night, for the first time in days, he put on fresh robes.

Looked in the mirror.

Straightened his collar.

Bought some biscuits.

And apparated to Harry’s flat.

His hand shook when he knocked.

His heart thundered in his chest.

But he was going to fix this.

He had to.

Chapter Text

The silence stretched longer than it should have.

Harry stood frozen, still processing the image in front of him: Andromeda Tonks, alive and young, with soft brown hair pinned back loosely, standing in the threshold of a house Harry knew far too well — the same house where he once brought a newborn Teddy from after the war, the house where grief had hung in the air like thick fog.

Now, it was filled with warmth.

She blinked, her gaze flicking from Harry to the baby in Regulus’s arms, and then back. Her brow arched ever so slightly.

Regulus cleared his throat. “Andy. This is Harry.”

“I gathered.” She stepped aside, allowing them in with a fluid wave of her hand. “And I suppose that little angel is yours?”

Harry opened his mouth — possibly to explain, possibly to wheeze — but Andromeda cut in with a smirk.

“I must say, Regulus, I’m surprised. Didn’t think you had it in you to knock someone up.”

Harry choked. “I — what?”

Regulus burst into laughter, full-bodied and gleaming with mischief. “Neither did I, frankly.”

Harry turned a spectacular shade of crimson, like a tomato left too long in the sun. “That’s not — I didn’t — he’s not—!”

Teddy, delighted by the sound of voices, gurgled and waved a fist in the air from Regulus’s hip. His hair shifted rapidly until it settled into silky black and eyes stormy grey, a perfect mirror of Regulus’s features.

“Oh, Merlin,” Harry whispered, hiding his face in his hands.

Andromeda’s laugh rang out like bells. “Oh, I like you already. Come in, come in. Let me get the tea before your embarrassment burns my doorstep down.”

Ten minutes later, Harry found himself curled on a quaint sofa, one arm protectively around Teddy as the baby rested against his chest. A steaming cup of tea balanced on his knee, and a half-bitten biscuit was still trembling slightly in his fingers.

“I swear,” he muttered. “That was not how I imagined this going.”

Regulus, lounging next to him like a smug cat, grinned. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t thank you.”

“Yet.”

“Merlin.”

Andromeda set down her own cup and leaned forward, a curious sparkle in her eyes. “So, Harry… what is it you do?”

“I work at a Muggle café nearby,” he said, brushing a crumb off Teddy’s onesie. “Helps with bills, keeps me busy.”

Andromeda’s brows rose. “A wizard working in a Muggle café. How… rebellious. I love it.”

Harry smiled shyly. “I like it. It’s quiet. Honest.”

The sound of light footsteps reached them before a new voice called, “Mummy, who’s here?”

Nymphadora.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

A young girl, maybe six or seven, came into the room with hair the colour of bubblegum and wide, curious eyes. The moment she spotted Teddy, her hair shifted to a brilliant turquoise and her face split into a grin.

“A baby!” she squealed, rushing forward.

Teddy squealed right back, delighted, and in a flash, his hair turned the exact same shade as hers.

Nymphadora gasped in delight. “Mummy! He’s like me!”

Andromeda chuckled. “Yes, darling. That’s Teddy.”

“Hi Teddy,” she cooed, reaching out to tickle his little foot.

Harry swallowed hard.

She was alive. She was happy. She was meeting her son — or rather, the child who would’ve been her son — and she had no idea. No idea that in another lifetime, she’d held this very child for only a few moments before charging into a war she wouldn’t survive.

Harry forced a smile, his eyes burning.

“You alright?” Regulus murmured beside him.

Harry nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Just… something in my eye.”

He watched as Nymphadora coaxed a giggle out of Teddy, who flailed in glee and clapped his hands.

“I’m going to show him my dollhouse!” she declared, and Harry carefully handed Teddy over, watching his tiny fingers cling to her hair for a moment.

“Be gentle,” he called after her.

“I’m always gentle,” she shot back over her shoulder.

And just like that, they were gone — off to the other room, squeals and laughter trailing behind them.

The silence that followed was warm but heavy.

Andromeda turned her gaze on the adults, one eyebrow elegantly raised. “So. Did you two sort out your lovers’ spat?”

Harry nearly dropped his tea.

Regulus didn’t miss a beat. “More or less.”

Andromeda snorted. “Idiots, both of you.”

“Hey!”

She sipped her tea serenely. “You storm out in a dramatic huff, holes up in that haunted house for days, and came here looking like a kicked Niffler. If that’s not idiocy, I don’t know what is.”

Harry snorted into his cup.

Regulus rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”

Harry huffed.

“You slammed the door.”

“I was upset.”

“You shouted.”

“I had valid points.”

“You called me a liar and left in the rain!”

Regulus looked sheepish for a moment. “...Bit dramatic.”

Andromeda leaned back and shook her head fondly. “It’s like watching a Black family soap opera. Except there’s an actual baby involved this time.”

Harry groaned. Regulus looked oddly proud.

The corner of the living room had transformed into an accidental stage for chaos and colour.

Teddy sat cross-legged on the carpet, clutching a half-eaten biscuit in one pudgy hand while his other waved enthusiastically at a delighted Nymphadora. The six-year-old girl was giggling, her hair shifting from bright bubblegum pink to deep violet, to an almost blinding orange as she made faces at Teddy.

Not to be outdone, Teddy squealed back in delight and transformed his tiny mop of hair into an identical hue. His chubby face scrunched up with effort as he matched her orange. Then, his nose began to grow and bulge into something wildly unrecognisable—a round, red clown nose.

Nymphadora clapped like he’d just performed a Transfiguration N.E.W.T.

Harry, nursing his cup of tea on the couch, watched the pair with a gentle ache in his chest.

He hadn’t expected this.

To see Nymphadora as a child again—alive and laughing, her eyes lit with joy—was like watching a ghost reverse its own curse. The memory of her broken, lifeless body at Hogwarts slammed against the image of the girl across the room.

Alive. Innocent. Happy.

It tugged at something deep inside him. A grief that had never had time to be processed properly, to be understood.

But now, seeing Teddy giggling so freely, and Nymphadora playing like she’d found a long-lost baby brother—it gave him a strange sort of peace.

“Are you alright?”

Harry blinked. Andromeda had moved to sit beside him again, eyes calm and knowing. The kind of eyes that saw more than they were told.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

And for once, it wasn’t a lie.

““So what were you two doing today before barging into my house and almost giving me a scandal?” Andromeda asked, tone light as she poured another cup of tea.

Regulus, lounging on the armrest beside Harry like he owned the place, casually draped one ankle over his knee and answered, “We were just out at the park. Letting Teddy stare down squirrels and throw leaves at innocent bystanders.”

Andromeda snorted into her tea.

Harry raised a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, too quickly, setting her teacup down with a clink. “Nothing at all.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “No. That was a laugh. What’s so funny?”

Andromeda just sipped her tea, looking far too pleased with herself.

“What?” Harry spluttered, ears going crimson. “It—it was just a walk! With Teddy!”

Andromeda raised a brow. “Yes. A park visit. With a baby. On a sunny day. Just the two of you.”

“And the baby!” Harry flailed.

Regulus leaned over. “She thinks I knocked you up, remember?”

“I’m going to hex you,” Harry muttered, face aflame.

Teddy babbled in the corner, now sporting glowing green hair and mismatched lilac eyes.

Andromeda let out a little laugh and turned her focus to Harry again. “By the way, dear, I meant to ask. Are you by any chance related to the Potters? You’ve got that chin and nose.”

Harry stiffened. Regulus’s hand twitched as he bit down a snort.

“Uh. No?” Harry said far too quickly.

Andromeda’s eyes narrowed with amused suspicion. “Hm. Funny. You’ve got James’s posture too. The smug ‘I just broke a school rule and got away with it’ stance.”

Regulus smirked behind his teacup.

Before Andromeda could press further, the grandfather clock in the hallway let out a low, resonant chime. Seven o’clock.

“Oh, is it that late?” Harry glanced at Teddy, who had now managed to cover his entire head in bubblegum pink hair.

“Time flies when you’re being accused of baby-making,” Regulus said cheerfully.

Andromeda escorted them to the door, Nymphadora reluctantly letting go of Teddy’s hand.

“I’ll bring him by again soon,” Harry promised, adjusting Teddy on his hip.

“You’d better,” Andromeda said, leaning forward to kiss Teddy’s cheek. “Or I’ll assume you eloped and are hiding out in France.”

At the threshold, Harry turned. “Wait. Earlier—when we told you about the park. You laughed. Why?”

Regulus raised a brow in agreement. “Yes. That laugh was terrifying.”

Andromeda smiled. Not sweetly. Not innocently.

“That park is very... popular,” she said. “Not just for muggles. A lot of Wixen families visit there too. Gossip tends to bloom faster than honeysuckle.”

Harry blinked. “Gossip?”

“Oh, surely someone’s already spotted you two. Regulus Black, the heir of Ancient and Noble house of black with a blushing, pretty boy in oversized jumpers and a baby that’s clearly a blend of the two—do I need to spell it out?”

Harry choked on air. “Wh—pretty—what?”

Regulus let out a bark of laughter, nearly sliding off the armrest.

“I mean,” Andromeda continued, smirking, “by now, someone must’ve seen you and assumed Regulus knocked up a very lovely, slightly dazed man and you’re both raising your child with artsy flair and questionable fashion sense.”

“I do not have questionable fashion sense!” Harry exclaimed, scarlet. “I—this jumper is vintage!”

“Exactly.” Regulus wiped a tear of mirth. “Just wait till the Prophet picks it up. I give it two days.”

“I will hex the press,” Harry muttered, glaring into his tea like it betrayed him.

Andromeda grinned. “I guarantee by tomorrow, someone will have sent your ‘family photo’ to Witch Weekly.”

Teddy babbled happily across the room, and Nymphadora was now sprouting green cat ears.

Harry turned a brilliant shade of red.

Regulus was wheezing as he shut the door behind them.

Out on the front steps, Harry groaned into his hands. “I am never showing my face in Diagon Alley again.”

“I’ll protect you,” Regulus said gallantly. “With smouldering stares and mildly illegal hexes.”

Harry tried to glare, but the smile that split his face ruined the effect entirely.

And as they walked home under the setting sun—Teddy dozing in Harry’s arms, Regulus quietly brushing their shoulders together—Harry realised something important.

He was starting to feel like he belonged.

Maybe not to a war or a prophecy.

But to this.

To them.

To something like family.

Extra:-

9'O clock, The same day at Order meeting 

Frank longbottom: Yo, Sirius! didn't you hear?Your brother regulus ran away. Apparently he knocked up a pretty beautiful guy and had a cute baby. And your parents are pissed!

Sirius: *processing everything* "Wh-wha?"

Remus: Are you sure? This is Regulus Black we are talking about. Sirius's brother. That definitely doesn't sound like him.

James: *burst out laughing*

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight slanted lazily through the kitchen window, turning the cozy little flat golden with warmth. The scent of vanilla and something buttery wafted through the air, mingling with quiet laughter and the soft crackle of magic.

Harry hummed as he stood by the stove, flipping pancakes with more enthusiasm than skill. He wore a threadbare jumper and pajama pants, his hair every bit the mess it always was. But for once, there was no exhaustion weighing down his shoulders, no haunted look behind his eyes. He looked—peaceful.

Whole. Almost.

Behind him, at the small table tucked beside the window, Regulus Black sat cross-legged, wand in one hand and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. Teddy was perched on his highchair, babbling happily as Regulus conjured a cascade of glowing bubbles and twinkling stars that danced around them.

"More!" Teddy squealed, clapping his tiny hands. His hair shifted from blue to silver to glittering galaxy as he giggled, one hand reaching for a particularly sparkly saturn bubble.

Regulus chuckled, flicked his wand, Sending a comet bubble sailing across the room. It burst with a tiny pop of purples sparkes, letting out a musical chime. "Demanding little cub, aren't you?"

Teddy blew a raspberry in agreement.

Harry glanced over his shoulder and chuckled. The sound was soft, unguarded. It settled deep in Regulus's chest like a welcome spell.

"You two are going to spoil each other," Harry said fondly.

"It's mutual corruption," Regulus replied smoothly, letting Teddy grab his wand (under close supervision, of course).

The air buzzed with contentment. For the first time since the war, Harry felt like he could breathe. The ache in his chest—the one shaped like loss and trauma and years of loneliness—wasn't gone, but it was quieter now. Because Regulus was here. And Regulus was... helping him heal in ways Harry hadn’t thought possible.

He’d never imagined family like this.

Not real family, not the kind that laughs with you over burnt toast, and plays peekaboo with enchanted glitter, and makes you forget, even just for a moment, that you were ever broken in the first place.

They were in the wrong decade. Everything about their life was a tangled mess of secrets and second chances. But in this little moment—bubbles, breakfast, and banter—it felt like home.

He hadn’t had that in a long time.

And Regulus—beautiful, exasperating Regulus—was slowly, impossibly, stitching pieces of him back together.

This—this felt like home.

After breakfast (which involved three pancakes sacrificed to the gods of inexperience and one buttered wand), the trio lingered at the table. Teddy sat in Regulus's lap again, gumming cheerfully on the ear of his wolf plush while Regulus bounced him absentmindedly.

Harry was mid-sip of tea when Regulus asked, "So. What now?"

Harry blinked. "Huh?"

Regulus met his eyes evenly, voice calm. "I know you're going to hunt Horcruxes. The whole 'saiving the world' business. Again."

The mug froze halfway to Harry's lips. "Regulus..."

Regulus raised an eyebrow. "Don’t look so surprised. And I’m not trying to guilt you,” he said, holding up his hands. “I just— I want in.”

Harry nearly dropped his mug. “What?”

“I’m coming with you,” Regulus said, deadly serious now. “I won’t let you do this alone.”

Harry’s heart stuttered. “Regulus, no. I can’t— I won’t ask you to—”

“Well, good news,” Regulus said, narrowing his eyes, “you’re not asking. I’m telling.”

"Regulus."

"Harry."

“It’s dangerous.”

Harry's voice was flat, like a wall thrown up mid-conversation.

Regulus didn’t flinch. “So is my current living condition, apparently.”

Harry shot him a look. “Regulus—”

“No, really.” Regulus's tone turned razor-sharp. “Even before meeting you, I’ve survived a batshit crazy family that give out crucio like free candies, some more crazy and cruel schoolmates who will get you the second you turn your back to them, and a megalomaniac dark lord who wanted to conduct genocide. I think I can handle a horcrux or two.”

Harry scoffed, bitter. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Do you think I’m joking?” Regulus stood slowly, his voice rising. “You think I’d be here—still here—if I thought this was all some bloody laugh?”

“You don’t get it,” Harry snapped, slamming his hand down on the table. “You have no idea what it’s like. What it does to you—what it takes—”

“And you think I haven’t seen darkness?” Regulus hissed. “You think I don’t know what it feels like to drown in it?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t about your guilt or your past or whatever vendetta you’ve got against your family legacy—this is my fight.”

“Well, tough,” Regulus snapped. “Because I’m not going to sit back and watch you destroy yourself!”

“I’m not destroying myself!” Harry shouted, voice cracking. “I’m trying to stop it from happening again—to anyone else!”

Regulus threw his hands up. “And what, you think doing it alone is noble? That dying quietly in some cursed ruin is going to protect Teddy?”

“I don’t want you to die because of me!” Harry finally screamed, chest heaving, the words yanked from somewhere raw and vulnerable.

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

Regulus stared at him, stunned. His grip on Teddy—who had been happily gumming a biscuit—tightened subtly as the baby began to squirm at the noise.

“You idiot,” Regulus said softly, after a beat. “You absolute idiot.”

Harry blinked, breath hitching.

“I’m not doing this because I have to,” Regulus murmured. “I’m doing this because I want to. Because you matter. He matters.”

Teddy let out a soft, uncertain whine, sensing the tension.

Regulus stroked his hair gently, kissing the baby’s forehead even as his eyes stayed locked on Harry’s. “I’ve lost everything before. I’m not doing it again.”

Harry exhaled, fists clenched. "I never wanted this to happen! I just wanted a life for Teddy! A safe, normal life—"

"And what, you think dying on a solo mission is going to give him that?!"

Teddy began to whimper.

They both froze.

The baby let out a soft, distressed hiccup, lower lip wobbling. Then came the flood of tears.

"Oh, no, no, shh, love," Harry said, rushing forward.

But Regulus was faster.

He scooped Teddy into his arms, holding him gently but securely, rocking him in a rhythm that was almost instinctual. "Shh, cub. It’s alright. We've just got our adult underpants in a twist. Ignore us."

Harry stood awkwardly, guilt blooming in his chest.

Regulus whispered something soft, forehead to Teddy's, and slowly the sobs dwindled. Teddy clung to his robes, hiccupping quietly, before going limp with sleep.

Regulus carried him to the playpen, laid him down with a softness Harry wouldn't have believed possible from a former Death Eater, and then turned around.

His eyes were molten.

"I know why you're pushing me away," he said, voice low. "I know it hurts to hope. I know it scares you to love. But I do love you, Harry Potter. And I’m not letting you go into this alone."

Harry opened his mouth to argue.

But Regulus didn’t let him.

He crossed the space between them in three long strides, grabbed Harry by the waist, and kissed him.

Hard.

Harry squeaked, hands flailing for a second, and then— sweet Merlin—he melted.

Regulus's mouth was firm, demanding, and so devastatingly familiar now. Harry kissed back with everything he'd held in—all the fear, all the longing, all the unshed tears and stolen dreams.

They stumbled a little, bumping into the table, but neither cared. Harry clutched at Regulus's shirt, Regulus gripped Harry's back like he was anchoring them both, and they kissed like it was the only magic left in the world.

When they finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, Harry sagged into Regulus's chest.

He was warm. Solid. Real.

Regulus ran a hand up his spine. "You're shorter than I thought."

"Shut up," Harry mumbled into his collarbone.

They stayed like that for a long minute.

“Your heart,” he muttered. “It’s racing.”

“That’s rich,” Regulus said, cupping his cheek. “You nearly combusted.”

“You kissed me!”

“You needed to be kissed.”

“Gah!”

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

“Stop saying that,” Harry groaned into his robes.

“Make me.”

“Okay,” Harry said finally, voice muffled. “You can help with the Horcruxes.”

Regulus smirked like the smug snake he was.

“Didn’t even have to pester you more.”

“You emotionally blackmailed me with a baby and a kiss!”

“And it worked.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Ugh.”

Regulus kissed his forehead.

Teddy snored softly from the playpen, one leg kicked out at a dramatic angle.

Harry sighed, but there was laughter under it. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Regulus rested his chin on top of Harry’s head. “The best kind.”

There was an absolute secret that the residents of the Grimmauld Place complex didn’t pay attention to—or more precisely, had forgotten.

It was Number Twelve.

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, wedged impossibly between Eleven and Thirteen, had long ago vanished from the collective awareness of its Muggle neighbors. That, of course, was by design. Even the most observant passersby would skip straight from Eleven to Thirteen, minds sliding off the unseen house like rain off an enchanted roof.

But Number Twelve was there.

And its residents were not like their neighbors.

They were magical. Old magic. The kind that wrapped around a name like thick velvet and refused to let go.

Number Twelve belonged to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.

At present, the house was occupied by Orion Aractus Black - the previous heir Black - and his wife, Walburga Irma Black. And if there was one thing both agreed upon, it was the unquestionable superiority of pure-blood wizards. To them, the mere thought of sullying the sacred bloodlines with Muggle filth was anathema. And any Purebloods that supported muggles or muggleborns were labelled as Blood-traitors.They spoke of blood purity with reverence, a religion unto itself, and raised their sons under that doctrine like scripture.

The rise in Muggle-borns within the British wizarding world over the past decades had brought them endless discontent. The whispers within the Sacred Twenty-Eight families grew sharper, angrier. And then, like a messiah in the mist, a powerful wizard emerged—Lord Voldemort, who claimed the title of the current Lord Slytherin. He gave voice to what they all believed and took action where others only muttered in drawing rooms.

It was no surprise when the Blacks supported him.

In fact, it was pride.

They were among the first to throw their lot in with the Dark Lord, and their joy was doubled when their youngest son—their heir, Regulus Arcturus Black—was offered the chance to take the Dark Mark. Walburga had practically wept with joy.

"Do you understand what this means, Orion?" she'd said, pressing the Prophet to his chest. "The House of Black will rise again! We will be second only to the Dark Lord himself!"

Regulus had been sixteen.

His arm still bore the raw wound where the Mark had been burned into his skin.

But if the Mark had been a badge of pride to Walburga and Orion, it had become a chain for Regulus. And over the years that followed, they began to notice cracks.

Subtle at first. The boy became so quiet, withdrawn. But now he was gone. Vanishing for hours, even days. Ignoring Bellatrix's owls, skipping gatherings he once attended without protest.

When questioned, he would offer nothing.

Orion narrowed his eyes. Walburga screamed.

Still, he didn’t answer.

Then, one Sunday morning, he returned. Pale, drawn, but whole. He went straight to his childhood bedroom and locked the door.

Walburga’s fury could be heard from one end of the street to the other. Orion sat in his chair, knuckles white against the Daily Prophet, saying nothing.

Regulus remained silent.

On the fourth day, he left again.

But this time, Walburga had had enough. She used every last scrap of her influence, from house-elf whispers to the gossip-laced floo networks of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, to discover where her son had gone.

And she found it.

Number Nine Hollybrook Lane.

The home of Andromeda Tonks.

Walburga had nearly fainted.

A traitor. A blood-traitor. A woman who had married a Mudblood, no less. And Regulus—her pride, her heir—was visiting her?

She paced the drawing room in tight circles, wand clenched in her hand.

"He must be under a spell," she muttered, to no one in particular. "Yes. Yes, that must be it. Andromeda has used some foul enchantment to ensnare him. To poison him against us."

But nothing prepared her for the final blow.

It arrived on Wednesday morning, courtesy of Witch Weekly.

She had barely sipped her tea before she saw it.

The cover.

The title.

The photograph.

It was her son—Regulus—in a white button up shirt and slacks- muggle clothes - sleek black hair glinting in the morning sun. But it wasn’t just him.

He stood beside a man. A stranger. Tall, with bright jade eyes, unruly black curls, and a smile that made Walburga’s skin crawl with its easy, Muggle-born charm. The sort of beauty that veered dangerously into veela territory.

And in Regulus’s arms—a child.

A baby with soft curls and grey eyes so like her son’s that Walburga choked on air.

Below the image, the caption screamed:

"Heir Black Spotted With Mysterious Man and Child—Secret Family Hidden From Public?"

Walburga dropped her tea.

The cup shattered against the marble tile, splattering hot liquid across her slippers.

She didn’t feel it.

Her eyes were fixed to the page, fingers trembling.

No.

No, no, no.

This was not happening.

This was not happening.

She flipped the page with wild urgency, reading the accompanying article:

>Witnesses claim the three were seen at Whimblewood Park yesterday. Regulus Black appeared relaxed, even cheerful, while his companion laughed and carried a baby. The child bore a striking resemblance to young Mr. Black, leading many to question whether the prominent heir has been hiding a family all along.

Her mind screeched to a halt.

Regulus. With a man. With a child.

Their heir. Entangled in scandal.

"ORION!"

The scream rattled the portraits.

Chapter Text

Her husband arrived moments later, calm as a glacier, hands clasped behind his back. He eyed the photo, then looked at her. "That child has Regulus’s nose."

"That thing has Regulus’s everything!" she shrieked. "Do you see what they’re implying?! He has a child, Orion. And a lover. A man!"

Orion blinked once. "He looks happy."

"He looks damned," she snapped.

She snatched the magazine up again, glaring at the photo like she could set it alight through sheer will. The man next to Regulus was smiling in a way that suggested he laughed easily. Regulus's hand was resting on his back. The baby, nestled between them, giggled and tugged at Regulus's collar.

"He's beautiful," she said grudgingly.

"What was that?"

"I said he's dangerous. That face is clearly a trap. You don't get cheekbones like that without dark intentions."

"Hmm."

She stared at the image again, this time with surgical intensity. "Do you see the way Regulus looks at him? Like a bloody Hufflepuff."

Orion merely sipped his tea.

Walburga began pacing, her fury growing hotter with every step.

"He ignores us. Refuses summons. And now he's playing family with some halfblood Adonis and a baby that has our great-grandmother’s dimple."

"You sound jealous."

She spun on him, scandalized. "I am insulted."

"Mm."

She stopped pacing abruptly. "We are going to Andromeda's."

Orion raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because she knows. And if she doesn't, she will."

Lord Arcturus Black had not read Witch Weekly in over fifty years.

He had, however, been accosted by Melania at precisely half past nine, with her hair still in curlers and her dressing gown aflame—quite literally, due to her distress. A muttered Aguamenti took care of the fire, but not the fury.

"You need to see this," she announced, slapping the scandalous magazine on the breakfast table with all the force of a dueling hex.

Arcturus, mid-bite of toast, did not look up. "If this is about Celestina Warbeck’s latest affair, I refuse. I told you the woman is a menace to society and my digestion."

"It’s Regulus," Melania hissed.

He paused. Lowered his toast.

Then reached—slowly—for his monocle.

There, on the front page, was his grandson.

Wearing a half-decent muggle clothes. Holding a baby like he’d done it before. And next to him—

A man.

A man with untamable hair like black silk and eyes that fairly glowed. Regulus's hand resting on his back like it belonged there.

Arcturus was silent for a long moment. Then:

“Oh,” he blinked fast. “Oh, that is Reggie, and a child,” Arcturus breathed. “Presumably his. You can tell by the ears. They’re cursed with the Black curve. Poor creature. And that baby. Look at that dimple. That’s Lucretia's dimple! The Audrey Hepburn of 1922. That’s a Black dimple, Melania."

Melania said nothing.

She was too busy staring.

Not at the baby.

But at him.

The man standing next to Regulus. A bit short, with black curls and green eyes that practically glowed in print. He had the kind of face that launched feuds, curses, and possibly several duels in Nice. Beautiful, yes. But dangerous. In the way priceless glass is dangerous. Or swords.

“...Who is that?” she asked, fanning herself. “And where has he been hiding all my life?”

“Melania,” Arcturus warned lightly, “you’re ogling a man young enough to be your grandson.”

“He’s beautiful,” she said, unapologetic.

Arcturus glanced down again and sighed. “Disgustingly so. And those eyes—Greengrass? No, no. Too sharp. Not English.”

“Look at that jawline. That’s a weapon of mass seduction.”

“Mel,” he said dryly.

“I’m just appreciating the craftsmanship.”

“Well, appreciate quietly. You’re practically drooling.”

She huffed, then leaned closer to examine the caption. “Harry Granger, it says. Oh, please. That’s not his name. That’s a Potter with a forged ID.”

Arcturus paused.

“Potter?” he echoed, brows lifting. “As in—James Potter?”

“The one from the Harpies’ gala,” Melania confirmed. “The one who spilled firewhisky on your new robes and claimed it was 'an act of divine retaliation for your cheek.’”

“I liked him.”

“You hexed his drink.”

“I liked him,” Arcturus repeated, tone firm.

They both went quiet again, eyes drawn back to the glossy image. Regulus holding a baby with dimpled cheeks. The mystery man smiling like he’d just won the lottery and the baby in the same day. All three looked… content.

Which was disturbing.

Blacks were not content. They were composed. Proper. Severely stylish with a dash of torment.

Contentment was suspicious.

Melania threw her arms up. "He’s gone rogue! Completely unmoored from sense or duty or—"

"Or his grandparents?"

She froze. "Precisely!"

“Well,” Arcturus said finally, setting his toast aside, “I suppose this is the part where we disown him.”

Melania snorted. “Please. After what Walburga’s doing? If we disown him, he’ll think it’s a reward.”

Arcturus smirked. “True.”

Melania flipped to the article’s second page and tilted her head. “He looks happy, doesn’t he?”

“Disgusting.”

“And the child—look at his little shoes. Those are Hand-stitched.”

They looked at each other.

Then Melania said flatly,"We need to find out who the man is."

"Why?"

"Because if Regulus has absconded with some barefoot, free-spirited, guitar-playing Muggle poet, I will hex myself."

Arcturus turned the page. There was another photo—Regulus laughing, head thrown back, the baby chewing on the mysterious man's shoulder.

He grinned. "I think I like him."

"Who?"

"All of them."

Melania blinked.

Then sat down with a dramatic huff, waving her wand to summon stronger tea.

"We are going to visit."

Arcturus lifted an eyebrow. "Spy, you mean?"

"Observe. Like respectable people. And I want to meet the man with the cheekbones. And also to steal the baby.”

“Mel.”

“Not forever. Just… borrowing.”

Arcturus sighed. “Very well. But I’m bringing a gift.”

“Something tasteful?”

“A bottle of Ogden’s and a pamphlet on child tax exemptions.”

She beamed. “You’re a natural.”

He rolled his eyes, then picked the magazine back up and gave it one last look.

“…You really think that’s a Potter?”

“Oh, darling. He’s the blueprint.”

At exactly 10:03 a.m., Sirius Black dropped a priceless, irreplaceable Ming dynasty vase.

The room fell silent.

Remus looked up from his book. James froze mid-bite of a suspiciously jam-laden crumpet. The vase hit the floor with the kind of dramatic flair Sirius only dreamed of achieving in real life—shattering into a thousand very expensive regrets.

“…You okay, Pads?” James asked cautiously.

Sirius didn’t speak.

He merely held out the magazine, face pale, hand trembling like he’d just been kissed by a Dementor and taxed by the Ministry in the same breath.

James squinted. “Is that—? Oh my god.”

Remus leaned forward, taking in the glossy image of Regulus Black looking—dear Merlin—domesticated. The baby, the mysterious hot man, the smile on Regulus's face. 

The dimples.

Remus blinked. “I think I’m hallucinating. I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”

James made a strangled sound.

“HE STOLE MY FACE,” he shrieked.

Sirius turned, eyes wide and unblinking. “Did Regulus… clone you?!”

“HE’S GOT MY CHIN, MY HAIR, MY AURA OF STRESSED ATTRACTIVENESS—”

“That is *not* a scientifically recognized aura,” Remus muttered.

Sirius pointed a shaking finger at the photo. “That’s my little brother! Holding a baby like he didn’t swear off human connection at age twelve! And who—WHO—is that bloody dreamboat standing next to him? Why does he look like a Greek god and a brooding librarian had a lovechild?!”

James paced like a caged Niffler. “That’s me! That’s my face on that man! I NEVER APPROVED A FACE LICENSE!”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “You think you have the rights to facial features now?”

“I knew something was off in the universe,” Sirius muttered, staring into the middle distance. “My toast landed butter-side up this morning. That was the omen. This is the apocalypse. Regulus is happy.”

James yanked the magazine from him. “AND HE’S CUDDLING A BABY. A BABY, MOONY. THE BABY IS CHEWING ON HIS—ON MY—ON OUR COLLECTIVE DIGNITY.”

Remus, ever the voice of reason, sipped his tea. “Maybe he’s turned over a new leaf.”

“NEW LEAF?!” Sirius roared. “REGULUS DIDN’T TURN—HE SPIRALLED INTO AN ENTIRE FOREST!”

James was now lying flat on the floor, muttering to himself in tones that were either Latin or Mermish. “That jawline. That’s MY jawline. He inherited it illegally.”

“You’re not related,” Remus deadpanned.

“IT’S THE PRINCIPLE.”

Sirius dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. “I spent years thinking he was brooding in some cave, writing gothic poetry and plotting my murder. And instead—instead—he's out there going cozy family trips with a man who looks like he moisturizes with unicorn tears.”

“Who is he? He looks exactly like you,” Remus asked, rereading the caption.

James squinted at the photo. “That’s not me.”

Then he turned the page sideways, then upside down. “But it’s not me.”

Sirius blinked. “Are we absolutely sure you didn’t black out, move to France, have a child, and develop a taste for tasteful nude-illusion robes?”

“I THINK I’D REMEMBER THAT,” James shouted.

Remus took the magazine back and stared at the glossy image. The handsome young man—James’s clone, practically—was smiling down at a baby in his arms, with Regulus Black’s hand resting possessively on his lower back.

“This is dark magic,” Remus whispered.

“Or cloning,” Sirius said grimly.

James threw his hands in the air. “Cloning! Yes! That’s it! Someone’s cloned me and I’m shacked up with Regulus in another dimension!”

"But we are in Same dimension, You idiot!" Remus rubbed his temple.

Sirius grabbed the magazine. “This guy has your exact face.”

James nodded wildly. “Exactly. My hair. My smile. My smoulder.”

“Don’t say smoulder,” Remus muttered.

“And the baby’s got Black eyes,” Sirius said, peering at the photo. “That’s Black baby hair. But that’s your nose, Prongs!”

“Am I a grandfather?!” James shrieked.

“YOU’RE NINETEEN,” Remus hissed.

“WHAT IF I’M A TIME TRAVELER?!”

“WHY WOULD YOU TIME TRAVEL TO DATE REGULUS?” Sirius roared.

Everyone went quiet.

They stared again at the photo of the not-James, casually radiant, nestled in Regulus Black’s arms like the cover of a romantic novel titled Brooding Heiress and the Mysterious Stray Dad.

Remus sat down. “Okay. We need to think this through. Either he’s a long-lost cousin—”

“No Potter has ever been that fashionable,” James said.

“—or someone stole your face,*” Sirius supplied.

“Or he’s from the future,” James whispered, eyes wide.

Remus whimpered into a cushion. “Please no more time travel. I barely survived the last paradox meeting with Dumbledore.”

Sirius jabbed the page. “Look at them! They’re domestic! They have matching coats!”

“THE BABY HAS A TINY KNITTED SLYTHERIN SCARF,” James screamed.

“I told you Regulus was sentimental,” Sirius muttered.

James dropped to his knees. “What if he’s from the future? What if he’s my son from the future?!”

Remus threw a teabag at him. “You don’t have a son!”

“I might! ”

“NO, YOU DON’T.”

Sirius went pale. “Oh my god. What if he’s my son?”

James looked alarmed. “With Regulus?!”

“NO! WITH SOMEONE ELSE! I DON’T KNOW!”

Remus stood, deeply done. “Okay, new plan. We confront them.”

James and Sirius: “YES.”

“And ask what?”

James: “‘Hi, excuse me, are you from the future and genetically identical to me?’”

Sirius: “‘And also why are you snogging my emotionally stunted brother at Children's park?!’”

Remus sighed. “We are not emotionally equipped for this.”

James clutched the magazine to his chest. “We have to know. For science. For closure. For the fate of the space-time continuum.”

Sirius cracked his knuckles. “Also, I wanna punch Regulus. Just in case.”

Remus grabbed his coat. “Fine. But if this ends with us stuck in an alternate timeline, I’m blaming both of you.”

James was already at the door. “Let’s go meet... me?”

Chapter Text

There were few things in the world Lucius Malfoy held sacred.

The integrity of his hair.

The way his name was pronounced (Lu-see-us, thank you, not Loose-us like that horror of a cousin used to say).

And of course, the early-morning ritual of tea, silence, and the newspaper.

It was a fine, drizzly Thursday when Narcissa Black Malfoy—his brilliant, elegant, socially lethal wife—swept into the drawing room with all the restrained poise of a lioness on the hunt and upended his schedule entirely.

“Darling,” she said, voice like champagne. “Have you seen Witch Weekly?”

Lucius didn’t lower his Daily Prophet. “You know I don’t indulge in that sort of—”

“It has Regulus in it.”

A pause. Slowly, like a cat scenting blood, Lucius lowered his paper.

“He what?”

Narcissa’s eyes glittered with the kind of delight usually reserved for gossip, drama, and murdering one’s enemies at dinner parties. She held up the glossy magazine as though it were a holy text. The title screamed:

“Heir Black Spotted With Mysterious Man and Child—Secret Family Hidden From Public?"

Lucius gaped. “He what?”

“Oh, it gets better,” Narcissa said, flouncing into the armchair with a rustle of silk. “Look.”

Lucius set aside his tea with the reverence of a man about to witness scandal incarnate. He adjusted his monocle—purely for dramatic effect—and leaned in.

There, on the center spread, was a photo of Regulus Black. Of course, he looked infuriatingly good—slim, smirking, brooding in that way only a Black could brood—but it wasn’t Regulus that caught Lucius’ attention.

It was the person next to him.

Lucius stared. Blinked. Stared again.

The man had cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, curls dark as ink, lashes that went on for days. He wore a soft, oversized jumper, had a gentle, absent smile, and held a baby in his arms like a Renaissance Madonna. He radiated softness. Beauty. Femininity.

Lucius made a high, confused noise in the back of his throat.

“Who is that?” he whispered, as if uttering the name of a god.

Narcissa had leaned forward, eyes shining. “Isn’t he divine?”

“She’s stunning.”

“She’s a he.”

Lucius blinked. “That’s a man?”

“Oh, don’t be gauche, Lucius. He’s ethereal.” She flipped the page. “Look! There’s more!”

There was a photo of the same beautiful man seated in a sun-drenched park bench, the baby nestled against his chest, eyes closed. The man’s hand was stroking the baby’s soft hair. The baby—a round, chubby little creature with tufts of hair changed colours—gurgled in delight, tiny hands fisting the man’s jumper.

But most striking of all, was when the baby's hair changed into the same inky darkness and soft waves as Regulus’s—and the same stormy grey eyes.

Lucius clutched the edge of the magazine like it was all that stood between him and spontaneous combustion.

“I think,” he said faintly, “I’m having an episode.”

Narcissa was already fanning herself with a cushion. “He’s not just beautiful, Lucius. He’s radiant. That skin! That bone structure! That jumper—oh, it’s a little frumpy, but it works for him, doesn’t it?”

“Very… muggle like,” Lucius managed. “Do we—do we know who he is?”

The caption, in loopy gold script, read:

Regulus Black seen with mystery man and child—sources say he’s been visiting the pair for months!

Insiders whisper: are they more than friends?

Baby’s features hint at scandalous lineage!

Narcissa gasped. “Do you suppose he’s Regulus’s… lover?”

Lucius spluttered. “lover? Regulus? With him?”

“Well, Regulus always was dramatic.”

Lucius squinted at the baby. “And… that child looks exactly like Regulus.”

Narcissa reached out and touched the photo. “They must be—” she whispered. “Regulus must be the sire.”

Lucius reeled. “Born… out of wedlock?”

“Oh, the delicious scandal,” Narcissa purred. “Regulus, sneaking around with a muggleborn Adonis, producing a little heir in secret!”

“Disgraceful,” Lucius said automatically. “Utterly… sinful.”

A pause.

“Do you think they are in an open relationship?” Lucius asked, eyes locked on the mystery man’s smile.

“Lucius.”

“I’m just asking.”

They both stared at the image of the man again. His smile was serene. Angelic. The baby was laughing in the picture now—tiny fists waving in the air—and Narcissa actually made a cooing noise.

“Oh, I want one,” she breathed.

“but Cissa, you are already pregnant.” Lucius reminded her, gesturing toward her baby bump.

“But luciuusss I want onr now...... Look at his little hands! He’s glowing, Lucius. Glowing! He’s clearly Regulus’s son.”

Lucius, weakly: “Do you think the muggleborn would hold me like that?”

Narcissa narrowed her eyes. “You’re flirting with the man in who must be Regulus's partner.”

“I’m admiring.”

“You have never admired me in that jumper I wore last winter.”

“You don’t look like a Greek statue carved from moonlight and baby giggles, dearest.”

Narcissa sniffed. “Fair.”

She turned the page again. This time, there was a photo of Regulus—the Regulus they  knew —glancing down at the baby, his face soft in a way Lucius had never seen. The mystery man was mid-laugh, head thrown back, hair haloed in sunlight. Teddy sat in his lap, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

Lucius felt a strange warmth in his chest.

“Do you think they’re… happy?” he said softly.

Narcissa tilted her head. “They look it. He’s not scowling at all. I didn’t know his face could do that. That man reminds me of Andromeda,” Narcissa said wistfully. “She had that softness too. The kind that wraps around you like a blanket and makes you forget she hexed your eyebrows off last week.”

“I liked her,” Lucius admitted. “Before she eloped.”

Narcissa looked at the page again, then closed the magazine with a sharp snap.

“We must invite them to tea.”

Lucius stared. “You want to what?”

“And that baby is clearly his son. I want to squish him. I want to feed him tiny, fancy biscuits and teach him to judge people silently.”

Lucius gave a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. But if Regulus hexes me, I’m blaming you.”

“You can’t hex family, darling.”

Lucius arched an eyebrow. “Tell that to your sister.”

Narcissa waved a hand. “Irrelevant. I’ll owl Regulus tomorrow. And you,” she added, tapping Lucius’s nose, “will not hit on the muggleborn.”

“I make no promises,” Lucius said solemnly, turning the magazine back to the centerfold and sighing like a man touched by divinity.

“Honestly,” Narcissa said, reaching for her tea, “this is the best thing Regulus has ever done.”

Lucius was still staring, entranced. “Do you think he wears perfume?”

Andromeda Tonks settled into her favorite overstuffed armchair with the gentlest of sighs, cradling a steaming cup of tea in her hands. Across from her, little Nymphadora perched on a footstool, feet swinging, coloring in a picture of a unicorn. The kitchen was warm, the curtains drawn against the late‑afternoon chill—and on the table lay the freshly delivered Witch Weekly, its bright cover practically begging to be examined.

Andromeda’s lips curved into a knowing smile. She’d told them—she’d warned Harry Granger and Regulus Black just yesterday—that reporters lurking near Whimblewood Park would catch their picture. Sure enough, here it was: two full pages of glossy scandal, headlined  “Heir Black Spotted With Mysterious Man and Child—Secret Family Hidden From Public?"  with that arresting photo of Harry holding Teddy.

“Nymphadora,” Andromeda began, tapping the corner of the magazine, “do you remember what I told to Harry and Regulus yesterday?”

The little girl looked up, eyes wide. “Yes Mummy, you said they’d snap a picture of Harry and Regulus, and then the next day we’d see it in a magazine.”

“Yes, exactly. Now, look at Witch Weekly.”

Andromeda showed the magazine to the little girl. "I am always right."

Nymphadora squealed happily. “Can I keep the picture?”

“By all means,” Andromeda said, tearing out the page and handing it to her. “Stick it on your wall. Someday you’ll look back and remember that your mum knew exactly how it would unfold.”

Nymphadora tucked the photo into her coloring book. Andromeda watched her, chest warm with maternal pride—and with that perfectly justified smugness of being right, once again.

She sipped her tea. The hush of the kitchen was punctuated only by the scratch of Nymphadora’s pencil and the soft turning of magazine pages. Andromeda closed her eyes, luxuriating in the certainty that family—found family, chosen family—always finds a way to make the headlines, even if the world misunderstands the story.

And really, she thought as she drained the last of her tea, what could be more satisfying than that?

Harry, still tangled in Regulus’s arms and flustered beyond mortal comprehension, grumbled something entirely unprintable into his shirt.

Regulus, the insufferable bastard, merely hummed like he hadn’t just started a war with a kiss.

Harry peeled himself off, face still hot. “Right. Horcruxes.”

“Romantic,” Regulus deadpanned.

“Shut up.”

“No, you shut up. You’re the one who was going to start this whole ‘let’s save the world again, I’m very noble, blah blah self-sacrifice’ nonsense.”

“I did not blah blah anything,” Harry muttered, flopping into a kitchen chair.

Regulus flopped into the one opposite, mirroring his pose with infuriating grace. “Okay. So. Hit me.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“With the Horcruxes. What are we dealing with?”

“Oh.” Harry scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Right. So… five.”

“Five?”

“Yeah. Technically seven originally. But one’s not yet formed, and I’m not one of them, currently.”

“You’re not?”

“Nope.”

“Well, thank Merlin. That would’ve been awkward.”

Harry blinked. “Wait, you’d still date me if I was a Horcrux?”

Regulus arched an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, I used to flirt with the Malfoy heir to get out of detention. I have no standards.”

“I don’t know if I’m flattered or horrified.”

“Yes.”

Harry gave up. “Alright. The ones we need to find are: the Gaunt ring, the Slytherin locket, Hufflepuff’s cup, Ravenclaw’s diadem, and Tom Riddle's diary.”

Regulus straightened, collected himself, and reached for a nearby quill and parchment.

“Right then. Let’s list them.” He scrawled:

1.  Diary – Malfoy manor? Lucius? Ew.
2.  Locket – still in cave, guarded by trauma and Swampy Slim Shadies.
3.  Cup – Hufflepuff’s. Somewhere Gringotts-y? Lestrange vault?
4.  Ring – Gaunt’s. Inbreeding central.
5.  Diadem – Ravenclaw’s. Presumably still hiding in Hogwarts.

Harry blinked. “You’ve got disturbingly good penmanship.”

Regulus preened. 

The soft, slightly slobbery snoring of one Metamorphmagus baby filled the kitchen, blending with the ticking of the wall clock and the sound of Regulus casually chewing Harry’s sanity.

“We should start with the ring.”

Harry blinked up from the notebook he was scribbling in. “I’m sorry, what?”

Regulus tilted his head, curls falling in a way that should have been illegal while discussing murder-objects. “The Gaunt ring. It’s got some sort of protective curse on it, but the shack is out in the sticks. Less likely to run into unpleasant types. Like Horace Slughorn.”

Harry gave him a deadpan look. “Slughorn isn’t dangerous.”

“He once fed me pickled Murtlap for ‘intestinal enlightenment.’ I think he is absolutely dangerous.”

“I’m writing that down,” Harry muttered, scribbling ‘Regulus has culinary trauma. Beware pickles.’

“Not funny.”

Harry grinned. “Little bit funny.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

They glared at each other with all the intensity of a pair of mildly irritated cats before simultaneously looking down at the notebook.

Harry sighed. “Look, the ring’s in Little Hangleton. That place is riddled with dark magic. And the curse on the ring—Dumbledore nearly died from it.”

Regulus snorted. “That’s because Dumbledore thinks the word ‘caution’ is a quaint Muggle superstition.”

“You are so bitter.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment.”

“Still taking it.”

Harry rubbed his face. “Okay, but seriously. If we start with the ring, and mess it up, we’re down one body part and probably a few IQ points.”

Regulus looked thoughtful. “You think we should start easy.”

“Yes.”

“That sounds suspiciously like cowardice.”

“It’s called strategy, you menace.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

Harry groaned and thunked his head against the table.

Regulus patted his back. “There, there. You’ll be fine. Probably.”

“Comforting.”

“I try.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the only sound Teddy’s soft snuffle and the distant magical hum of the kettle resetting itself.

Regulus tapped the notebook. “The diary. That’s with Lucius?”

“Yeah.” Harry frowned. “He gave it to Ginny. In my time, I mean. Used her to reopen the Chamber of Secrets. Nearly killed her.”

Regulus went still. “That’s dark even for him.”

“You have no idea.”

Regulus’s face twisted with something bitter. “He never liked me much. We can't just waltz in and ask about old school journals.”

"I know."

“But—he is arrogant. I might be able to bait him.”

Harry arched a brow. “And *how* do you propose we do that? Send him an invitation to tea and ask if he’s storing any spare evil lately?”

“No, we disguise it as a social call. Pretend I’m trying to cozy back into pure-blood society. Drop a few juicy comments. Stir the pot.”

Harry blinked. “You’re planning to bait a snake. With what? Sass and cheekbones?”

Regulus spread his hands modestly. “It worked on you.”

Harry flushed. “Regulus!”

“I rest my case.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re welcome.”

Harry flailed with a tiny distressed noise and went back to the list. “No. No Malfoy shenanigans. Not yet.”

“What about the cup? Bellatrix’s vault?”

“Unbreakable security,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair. “Goblin-run. Blood wards. And a fire-breathing dragon.”

“Oh. And that’s assuming she doesn’t just stab us for breathing too close to her trinkets.”

Harry squinted. “She has trinkets?”

“She collects teeth.”

“*Whose teeth?”

“I didn’t ask. I was twelve.”

Harry made a noise like a dying kettle.

Regulus reached over and took the notebook, tapping the last item. “That leaves the diadem. In Hogwarts.”

Harry hesitated. “That might actually be doable.”

Regulus tilted his head. “Explain.”

“I found it in the Room of Requirement. Back in my time. It’s hidden in this massive junk pile—looks like centuries of students hid their stuff in there.”

Regulus nodded slowly. “I know the room. I used it once to avoid Crouch. He was trying to curse my shoes off for ‘improper sock etiquette.’”

Harry squinted. “That’s...specific.”

“Don’t ask.”

They exchanged a long look.

Regulus: “You think it’s still there?”

Harry: “Unless it walked off.”

Regulus: “Could it do that?”

Harry: “With magic, who bloody knows.”

Regulus tapped the notebook and drawled, “So. The diadem. Hogwarts. Any chance we don’t commit high-level magical burglary?”

Harry gave him a flat look. 

Regulus sighed.

Harry leaned over the table. “Look. It’s hidden in the Room of Requirement. We sneak in at night, find the junk heap, grab the diadem, sneak back out. No teenage disguises. No fake IDs. Just good old-fashioned illegal breaking and entering.”

Regulus blinked. “We’re robbing a school.”

“Technically, we’re liberating a cursed artifact from a centuries-old magical hoarder’s closet.”

“Right. That makes it better.” Regulus rubbed his temples.

A beat passed. Harry sighed. “You realise this makes us magical thieves.”

“Oh no,” Regulus said, eyes wide with mock horror. “How dreadful. Me? Breaking and entering? My poor, innocent hands.”

“You’re the worst.”

“And you love it.”

Harry groaned into his hands.

Chapter Text

Harry rummaged through his trunk while Regulus packed a bag with the exact precision of someone who once alphabetised their curses. Teddy had been left with Andromeda for the afternoon, who'd waved them off with a knowing smile and a cheerful, "Try not to blow up a tower!"

Regulus had muttered, “No promises.”

Harry muttered, “She likes you.”

Regulus had looked smug for twenty minutes.

Now, back at the flat, Regulus held up an item with suspicion. “Harry. What in the nine hells is this?”

Harry looked up and turned red. “Uh. That’s the Invisibility Cloak.”

Regulus stared at the shimmering fabric, expression unreadable. “You own a literal relic of Death.”

Harry grinned sheepishly. “It was a family heirloom?”

“You’re a menace.”

“Thank you.”

They used the Floo Network to get to Hogsmeade—Harry stumbling out with only minor ash inhalation—and began to make their way to the castle under the cloak.

Regulus was unimpressed.

“I can feel your elbow, Potter.”

“Move your ribcage, Black.”

They were silent for some time.

"Are you sure this is the best plan?" Harry asked.

Regulus rolled his eyes as he took out a set of enchanted gloves. "Potter, for someone who helped stage a jailbreak with a hippogriff, you're surprisingly cautious."

"I have a toddler now," Harry said dryly. "Caution is my middle name."

"Your middle name is James, and it shows."

The walk became less discreet and more a series of complaints.

"You are stepping on my foot."

"That’s not your foot. That’s a rock."

"If your ribs poke me one more time—"

"Do you have to breathe so loudly, Regulus?"

"Do you have to exist so gracelessly, Potter?"

"It's 'Granger' now!"

They arrived at the gates arguing, naturally, only to find them already cracked open.

Waiting just beyond them, with his hands folded and an amused twinkle in his eye, was Albus Dumbledore.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "You’re late."

Harry yanked off the Cloak with a startled noise. "You knew we were coming?"

"The castle knows," Dumbledore said, as if that explained everything. "And, incidentally, so do I."

Regulus narrowed his eyes. "You’re very calm for someone meeting a time traveler."

Dumbledore just smiled. "My boy, I once had tea with a centaur who predicted the collapse of seven universes. Time travel is merely impolite by comparison."

Harry blinked. "Wait, seven—? Never mind. We need to get into the Room of Requirement."

Dumbledore’s expression turned serious. "Then you are here for the horcrux.”

Regulus raised a brow. "You knew about it?"

"I suspected. The castle wards gave off and abnormal energy for a long time. I wasn't able to identify it until Harry landed in this time, though."

"Oh."

Dumbledore turned and gestured for them to follow. "Come, before the castle realizes it has a sense of humor."

They walked the halls like ghosts. The torches flared as they passed, casting golden light on old stone and older shadows.

Regulus kept pace beside Harry, unnervingly quiet.

"You okay?" Harry murmured.

Regulus glanced at him. "Just... memories. I hated this place."

Harry bumped his shoulder lightly. "Let’s make a better one."

Regulus looked at him, startled.

Then, softly, "Yeah. Let’s."

The seventh floor corridor was just as Harry remembered: long, echoing, haunted with the whisper of secrets.

He paced three times, thinking deliberately: 'I need the room where someone hid a dangerous cursed object.'

The wall rippled, bricks twisting like water.

Regulus blinked. "Show-off."

The door appeared. They stepped inside.

Regulus blinked. “It’s… a landfill.”

Harry grimaced. “Yeah, don’t trip on anything. There’s probably a cursed kettle somewhere.”

They stepped inside.

It was chaos incarnate—piles of junk, forgotten treasures, and the occasional sinister aura.

Harry led them confidently through the mess, dodging broken wands and dusty tiaras.

Regulus, predictably, got distracted by a cursed music box.

“Don’t touch that!”

“But it’s humming a lullaby—”

“That’s how they get you!”

Eventually, they found the diadem. Perched atop a busted cupboard like it was waiting for its close-up.

Harry held out a hand. “There. That’s it.”

Regulus frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Ethereal. Brain-enhancing. Definitely full of dark magic.”

Regulus reached for it. Harry smacked his hand. “Don’t touch it.”

“I wasn’t going to!”

“You absolutely were.”

“Was not.”

They glared.

Harry pulled out the velvet pouch and levitated the diadem slowly. It floated — spinning gently — and landed inside.

Regulus raised both brows. "That’s it?"

Dumbledore, who had silently entered behind them, raised his wand.

"No," he said. "Now comes the difficult part."

He muttered something in a language Harry didn’t know. Light flared from his wand — not gold, but silver, sharp and crackling.

The diadem hissed.

Regulus took an instinctive step back. "It’s sentient."

"A fragment of soul," Dumbledore said, expression grim. "Anchored in hate."

The pouch glowed bright as he traced protective runes over it — wards of containment, dampening, sanctification. When he finished, he swayed slightly.

Harry caught his arm. "Are you okay?"

"It resists," Dumbledore murmured. "But not for long."

There was a long silence.

Then the floor trembled.

Regulus looked down. "Is the floor supposed to do that?"

The walls groaned. Metal shrieked. A pile of junk to their left began to move.

Harry swore. "It’s reacting. Looks like there were more wards. The Room knows."

From the debris, a shape formed — all teeth and furniture and fury.

Regulus drew his wand. "Oh, bloody—"

The golem lunged.

They ran.

Harry grabbed the pouch, shoved it into his jacket, and bolted, dodging flying planks and cursed candlesticks.

"Left!" Regulus shouted.

"Your left or my left?!"

"The right one!"

Dumbledore waved his wand, casting a collapsing ward behind them. The golem screeched, caught in magical backlash, but only slowed.

The door shimmered into view.

Harry flung it open — they tumbled through, landing hard in the corridor.

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

Regulus coughed. "Ten points to Gryffindor."

Harry wheezed. "Still not a professor."

"Say please."

"Go hex yourself."

Dumbledore smiled faintly and lifted the pouch from Harry’s chest. The protective runes still glowed, steady and strong.

"It’s done," he said. "For now."

Harry leaned back against the wall. Regulus flopped beside him, stretching out like a cat in the sun.

"We should do this more often," he said lazily.

Harry gave him a look. "Next time, you fight the furniture."

Regulus grinned.  “I’ll bring a sledgehammer.”

“Do give the castle some warning.”

The apartment was quiet when they stumbled in.

Quiet, warm, and filled with the kind of stillness that only arrived after a day of nearly being eaten alive by enchanted cabinetry.

Harry managed to toe off his boots before collapsing facedown onto the couch with a sound that could only be described as death-adjacent. His limbs felt like pudding. Slightly cursed pudding.

Behind him, Regulus muttered something rude about Gryffindor stamina and flung himself onto the sofa as well — directly on top of Harry.

"Oi," Harry wheezed into a cushion. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Being dead," Regulus groaned, perfectly content to stretch out over him like a particularly smug corpse. "Shut up and let me mourn my spine."

"Get off me."

"Mmm. No."

Harry squirmed weakly, mostly because Regulus’s entire very real, very warm, very broad self was currently pressed against him like a weighted blanket with opinions.

"You're crushing me," Harry grumbled.

Regulus hummed. "I’m enhancing you."

"You’re heavy."

"You’re whiny."

Harry tried to elbow him, but it was hard to land a solid blow when his arm felt like overcooked spaghetti. Regulus only snorted and resettled himself with an infuriating sigh of contentment, his chin hooking lightly over Harry’s shoulder.

"This is undignified," Harry muttered into the sofa cushion.

"You stormed a magical garbage room and insulted sentient furniture," Regulus pointed out. "I think we’re past dignity."

Harry huffed.

A beat of silence passed. Then:

"...I can feel everything," Harry said, horrified.

Regulus grinned into his neck. "I know."

"Get off me!"

"Make me."

"You are the worst person alive—"

"Statistically unlikely," Regulus mused. "Bellatrix still breathes."

"Regulus—"

"Fine, fine," Regulus drawled, not moving at all. "But only if you admit you like it."

"I do not like being turned into a human mattress."

A pause.

"Do you want to bet?"

Harry’s soul left his body briefly.

“Shut up.”

Harry made another valiant attempt to roll out from under him, but Regulus just slung an arm lazily around his waist, effectively pinning him down like a smug octopus.

Eventually, after several minutes of muffled groaning, flailing limbs, and Harry making weak threats involving bat bogey hexes and decorative forks, Regulus rolled off with exaggerated reluctance and flopped onto the other end of the sofa like a Victorian widow.

Harry dragged himself into a sitting position, hair a tragic disaster, cheeks faintly pink.

"We need to get Teddy from Andy," he said, already reaching for where he thought his wand was. (It was not there. It was under the fridge. Nobody knows why.)

Regulus made a sound that suggested emotional betrayal.

"No," he said flatly, grabbing Harry by the sleeve and tugging him back down. "We are not leaving this sofa."

"We can’t just leave him overnight—"

Regulus buried his face in Harry’s shoulder with a groan. “She told us not to blow up a tower, Harry. Do you think she expected us back today?”

“Still,” Harry mumbled, “she’s probably—"

"Andromeda will understand," Regulus insisted. "She’s probably delighted to have uninterrupted access to his cheeks."

Harry blinked. "His what?"

"His cheeks," Regulus said solemnly. "She pinches them. I’ve seen it.”

"That is a lie—"

"She gave him double pudding the day before just to make him squishier."

"...Okay, that’s fair."

Regulus smirked, victorious. "Just send her a Patronus."

"I can’t send a Patronus when I’m half-dead—"

"Yes you can," Regulus said, reaching out to poke Harry in the ribs. "Do it, coward."

"Stop that—"

"Do it or I’ll carry you to the shower and force you to wash. While I watch."

Harry recoiled like he’d been threatened with cruciatus, his face burning.“You wouldn’t.”

Regulus’s smile turned wolfish. "Try me."

With a put-upon sigh and a lot of theatrical grumbling, Harry retrieved his wand (via Accio Wand From Under Fridge, which was also a cursed moment), and flicked it toward the empty space in front of the fireplace and muttered, “Expecto Patronum.”

A brilliant silver stag leapt forth, proud and luminous, its hooves barely grazing the floor as it waited.

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh, message for Andromeda. Um… ‘Hey. We're alive. Kind of. Can you keep Teddy for today? We’ll owe you a tower of chocolate. Love, Harry. And the sofa lump.’”

The stag tilted its head.

"And no judgment!" Harry called as it galloped off into the ether. "None!"

The stag shimmered, tossed its antlers, and vanished from sight.

Harry slumped back down.

“You added ‘love,’” Regulus said smugly.

“Shut up.”

“You said love, Harry.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You adore me.”

“Like a rash.”

Regulus grinned into his shoulder. “Romantic.”

There was a content silence, until:

"She’s definitely going to judge you," Regulus said helpfully.

"I hate everything."

"You love me."

Harry opened his mouth to argue and then—closed it. Regulus arched an eyebrow.

"That was suspiciously silent."

"Shut up," Harry mumbled, ears pink.

Regulus, instead of gloating, just stretched luxuriously, joints cracking like popcorn. The hem of his shirt lifted a bit as he did so, and Harry—tragically—looked. Then regretted looking. Then looked again because he had no self-preservation instincts left.

Regulus noticed.

Regulus smirked.

Harry made a noise that might’ve been a dying bat.

“I’m going to bed,” he announced, standing abruptly and wobbling only slightly.

“Are you?” Regulus asked, already rising to his feet with the elegance of a smug cat.

“Yes,” Harry said firmly, “and you are not—”

Before he could finish, Regulus stepped forward, slid an arm under his legs, the other around his back, and scooped him up like a rom-com disaster.

Harry yelped.

“REGULUS.”

“Hi.”

“PUT ME DOWN.”

“You said you were going to bed,” Regulus pointed out cheerfully. “I’m assisting.”

“This isn’t assisting, this is abduction!”

“You’re very abductionable,” Regulus said sweetly. “Especially when your face does that embarrassed tomato thing.”

Harry sputtered. “You’re impossible!”

“You’re adorable.”

“MENACE.”

Regulus only grinned and nudged open the bedroom door with his hip.

Inside, the room was a little chaotic — Teddy’s toys scattered in corners, one blanket charmed to hum lullabies still vibrating faintly on the bedpost. But it was soft, homey. Warm. It smelled faintly of cinnamon, baby powder, and whatever weird potion Regulus had started using as hair tonic.

Regulus set him down gently on the mattress and immediately flopped down beside him with all the grace of a collapsing tower.

Harry let out a gusty sigh and pulled a pillow over his face.

There was a pause.

“Are we... are we sleeping?” he asked from under the pillow.

Regulus stretched beside him, catlike and comfortable. “I mean, I’m going to,” he said casually. “But if you had other ideas, I could be... convinced.”

Harry peeked out, narrowing his eyes. “What kind of ideas.”

Regulus turned his head to look at him, slow and smug, the smirk spreading across his face like wildfire.

“Well,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow, “you did make a very handsome damsel earlier. It’s only fair I kiss you senseless to round out the narrative.”

“I—what—”

Too late.

Regulus leaned in and brushed a kiss against the corner of Harry’s mouth. Soft. Testing.

Harry went still.

Then Regulus kissed him on lips.

And it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair how warm and coaxing and maddeningly confident he was. How his hand found the curve of Harry’s jaw, tilted his chin up just enough, how his lips moved like he already knew every sound Harry was about to make.

Harry melted. His brain, gone. His limbs, jelly. His heart, trying to break the sound barrier.

Regulus tasted like smugness and sugar and danger, and Harry didn’t know if he wanted to hex him or climb him.

“You’re blushing again,” Regulus murmured between kisses, voice dark and sweet.

“Shut up,” Harry whispered back, pulling him closer.

Their mouths collided again. Hot. Heady. Teeth and tongue and the kind of electric current that made Harry forget his own name.

Regulus’s hands slipped under Harry’s shirt, fingers tracing lazy patterns over firm, lithe muscle — and Harry made a sound he didn’t even know he was capable of.

Regulus kissed him until he couldn’t think, until his hands fisted in Regulus’s shirt, until his whole body buzzed with want and—

Regulus pulled back.

Harry blinked, dazed. “Wh—what—”

Regulus yawned.

He yawned.

“Merlin, I’m tired,” he said, like he hadn’t just lit Harry’s entire nervous system on fire. He flopped back onto the pillow like a man who had done nothing at all, threw an arm over his eyes, and sighed blissfully.

Harry stared at him, completely scandalized. “You—you can’t just do that!”

Regulus cracked one eye open. “Do what?”

“That! That whole thing! You kissed me like you were—like you were going to—and now you feel sleepy?!”

Regulus smiled lazily, already drifting. “Mmm. You taste like cinnamon. We’ll revisit this tomorrow.”

Harry made a strangled, offended noise.

“Regulus!.”

“Mmm. Still glowing,” Regulus mumbled into the pillow. “Very pretty.”

And with that, the menace passed out.

Harry lay there, extremely hot, extremely confused, and extremely not okay.

He stared at the ceiling, red-faced and flustered.

Then muttered to no one in particular, “I’m going to kill him. Slowly. With decorative spoons.”

Chapter Text

The morning began with soot.

Harry stumbled out of the floo first, coughing and blinking as he staggered into the warmly lit sitting room of Andromeda Tonks' home. His jumper was slightly askew, his hair was doing something feral, and he had one boot half-laced.

Regulus followed a heartbeat later, somehow managing to land with the practiced grace of someone who absolutely refused to make a fool of himself, even covered in ash.

 “I hate floo travel,” Harry croaked.

“You hate mornings,” Regulus muttered, doing a cleaning charm with all the disdain of a man personally offended by soot. 

 “That too.”

The sitting room smelled like lavender and toast. A soft crackling came from the hearth, and sunlight spilled through the curtains in buttery strips.

And in the middle of it all — blissfully unaware of the new arrivals — Teddy Lupin was seated on the carpet in a nest of soft blankets and crayon-scrawled coloring pages. His hair was bright teal, his little footie pajamas covered in snitch patterns, and he was gurgling nonsense at a tired but attentive Nymphadora, who was attempting to change her lips to a duck's beak. 

“Morning, sunshine!” Andromeda called from the adjoining kitchen. “Tea’s on. There’s toast if you’re brave, and Nymphadora’s threatening to turn your child into a frog.”

“Only a little tadpole!” Dora protested. “He likes tadpoles!”

Teddy shrieked in agreement and banged his sippy cup against the floor.

Harry laughed — a soft, breathless sound — and dropped to his knees on the rug.

“There’s my boy,” he murmured, scooping Teddy up with practiced ease. “Did you miss me, little mischief?”

Teddy squealed, flinging his arms around Harry’s neck and clinging like a baby clingy-koala. His hair flickered from teal to silver to gold, his nose crinkling with a delighted giggle.

Harry pressed a kiss to his forehead and nuzzled into his curls.

“You’ve been good for Auntie Andy? No dueling socks or spontaneous flying?”

“He only levitated the sofa once,” Andromeda called cheerfully. “I was impressed.”

“He bit me,” Nymphadora added, half-proud and half-offended.

“That just means he likes you,” Regulus said dryly, settling onto the arm of the couch with a lazy stretch. “You’re part of the pack now.”

Harry had settled on the floor, cross-legged, with Teddy now perched on his knee and humming to himself. The baby tugged at Harry’s collar and babbled “Da-da-da-da” until Harry cooed back at him.

“You’re too cute for your own good, you know that? That’s a tactical disadvantage in war. You’ll ruin me.”

Teddy grinned, babbling more. 

Regulus watched them for a beat, expression softening in a way he would never admit. His shoulders had dropped, the tension of yesterday’s storm buried somewhere behind that quiet flicker of contentment.

For a moment, the house was nothing but soft magic and domestic warmth — tea and toast and children’s laughter. For a moment, it felt like a world untouched by war or family legacy.

“I could get used to this,” Harry murmured, stroking Teddy’s hair. “You, me, chaos incarnate here, and a house that doesn’t explode once a week.”

“That’s an ambitious goal,” Regulus mused. “Let’s survive the tea first.”

They didn’t hear the knock.

They didn’t hear the first one, anyway.

The second was louder.

The third — well, that one rattled the windowpanes.

Andromeda stilled in the kitchen, teacup midair.

“That,” she said carefully, “is not a friendly knock.”

Regulus sat up.

Harry frowned.

The fourth knock came with the unmistakable clink of a cane against the doorframe and a voice that rang through the wood like an ancient curse.

“REGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK! Open this door immediately, you ungrateful little swine!”

Teddy blinked.

little Dora gasped.

Harry groaned.

Regulus muttered, “Merlin’s sagging trousers.”

Andromeda sighed and set her cup down.

 “Right, then,” she said, brushing off her robes. “Time to hex my beloved aunt again.”

There were exactly three seconds of warning before the door to Andromeda Tonks’ cozy home burst open like a cursed tea kettle.

CRACK.

“REGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK!”

 Nymphadora dropped her coloring book and ran to stand behind Andromeda. While Harry scooped Teddy up. 

A woman swept into the house like a sentient thunderstorm in a fur-collared cloak. Walburga Black — glorious in fury, powdered to within an inch of her soul, and holding the latest issue of Witch Weekly like it was a Howler.

Behind her came Orion, composed and immaculate, as though this was a polite brunch and not a social catastrophe.

“I KNEW IT!” Walburga shrieked, jabbing the magazine in Regulus’s direction. “You ungrateful, insufferable, scandalous little brat! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU’VE DONE?”

Andromeda raised a single brow. “Good morning to you too, Auntie.”

“Don’t you ‘Auntie’ me, Andromeda! You—traitorous, filthy, mudblood-loving hippie! How long have you been hiding him here?!”

“I made scones,” Andromeda replied evenly.

“Scones?! You think your dirty little food can erase years of DISHONOR?!”

Meanwhile, Orion was observing the room like a battlefield analyst. His eyes fell on Teddy, who was chewing on a rattle shaped like a kneazle. Then on Regulus, stiff with tension. And finally, on Harry.

Harry, who had the audacity to be wearing a cable-knit jumper and holding a baby like he was made for it.

Orion blinked.

“You,” he said mildly. “You’re the one from the magazine.”

Harry gave a small wave. “Hi.”

“You’re more prettier in person.”

Walburga spun on her husband, aghast. “ORION.”

“I’m making an observation, Walburga.”

“There is a child. In my son’s arms. A baby. With Black blood. Out of wedlock. Raised by a definitely deranged café worker who is a MUDBLOOD!.”

Regulus let out a long breath. 

“Harry is not a Mudblood. I won't allow you to insult him like that. And the child is not yours to claim.”

“He has your eyes, and he is a Metamorphmagus!” Walburga hissed.

“Good for him.”

“You gave up everything. Your honor. Your duty. The opportunity to be the right hand of the Dark Lord. For what?”

She whirled on Harry again

“You. If you are not a mudblood, then what are you? Veela? Siren? Fae? How did you snare my Regulus?”

Harry blinked. “Erm....I brewed a really good macchiato.”

“Ba!” Teddy squealed, his hair turns bright turquoise.

Walburga made a sound like a steam kettle being choked. Then ahe turned towards Regulus.

“It’s not too late,” she said tightly. “You’ll come home. We’ll handle the... problem. We’ll erase the story. You’ll apologize to the Dark Lord, to Bella, and we will forget this soap opera episode ever happened.”

“No.”

Regulus’s voice wasn’t loud. But it cut through the chaos like a blade through silk.

“This is my life now.”

Andromeda smiled slightly. “You tell her, darling.”

“You’ll be disowned,” Walburga said sharply. “Expelled from the tapestry. Stripped of inheritance. You’ll be no one.”

“That’s fine,” Regulus said, slipping an arm around Harry’s waist. “I’d rather be no one with him than someone in your shadow.”

Silence.

Even Orion shifted, something imperceptible flickering in his pale eyes.

“Oh.” Orion murmured, more to himself than anyone. “He’s in love.” 

“HE’S IN IDIOCY,” Walburga snapped.

“No,” Regulus said, meeting his mother’s eyes. “I’m finally awake.”

Teddy sneezed.

Walburga shrieked. A teacup exploded.

Orion sighed. “And now we’re being hexed by babies. Brilliant.”

The room was quieter now. Warily so.

Walburga sat stiffly on Andromeda’s velvet armchair like it was upholstered in live toads, clutching her cane with both hands. Her mouth was a pinched line. Her nose, aggressively in the air.

Andromeda, for her part, reclined on the opposite end of the room with the satisfied smugness of someone whose life choices had just been vindicated in spectacular fashion.

“You know, aunt Walburga,” she said pleasantly, “it’s almost charming how consistent you are. I leave the family and marry a Muggle-born, and you continues to howl even now. Your son does it, and you threaten to hex a baby.”

Walburga narrowed her eyes. “My son has been ensnared. Probably by some veela-blooded Half breed who has no idea about our culture.”

“Well, at least he’s consistent too,” Andromeda said airily. “He’s always had taste.”

Walburga sniffed. “You were always the plain one.”

Andromeda smiled sweetly. “And yet here I am—a mother, a healer, and the only person in this room who hasn’t been cursed by black madness.”

Walburga’s lip curled, but she didn’t respond.

It might have escalated further — words like ‘filthy blood-traitor’ and ‘failed insane matriarch’ were brewing in the air — if not for the sudden, delighted squeal from the corner:

“Piggy nose!”

Teddy Lupin had, without ceremony, toddled over and transformed his own nose into a pink curly piglet snout.

Nymphadora Tonks stood proudly behind him, hands on her hips.

“I taught him that!” she announced. “Now he can snort at mean people!”

“SNOH!” Teddy agreed enthusiastically, waddling in a circle before collapsing against Walburga’s ankles.

The woman went very still.

“What—what is it doing—he is—he’s touching me.”

“Merlin, call the Prophet,” Andromeda drawled. “A child expressed affection. How scandalous.”

Teddy looked up at Walburga with wide silver eyes, pig-nose still proudly displayed. Then—with devastating accuracy—he reached up and patted her on the shin.

And then…

He giggled.

Soft. Pure. Unfiltered baby joy.

Walburga blinked.

Slowly, suspiciously, her rigid back uncoiled a single vertebra. Her hand twitched.

“He has good bone structure,” she muttered, as if against her will. 

From the sofa, little Nymphadora gasped. “Does that mean you like him?!”

“It means he is... passably tolerable,” Walburga snapped. “For a child raised in this décor.”

Andromeda beamed. “See? She’s practically cooing.”

“I most certainly am not. I haven’t cooed since 1926 and I shall not start now.”

Teddy, apparently interpreting this as an invitation, climbed ungracefully into Walburga’s lap.

Walburga flinched.

Then… settled.

Just slightly.

“He’s... warm.”

“Yes,” Andromeda said lightly. “That’s called love. You should try it sometime.”

Walburga opened her mouth — probably to insult something — but Teddy chose that exact moment to pat her face and turn his hair the exact baby blue shade of her eyes.

The old woman inhaled sharply.

Even Orion, from his corner by the fireplace, raised an eyebrow.

Nymphadora leaned in conspiratorially to Harry and whispered, “I think Teddy broke her.”

Harry whispered back, “In the best possible way.”

Andromeda had taken Teddy and Nymphadora into the back room, muttering about calming draughts and “hex-proofing the biscuit tin.”

Regulus had excused himself to help — though Harry suspected he needed the moment to breathe.

That left Harry in the drawing room with Orion Black, who was now standing by the window, silently watching the rain trickle down the glass.

Harry considered leaving him alone.

But instead, he sat across from him.

“You don’t talk much,” Harry said finally.

Orion didn’t look away from the window.

“Most people say too much.”

Harry huffed a half-laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

There was a silence.

“You love him.”

It wasn’t a question. Just fact, stated plainly.

Harry nodded.

“Yes.”

Orion’s gaze didn’t waver. "I never believed the day would come that I would say this." He raked his hands through his hair. “Regulus...He is... fragile. He hides it well. But he was never built for cruelty.”

“He hides a lot,” Harry murmured. “But he’s kind. And clever. And funny in this sharp, quiet way that makes everything feel... easier.”

He paused, then added:

“I didn’t fall for him because he was broken. I fell for him because, despite everything, he keeps trying to make me whole.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Orion asked, “Will you protect him?”

Harry’s voice was firm. Steady. “Always.”

Behind the wall, just past the archway, Walburga stood half-shadowed by a velvet curtain.

Her face was unreadable.

She had come to retrieve her coat, or at least that’s what she would tell herself later. But her feet had rooted her to the floor the moment she heard Harry speak.

Because he didn’t sound like a usurper.

He didn’t sound like a seducer or a pretender.

He just sounded... sure.

Quiet. Steady. Unflinching.

Like Regulus had always needed.

She clutched her gloves tighter in her fist.

“He still flinches,” Harry said softly. “When someone raises their voice. When he thinks he’s said the wrong thing. Sometimes when he laughs too loudly, he stops and apologizes.”

He looked up at Orion then.

“What kind of house teaches a child that joy is something to apologize for?”

Orion didn’t respond.

But Walburga did — though only in thought.

Her throat felt tight. She would never say it aloud, but the answer rang in her mind like a curse:

'Mine.'

She stepped back from the wall slowly, her expression brittle.

Later, when Regulus returned to the room, Walburga stood near the door, silent.

Her hair was still impeccable. Her gloves were smoothed. But her eyes — for once — did not burn.

“I was livid when I saw the magazine photo,” she said.

Regulus tensed.

“And for a moment,” she continued, “I thought I was looking at a stranger.”

She turned to him.

“But then I looked at your face. And you were... smiling.”

Regulus didn’t speak.

Walburga’s voice dropped lower.

“You never smiled like that at home.”

Her hands tightened around her cane.

“I despise everything about this situation. It is vulgar. It is scandalous. And it will take me decades to scrub the taste of it from the family’s name.”

She stepped closer — and for the first time in years, placed a hand on Regulus’s cheek.

“But you smiled. You looked... alive.”

And though it nearly choked her, she added, voice trembling:

“If that boy is what gives you life... then so be it.”

She dropped her hand and turned briskly.

“I won't blast you off from the tapestry. But I will include an asterisk.”

Regulus blinked.

“...An asterisk?”

“For taste violations,” she sniffed.

She swept toward the door, regal as ever, chin high.

Orion followed, pausing just long enough to glance back at Harry and Regulus with a look that, while not warm, was not unkind.

“He’s better when he’s seen,” Harry said quietly.

Orion didn’t respond. But he nodded — once — before stepping out into the rain.

And Walburga didn’t say goodbye.

But she looked back.

Just once.

And for Regulus, that was enough.

The front door slammed shut behind Walburga and Orion with a final, operatic crack.

The house was still.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Well,” Andromeda said, brushing ash off her sleeve, “that was... something.”

Nymphadora popped a biscuit into her mouth and mumbled, “I like the baby more than the grandparents.”

Teddy, still clinging to Harry’s chest, blinked drowsily and made a pleased cooing noise as if in agreement.

Regulus remained silent.

He hadn’t moved from the sofa since the door shut. His posture was perfect. Too perfect.

Harry turned to him.

“You alright?”

Regulus didn’t answer.

His fingers had gone white where they gripped the edge of the couch.

And then — he jerked forward with a sudden, sharp intake of breath.

His hand clutched his left arm. The sleeve of his jumper strained over his bicep — and beneath it, something was burning.

“Reggie?”

He didn’t respond. He was shaking now, not like fear — but like something was pulling at him from beneath the skin.

Harry was on his knees beside him in an instant, grabbing his wrist.

“What is it? Talk to me—”

And then he saw it.

The Dark Mark.

It flared beneath the fabric like a brand brought fresh to flame — not glowing, but seething, as if ink and heat were twisting under the skin. Regulus let out a strangled noise, clutching at it, breath sharp and shallow.

“He’s calling me,” Regulus whispered, voice brittle. “He knows.”

“Who—”

“The Dark Lord.”

The room turned cold.

“But it’s not just a summon,” Regulus said through gritted teeth. “It’s—different. It’s meant for me. I can feel it.”

“Like a signature,” Harry said numbly. “Like he signed your nerves.”

Regulus nodded once, jaw clenched.

The Mark pulsed again — and Regulus doubled over, teeth gritted, sweat beading on his forehead.

“He wants me now.”

Andromeda rushed forward, wand already raised.

“We can block it—interfere with the signal—”

“You can’t,” Regulus rasped. “This one’s deeper. Older. It’s not a broadcast. It’s a command.”

Teddy whimpered softly in Harry’s arms.

Harry stared down at him, then up at Regulus.

“You don’t have to go.”

Regulus looked at him — truly looked at him — and for a second, Harry saw every version of the boy he used to be. The heir. The liar. The survivor.

 “I think I already did.”

Chapter Text

By the distinct crack of Apparition, Regulus stumbled onto the cold marble of Lestrange Manor’s grand foyer. The chill in the air hit him harder than the sharp tremor running through his fingers. He flexed them at his sides, willing them to still — but they refused.

'Occlude, Black. Occlude.'

Harry and Teddy were safe behind Andromeda’s wards — for now. That thought was the only anchor keeping him from collapsing as he pushed open the double doors to the main hall.

Inside, the stink of dark magic coiled like a snake in the air. Torches guttered low along the walls, casting strange shadows on the robed figures clustered like vultures waiting for a carcass.

Rabastan Lestrange leaned against a pillar, mouth twisted into a grin too wide for his face — all teeth, no warmth. Bellatrix, eyes wild with hunger, strained against her husband’s iron grip, wand clutched so tightly her knuckles blanched. Barty Crouch Jr. and Evan Rosier hovered near the back, tense and pale, while Lucius Malfoy stood near the fireplace, mask in hand, his elegant face oddly drawn with what looked — absurdly — like regret. Severus Snape lingered near the edge of the shadows, black eyes shuttered, lips pressed into a thin line.

Regulus barely spared them a glance. His eyes were drawn — like iron filings to a lodestone — to the throne-like chair at the center of the room. Draped in black silk, the figure perched there was almost regal in its stillness. Lord Voldemort’s crimson eyes gleamed like open wounds in the half-light. His thin mouth curled when he saw Regulus falter on the threshold.

'Harry. Teddy. Safe. They must stay safe.'

“Ah… Regulus Black,” Voldemort purred, voice softer than silk, sharper than a blade. “The sole heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. Come, come. Nearer.” He lifted one skeletal hand and beckoned, a gesture that made Regulus’s stomach lurch.

Regulus’s boots felt made of iron as he crossed the marble floor. He sank to his knees, forcing his gaze to the polished boots before him.

“My… My Lord,” he whispered, fighting to keep the quaver from his voice.

Voldemort rose slowly, every inch of movement deliberate cruelty. “Such a good boy. Such a faithful hound…” He circled Regulus like a serpent winding around prey. The other Death Eaters leaned closer, sniffing at the scent of fear.

“I heard… delightful news,” Voldemort said, mockery dripping from every syllable. “Is it true, Regulus? That you’ve been playing house? That you’ve fathered a brat with some filthy mudblood? Is that why you ignored my summons — even our darling Bella’s attempts to fetch you?”

Bellatrix snarled at the mention of her name. “Let me at him, my Lord!” she rasped, voice raw. “Let me tear his lies from his throat!”

Voldemort lifted a finger and she fell silent — though her wand trembled with want.

Regulus’s vision tunneled. He tried to speak — to deny it — but the words tangled in his throat.

Voldemort laughed, a brittle, airless thing. “Do not worry, dear Regulus. I am not angry. Why would I be? You’ve simply… forgotten your place.”

He stepped forward until his cold breath ghosted over Regulus’s hair.

“The moment you took my Mark… you became mine.” Voldemort’s voice dropped, the words soft enough to crawl under Regulus’s skin like spiders. “Your body. Your mind. Your future. All mine to shape as I see fit.”

Regulus’s hands curled into fists on the marble.

Voldemort’s wand rose, pressing to the crown of his bowed head.

“Tell me, child — did you think you could rewrite your story? Pretend to be good? A family man?” The hiss of a snake coiled around each word.

“My—My Lord, please—” Regulus croaked.

“CRUCIO.”

Pain, white and endless, carved him open from the inside. Regulus’s scream cracked the vaulted ceiling. He collapsed fully, muscles seizing, nails scraping bloody lines into his palms.

Laughter echoed around him — sharp, hungry, delighted. Rabastan’s cackle. Bellatrix’s moan of pleasure. Barty’s stifled sob.

The pain vanished as suddenly as it had come. Regulus panted, cheek pressed to the cold marble, the taste of blood coppery on his tongue.

Voldemort squatted, fingers threading into Regulus’s hair, forcing his head up. Red eyes burned into his.

“Praise me,” he whispered.

Regulus’s vision swam. “My… my Lord…”

Voldemort smiled — wide, empty. “Again.”

He flicked his wand — not Crucio this time, but Flagrate. A burning lash snapped into existence, carving lines of fire across Regulus’s back. The smell of scorched fabric and skin filled the hall. Regulus’s strangled cry cut off when he bit down on it, jaw clenching until his teeth threatened to crack.

“Beg me,” Voldemort murmured, voice so soft Regulus could almost pretend it was kindness.

“My Lord… I—please…” The words broke apart in his mouth.

“Crucio.”

Another wave of agony tore him apart. Voldemort stood, lazy as a cat stretching in the sun, wand twirling idly. The spell flickered — on, off — a predator toying with a wounded thing.

Bellatrix let out a shuddering gasp, eyes wide with lust. “Please, my Lord,” she rasped, chest heaving. “Give him to me — just a moment — let me break him for you—”

Voldemort turned his head slightly, eyes gleaming. “Do you think you deserve a gift, Bella?”

She dropped to her knees, crawling closer like a dog. “I live to serve you! Let me play—”

Voldemort’s laugh slithered through the hall. “No, Bella. Not tonight. This little stray is mine alone. His lesson must be personal.”

He leaned down again, voice turning to velvet poison. “Tell me, Regulus… should I carve your betrayal from your bones? Shall I show your father how easily you bleed?”

Regulus could only whimper.

Voldemort straightened, lazy as a lion. He flicked his wand again — Sectumsempra. Thin, shallow lines opened on Regulus’s arms, chest — not deep enough to kill, but enough to paint the marble in a slow drizzle of red.

Bellatrix trembled where she crouched, eyes shining. Lucius turned away, jaw tight. Snape didn’t move at all.

Voldemort stepped back at last, flicking blood from his wand. “There it is. So much for the noble Black line — so much weakness, all dressed up in pretty titles and pure blood.”

He leaned down one final time, pressing the wand tip to Regulus’s throat. “Do you think they’ll save you? The little family you cling to? The little brat? your mudblood lover?”

He smiled. “No, Regulus. They’ll watch you break. And you will break.”

He lifted the wand. For a moment, the air felt thick enough to drown in — but the final blow didn’t come. Voldemort twirled his wand and stepped back, calm and monstrous.

“Take him,” Voldemort said at last, voice almost lazy as he flicked flecks of Regulus’s blood from his wand. “Chain him up. Let him bleed a while. Tomorrow, he’ll beg for another chance to prove his loyalty.”

Rabastan Lestrange stepped forward, iron chains coiled around one arm like a serpent ready to strike. Bellatrix let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob — a hungry whimper that made Regulus’s stomach churn.

But before Rabastan could seize him, Voldemort raised one long, white finger.

“Wait,” he said, soft as silk. The entire hall seemed to freeze.

Voldemort’s crimson eyes drifted down to Regulus’s crumpled form — the raw lines of Sectumsempra cuts still weeping slowly through his torn robes, the faint tremor that ran through his bruised arms as he tried to push himself up. He couldn’t quite manage it. His arms buckled again, cheek hitting cold marble with a soft, wet sound.

The Dark Lord clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. “So fragile… And yet, a Black always hides something sharp in the bone.”

He turned slightly, the hem of his robes brushing over Regulus’s outstretched fingers. “Tell me, Regulus… the old house at Number Twelve… do you still keep that creature?”

It took Regulus a moment to understand. The pain fogged his mind — every breath was a struggle not to drown in it.

“K…Kreacher,” he rasped, voice catching like barbed wire in his throat.

Voldemort’s smile widened. “Yes. The Black family’s wretched little elf. Still loyal, I presume?”

Something in Regulus’s stomach knotted. He forced himself to lift his head, blinking past the coppery taste of blood. He could see Barty’s wide eyes, Evan’s pale face, Lucius’s mouth opening slightly as if to speak — but no one dared interrupt.

“Yes… my Lord…” Regulus whispered. “Kreacher is… mine.”

Voldemort clicked his tongue again, pacing a lazy circle around Regulus’s broken form like a predator deciding where to sink its teeth next.

“How fortunate for me,” he murmured. “I find myself in need of a servant… One small enough to slip through certain cracks. Loyal enough to keep secrets. Insignificant enough that no one will look for him when he never returns.”

His eyes glittered, reflecting torchlight like fresh blood.

Regulus’s heartbeat skidded in his chest. He knew. He knew. The locket. The cave. The hidden place where the monster inside this man would tear the world apart, piece by piece.

“My Lord,” Regulus croaked, forcing each syllable out past the raw ache in his throat. “If you wish it… he is yours.”

The words felt like knives in his mouth. He thought of Kreacher’s bow-legged shuffle, the soft grumble of his voice in the kitchens, the way the old elf had tended Regulus’s wounds in secret when Orion’s rage turned physical. Kreacher had never failed him — not once.

And now he was about to send him into the jaws of hell.

Voldemort lowered himself into a crouch. He reached out, thin fingers trailing through Regulus’s matted hair as if he were a favored pet — a parody of tenderness.

“Call him,” the Dark Lord whispered.

Regulus swallowed the bile rising in his throat. His hands twitched against the floor. He forced magic into his ruined voice — every word scraping his throat raw.

“K… Kreacher…” He coughed, spat blood. “Kreacher… come.”

The air near the far wall shivered — a tiny pop, barely louder than the sound of Regulus’s ragged breathing. Then a small, hunched figure appeared, clutching an old tea towel around its shoulders like a makeshift cloak.

“Kreacher is here—” the elf began, voice reedy and loyal, until his black eyes fell on Regulus sprawled at Voldemort’s feet.

A strangled sound tore from Kreacher’s throat — a raw, keening whimper that echoed off the marble walls far louder than his tiny body should have allowed. He stumbled forward, gnarled fingers reaching for Regulus’s shoulders, for the bleeding cuts that still trickled sluggishly down his collarbone.

“Oh, Master Regulus — no — Kreacher will fix it — Kreacher will—”

A flash of reddish light — so sudden it seared afterimages into the Death Eaters’ eyes. Kreacher’s small body convulsed, lifted from the floor by the force of the curse.

“CRUCIO.” Voldemort’s voice didn’t rise. He sounded bored, almost annoyed — as if punishing a disobedient insect.

Kreacher’s scream cracked the air, shrill and heartbreakingly raw. His small limbs flailed helplessly in the grip of invisible agony. The tea towel slipped from his shoulders, drifting to the marble like a shed skin.

Regulus’s cracked voice broke through the horror. “My Lord — please — please, don’t — please!”

Voldemort didn’t move for a moment. His crimson eyes flicked from Kreacher’s writhing form to Regulus’s desperate, shaking face. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the spell ended.

Kreacher crumpled onto Regulus’s legs, breathing in wet, rattling gasps. He pressed his wrinkled face to Regulus’s torn robes, tiny fingers grasping for him like a child searching for his mother in the dark.

“Master… Master Regulus—”

Regulus shuddered, lifting a trembling hand to cradle the back of Kreacher’s head. His fingers brushed the wiry grey hair, sticky with sweat.

“My Lord,” Regulus rasped, lifting his gaze. “Kreacher… he will do whatever you ask of him. He is loyal. He will not fail you.”

Voldemort regarded him with a thin, shark like smile. “How touching. Loyalty, even in filth.”

He lowered his wand to Kreacher’s hunched back. The elf flinched but did not pull away — only buried his face deeper into Regulus’s lap, muffling his broken sobs.

“You will obey me, creature?” Voldemort asked, voice suddenly sharper, colder.

Kreacher lifted his head just enough to nod, eyes wide with terror but burning with stubborn devotion. “Yes, Master. Kreacher will obey. Kreacher will serve.”

Voldemort hummed, satisfied. “Good. Come, then.”

He turned away, flicking his wand at the doors. They swung inward with a thunderous boom, making the gathered Death Eaters flinch as torchlight bled into the hall.

Rabastan shuffled backward. Bellatrix’s lips twitched in frustration. Barty looked like he wanted to vomit. Lucius and Severus exchanged a single, brief glance — just enough for Regulus to catch before his vision blurred again.

But Regulus wasn’t watching them. His gaze was fixed on Kreacher. He lowered his head until his lips were nearly touching the elf’s ear, his voice barely more than a shred of sound.

“You must come back,” he whispered, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue. “Whatever he does — wherever he sends you — come back to me. Alive. Do you hear me, Kreacher? Come home.”

Kreacher’s eyes filled with tears. He bobbed his head once, fiercely. “Kreacher will come back. Kreacher promises.”

Voldemort’s head snapped over his shoulder. “Enough whispering.”

He gestured sharply. “Get up, creature.”

Kreacher forced himself upright. His bony hands trembled as he adjusted the tea towel around his thin shoulders, then dropped it entirely when Voldemort’s lip curled in distaste. He shuffled forward, crossing the marble floor step by step — every step taking him further from Regulus’s trembling hands.

Voldemort reached out, curling his long, white fingers around the scruff of the elf’s neck like a cat clutching a mouse.

The room held its breath.

Voldemort looked down at Regulus one last time. His smile was nothing but sharp, white bone. “Rest well, dear Regulus. I expect you awake and grateful when I return.”

He didn’t spare a glance for the other Death Eaters. With a crack of thunder, he vanished — Kreacher vanishing with him in the same breath.

The echo of their departure left a vacuum in the room — a cold, suffocating silence that no torch could warm.

Regulus lay on the marble floor, chest heaving, blood seeping into the hem of his shredded robes. Somewhere in the darkness above the vaulted ceiling, he could almost hear the house itself breathing — the old, crumbling bones of Lestrange Manor whispering secrets through the cold stone.

His eyes fluttered shut for just a moment — not sleep, but the desperate need to gather whatever scraps of strength he had left.

A boot nudged his ribs, rough but not cruel. Rabastan’s voice drifted down — low, mocking, but lacking Bellatrix’s savage delight.

“Enjoy the floor, Black.”

He spat near Regulus’s head for good measure. Then the room shifted — footsteps, whispers, the rustle of cloaks as the Death Eaters drifted out like rats abandoning a carcass.

Regulus didn’t move. He couldn’t. Each breath dragged fire through his ribs, each heartbeat was a drumbeat of pain and half-frozen rage.

Above the roar of his pulse, he clung to one truth:

Kreacher will come back. Kreacher must come back.

And when he did — when the secrets buried in that cave came home — so too would Regulus’s last chance to break the chain around his neck.

Somewhere in the corridors beyond, Bellatrix’s laugh rang out — high and bright, like a knife sliding into the dark.

Regulus let his head fall back to the cold marble. He could feel the stone beneath him — the same stone his ancestors had once walked upon, the same stone that had swallowed their blood and names and secrets for generations.

He would not die on this floor. Not yet.

Harry. Teddy. Kreacher. Andromeda.

He repeated the names like a prayer, teeth chattering.

Somewhere far away, thunder cracked above the manor roof — an echo of a storm waiting to break.

Regulus watched, barely conscious, as the last swirl of black cloaks and silver masks slipped from the hall. The door swung shut on Bellatrix’s departing cackle — a knife of sound that seemed to echo forever down the stone corridor.

He tried to move — his limbs refused. The marble floor beneath him had grown slick with a slow pool of blood, a cooling halo that clung to his shredded robes and matted hair. His eyes flickered up to the vaulted ceiling. The torchlight blurred at the edges. His ribs ached with each shallow breath.

He took Kreacher. He took him.

The thought spun around and around in his skull, dizzying.

'He must come back. Kreacher must come back.'

The darkness pressed closer.

Time twisted. Seconds or hours passed — he couldn’t tell. He only knew the world shifted when something moved in the corner of his vision. Footsteps. Soft, careful — but not afraid.

A black silhouette dropped to a knee beside him. Regulus flinched at the sudden whisper of movement — a fresh spear of pain jolting through his chest.

Then a second shape bent down. Pale hair glinted gold in the guttering torchlight — Lucius. He heard Lucius’s voice like something underwater — “Hold him steady — don’t drop him — move—”

Hands slid under his back, an arm hooking beneath his knees. Regulus tried to protest — the sound scraped out as a wet gasp. He tasted iron. He saw the sweep of dark hair — the glint of cold black eyes above sharp cheekbones.

Severus.

The Floo roared open with a swirl of green flame. He felt weightless for a heartbeat. Then they stepped in, the world tipping sideways in a rush of sparks and smoke.

Regulus let go. The darkness swallowed him whole.

He drifted in strange dreams: Teddy’s laugh, Harry’s soft smile, Kreacher’s hands pressing cool cloth to his brow. Then — the crack of a wand, Voldemort’s voice dripping poison, Bellatrix’s laugh spiraling up and up—

He woke with a low, choked noise, chest heaving.

His eyes snapped open to dim lamplight. The bed beneath him was soft but smelled sharply of bitter herbs and old stone walls — a safehouse, maybe, or a hidden room in some forgotten wing of the manor. He could feel the rough linen under his palms, the pull of tight bandages across his chest and arms.

It hurt to breathe. Every shallow inhale tasted like stale potions and old ash.

A rustle — leather robes shifting. Regulus turned his head, vision sluggishly sliding into focus. A shadowed figure stood at the edge of the room, half-buried in gloom.

Severus Snape.

He leaned against the far wall, arms folded, wand loose in one hand. His sallow face was carved from granite — sharp, hollow eyes watching Regulus like a hawk pinning down a mouse that had stopped wriggling.

Regulus’s throat clicked when he swallowed. He tried to sit up — the sharp ache in his ribs convinced him otherwise. A broken sound escaped instead — a small, involuntary whimper that made him flinch at himself.

Severus pushed away from the wall at once, crossing the floor in three strides. The tip of his wand pressed under Regulus’s chin — not hard enough to hurt, but cold as iron.

“You’re awake. Good.”

Snape’s voice was low, almost casual — but a snake’s coil of threat wound through every word.

Regulus forced himself to meet those eyes — black and bottomless as deep water. “Severus—”

“Save it,” Snape hissed. His fingers flexed tight around the wand. “You think you’re clever, Regulus? You think no one watches what you do? Did you really believe your pretty little secret would stay hidden forever?”

Regulus’s chest fluttered. Harry. His mind darted to that glossy page — the Witch Weekly article someone had smugly shoved in his face weeks ago. A grainy photograph: Harry’s shy smile at the café counter. Teddy’s little face pressed to his shoulder.

Severus watched the flicker of recognition, and his mouth curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Ah. There it is. I see you remember.”

Regulus’s lips cracked around the words. “He’s nothing—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Snape’s wand jabbed a fraction deeper, forcing Regulus’s head back into the pillows. His face leaned closer — close enough Regulus could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. “I know exactly who he is.”

Regulus’s blood turned to ice.

“I know that face,” Severus spat. “I taught that face. I buried that face deep in my mind.”

Regulus’s cracked lips parted, but no sound came out. His throat was raw as sand.

Severus sneered. “Harry Ronald Granger.” The name dripped poison off his tongue. “Ronald. Granger. You think I wouldn’t see that? Ronald Weasley. Hermione Granger. Did you think I wouldn’t notice whose ghosts he carries on his back?”

The candle flickered — casting Severus’s eyes in sudden gold. Regulus saw it then — not just fury, but exhaustion. Grief wrapped so tight around his bones it made him look skeletal.

“I died for him,” Severus whispered, voice hoarse. “I bled out on filthy stone while that snake attacked me again and again. I saw the boy and his friends. I gave him my memories. I closed my eyes. And then — the next moment — Malfoy Manor. This bloody time. Your time. No grave. No end. Just Potter’s shadow dragging me back through the veil.”

Regulus tried to swallow. His voice cracked like brittle ice. “You… you followed him.”

Severus barked out something like a laugh — sharp and humorless. He stepped back, pacing once like a panther in a cage. His wand never wavered from Regulus’s throat.

“I didn’t follow him, you cretin. I was dragged. One heartbeat Nagini’s poison in my veins — the next, Lucius Malfoy calling me out for a death eater meeting. And I knew — I knew — it was Potter’s fault.”

He spat the name — Potter — like it burned his tongue.

Regulus’s pulse thudded in his ears. Harry. If Severus had seen Harry — if he understood —

Severus leaned in, his breath sharp with stale peppermint and anger.

“Where is he, Regulus?” His voice was soft now — the softness of a knife pressed under skin. “Where’s your pretty café darling? Where is the 'Boy Who Lived' while I rot here out of time?”

Regulus tried to shift — to gather any scrap of defiance he had left — but Severus’s wand pressed harder.

“Don’t test me,” Severus hissed. “You think Voldemort’s punishments sting? I have a lifetime of poison in my pockets, Black. Take me to him. Now. Or I swear, I’ll pry the location out of your skull like peeling a rotting fruit.”

He flicked his wand — and agony danced down Regulus’s arm, a bright flash of pain so sharp he gasped.

Severus leaned closer, lips at Regulus’s ear. His voice turned cold — low — the old Snape, the one who could break first-years with a whisper.

“You owe him nothing. He owe me everything. He ripped me from my grave — so now, I’m going to find out why.”

Regulus’s vision blurred at the edges. He felt the iron bands of Severus’s grip around his shoulder, the press of that wand like a brand under his jaw.

"Se– Severus... Harry... Please –”

“No. Take me to him, Regulus. I will have my answers — for why that boy couldn’t even leave me my grave.”

Chapter Text

The world reassembled itself in a gust of cold, briny wind.

Kreacher stumbled when his feet hit damp rock, the sharp tang of salt burning his nostrils. Overhead, clouds bruised the night sky, rolling over a sliver of sickle moon. The sea below hissed and clawed at jagged cliffs, as though it too sensed the darkness that had come to feed.

Voldemort’s pale hand stayed clamped around Kreacher’s neck a heartbeat longer, then released him with a flick, sending the elf sprawling to the slick stones. Kreacher did not dare make a sound as he scrambled upright, eyes downcast. He could feel the Dark Lord’s magic humming like a curse in the salt-heavy air — alive, watchful, eager to bite.

They stood at the edge of a narrow coastal ledge. Beyond it, a sheer wall of rock loomed, blank and unyielding except for a faint, unnatural ripple that seemed to warp the night around it — a secret waiting to be forced open.

Voldemort tilted his head, thin nostrils flaring as if he were tasting the stone’s silence.

“This place remembers me,” he murmured. His voice was soft, almost reverent. Too soft. The sea snarled below as if to drown him out.

He turned, and Kreacher flinched as those slit-pupiled eyes pinned him to the rock.

“Come, creature.”

Kreacher obeyed. His feet scraped softly on the stone, ears pressed flat against his skull. He remembered this cliff — though the memory was not truly his. It clung to him all the same, a phantom echo of two children screaming in the dark.

Voldemort reached for him again — skeletal fingers catching Kreacher’s wrist. The touch burned like frostbite.

“You will serve your master well tonight.” His mouth twisted around the word master — as though he found it amusing when applied to himself. He drew a thin, black-handled dagger from the folds of his robe — the blade so dark it seemed to drink the moonlight.

Kreacher’s breath rattled in his chest. Still, he did not struggle. He was an elf. He obeyed.

With delicate precision, Voldemort sliced a shallow line across Kreacher’s palm. The blood welled up dark and thin — a smear of warmth against the chill.

Voldemort caught it with his fingertips — smearing the red across the ancient stone wall in a half-circle. Kreacher watched, sick with dread, as the blood sank into the rock — the stone shuddering, seams of greenish light flickering beneath its skin like veins awakening after centuries of sleep.

The Dark Lord’s smile bloomed — thin and bloodless. “Old magic yields to older blood,” he whispered, more to himself than to Kreacher.

He pressed his palm to the mark. The stone hissed — then began to split, slow and reluctant, revealing a dark maw that breathed damp, cold air into the night.

Voldemort did not look back at his trembling servant.

“Inside,” he commanded, his voice silk and steel.

Kreacher obeyed.

The passage swallowed them whole — stone closing behind with a wet, grinding sigh that made Kreacher’s ears flatten tighter against his head.

Inside, the darkness was not merely an absence of light. It was thick, living — breathing damp and salt and a rot that no wind ever touched. Kreacher padded after Voldemort, his bare feet splashing through shallow trickles of water that veined the rock underfoot.

The tunnel bent sharply, then opened like a wound.

Beyond it lay a vast hollow, carved by time and secret purpose — a subterranean lake, perfectly still and black as spilled ink. The cave roof stretched far above, crowded with dripping stone teeth. Every sound — the distant drip, the rasp of Voldemort’s breath — echoed like whispers from things long dead.

Kreacher hesitated on the narrow spit of rock at the water’s edge, shivering. The lake stared back at him — too smooth, too silent. He could not see the far shore.

Voldemort stood still for a moment, head tilted, as if listening to voices only he could hear. Then a soft hiss of laughter curled from his throat.

“Look at them, creature,” he murmured. He swept an arm toward the hidden walls, the blind lake. “So many centuries these wizarding fools have wallowed in borrowed glory. Bloodlines — power — the illusion of safety.” He spat the word like poison. “All of it built on the bones of Muggles. On the filth of Mudblood vermin who forget their place.”

His voice dropped to a hiss, cold as the stone under Kreacher’s feet.

“They are cattle. Meat for slaughter. And even my so-called ‘faithful’ think themselves wolves.” He bared his teeth in something that might have been a smile. “But they are nothing. Nothing without me.”

He stepped closer to the lake’s edge — robes whispering over wet stone — and raised his wand. Kreacher flinched when the tip sparked with harsh white light.

A clink of chain, then a faint splash: a tiny boat, black and narrow, bobbed to the surface — summoned from the shadows beneath the lake like an obedient hound. Its hull gleamed slick with cold water. A thin copper chain snaked away into the depths, binding it like a dog on a leash.

Voldemort did not look at Kreacher — he merely flicked his hand, and the elf’s knees buckled under him, forcing him to crawl to the boat.

“Inside,” Voldemort murmured, savoring the word. “Do not soil it with your sniveling.”

Kreacher obeyed. He climbed into the boat’s bow, curling himself as small as he could, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest. Voldemort stepped in after him, the boat barely rocking under his weight — as if even the water feared to move.

With a casual flick of his wand, the boat glided forward, skimming across the black mirror of the lake. Ripples fanned out behind them — swallowed quickly by the dark.

The cave was silent but for the soft scrape of the chain and the distant drip of water overhead. Kreacher could feel Voldemort’s gaze boring into the back of his skull — hot and cold all at once.

After a long, dreadful silence, the glow appeared.

A sickly, greenish gleam — floating in the dark ahead, just above the lake’s surface. As they drew closer, the glow resolved into a rough stone pedestal rising from a small rocky island — and on it, a shallow basin carved from the same ancient stone, its lip cracked and sharp.

Voldemort exhaled — almost a sigh of pleasure.

“Behold,” he whispered, voice soft as silk, sharp as razors. “My immortality, creature. My true dominion.”

He crouched, robes pooling like shadows around his ankles, and with a flick of his wrist, he drew out the locket — heavy, dull gold, glinting with its own secret poison in the green light.

It swung from his pale fingers — delicate, obscene.

Kreacher watched, heart pounding like a war drum in his tiny chest. He knew, somehow, without words, that this was wrong — that the world itself shuddered to see it.

Voldemort’s smile was bone-white and pitiless.

“Soon,” he crooned, eyes fixed on the empty basin, “no door will close to me. No death will claim me.”

He ran a thumb over the locket’s cold face — admiring it the way a butcher admires a fresh carcass.

Behind him, the lake waited — black and bottomless.

The basin waited too.

And Kreacher’s blood dripped, slow and forgotten, into the boat’s floor.

Voldemort stood at the basin’s edge, cradling the locket in one hand — his other dipping into the inner folds of his robe. From some hidden pocket, he drew out a slender vial of glass — black as pitch, sealed with a twist of red wax.

He lifted it to the dim green light, eyes glittering.

“A draught to guard eternity,” he murmured, almost to himself. The stopper clicked free with a soft pop, sharp as a bone snapping. The liquid inside was not black — not entirely. In the flicker of Voldemort’s wand, it glowed a sickly, swirling green, too bright, too alive. It seemed to crawl inside the glass, restless.

Kreacher watched, breath ragged in his throat.

He knew — deep in his cracked old bones — that this was poison made of nightmares.

Voldemort poured it out in a slow, thin stream. It hissed as it hit the stone, frothing up the sides of the basin like a serpent uncoiling. The green light pulsed once, then settled — a soft, dreadful shimmer that danced in Kreacher’s wide eyes.

When the basin was full, Voldemort tucked the empty vial away and turned — his smile a pale crescent of cruelty.

“Come, creature.”

Kreacher did not move at first. His feet felt nailed to the rock.

Voldemort’s wand twitched. Pain knifed through Kreacher’s thin shoulders, folding him forward with a strangled yelp. His knees scraped stone. The magic tugged him up again, dragging him closer until he was hunched before the basin’s edge.

“Drink.”

Kreacher’s ears quivered. He looked up — eyes red and wet — and croaked, “Master… Kreacher mustn’t…”

Voldemort bent close — his breath a cold whisper against Kreacher’s skull.

“You will. Or shall I fetch young Regulus instead? Would you rather your sweet master choke on this poison in your place?”

Kreacher let out a soft whimper, like a kicked dog. His fingers trembled as they curled around the lip of the stone.

He peered into the potion — and for a heartbeat, he saw only his own reflection. Small, broken. The cracked mirror of a life he did not choose.

He dipped the goblet Voldemort conjured — trembling hands clinking silver against stone. The first sip burned his lips, his tongue, his throat — not hot but cold, the cold of dead hands and closed doors.

It hit his mind like frostbite.

The cave blurred.

He was back in the attic of Number Twelve, dust thick in his nose. His mother — Tippy, sweet Tippy — lay curled on the ragged blanket where the House of Black had left her to die of old age, too weak to clean, too slow to serve. Kreacher remembered pressing a cracked teacup to her mouth, whispering promises that no master heard. He had failed her. He had failed — failed —

He drank again — Voldemort’s magic forced the goblet back to his lips, tilting, tilting.

The attic faded. He saw the heads on the wall — his son’s glass eyes staring forever forward, mounted like a trophy by Walburga’s cold pride. “disgusting creatures,” she’d hissed. “Disobedient elf.”

Kreacher’s throat closed around the draught. It filled him like ice water in his lungs.

“P-please…” he rasped. “Please, Kreacher’s sorry… so sorry…”

Voldemort’s voice coiled around him like iron chains. “Sorry? For what, mongrel? For your filth-blood mistakes? For your wretched, sniveling devotion to that pathetic boy, Regulus? Does your loyalty buy back your failures?”

Kreacher’s lips cracked on the goblet’s rim as the potion spilled again. He could not stop drinking.

He was under the stairs at Grimmauld Place now. Tiny, ears ringing with Orion’s roars. Sirius screaming back, too brave, too loud. The crack of a cane across Regulus’s shoulders. Sirius’s laughter that hid tears. Kreacher, cowering behind the pantry door, knuckles stuffed in his mouth to silence himself. He had done nothing. Nothing to stop it. Nothing —

“Water —” he croaked. His voice was a shredded whisper. “Kreacher begs — Kreacher — thirsty — thirsty —”

Voldemort’s thin mouth curved, amused. “Thirsty, are you? Then drink deeper. Let your suffering guard my treasure well.”

He pressed the goblet back to Kreacher’s cracked lips. The draught slid down like broken glass, each swallow a bruise blooming in his chest.

Kreacher’s eyes rolled back. His bony hands scrabbled weakly at Voldemort’s sleeve, nails scratching silk.

“I didn’t — mean — Master Regulus — Kreacher tried — so sorry — Kreacher so sorry — Tippy — mother, forgive Kreacher —”

His voice dissolved into wet gasps.

The last of the potion clung to the bottom of the basin — a dull, sick glow. Voldemort’s eyes gleamed serpent-bright as he crouched down, watching Kreacher shudder and drool against the stone.

“Such loyalty,” he breathed. He brushed Kreacher’s temple with one cold finger, as if praising a dog that had learned a new trick. “This pain — your mind flayed raw — it will keep intruders out. It will guard me. Even your misery serves my will, little beast.”

Kreacher’s breath rattled. He sagged, half-conscious, thin chest heaving for air that would not come.

And in Voldemort’s pale hand, the locket gleamed — ready to sink like a curse into the basin’s poisoned heart.

Kreacher lay slumped on the rough stone island, the taste of the potion thick and bitter on his tongue. It coated the back of his throat like old poison, clinging, sour and sharp, no matter how many times he coughed and gagged. His limbs twitched uselessly against the cold floor. Every nerve in his tiny body burned — not with fire but with memories: old beatings behind locked doors, broken whispers in the dark, the echo of his mother’s soft, fading voice begging him to serve the House well, always serve, Kreacher, always serve.

Above him, Voldemort moved with that soft, eerie grace — robes brushing the stone with a whisper like silk drawn over bone. He cradled the locket in his long white fingers, studying it as though it were a lover’s heart instead of a piece of his own fractured soul.

The basin shimmered in the sickly green glow. Voldemort tilted his head, as if listening to the soft swirl of magic humming within the shallow stone bowl.

“Such simple creatures, wizards,” he murmured, his voice echoing through the vast chamber. “They believe walls and wards will keep them safe. They believe their bloodlines mean something — that the ancient Houses are more than just rotting branches of the same decayed tree.”

He crouched low, the hem of his robes nearly brushing Kreacher’s curled, shaking fingers.

“But blood rots,” Voldemort whispered. “Blood spills. And flesh… flesh always fails.”

He set the locket down inside the basin with the delicacy of a priest laying a relic on an altar. It settled at the bottom with a soft clink that reverberated in Kreacher’s skull like a distant knell.

Kreacher moaned, low and raw in his throat — a sound that did not sound human, did not sound elf, did not sound alive.

Voldemort straightened, drew out another vial from the folds of his sleeve — this one longer, the liquid inside swirling a deeper, thicker green, almost black in the flickering light. He worked the wax seal free with a flick of his nail and poured the contents slowly into the basin. The potion slithered down, folding over the locket like a hungry tide. It hissed when it touched the cold metal, foaming, then settled into stillness — perfectly smooth, perfectly bright.

Voldemort’s thin lips peeled back from his teeth in a grin that did not reach his eyes.

“Buried in poison. Guarded by pain. Who among these pitiful fools will dare drink deep enough to reach me? Who will pay the price?”

Kreacher, half-blind, watched through a film of tears as his master dipped a finger into the potion and drew an idle sigil on the stone rim — a language older than English, older than Hogwarts itself. Runes flickered and burned out, leaving a faint black scorch in the rock.

A single sob cracked out of Kreacher’s throat. He dragged his bony elbow beneath him, trying to crawl forward, eyes locked on the dark ripple of the lake just beyond the island’s edge.

Water. Water would wash the burning from his tongue, the poison from his belly. Water would be mercy.

He inched forward, nails scratching rock, ears trailing behind like limp scraps of cloth.

Voldemort turned, the smile fading to a mask of cold disdain.

“Ah,” he said softly, mockery curling in every syllable. “Look at the mongrel crawl.”

Kreacher’s fingers scraped the rough stone. He was so close — the lake’s dark sheen just beyond his reach.

“Please…” he rasped, words tangled in the raw scrape of his throat. “Master… water… Kreacher begs…”

Voldemort’s wand flicked like a serpent striking.

“Crucio.”

Pain knifed through Kreacher’s small body. His limbs locked, back bowing like a broken branch. The cave rang with the brittle echo of his scream — thin and cracking, swallowed by the lake’s black silence.

Voldemort held the curse just long enough to watch the tears spill down Kreacher’s weathered cheeks. Then he released it with a contemptuous flick.

“Begging,” Voldemort said, soft as silk, cruel as ice. “The final language of lesser creatures.”

Kreacher sagged, ribs shuddering, drool and tears smearing the rock beneath his face. His vision pulsed with black edges, the cavern shimmering like an oil slick.

Voldemort stepped to the water’s edge, pale eyes glittering with reflected torchlight. He raised his wand, then lowered it — letting the tip hover just above the lake’s glassy surface.

When he spoke, the words did not belong to any human tongue. They hissed from the back of his throat, cold and wet and coiling through the cavern air like a living curse:

“Vash ssiltherr nassshraa… ka’silthiss ethh sraath.”

The lake shuddered.

A single bubble rose, popped.

Then the surface broke in a hundred places at once.

Dead hands. Rotted arms. Waterlogged faces staring with blind, sunken eyes. Silent mouths stretched wide around nothing but water and decay. The Inferi heaved themselves up from the depths, pale shapes packed tight as driftwood. Some dragged bits of chain or bone like rotting necklaces. Others clutched scraps of clothes that clung to bleached ribcages. None made a sound.

The lake rippled outward, filling with silent guardians — a cold, shivering army.

Kreacher moaned, curling around himself, his thin fingers scrabbling at the rock. Even through the fog of poison and pain, he could see them — blurred silhouettes, moon-pale and blank. Bodies robbed from graves. Corpses dredged up to stand watch over a monster’s secret.

Voldemort lowered his wand. The hiss of Parseltongue faded, replaced by the calm chill of his ordinary voice.

“Let any fool who dares my secrets drink here,” he murmured, the faintest note of amusement threading the words. “And let the only water to touch their lips be this cursed tide.”

He turned, flicking his wand lazily at the island’s rim. The air shimmered — faint, brittle lines of magic knitting themselves across the stone, seeping into the cavern walls.

“No Apparition,” Voldemort intoned. Another flick — a thin pulse of blue light. “No Portkey.” Another. “No conjured spring, no charmed goblet, no mercy.”

He stepped closer to Kreacher, the tip of his boot nudging the elf’s twitching shoulder.

“And you,” Voldemort whispered, leaning down so that his pale face hovered just above Kreacher’s tear-slick cheek. “You will keep watch. Your fear will stain this place. Your agony will seep into the stone.”

Kreacher croaked, too hoarse to speak. His eyes rolled back, lids fluttering as the potion gnawed at his mind — dredging up regret, regret, regret.

Tippy, dying alone.

The elven heads nailed to Grimmauld’s walls.

Regulus’s small hands, trembling as he clutched Kreacher’s ear as a child, whispering, "Be brave. Be good."

The words dissolved like sugar in poison.

Voldemort straightened, satisfied. The Inferi drifted under the lake’s skin, dead eyes open, blind and patient.

He stepped to the boat — flicked his wand once. The chain rattled softly as the vessel bobbed to the island’s edge.

Kreacher could only watch through blurred lashes as the Dark Lord climbed in, robes gliding over slick wood. Voldemort did not spare him a final glance.

“Die here, creature,” he murmured. “Die and serve me forever.”

The boat slid away from the island, chains slipping beneath the black water.

Kreacher’s breath came shallow and ragged. He dragged his hand an inch forward, scraping his torn palm across the stone. He thought he might crawl again, reach the water, just to drink — even if it meant cold hands would drag him under.

But his eyes closed. His bones went heavy.

Above him, the lake swallowed the boat’s ripple. The pale gleam of Voldemort’s figure dwindled, then vanished into the deep dark.

The basin shimmered its sickly green light.

Dead hands drifted below.

Kreacher’s last thought — the last thing the potion did not devour — was a whispered name, half-slurred through cracked lips.

Master Regulus.

Then the cavern folded around him, black and still and deep as a grave.

Secret Meeting, Hog’s Head

“Since Voldemort knows of the prophecy — at least part of it — he will act on it. He won’t stop until he eradicates the prophesied child. It was a good move that the Longbottoms and Potters finally agreed to the Fidelius.” Alastor Moody grunted, his magical eye whirring in the shadows.

“I don’t know, Alastor. Things are changing… I can feel it.” Albus Dumbledore let out a weary sigh, fingertips drumming on the table’s battered edge. “It feels as though the events we’ve tried so hard to calculate are about to turn upside down completely. For what cause, I do not know. And how it will turn out for our world…” He trailed off, eyes distant behind the half-moon spectacles. “I cannot say.”

“What do you mean, Alb—”

Suddenly, a silver cat Patronus burst through the cracked window, its paws silent as moonlight on stone. Minerva’s frantic voice filled the stale air of the tavern.

“Albus, you must come to Hogwarts immediately. Sybill is having…. some sort of fit!”

Dumbledore was already on his feet, his chair toppling backward with a dull thud. He did not bother with the Floo; with a twist of his wand, the air split — and in the blink of an eye, he stepped through the tear into his office.

The moment he appeared, he saw Minerva kneeling on the floor, Sybill Trelawney half-conscious in her arms, limbs convulsing like a marionette tangled in invisible strings.

Then Sybill’s eyes rolled back, her mouth opening too wide — and an inhuman voice filled the room.

When moonlight cleaves the river of time,

A child of storms and broken crowns shall stand again.

Marked by grief and bound by blood,

He shall rise where shadows linger —

The serpent’s fang shall taste regret.

 

Twice-born, the wolf’s pup weeps where the lion roars,

And love, forgotten once, shall strike like thunder.

The heart that bleeds for the fallen star

Shall tear the dark root from the earth.

 

Beware, for rage and mercy both shall bind the chain,

And ashes feed the salt, and salt the flame.

Only when the lost name is spoken true,

Shall the Dark Lord meet the grave anew.

Minerva gasped, hands flying to her mouth as Sybill’s body sagged in her arms. She nearly dropped the seer in her shock. Dumbledore closed his eyes, rubbing his temples as the final echo of the prophecy faded from the tower’s stone walls.

Far away, deep in the Department of Mysteries, a single glass orb etched with swirling silver words trembled on its shelf — then cracked, splintered, and shattered to dust.

Chapter Text

Regulus could taste blood on his tongue, but he forced his voice steady.

“Severus… you don’t understand. He... must not have—”

Snape’s wand twitched, but his eyes — dark and sharp — flickered, just for a heartbeat. Something raw beneath the anger.

“I don’t understand?” Severus hissed. His tone dripped bitterness, but there was no real cruelty there — only old wounds scraped raw. “I spent seventeen years crawling through mud and poison for him. For her. And when I finally earned a quiet end — when the snake’s venom gave me mercy — he dragged me back. Not even a grave. Not even silence.” His breath shivered at the edges — a tremor he tried to swallow.

The wand pressed harder under Regulus’s chin — but Severus’s voice was hoarse, weary.

“I want answers. I want to know why. And if you care at all for whatever pathetic little future you think you’ve built — you’ll take me to him.”

Regulus’s throat worked painfully. He could feel the weight of Harry’s secrets between his ribs — but he saw Severus, too. The truth: the anger was grief. The threat was exhaustion. This wasn’t Voldemort’s monster — this was a man who’d already given everything once.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t plead. Just met Severus’s eyes — the eyes Harry had described in broken whispers, telling Regulus everything Severus had done. Everything he’d risked.

“Let me up,” Regulus rasped. “I’ll take you to him. But not as your prisoner, Severus. You owe him a chance to explain. You owe yourself that.”

Severus’s jaw twitched. The wand finally dropped to his side as Severus stood up.

Regulus shifted gingerly against the rough bed, hissing when pain flared sharp along his ribs. He pressed a hand to his side, fingers coming away tacky with half-dried blood. Snape’s words cut through the haze like a cold scalpel.

“As much as I regret to say this,” Severus said tightly, his wand now lowered but still restless in his grip, “you are in no shape to Apparate. I barely managed to keep you from bleeding out — you need a professional’s help.”

His eyes flicked over Regulus’s rumpled shirt, the way the fabric clung dark at the seams. His lip curled, more self-disgust than malice.

“But that will have to wait,” Snape added, his voice brittle. “We will see Potter first. Then he can decide what to do with you — and whether you’re worth hauling to St. Mungo’s.”

Regulus gave a rough huff of laughter that rattled in his chest like broken glass. He leaned his head back against the bedframe, breathing shallowly.

“Oh, charming,” he rasped. “I can’t wait for your bedside manner when you’re the one brewing the potions.”

Severus shot him a look that might have scalded stone. But before he could retort, Regulus lifted a hand — a gesture both dismissive and pleading.

“Severus. Send a Patronus.”

Snape’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Send a Patronus to Andromeda Tonk’s house,” Regulus said, voice rough but insistent. He pushed himself up on one elbow, ignoring the way his vision swam at the edges. “Tell them to open the Floo. It’ll be faster. Safer than dragging my corpse through Muggle London.”

Snape’s mouth twitched in an echo of a snarl. “And why, pray tell, would I—”

Regulus arched an eyebrow — a Black family expression that could cut diamonds.

“You can cast one, can’t you, Severus?” His tone turned needling, a shade too casual to be kind. “Harry told me you could. None of the other Death Eaters ever could, you know.”

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath. Snape’s wand hand tightened. Then he sneered — but the sneer was thin, the edge dulled by something that looked like old sorrow.

“Be silent, Black,” he spat. But he flicked his wand anyway.

The spell slipped from his mouth like a half-forgotten prayer.

“Expecto Patronum.”

Light burst from the wandtip — searing silver, alive with memory. A shape unfurled in the gloom: delicate legs, slender neck, a halo of gentle luminance.

A doe.

Regulus felt the air change — sharp with magic, softer with grief. He stared, momentarily forgetting the ache in his bones.

Severus startled as if the creature had bitten him. His eyes widened, just for a heartbeat — old shields cracking enough to let something raw show through.

“It wasn’t supposed to be—” He bit the words off like they tasted wrong.

Regulus tilted his head, exhaustion and curiosity warring in his glassy eyes. “A doe?”

Snape’s gaze flicked away, cold shoulders raised as if to ward off the question. His wand trembled — just once — before he firmed his grip again.

“My Patronus was a raven,” he said, low and tight, as though he’d just admitted to murder. “Before she died. In my time.”

Silence pressed heavy between them. The silver doe stood sentinel for a breath, watching them with patient, unblinking eyes — then turned, drifting through the cracked wall and out into the cold.

Regulus swallowed against the knot in his throat. He thought, suddenly, of Harry’s voice in the dark — whispering truths about a bitter man who had loved once, fiercely enough to damn himself for it.

“Thank you,” Regulus murmured. His voice was hoarse, but there was no mockery in it now. Only bone-deep weariness. “For this. For helping him — back then. For helping him now.”

Snape didn’t answer. He didn’t look at him. He just stared at the place where the Patronus had vanished, as if waiting for a ghost to come back.

Harry sat on the edge of the old armchair, legs bouncing, fingers twisting the hem of his sleeve into knots. The living room was dim but warm — too warm, stifling — the fire in the hearth throwing restless shadows against the pale wallpaper.

Andromeda hovered near the window, arms crossed tight over her chest, her wand held low but ready. She kept glancing at the clock on the mantle — its ticking seemed to grow louder with every minute Regulus didn’t appear.

“He should’ve been back hours ago,” Harry said, voice rough with worry. “He promised he’d—”

“I know,” Andromeda cut in gently but firmly, her gaze flicking to him — tired, but sharp. “I know, Harry. Just breathe.”

But he couldn’t. Not really. Not when every creak of the house set his heart hammering, not when his mind kept feeding him the worst possible images — Regulus alone somewhere, Regulus bleeding out in an alley, Regulus—

A sudden pulse of silver light ripped through the room like a knife.

Harry jerked upright — his breath caught ragged in his throat. The silvery shape flickered — a doe, so bright it hurt to look at — and then a voice, low and clipped, spilled out into the tense hush:

"This is Severus Snape. Regulus Black is with me, but he is injured. He can’t Apparate. Please open the Floo to Andromeda Tonks’s house. He said the safe word is ‘Diadem’.”

The Patronus blinked once, flickered — then vanished like mist.

For a heartbeat, all Harry could do was stare at the space where it had been — the echo of that familiar voice a punch straight to the ribs.

Andromeda moved first. She crossed to the hearth in three strides, flicking her wand with a precise twist. The fireplace hissed — flames shifting from gold to a sudden, unnatural green.

“Ready?” she asked tightly, her eyes on the flickering Floo.

Harry nodded, numb, his wand already clenched so hard his knuckles were white. He stood shoulder to shoulder with her — two wands aimed steady at the hearth, as if sheer will could keep them safe from whatever might crawl out of the flames.

A heartbeat. Another.

Then the flames roared higher — and a figure stepped through. Tall, draped in black, hair lank and eyes shadowed — Snape. And in his arms—

“Regulus,” Harry breathed — a sound torn from somewhere raw and frightened inside him.

Regulus looked half-conscious, one arm limp, blood darkening the front of his shirt, a smear of it on Snape’s sleeve. His head lolled as Snape shifted his grip, teeth bared in annoyance at the dead weight.

“Out of the way,” Severus snapped, voice low but frayed at the edges. He crossed the room in a few long strides and lowered Regulus carefully onto the old couch.

Andromeda was there before Harry could move, her wand flicking in rapid arcs — crisp, precise Latin spilling from her mouth as diagnostic charms skated over Regulus’s battered frame. Each flick of her wand made runes glow faintly above his chest, his ribs, his temple.

Harry dropped to his knees by the couch, hands hovering uselessly over Regulus’s wrist, his shoulder — needing to touch, to do something — but terrified of hurting him more.

“Hey. Hey, Reggie.” His voice cracked. “You absolute idiot. You promised you’d be back for tea.”

Regulus didn’t stir — but his eyelids fluttered, lashes dark against skin gone too pale.

Behind them, Snape crossed his arms — shoulders hunched, face shadowed — but he didn’t look away.

And in the quiet, broken only by the whisper of Andromeda’s spells, the ticking clock on the mantle seemed to slow — each second stretching out, holding its breath with them.

The glow of Andromeda’s last spell faded. She exhaled — a slow, careful breath — and lowered her wand.

“He’ll live,” she said, voice clipped but kind. “Cracked ribs, thin, but long gashes on his body, and of course, multiple cruciatus curse exposure — I can mend most of it here, but he’ll need potions, a little bit extensive healing and rest. Nothing that’ll kill him tonight.”

Harry’s knees nearly buckled with relief — but the moment cracked like glass when a hand seized his shoulder.

In the next heartbeat, Harry found himself slammed backward, spine thumping against the carpet, Severus’s wand digging hard under his chin. The cold spark of a spell hummed at the tip — ready, vicious, alive.

Snape’s face hovered above his, pale and furious, dark eyes burning with something that looked too much like betrayal. His hair, limp and rain-damp, framed sharp cheekbones and a mouth drawn tight with exhaustion and rage.

“Harry. James. Potter,” Snape spat each word like acid, voice low and dripping venom that no distance of years could dull. “You insufferable, reckless, arrogant child. I spent seventeen years of my miserable existence dragging your sorry hide and your blundering tagalongs out of every half-witted disaster you stumbled into — I bartered secrets, I bled, I died — all so you could live long enough to grow and have a fucking life!”

His grip tightened in Harry’s collar, pulling him up just enough for his head to thump the floor again when Snape shoved him back down.

“And what do you do, Potter?” Snape hissed. His wand pressed harder, just shy of bruising skin. “You drag me — me, of all people — back from a grave I earned. You tear me out of the only peace I was ever granted, and drop me here — to this wretched tangle of time and old ghosts — so you can play house with Regulus Black and a metamorphosing brat? How dare you?”

Harry’s breath caught — he could feel it, the old fear curling cold in his belly, the same as it had felt in dingy Potions classrooms and blood-soaked battlefields both. But there was no hate in it — only shame, sharp and wet in his eyes.

“... Professor?” he rasped, voice breaking around the word. “I— I don't know, I swear—”

Above him, Snape’s wand didn’t waver — but his eyes did. Just for a moment. Just enough for Harry to see the raw edge beneath the fury — something fragile and starved, the shape of a mercy no one ever gave him back.

"Oh, spare me the theatrics Potter. I know you—"

Behind them, Andromeda cleared her throat loudly.

Andromeda worked quietly — crisp wand flicks, whispered incantations, the soft clink of glass as she uncorked vial after vial. Each potion glowed faintly in the hearth light — amber, emerald, opalescent — little rivers of healing coaxed past cracked ribs and torn muscle.

Regulus stirred once when she pressed a vial to his lips, his throat bobbing weakly as the draught slid down. His lashes fluttered but didn’t open. Andromeda’s palm hovered just above his chest, feeling for the subtle catch of breath beneath her spells. Satisfied, she shifted the blanket higher, tucking it around him like a promise.

Across the room, Harry sat rigid at the kitchen table, Teddy perched on his knee. The baby was glaring at the pacifier in his mouth like it was a personal insult — each chew punctuated by small, indignant huffs that made Harry’s chest ache with reluctant amusement.

By the window, Snape stood half-shrouded in shadow — arms folded tight, expression sour enough to curdle milk. Every so often his gaze flicked to the sleeping form on the couch, but he didn’t move closer.

At his side, little Nymphadora Tonks clung to his sleeve like a barnacle. She swung herself forward, then back again, humming tunelessly under her breath. Her wild hair flickered bubblegum pink whenever she peered up at Snape’s scowl — undeterred, delighted by how forbidding he looked.

“Stop that,” Snape hissed under his breath when she tugged at his sleeve for the third time. His voice cracked with unused patience. “Merlin’s teeth—”

Andromeda’s head snapped up from her spellwork — a single look over the rim of her glasses that pinned him like a schoolboy caught nicking biscuits before supper.

Snape stiffened. His mouth snapped shut.

Tonks stuck out her tongue at him — the hair at her temples brightened to sunshine yellow. Harry stifled a laugh into the side of Teddy’s curls.

A heartbeat later, Andromeda smoothed her hands over Regulus’s blanket one last time. She stepped back, a quiet finality in the way her wand dipped at her side.

“He’ll hold,” she said, brisk but gentle. “He needs sleep more than fussing now. Dora — keep an eye on him, hmm? If he so much as sneezes, you shout for me.”

Nymphadora gave a sharp, serious nod — all business for half a heartbeat — before she scrambled up onto the arm of the couch, knees tucked under her chin like a tiny, messy sentry.

Andromeda turned to Harry and Snape — her eyes sharp as polished steel, though her voice stayed calm.

“Come,” she said, jerking her chin toward the narrow hallway. “We need words. Now.”

Harry rose carefully, shifting Teddy so the toddler leaned drowsy and heavy against his shoulder. Snape lingered a heartbeat longer by the window — his eyes flicking once more to Regulus, tucked under blanket and little cousin’s watchful gaze — then he pushed himself away from the wall with a brittle sigh.

They followed Andromeda down the dim corridor, the creak of the floorboards soft beneath their feet.

The study was small, lined with battered bookshelves and a single desk cluttered with ink bottles and half-written letters. The hearth burned low — a sleepy glow that did nothing to soften the edge in Andromeda’s eyes.

She flicked her wand once, twice — the air shimmered, sealing the room in a hush that made Harry’s ears ring. When she turned back, her gaze pinned him to the threadbare carpet more thoroughly than any hex could have.

“I heard Snape calling you Harry James Potter,” she said, voice deceptively mild — the calm before a storm Harry knew better than to underestimate. “But unless I’m daft, you told me your name was Harry Granger.”

Harry’s shoulders hunched. Teddy, sensing the shift in his heartbeat, let out a soft, drowsy whine against his shoulder.

“And,” Andromeda continued, each word sharp as a scalpel, “he said he’s saved your life more than once. That he’s looked after you for seventeen years. Severus is twenty, at most. That’s not possible. Unless—” Her eyes cut to Snape — who stood rigid by the door, arms folded, mouth pulled into a razor-thin line — “unless you’re not who you say you are.”

Harry swallowed, throat dry. He opened his mouth, closed it again. His mind scrabbled for the right words, for any words, but they tangled on his tongue.

“And,” Andromeda pressed on, her voice rising like a tide, “there’s the little matter of him—” she jabbed a finger toward Snape, who bristled — “saving anyone who isn’t Lily Evans. Severus Snape does not bleed for strangers. Not for Muggleborns, not for lost boys in coffee shops. And yet you—” Her eyes narrowed, gleaming with something perilously close to fury — “you called him Professor.”

“Er—Andy, I— I can explain—” Harry stammered, shifting Teddy from one arm to the other as if the baby might shield him.

“Yes.” Andromeda’s tone cracked like a whip. She took a step closer — close enough that Harry could see the faint silver threads in her dark hair, the fine tremor in her wand hand. “Yes, Harry Granger — or whoever you truly are — you are going to explain.”

Beside the door, Snape let out a low, vicious noise — half a scoff, half a growl — but said nothing. His eyes, dark and fathomless, flicked to Harry once, then away again.

Harry sucked in a shaky breath. The words pressed like stones against his ribs — all the hidden truths he’d knotted tight in his chest since the first night in this timeline. He looked at Andromeda — fierce and furious and heartbreakingly familiar in a way that made his throat ache.

He looked at Snape — who wouldn’t meet his eyes, who radiated disdain like a shield for the grief beneath.

And he looked down at Teddy — warm and soft against his chest, tiny fist curled in his jumper like an anchor to the only thing that still felt right.

He swallowed hard.

“Okay,” Harry said, voice rough but steady as he could manage. “Okay. I’ll tell you. All of it.”

Teddy slept warm and boneless against Harry’s chest, one small fist curled loosely around the collar of his jumper. The rise and fall of the baby’s soft breaths anchored Harry in the moment — a fragile counterweight to the rawness that still scraped at the inside of his throat.

Andromeda had retreated not long ago — her wand still trembling faintly in her hand after hearing the truths Harry had finally, haltingly spilled. The war. The losses. The sister who had murdered her child and smiled while doing it. She hadn’t spoken when she left — only squeezed Harry’s shoulder once, fingers cold but steady, before slipping through the study door like a ghost who needed space to remember how to breathe.

Harry sat where she’d left him, shoulders bowed under the quiet weight of the sleeping child on his chest. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes stiff with salt. Tear tracks stained his cheeks in pale lines that caught the glow from the hearth. Across the room, Severus watched him in silence — and for a heartbeat, the old bitterness flickered, blurred by something sharper and more complicated. Regret, perhaps. Or guilt that curled low in his gut like an old curse.

Severus would never admit it aloud — but he knew. He knew what it meant to be shaped by someone else’s cruelty, to be groomed and cornered and told your sacrifice was noble because it would never be their blood on the marble floors. He knew — and yet, the question still coiled in his chest like a splinter refusing to work itself free.

Why him? Why Severus Snape — of all the wretched ghosts in Harry Potter’s tangled past — to be dragged, unwilling, from the grave he had clawed so bitterly toward?

The creak of the door broke the hush. Andromeda slipped back inside, a tray balanced steady in her hands — the faint clink of porcelain and the warm drift of tea cutting through the stale quiet like a mercy. She set it down on the battered desk, the steam curling in soft ribbons around her wrists.

Harry shifted Teddy higher against his shoulder and scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. His voice cracked when he spoke — small and brittle in the hush of the study.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped.

Andromeda’s brow arched faintly. She crossed to the desk, fussing with the teapot to hide the tremor still lingering in her fingers. “And what exactly are you apologizing for now?”

Harry swallowed, eyes fixed on the cooling tea as if it might burn the guilt out of him if he stared hard enough. “It’s my fault — that Nymph—”

Andromeda’s head snapped up, her eyes flaring sharp as steel. “No.” Her voice cut through the small, stifling room — not cruel, but final. “No, Harry. It was war. People die in wars. My daughter —” Her throat bobbed, the word catching there for a heartbeat before she forced it free. “— my daughter died because my sister chose cruelty over blood. That is not on you. That is on her. I am not angry at you. I am angry at myself — for thinking Bellatrix wouldn’t touch my child to punish me. I was wrong. But you —” She stepped closer, palm brushing against the crown of Teddy’s soft hair where it peeked over Harry’s shoulder. “— you did nothing wrong.”

Harry’s mouth opened — helpless, desperate — but Andromeda’s hand lifted, two fingers pressed gently to his lips.

“No buts, Harry,” she said, softer now, but still unyielding as stone. “Do not shoulder the weight of the dead when you never placed the blade in their hands.”

Silence settled after that — the fire whispering against the grate, the faint clink of Teddy’s soft exhale as he shifted in his sleep.

Severus’s voice cracked the quiet like a splintering branch.

“Why me.”

Andromeda startled — her hand falling away from Harry’s cheek. Harry’s shoulders flinched beneath Teddy’s small, comforting weight.

Severus’s eyes stayed fixed on the carpet, but his voice was sharp enough to cut bone.

“Why me?” he repeated, quieter now, the syllables raw at the edges. “I was dying. I’d accepted it — that I’d finally paid enough for every wretched thing I ever did in that monster’s name. I thought the venom would grant me peace. I thought —” His mouth twisted, bitterness caught between teeth. “— I thought I’d earned my grave.”

His gaze lifted then — dark and hollow as a winter sky — fixing Harry with a stare that felt like a blade pressed gentle but sure to the throat.

“But when I opened my eyes,” Severus said, each word falling like an accusation neither of them could dodge, “I was at Malfoy Manor. Alive. Dragged back through the same mud I’d drowned in once already. Tell me, Potter — tell me why me.”

Severus’s voice rasped low — every word sharp enough to scrape bone. “I was forced to do every filthy thing that monster demanded of me. I paid, Potter — every day, every breath, I paid for the mistakes of a foolish boy who thought he knew loyalty.” His lip curled, bitter and brittle all at once. “And when the final payment came due, I gave it gladly. I was ready. Ready to be done with all of you — your endless, idiotic chaos — ready to lie still in the dark and let the world rot without me.”

His sneer twisted into something ugly — more at himself than Harry, though he’d never admit that aloud. His eyes flicked up, cold and cutting. “And then I saw it. That wretched scrap of gossip rag left behind by Narcissa. 'Hooking up with Regulus Black'!” He spat the words like poison. “What would your precious godfather say now, Potter?” Severus scoffed, the sound a raw, brittle crack in the hush of the study.

Harry flinched — the old name slicing something soft open in his chest. His arms curled tighter around Teddy, who let out a soft, fretful whimper against his shoulder.

“I —  You —” Harry’s voice stuttered, hoarse with exhaustion and the sting of old grief. “Don’t you dare drag Sirius into this.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed, glittering black and sharp as obsidian. “Then tell me the truth. I want it all, Potter. Every filthy, tangled scrap of it. What did you do? How did this happen?” He gestured in a rough, sweeping arc at themselves. “How did we get here? How did that child survived the jump? Don’t lie to me — I know you meddled. You always meddle. What did you do, you stupid, reckless child?”

Harry’s shoulders hunched low. His mouth opened — closed — opened again, like words might just appear if he kept trying. But all that spilled out was a broken whisper.

“I don’t know,” he rasped, voice raw. His eyes shimmered, bloodshot and wide. “I don’t know, Professor. I swear it — I don’t know how it happened. I don’t even know how we landed here at all.” His voice cracked on the truth of it — that helpless, terrible not-knowing that still coiled around his ribs every sleepless night. “I swear — I swear to you, I don’t know.”

Severus’s mouth pulled taut — a thin line that trembled just at the corner. He turned away, pacing — a thin, restless circuit from the window to the hearth, boots whispering against the worn carpet. When he stopped, he stood close — close enough that Harry could see the lines carved deep beside his mouth, the ghost of years he shouldn’t have gotten back.

“Then tell me,” Severus said, voice low but edged with something brittle, like glass under boot heels. “Tell me every moment before this… mishap. Don’t you dare leave out a single detail.”

Harry exhaled, slow and shaking. He shifted Teddy higher on his hip — the baby was half-awake now, small sounds caught behind his thumb as he chewed fretfully.

“I was at Grimmauld Place,” Harry began, voice rough but steadier now that the words had somewhere to go. “Me, Kreacher, Teddy. It was just… normal, or as normal as it could be. Afternoon. I was in the kitchen, mixing formula. And then — I felt it. Teddy’s magic. It… shifted.” Harry’s brow pinched, eyes distant as he clawed through the memory. “He’d never done real accidental magic before. Just… changing hair, eyes — little things. But this — it felt bigger. I ran upstairs. He was in the nursery. He’d dropped his rattle — it was just out of reach — and it lifted, hovering like it was trying to crawl back into his hand. And then—”

He sucked in a breath, lashes flicking up to Severus’s stare. “It exploded. I don’t know why — it just burst. And I— I didn’t think, I just threw up a Protego. I don’t even remember the incantation — it just happened. And then—” His voice cracked again. “And then it was blurry. Like being sucked through a storm. Next thing I know, we were lying in Knockturn Alley — the back end near Diagon. Teddy was out cold. I don’t remember anything else. I don’t know what happened to you.”

A soft hiccup broke the hush — Teddy, eyes wide and wet, a fretful whimper muffled against Harry’s collar. Harry curled his palm over the baby’s hair, breathing shaky and thin.

Severus’s lip curled. The wand in his hand twitched — the old fury flaring up like a dying hearth fire. “You’re lying, Potter,” he snarled — the words raw with something too tangled to name. “You know. You always know. You ungrateful, reckless brat—”

His wand snapped up — sharp and glittering under the lamplight — but before he could breathe a spell, Andromeda’s wand flicked, smooth as silk, and Severus’s wand arced clean out of his fingers, clattering harmlessly against the edge of the desk.

“Don’t you dare,” Andromeda said, her voice low but thunderous, a storm held tight in her chest. “You will not raise that wand at Harry — or my grandson — in my house. Sit. Down, Severus.”

Severus froze — the rage frozen sharp at the corners of his mouth. Slowly, he lowered himself onto the arm of the chair, fingers twitching like they missed the weight of the wand hilt.

Andromeda turned to Harry — her gaze softening just enough to bleed the iron from her voice. “You were at Grimmauld Place before it happened?”

Harry nodded once, mute. Teddy sniffled, scrubbing his damp cheek against Harry’s jumper.

Andromeda hummed — a sound deep in her throat, thoughtful, old knowledge shifting behind her eyes. “No wonder,” she murmured. “The wards in that house are older than the Ministry itself — tangled in blood and family magic so deep it can’t be untied. Blood wards, binding charms, protections layered over protections.” She glanced between Harry and the restless child on his hip. “You — the last Lord Black named by Sirius. And Teddy — Black blood on his mother’s side. My side. Those wards must have felt the threat. They must have done what they were built to do — protect the line. Keep it whole.”

She paused — her eyes flicked briefly to Severus, who watched her with a tight, suspicious squint. “But that doesn’t explain you,” she said, sharper now. “Why you were caught in it too.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. His eyes dropped to the floorboards — the words heavy and hot in his mouth before they fell out.

“I—” he mumbled, voice muffled by the weight of Teddy’s soft hair against his chin.

Andromeda’s brows knit. “Speak up.”

Even Severus leaned in, dark eyes narrowed, all brittle angles and old suspicion.

Harry let out a short, breathless laugh — the sound sharp and empty as cracked glass. “The war took too many. Remus. Tonks. Fred. Colin. So many I couldn’t bury properly. But you —” He dragged his eyes up to meet Severus’s stare, ragged and defiant at once. “Nobody even knew. Nobody knew what you’d done. What you gave. You died alone in that filthy shack — and you deserved more than that.”

He sniffed, scrubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand. “Yes — you were a horrible teacher. Yes — you made my life hell. You never let me forget how arrogant and selfish you thought I was.” He laughed again, rough and hollow. “But I buried you anyway. I made sure you had a place — in Godric’s Hollow, near Mum.” Harry’s shoulders hunched around the baby now dozing heavy against him. “I went to Spinner’s End. Collected your things. Because the Ministry was going to confiscate it all — pick through it like carrion. I couldn’t let that happen. I brought it all back to Grimmauld. Kept it safe. Because you—” He broke off, swallowing hard around the burn in his throat. “Because you deserved something. Even if you hated me for it.” Harry’s breath hitched as the words tumbled out, too raw to catch. He shifted Teddy higher against his chest, the baby’s soft hair brushing his chin — the only thing tethering him to the moment when every word felt like it scraped his ribs raw on the way out.

“And… uh…” Harry’s voice faltered — a thin, embarrassed rasp. “There was a box. Small. Looked old — real old. It had the Prince family crest on the lid. The motto, too. Inside was… there was a broken Time-Turner.” His laugh came out in a jagged huff. “I thought — I don’t know — I thought it must’ve been precious to you. So I… I brought it back. Kept it with the rest. I didn’t want it ending up in some Ministry vault. ”

Silence swallowed the room whole. Not even the hearth dared crackle too loud. Teddy shifted against Harry’s collarbone with a soft, sleepy sigh — the only sound that didn’t seem to echo off the walls.

Andromeda looked like she’d reached the very limits of her patience — her eyes heavy-lidded and sharp, jaw clenched so tight Harry half-expected to hear teeth crack.

But Severus — Severus looked as though something inside him had torn loose and was trying to claw its way out through his ribs. His mouth curled back over his teeth — an ugly, brittle snarl that was too close to heartbreak to be only anger.

“You foolish child,” he spat — voice trembling with a venom too old to be entirely real anymore. “You spoiled, pampered brat — wasn’t it enough for you, Potter? Everything you ever wanted — handed to you on a silver platter. The Boy Who Lived — twice now, it seems. The hero, the savior, the darling of the wizarding world — and still you couldn’t keep your greedy hands to yourself!” His voice cracked, sharper now, wild at the edges. “Why? Why did you take a dead man’s things for your own? Didn’t you get enough? Wasn’t your life already bursting with praise and pity and second chances you never earned—”

Harry flinched as if every word was a slap. His arms tightened around Teddy, the baby waking with a soft, confused whimper at the sudden spike of anger in the room.

Severus leaned forward, all brittle rage and bitterness clinging to him like a second skin, spitting the last word like a curse — “You little, greedy—”

A dull thump cracked the hush — the soft, unmistakable thud of wood meeting plaster. Severus froze mid-breath, the half-formed insult dying sharp on his tongue.

A shadow darkened the doorway — thin shoulders braced against the frame, wand clutched in white-knuckled fingers. Regulus stood there — pale, breathing shallow, but upright on shaking legs that seemed to steady themselves out of sheer spite. His eyes glowed silver-bright in the lamplight — cold moonlight hammered into a blade.

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence,” Regulus said, voice rough as gravel but clear enough to slice the air between them clean through. “If I were you, Severus.”

Severus’s mouth twitched — a muscle in his jaw jumped like it wanted to fight the words down and failed. His eyes flicked to the wand, then back to Regulus’s face — pale and drawn, but lit with a fury that could have leveled walls if it had teeth.

If looks could kill, Severus Snape would have died four times over in that single heartbeat — and Regulus Black would have smiled while doing it.

Chapter Text

The study felt smaller than it had any right to be. The hearth’s glow had burned down to a restless smoulder, shadows knotting in the corners like eavesdroppers. Regulus stood just inside the threshold, braced against the doorframe like the only thing keeping him upright was anger alone.

Severus met his stare with one of his own — cold, coiled tight as wire. The tension between them crackled in the hush. Harry shifted uneasily by the old desk, arms wrapped around Teddy’s small weight. He could feel the shape of what was coming and it made his ribs tighten.

Regulus’s wand dipped, just a hair, but his voice was sharp enough to cut skin.

“On what basis, Severus?” he asked, soft but deadly. “On what basis did you accuse Harry of living some pampered life? Tell me — exactly when did you ever bother to see him at all?”

Severus’s lip curled. He gave a small, sharp laugh — humorless as broken glass.

“Everyone knew, Black. The whole wizarding world knew. Their precious Boy Who Lived — stuffed with sweets and coddled by his doting Muggle relatives who were so grateful to have him. Pampered, spoiled — living off the Potter vaults when he wasn’t flaunting that fame in my corridors—”

Harry made a small sound, halfway between protest and plea, but Regulus didn’t spare him a glance. His eyes stayed locked on Severus, cold and unblinking.

“And you never once thought to look? To question what you knew?”

A muscle in Severus’s jaw jumped. His fingers flexed at his side like they missed the hilt of his wand. “I had no reason to—” he began, but Regulus cut him dead with a slash of his hand.

“Did you ever notice him when he arrived at Hogwarts that first year? Did you ever stop to wonder why he was so small for his age? Why his robes drowned him? Did you even look at him properly when he came back each September — half-starved, skinny,  swimming in second-hand rags?” Regulus’s voice rose, raw and vicious. “You fancy yourself so observant, Severus — always so quick to pick apart other people’s failings — but you didn’t even see a child right under your hooked nose!”

The silence that followed was brutal. Harry stared at the floorboards, face pale under the mess of his fringe. Teddy burrowed deeper into his chest, small fingers fisting in the fabric of Harry’s sleeve as if he could feel the storm brewing in every breath.

Severus’s mouth worked soundlessly for a heartbeat before he found his voice again — hoarse now, stripped of its usual sneer.

“Minerva fretted over him,” he said tightly, words falling like old bones. “She brought her suspicions to Albus more than once. And every time — every time — he assured us the boy was fine. That his aunt and uncle loved him in their own way. That the Muggle world kept him safe.”

Regulus gave a short, sharp bark of laughter — humorless, ugly.

“And you believed him.”

Severus’s eyes flashed — a spark of something brittle and defensive. “He was the Headmaster. It was not my place—”

“Don’t you dare.” Regulus’s voice dropped, soft as grave dirt, more dangerous than any shout. “Don’t you dare hide behind that. You saw enough, didn’t you? I know you did. Harry told me about those botched Occlumency lessons.”

Harry flinched — his arms tightening around Teddy like armor. “It doesn’t—”

“Harry,” Regulus cut in, sharper now, eyes still locked on Severus.

Harry’s mouth opened, closed. His voice came out rough, small in the tense hush. “During… Occlumency. He— He saw it. A memory. My uncle… shoving me into the cupboard. Under the stairs.”

Severus’s jaw twitched. A flicker of something — shame, maybe — ghosted across his face before it hardened again.

“I shared that memory with Albus,” he said, his voice stripped down to the bone. “I asked him what was the meaning of it. He said it was nothing — a moment of punishment. That the boy was strong. That I should not concern myself. And I had no reason to press further — I was not his Head of House.”

The bitter hush that followed pressed down like a tombstone. Regulus tipped his head to the side — just enough for the lamplight to catch the cold silver in his eyes.

“You, of all people,” he said softly, venom threaded through every word, “should have known what it looks like. A child who flinches when someone raises a hand. A child too small for his age, bones showing through second-hand cloth. But you hated James Potter so much — so blindingly much — that you let it rot your eyes. You let that hate drown out the part of you that might have seen the truth. Because you couldn’t stand that his son might be anything but your perfect enemy.”

Severus’s mouth opened — the start of a retort, an excuse, something cruel to fling back — but nothing came out. The words stuck there, somewhere behind his teeth, too bitter to spit out.

Harry’s gaze stayed locked on the floor. Teddy’s soft, sleepy breaths were the only sound in the cracked hush, small and steady — the only thing in the room still untouched by the weight of old hate and older mistakes.He could feel Regulus’s eyes on him — sharp as a blade, but soft around the edges in a way that made his throat ache.

“Regulus, stop—” Harry rasped, voice too small, too hoarse. “Don’t— just leave it—”

Regulus turned his head just enough to look at him — and the look alone was enough to snap Harry’s mouth shut. There was no anger in it, no pity either — only a cold, clear promise that this would not be buried again.

“No, Harry,” Regulus said, quiet but unyielding. “No more silences. No more secrets.”

His eyes flicked back to Severus — who stood stiff as a post near the hearth, arms locked across his chest like armor that was already beginning to crack.

“You want the truth, Severus?” Regulus’s voice was all ice now, every syllable measured and cutting. “You think you know him? You think you’ve got the whole of him pinned under your boot just because you hate the ghost you see when you look at his face?”

Severus’s mouth twisted, an ugly sneer half-born on his lips. “He— you think I’ll swallow this? More of Potter’s theatrics—”

Regulus took one step forward — the movement slow, deliberate. He crowded into Severus’s space until the older man had no choice but to flinch back half a step, his shoulder brushing the mantle.

“You think I’m lying?” Regulus asked, voice dangerously soft. “You think I’d stand here and spin fairy tales about bruises and broken ribs for fun? Look at him, Severus.”

He jerked his chin toward Harry, who sat small and hunched by the old desk, Teddy curled like a lifeline against his chest. Harry’s eyes were fixed somewhere far away, his mouth working soundlessly as if he could swallow the words Regulus was about to loose into the air.

“Go on. Look.” Regulus’s voice cracked like a whip. “Really look. You see James Potter’s spoiled heir? I see a boy who spent half his childhood locked in the cupboard under stairs so small he had to curl his knees to his chest to breathe. Who learned early not to cry because it just made the belt snap harder the next time.”

Severus’s lip curled, but the color was starting to drain from his face. His fingers twitched at his side, restless and useless.

“Lies, You dare—” he hissed, but it was thin, hollow.

Regulus laughed — a sharp, ugly sound. “Is it? Ask him. Ask him what happened when he brought home good marks. When he grew too fast and his Aunt couldn’t stand seeing Lily’s eyes in that face. Ask him about the burns on his arm — the ones Petunia explained away as clumsy accidents when he spilled tea. Or the time she cut off his hair to the scalp because she didn’t want him looking untidy for her precious neighbors.”

Andromeda made a soft, sharp sound at that — like glass breaking. Her wand clattered onto the desk. But Regulus didn’t stop. He leaned closer to Severus, eyes bright, voice low and cold enough to frost bone.

“And where was your precious Headmaster in all this? The great Albus Dumbledore — so wise, so clever — he knew. You think he didn’t? He knew exactly what that house was doing to him. And he left him there. Year after year. Because it was convenient. Because as long as Harry was hungry and lonely and grateful for scraps, he was easier to control."

Severus’s eyes darted to Harry — once, quick, a flicker that looked too much like fear to pass for scorn. He shook his head once, hard, like he could dislodge the words Regulus was driving into his skull.

“Stop it—” Severus spat, voice cracking. “You— you don’t know what you’re saying—”

“I know exactly what I’m saying.” Regulus’s voice dropped to a hiss now, every syllable dipped in poison and truth. “I know what it looks like when a boy is treated like dirt and still gets up every bloody morning pretending he’s not. I know what it costs. And you—” he jabbed a finger into Severus’s chest, hard enough to rock him back a step, “—you knew enough to know better, but you hated James Potter so much it blinded you. You saw a cupboard door slam shut in that boy’s mind and you still turned your back.”

Severus made a raw, choked sound — a half-formed curse or maybe a denial — and shoved off the mantle, shoulders hunched as if he could outrun the walls pressing in on him. He spun toward the door, robes flaring out like black wings.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Regulus moved like a striking hawk — one sharp step forward, fist curling in Severus’s collar. He wrenched him back bodily, slammed him down into the threadbare armchair near the hearth so hard the old wood gave a protesting creak.

Severus struggled once, a snarl curling in his throat — but Regulus leaned in, hand still bunched tight in the fabric, their faces inches apart. The tip of Regulus’s wand hovered just under Severus’s chin, steady as iron.

“You’re not walking away from this, Severus. You will hear it.” Regulus’s voice was a low growl now — not loud, but it carried all the fury of a man who’d decided he’d burn down the entire room if that’s what it took to drag the truth into daylight.

“He was eight when Vernon broke his arm because he didn’t mow the lawn straight enough. He was Ten when he spent almost two weeks locked in that cupboard for burning the toast with accidental magic — no meals, no blankets, just that filthy mattress and spiders for company. He spent a summer sleeping under floorboards because Petunia didn’t want Dudley’s friends seeing ‘the freak’.”

Severus’s face had gone grey as ash. The lines around his mouth cracked, his fingers clenching into fists on his knees. For a heartbeat he looked every bit the hollow, ruined man Harry had buried — except now he was alive enough to feel it.

“Stop—” Severus croaked. His voice sounded small. “Enough—”

“No.” Regulus’s voice was soft, but it cut sharper than any hex. “You don’t get to look away now. You don’t get to pretend your petty grudges didn’t help drown him in it.”

Regulus’s grip loosened from Severus’s collar, but he didn’t pull back completely. His breath came shallow, but his voice stayed sharp enough to draw blood.

“You know what, Severus?” Regulus said, quieter now — but somehow that softness made it worse. “I get it. I get hating James Potter. I hated him too — for the bully he was, for the way he snatched my brother away from me. For needing Sirius to abandon me just because I wore green on my chest instead of red. For leaving me alone in that mausoleum of a house while he and Sirius laughed themselves stupid in Gryffindor Tower. I get it.”

Severus’s eyes flicked up — hollow, wary — but Regulus’s voice only grew colder.

“But children don’t atone for their fathers’ sins, Severus.” He jabbed a finger into Severus’s shoulder, just sharp enough to make him flinch. “They shouldn’t carry that weight. Especially not a child who couldn’t even remember his father’s face until an enchanted mirror showed him.”

Harry made a small, broken sound — not quite a word — but Regulus didn’t stop. His eyes stayed locked on Severus, daring him to flinch again.

“You hated the ghost you thought you saw in him so much you didn’t even see the boy standing right in front of you,” Regulus finished, voice rough at the edges now. “A boy who never asked for any of it.”

Severus flinched — really flinched — shoulders hunching like a boy under an old blow. His eyes flicked to Harry, wide and glassy, but Harry couldn’t meet them. He sat small and silent in the shadow of the hearth, Teddy’s warm weight pressed tight against his chest like a shield that didn’t quite cover all the cracks.

Regulus’s grip loosened enough to let the fabric fall from his fist. He straightened, drawing himself back up to his full height — what little of it his battered ribs would allow. His wand lowered, but his eyes stayed locked on Severus’s hollow, stricken stare.

“Don’t you dare call him spoiled ever again,” Regulus breathed. The promise in his voice could have cut stone. “Not in this house. Not in my hearing. Not while I’m still breathing.”

And in the hush that followed, Severus sat frozen — all his old armor crumbling to dust at his feet — and for the first time in years, the mask didn’t slip back into place. It simply cracked, and stayed cracked.

When Regulus finally fell silent, the study felt like a tomb. The air tasted stale, like dust and salt and old ghosts refusing to settle.

Andromeda’s breath hitched once — sharp and helpless — before she pressed the heel of her hand to her mouth. Tears tracked down her cheeks, bright in the flickering light. She didn’t try to wipe them away.

Harry sat small and hunched in the armchair, arms locked tight around Teddy’s sleeping weight. His eyes stared through the hearth’s dying glow, unfocused, as if he could vanish inside the dancing shadows if he just stayed still enough. His shoulders trembled once, then again — a shiver he couldn’t bite down no matter how tight he clenched his jaw.

Regulus stood like a pillar beside the hearth, one hand braced against the mantle to keep from swaying. His chest rose and fell in shallow pulls of air, exhaustion written in every line of his body. But his eyes stayed hard and bright, never leaving Severus’s slack, ashen face.

Severus looked like someone had torn his mask clean off and left the ruin for everyone to see. His mouth worked once, twice — no sound came out. He looked at Harry — really looked — and it was as if he was seeing him for the first time and didn’t know what he was supposed to do with what he saw.

And then — all at once — the coiled bitterness snapped. Severus lurched to his feet, the legs of the old chair scraping a sharp protest across the floor. The sudden sound made Harry flinch like a spark had jumped from the fire and caught his skin.

Severus didn’t speak — didn’t spit another word to twist the knife back in. He turned on his heel, robes flaring sharp around his ankles. The air behind him shimmered faintly — the soft, nearly silent crack of Disapparition echoing like a ghost slammed a door behind him.

It was nearly eleven by the time the hush of the house began to thaw. Sunlight spilled reluctant through the kitchen’s thin curtains, catching on the edges of Regulus’s dark hair where he lay stretched on the sofa. He looked half-dead with weariness — every breath a quiet complaint in his bruised body — but he didn’t close his eyes.

Andromeda knelt by him, fingers deft and steady as she peeled back old bandages and pressed fresh salve along the angry slices of Sectumsempra that hadn’t quite knitted shut. Her mouth was a thin, grim line. Every so often she’d glance at Harry where he sat slumped at the table, a plate of eggs and toast growing cold in front of him.

Harry pushed the tines of his fork through the yolk again and again — yellow bleeding out in sluggish lines he never tasted. Teddy sat at his feet, legs crossed, scribbling in bright, chaotic loops with Dora, who was giving an earnest lecture on why dragons definitely could be pink if they wanted to be.

The quiet cracked like a gunshot when the Floo flared green. Flames roared high in the hearth, licking shadows up the old walls.

Harry jerked up so fast his chair scraped the floor. Regulus’s head turned, eyes narrowing like a cat bracing for a fight he wasn’t sure he could stand up for. Andromeda’s wand slipped from the folds of her sleeve like an old habit she’d never forgotten.

Severus stepped through the flames. He looked exactly the same and nothing the same — hair limp around his sharp face, eyes darker than the smoke curling behind him. His gaze flicked over Andromeda, Teddy, Regulus, Harry — lingered on Harry a heartbeat too long — then snapped back to Andromeda and Regulus where they hovered by the sofa.

Without a word, Severus reached inside his robes. Glass clinked soft in his palm — three vials caught the light like trapped stars. He held them out, the gesture awkward and abrupt all at once.

“This is a more enhanced nerve restoration draught,” Severus said, voice tight but clear. “A nutrient tonic. And a stronger numbing agent. Give them to him — with the others — two hours apart.”

He flicked his chin toward Regulus, who blinked at the vials as if Severus had offered him a nest of live snakes. Andromeda’s hand hovered mid-bandage, her eyes darting between the potions and Severus’s stiff mouth.

Regulus let out a rough snort — the ghost of something like a laugh. “Not poison, then?”

Severus’s lip twitched — a shadow of his old scorn, brittle at the edges. “If I wanted you dead, Black, I’d hardly waste the draughts.”

Before Regulus could summon a reply sharp enough to split bone, Severus turned — his boots whispered across the scuffed floorboards. He crossed to Harry in three strides, each one clicking like a clock winding down.

“Potter.” The word cracked like flint. He stopped a foot away, looking down his nose in that old, infuriating way — but his eyes didn’t glitter with malice this time. They were dark, flat — but not empty.

Harry shrank back a little, the fork clinking forgotten against the plate’s chipped rim. He felt Regulus’s eyes on his back, Andromeda’s too — but neither said a word.

Severus extended his arm — abrupt, stiff, as if the gesture cost him more than any hex. “Come.”

Harry stared at the outstretched sleeve — the splay of pale fingers against the black cloth — then up at Severus’s face. There was no hint of softness there. But something in his eyes burned — a promise or a question, Harry wasn’t sure.

Harry’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked over his shoulder — Regulus, wide-eyed, bandaged to the collarbone; Andromeda, stone-still by his side. Teddy, watching from the floor with Dora’s pink crayon clutched in his small fist.

Slowly — with a breath that scraped like gravel in his chest — Harry reached out and set his hand against Severus’s wrist.

Severus’s fingers closed like iron. For a heartbeat, nothing moved — just the hush of a house waiting to see if old ghosts could be dragged into daylight.

Then the air twisted around them — the kitchen blurred, the hearth, the eggs gone cold — and with a sharp crack that sucked the breath from Harry’s chest, they vanished.

Chapter Text

They landed with a crack that split the quiet, damp night.

Harry stumbled, knees dipping slightly on the uneven pavement. He clutched at his ribs, the cold seeping into his bones faster than he could catch his breath. Side-along apparition had always left him dizzy, but being yanked through the tightness of magic by Severus Snape felt different — more precise, more cutting, somehow.

A swirl of winter mist drifted over the narrow street. Rows of identical brick terraces huddled together under a threadbare sky, their chimneys puffing out the last exhalations of dying fires.

Harry’s vision steadied. He knew this street. Knew that cracked lamppost, the gutter clogged with sodden leaves, the rusted iron gate that creaked when the wind so much as breathed on it.

Spinner’s End. 

Professor Snape’s childhood.

Harry’s stomach twisted with something complicated — pity, dread, the deep unease of stepping into a memory he had never wanted to touch.

Snape stood stiffly beside him, dark eyes glinting under the flickering streetlight. He did not look at Harry. Instead, he pushed open the garden gate, the metal shrieking in protest.

“Inside, Potter,” Snape murmured, voice low enough that the night nearly stole it away. “Before someone sees.”

Harry swallowed and followed him up the short path. The front door loomed — paint cracked and blistered from rain, the number plate barely hanging by one screw. Snape flicked his wand, and the lock clicked open with a reluctant sigh.

Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of old stone and something vaguely medicinal — stale mugwort and a ghost of forgotten brewing. A single lamp sputtered to life at Snape’s flick, throwing long shadows against the walls lined with shelves that sagged under the weight of battered books and stacks of yellowing paper.

It was not warm. But it was not cold either. The kind of house that had learned to keep secrets under its floorboards and draughts in its bones.

Harry lingered near the door, damp trainers soaking into the frayed carpet. He watched as Snape slipped out of his cloak and draped it precisely over the back of a threadbare armchair.

“Sit,” Snape said, already moving toward a battered kettle perched on the small stove in the adjoining kitchen.

Harry obeyed, lowering himself onto the edge of the couch. The cushions wheezed under his weight, coughing up the smell of mothballs and faint pipe smoke. His fingers itched to fidget but he tucked them under his thighs instead.

Silence pooled around them, thick as potion residue. Snape moved without speaking — filling the dented kettle, setting it on the sputtering gas flame, rummaging through an old tin for tea leaves.

Harry watched him like he might watch a nesting dragon. Carefully. Quietly.

The kettle hissed. Snape busied himself with two mismatched cups, both chipped at the rim.

“Do you take sugar?” Snape asked suddenly, not turning around.

Harry jumped. “Er — just milk. If you have any.”

A non-committal grunt. The fridge door squealed. A clink of spoon against cup.

When Snape finally crossed the small sitting room and set the mug down in front of Harry, their fingers brushed, just barely. Harry flinched at the shock of warmth in the porcelain.

“Drink. You look like you might faint and soil my carpet.”

Harry huffed a quiet, startled laugh — more reflex than amusement — and wrapped both hands around the mug. The tea was strong and a little bitter. The milk was probably a day or two past fresh, but it was warm, and it settled the tremor in his chest.

Snape lowered himself into the armchair opposite, the cushions sighing under his angular frame. He did not speak for a long time. The fireless hearth behind him was dark, the grate cold and empty.

“You should not have come here after I died.” Snape said eventually, staring into some middle distance only he could see. “Yet I suppose it was inevitable. With you.”

Harry opened his mouth — to ask why, maybe what now, maybe I didn’t mean for any of this — but Snape lifted one pale hand, cutting him off before the words could crawl out.

“Before you ask —  Even if this place is mine, it is just -” His mouth curled faintly, the ghost of a sneer worn thin by years of disuse. “Inherited filth. Unwelcome memories. A house that holds its grudges better than any man could.”

Harry stayed silent. The tea burned the tip of his tongue. He didn’t mind.

Snape’s eyes flicked to the corner of the room, where the shadows were thickest. His expression softened by an inch — a hairline crack in the granite.

“My mother sat there,” he said, his voice lower now. Almost thoughtful. “Every night. That chair — not this one — the old one. She would brew her teas in an iron pot she smuggled out of her father’s manor. Stirred with a wand carved from rowan wood. That wand is long gone now. Snapped by the man she married.”

Harry’s throat bobbed around a lump he hadn’t felt forming.

“I never knew much about her,” he said quietly. “Not really.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed at the fireless grate, but the look wasn’t for Harry — it was for something long dead and dusted over.

“Eileen Prince,” he murmured, and Harry felt the name settle into the air like a spell. “She was — by all accounts — unremarkable at first glance. Mousy hair. Slight frame. Eyes like tarnished pewter. She did not stand out in a crowd.”

He shifted in his seat, fingers drumming once against the armrest before stilling.

“But in the dungeons — she was brilliant. Potions bent to her will as if the cauldron itself feared her disappointment. She could coax beauty from powdered roots and bottled bile.”

Snape’s mouth twitched, as if at some memory that tasted of both pride and regret.

“She captained the Slytherin Gobstones team for three years. Some called her the Goblin Prince behind her back — a jest on her name, a sneer at her skill.” He glanced at Harry, something sharp flashing in the dark hollows of his eyes. “She hexed anyone who called her that to her face. Quite thoroughly, I’m told.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to hide the startled huff that threatened to break the room’s hush.

“She was meant for more,” Snape continued, softer now. “A Princess of an ancient line — the last daughter, the only heir. A girl who might have taken up her father’s seat on the Wizengamot one day, if he’d believed she deserved it.”

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tight enough that the knuckles whitened.

“But she met him,” Snape said, voice dropping to a hush that made the gas light flicker. “Tobias Snape. A Muggle dockworker with fists like iron and breath that reeked of gin and cheap cigarettes. She met him in Cokeworth, at a corner shop on a Sunday morning. And she — she chose him.”

Harry’s breath fogged the rim of his mug. He didn’t dare move.

“She ran. Left the Prince family behind. The Lord Prince — her father — struck her name from the family tree with the same wand he’d used to bless her birth. They say he wept that night. They say he did not.”

Snape’s mouth curled, but the bitterness seemed aimed at no one, or perhaps at everyone.

“She gave up everything — gold, title, power — for love. Or something she thought was love.”

His voice cracked just slightly on the last word. He cleared his throat like he could swallow it down.

“Spinner’s End was her kingdom after that. This place. These walls. The river that chokes on factory ash out back. She stayed here. Raised a son here. Held out hope here.”

Harry shifted forward, the tea forgotten now, cooling rapidly between his palms. He wanted to say I’m sorry — but that felt childish, too shallow for the grief stitched between these bricks.

Snape glanced at him then, and for a moment Harry saw something unbearably young under the mask — a thin boy with sallow skin and ink-stained fingers, peeking through the banister to watch a mother stir tea leaves by candlelight.

The room seemed to hold its breath around them. The only sound now the quiet creak of the old house as if it, too, remembered.

Snape’s eyes dropped to the cold mug in his hands. He turned it once, twice, like he might divine some answer in the swirl of dark leaves clinging to the rim.

“The first months she married my father,” he began, voice low, careful — as if he were picking each word from a bed of nettles — “were pure bliss for them. Or so she told herself. A fresh start. A Muggle husband — rough around the edges, but different from the brittle cold of her father’s house. A terraced home. A child on the way. She thought…”

He trailed off, mouth tightening. Harry waited. He knew better than to speak now — the air felt too fragile to risk breaking it with questions.

Snape drew a slow breath. He did not look at Harry. Instead he looked at the fireplace that hadn’t seen flame in years.

“She did not tell him she was a witch,” Snape said, the words dropping like stones into water. “She tucked her wand away in an old shoebox. Hid it under floorboards. She only took it out when he worked nights at the mill — when she brewed potions for herself or me.”

Harry’s knuckles whitened around his mug.

“In 1960, I was born,” Snape continued, voice stripped bare of its usual edge. “A small thing, dark-haired and quiet. She said I rarely cried. She liked that. Father liked it too — for a while.”

Snape’s lips curled, not quite a smile — more an old wound, reopened.

“Everything was good until I turned three. I remember the day clearer than I remember most things. Funny, isn’t it, Potter — what the mind chooses to keep.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He did not dare nod, but Snape didn’t seem to need it.

“Father was sitting near the kitchen table. Mum had me on her hip. I was clutching a teddy — old, worn, stuffing leaking out at the seams. I dropped it, and it rolled under the table. I reached for it. I didn’t know what I was doing — I just wanted it back.”

He drew in a shaky breath through his nose, the sound raw at the edges.

“And it flew into my hand.”

Harry’s breath caught. In the silence, he could almost see it — the drab kitchen, the chipped linoleum, the wide-eyed child on his mother’s hip, his father’s face curdling with something that wasn’t wonder.

“Father was stunned. Mum — Merlin, she looked like someone had hexed her right there. I remember the way her fingers dug into my arm — too tight, like she might anchor me to the Muggle world by force if she just held on.”

Snape’s gaze drifted — to some point far beyond the walls, the street, the years.

“He asked her what that was about. She tried to calm him — told him I was just… special. Bright, perhaps. But he wasn’t stupid, my father. He pressed and pressed, like a man worrying at a rotten tooth. She had to tell him.”

Harry’s chest squeezed, the tea in his gut sitting like a stone.

“She told him about magic. About Hogwarts. About how she was a witch, born to a line older than the Black family, wealthier than the Malfoys once, when the Princes still cared to be so. She told him she’d hidden it — to protect him, she said.”

Snape’s mouth twisted, bitter at the corners. “Tobias Snape did not like secrets. Or feeling like a fool. He demanded she teach him — magic, incantations, hexes. She tried to explain — tried to tell him that magic doesn’t work like that for Muggles. That it’s born, not taught. That no amount of envy or rage would carve a wand into his palm.”

The next words seemed to scrape loose from his throat, rusted from disuse.

“And when she said No — when she told him he could never hold it — he hit her. For the first time.”

A sharp crack split the memory — Harry realized it was his own breath, caught on the edge of a gasp. Snape did not look up.

“He grabbed her hair,” Snape said, voice soft and terrible. “Dragged her by it like she was a stray dog. Banged her head against the kitchen wall — again and again until she stopped fighting. He found her wand, broke it over his knee. Burned the pieces in the sink.”

Harry’s vision blurred at the edges — rage, helpless and useless, thrummed under his skin. But Snape’s tone left no room for pity. Only the cold, factual hush of old bruises that had learned how to heal over without ever quite disappearing.

“From then on,” Snape said, and the softness vanished — replaced by something like iron — “our days were hell. He drank when he worked and he drank when he didn’t. He drank because magic existed and he couldn’t touch it, and because he could touch us instead.”

Harry’s fingers twitched on the mug. He wanted — absurdly — to reach across the low table, to put a hand on Snape’s wrist, to say I see you. But he stayed very still.

“When I was five, he poured scalding water on my face. The kettle he’d use for his tea. He liked to watch me scream. Said it reminded me who I belonged to.”

A muscle jumped in Snape’s jaw. He did not blink.

“When I was seven, he broke my nose with his bare fist. A lesson, he said, for talking back. For reading too much. For being too quiet when he wanted noise, too noisy when he wanted silence.”

He exhaled — and Harry felt it like a gust through the room, carrying dust from a grave long sealed.

“Mum… she did what she could. Found a spare wand through some old cousin who pitied her from a distance. She’d heal what she could — bones, bruises. But not the rot he left behind. Not the ways he made us small.”

The clock on the mantle ticked on, each second a tiny echo of a heartbeat.

Harry forced his voice out, brittle as glass. “Professor…”

Snape’s eyes cut to him — black, fathomless, but not empty. Never empty.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Harry whispered. He had no other spell, no other charm to give him. Just that. The truth, laid bare between them like a wand with the core showing.

Snape did not smile — but his mouth softened at the corners, just enough. A concession. A thank you he would never say out loud.

For a long moment, they sat there — the last Potter and the last Prince, two orphans in a house full of ghosts. And for once, Harry did not feel the cold.

"Then I met your mother."

His voice dropped lower — softer than the cold wind rattling the cracked windowpanes. Harry held still, barely breathing, as if any sudden movement might scare the words back into the dark corners where Severus Snape kept them buried.

“She was —” Snape paused, the crease between his brows deepening as he searched for a word heavy enough to hold her. “She was such a gentle soul, your mother. Gentleness was never something I had much use for, Potter — but Lily — she made it seem… brave.”

The tiny lamp beside them flickered, casting long shadows across Snape’s face. In the half-light he looked older and younger all at once — the weary bitterness scraped back to reveal the thin boy by the garden gate, the one who had carried all his best secrets in his pockets because home had no room for them.

“She saw good in everyone,” Snape said, almost to himself. “She had no reason to see any in me. I was a filthy boy with second-hand robes and a home that smelled of gin and burned potatoes. But she did. She found me by the river one summer — Spinner’s End runs along the back, choked with factory ash. She said I looked like a ghost. I told her she was right.”

Harry felt something hot sting behind his eyes. He bit it back — Snape didn’t want pity. Just the telling of it seemed dangerous enough.

“Her parents… your grandparents...” Snape’s mouth twitched, a flicker of something too tender to name. “Henry and Juniper Evans. They were — good people. Plain and bright in that way Muggles can be, when they haven’t been taught to hate what they don’t understand.”

He exhaled, the sound raspy as old parchment.

“They made me stay at their house when — when Tobias was worse than usual. I’d show up at their door with a split lip or a black eye. Juniper would cluck her tongue, pull me in, feed me thick bread with jam. She’d hum while she dabbed at my face with a cold cloth. Henry — he never asked questions he didn’t want answers to. He just let me sit in their tiny back room with Lily while she read her books and Petunia practiced her algebra.”

Snape paused. Harry could see his fingertips tapping against his own knee — a tiny, restless flick, like he was counting heartbeats to keep himself steady.

“It was there, in that warm, cramped kitchen — with its cracked lino and smell of tea and soap — that I first told anyone outside of my mother about magic. About Hogwarts. About how things could be different.”

He laughed, soft and short — the ghost of a sound, brittle as spun sugar.

“Petunia — she was there too, of course. She was older. Sharper. She didn’t believe me at first. She thought I was spinning stories to frighten her sister. But then Lily — Merlin, Lily — she did it herself. Picked a petal from Juniper’s garden rose and made it bloom again right in her palm. She was nine. Her face lit up like dawn breaking.”

Harry’s throat burned. He clutched his cold mug like an anchor.

“Petunia — she was… alright with it, at first,” Snape said, voice drifting somewhere far off. “Jealous, but not cruel. When Lily’s Hogwarts letter came, she wrote to Dumbledore herself. Pleaded with him to let her in too. She’d seen what it did for me — how it gave me a place to be someone. She wanted that, desperately.”

A shadow passed through his expression, darker than the rest.

“But he turned her down. Kindly — he always did things kindly,” Snape spat, not quite anger, not quite sorrow. “Told her she had no magic. Told her Hogwarts wasn’t for her. She never forgave him for that. Or me. Or Lily, really — but she still loved Lily. Even after the bitterness crept under her nails and settled there for good.”

He drew in a breath that shuddered slightly at the end.

“That’s why —” Snape’s voice cracked, just a thread, but he pulled it together with iron. “That’s why I never thought Petunia would do to you what she did. When I heard — second-hand, long after it mattered — that you’d grown up with them… I thought, good. I thought, Lily’s blood. Her sister. She’ll be harsh, maybe, but she’ll feed him. Keep him warm.”

Harry looked down. His throat ached with things he would never say — how cold the cupboard was in winter, how hunger clawed the belly worse than Dudley’s fists, how Petunia’s eyes had never been soft when they fell on him, only sharp and resentful and afraid. But he said nothing. This was not the night for it.

“I didn’t know,” Snape murmured, like a confession to the dark. “I didn’t know what happened after our fifth year. After —” His mouth curled, the words bitter. “After I tore that friendship apart with my own poison tongue. After I let the worst part of me have the last word. I didn’t care to look. Didn’t care to see her life beyond my regrets. I told myself it was better that way. Easier.”

He fell quiet then. The hush in the sitting room pressed in around them — the walls heavy with old grief, the kettle long cold on the stove.

“Both I and your mother became inseparable,” Snape said, his voice gone soft around the edges of old syllables. He didn’t look at Harry now — his eyes had drifted somewhere over Harry’s shoulder, fixed on a corner of the peeling wallpaper where a damp patch bloomed like an ink stain.

“I was her Sev. She was my Lils.” The faintest tug of a smile ghosted his mouth — so brief Harry almost doubted he’d seen it at all. “We were children, really. Filthy knees, grass stains, pockets full of nicked biscuits and stolen seconds away from our families. Spinner’s End, and the Evans’ narrow garden, and the riverbank — all ours. Our kingdom. Such as it was.”

A sigh threaded its way through Snape’s chest, low and worn. His fingers traced idle circles along the mug, long cold by now.

“We dreamed of Hogwarts the way other children dream of Christmas,” he said. “It was magic. It was freedom. It was a place where I could be something other than my father’s punching bag and your mother could be more than the clever girl in a tiny Muggle street. It was… ours.”

Harry pressed the chipped porcelain tighter to his palms, letting the weight of it keep him grounded. He could almost see it — Lily’s hair, bright against the river’s dull current, Snape’s pinched grin when she laughed too loud and startled the birds from the reeds. They must have been so young. So unbearably young.

Snape’s brow furrowed, a flicker of old caution as he drifted deeper into that corridor of years he rarely unlocked for anyone.

“I met your father —” His voice snagged, just for a breath. Harry felt the tiny fracture slide between them like a sliver of cold steel. “— and your godfather, on the Hogwarts Express. I remember it more clearly than any lesson, any spell. It was the start of everything that would go right and wrong.”

Harry sat still, having an idea of whats coming.

“At first, they were… tolerable,” he went on, voice slipping back into its careful, clinical rhythm. “Two boys, louder than the whole compartment. Potter — your father — with that hair he’d never flatten and that grin that never shut off. Black — the heir, all polished boots and perfectly untucked arrogance. They were… bright, in the way flames are bright. Dangerous, too, though we didn’t see it yet.”

Snape’s lip curled, though not in full disdain — more like the memory tasted sour in his mouth, decades old and still sharp.

“They asked us where we’d be sorted. Lily said she didn’t care, so long as we were together. I — fool that I was — said I’d be in Slytherin. I was proud of it then. The Princes were Slytherin back to the first crest hung in that dungeon. And I — well — I needed the edge it promised. Needed the protection.”

Harry swallowed. He could picture it too well — a thin boy with hungry eyes, clutching a secondhand trunk too tightly, saying Slytherin like it was a shield big enough to hold back every bad thing waiting at home.

Snape’s mouth twisted, the memory flexing under his skin.

“That was enough,” he said, voice quiet, brittle. “Your father — oh, he laughed. Not cruel yet, just careless. But your godfather — Sirius —” He bit the name out like an old curse. “— he didn’t like it at all. Black blood, pure as the blasted tapestry at Grimmauld Place. Heir to a nest of serpents. And yet — he wanted Gryffindor. Wanted the break. I was a reminder that the house he ran from still ran through him.”

He let out a soft, humorless huff. “He called me Snivellus then and there. So proud of it, like a dog discovering his bark.”

Harry flinched — the nickname, so sharp-edged and petty, yet carried like a dagger for a lifetime.

“Lily — she shouted at them.” Snape’s mouth twitched at the corners, softening just a fraction. “Merlin, how she shouted. For a moment she was fury wrapped in gingham. She told Potter to shut his mouth, told Black he wasn’t half the rebel he thought he was. Then she grabbed my sleeve — thin as it was — and dragged me out of that compartment like it offended her to let her hair touch the same air as theirs.”

His voice went quiet, threads of warmth buried under old, cold coals.

“She always did that. Pulled me out of places that were too loud, too cruel, too quick to sneer at the boy from Spinner’s End.”

Harry found his voice only after a long hush. It felt small, but necessary. “You loved her.”

It wasn’t a question — not really. It was a truth hanging between them since the night Harry was born.

Snape’s eyes cut to him, black and bottomless and far too tired to lie.

“I did,” he said, plain as a confession, bitter as an oath. “In my way. Which was never enough. And always too much.”

The radiator rattled in the corner. Somewhere outside, the snow thickened into silence, blanketing the street in a hush no one would break until morning.

Snape leaned back, the old armchair creaking under the shift of his weight. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the mug, then fell still.

“Funny thing about magic, Potter,” he murmured, voice frayed at the edges. “It can break and mend bones. Build castles and crumble them. But the oldest magic — the sort that ties two children together on a muddy riverbank — it never listens to reason. Or regret. Or time.”

Harry’s eyes stung. He blinked fast, gaze dropping to the threadbare rug between them.

“I know,” he said, quiet as the falling snow. “I know.”

For a heartbeat, the walls of Spinner’s End did not seem so narrow. The ghosts did not press so close. And for the first time in a long, long while, Severus Snape let himself remember — not the bitterness, or the betrayal, or the ruin that came after — but the girl with hair like firelight who once saw the best in a boy who thought he had none left to give.

Chapter Text

The radiator rattled in the corner. Somewhere outside, the snow thickened into silence, blanketing the street in a hush no one would break until morning.

Inside Spinner’s End, Snape’s voice filled the hush like the last embers of a dying hearth — steady, brittle, unwilling to stay buried any longer.

“Sorting night came,” he murmured, his eyes far away, fixed on some memory behind the grime-smeared window. “I’d never worn robes that fine before — hand-stitched by my mother, trimmed down from an old Prince set she’d hidden away. Lily was nervous. Clung to my sleeve like she could drag me with her if they dared put us apart.”

A flicker of something almost like a smile ghosted his mouth. “I told her the Hat would see. It would know how much we wanted to stay together.”

Harry watched him quietly, feeling the old walls tighten and loosen with every word.

“They called her name first. Evans, Lily. She stepped up — chin high, eyes bright, hair like a banner in the torchlight. The Hat barely touched her head before it shouted Gryffindor.”

Snape’s throat bobbed, the shadow of an old, sour ache. “She looked back at me then — half-pleading, half-apologetic. Like she thought she’d failed me somehow.”

A breath shivered out of him. “When they called me — Snape, Severus — I went up proud. Certain. The Hat slipped over my ears and whispered nothing at all before it roared Slytherin for the whole hall to hear.”

His fingers drummed on the arm of the chair, a soft, restless percussion against the hush.

“We sat apart that first feast — her at the Gryffindor table, flanked by your father and Black, and fellow Gryffindors, all smiles and chatter they hadn’t yet turned on her. Me among my new house — sharp-eyed boys who smelled of old gold and older secrets. I told myself it didn’t matter. That after pudding, we’d meet by the doors, sneak off together like always.”

He huffed a low, dry laugh — it cut at the edges. “And we did. For a while. She’d find me in the library, or down by the lake. She’d slip me notes in Charms — meet me by the greenhouses, Sev. And I’d go, every time.”

Harry could see it — the girl with red hair and a laugh too bright for the dungeons, and the boy who wore his second-hand robes like armour. Two children clinging to a promise bigger than any House banner.

“But Hogwarts — Hogwarts loves its lines,” Snape said, voice flattening into something dark and weary. “It loves its walls and its little kingdoms. And it loves its favorites.”

He shifted, the chair creaking under the roll of his shoulders — a snake unfurling in old shadows.

“Potter. Black. Lupin. Pettigrew. They were charming, you see. Bright. Brave. Loud enough to fill the common room and clever enough to cover each other’s sins. The Marauders. A name they gave themselves. Like they were heroes in some grand, childish adventure. But it was never about adventure — not for them. Not really.”

Harry felt his mouth go dry. He’d heard pieces — echoes of echoes, always half-truths and muddled memories. But not like this. Not from the boy who’d stood on the other side.

“It started small,” Snape said, thumb tracing the rim of his cup. “A hex in the corridor. A jinx that turned my hair green when I bent to pick up my books. A trip charm on the stair when my arms were full of ink bottles. Laughter echoing off the stone. Just boys being boys. That’s what Slughorn said when I asked. Ignore them, Severus. Be the bigger man.”

His lip curled, not quite a sneer — just something jagged at the corners. “McGonagall turned a blind eye. Dumbledore —” The name dripped like spoiled wine. “Dumbledore saw what he wanted to see. Four bright boys, full of promise. Promise is a fine excuse for cruelty when the target’s just a lonely Slytherin from nowhere.”

Harry felt his pulse in his throat. He didn’t move — couldn’t.

“Lily tried,” Snape said softly. “She’d storm into the common room, red-faced, demanding James stop showing off, that Sirius grow up. They’d laugh at her. Promise to behave — then dream up something worse. Each prank a little sharper. Each hex a little lower.”

He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling as if he could read the old stone arches through the peeling plaster above them now.

“It wore her down,” he said. “Trying to stand between us. Trying to patch me back together when they’d torn me open. I saw it — how tired she was. How her smile strained at the corners. She’d sit with me by the lake, but she’d glance back at the castle, at the red and gold waiting for her in the tower. I hated that tower. Hated the way it pulled at her.”

He fell quiet for a heartbeat — just the rattle of the radiator, the sigh of the snow against the glass.

“Fifth year,” Snape murmured, the words dropping like stones. “It always comes back to fifth year.”

Harry’s gut tightened. He knew — pieces, only ever pieces — but hearing it here, in this crumbling living room, felt heavier than the Hogwarts library at midnight ever had.

“There was the prank, first,” Snape went on. “The werewolf prank. Your godfather — Black — sent me down the tunnel under the Whomping Willow. Go on, Snape. Go to the Shrieking Shack. See what secrets Remus keeps.”

His mouth curved in a grim, mirthless twist. “If your father hadn’t pulled me back — if he hadn’t shown up with just enough hero in him that night — I’d have died. Or worse—”

Harry’s hands clenched around his knees, knuckles pale.

“And they were not punished,” Snape said, voice sharp and soft all at once, a scalpel run through silk. “Dumbledore called it a boyish misjudgment. Told me to keep it quiet. To protect Lupin. To protect Black. Protect — what a pretty word for a lie.”

He laughed — a sound like glass underfoot. “And they learned they could do anything after that. Who would stop them?”

His gaze flicked to Harry — sharp, searching, then flickering away again like he’d changed his mind about what he might find there.

“A month later,” he said, quieter now, voice gone dry as old parchment, “they cornered me by the lake. Broad daylight. Half the school watching. They stripped me of my robes — my trousers. Snivellus — dangling like a trophy while they roared with laughter. And your mother —”

Something flickered, pain cutting quick through the mask. “She shouted at them. Of course she did. But I saw it — the way she looked at me, dangling there. Not just pity. Embarrassment. Disgust.”

He closed his eyes, the lids bruised by old memory. “I called her Mudblood. A word I’d heard in this house too many times to count. A word that tasted like Tobias Snape’s gin-soaked curses. A word I spat at her like poison — because if she wouldn’t stand beside me anymore, I’d tear down the pedestal myself.”

Harry swallowed against the dry, bitter knot in his throat. 

Snape exhaled. “We drifted after that. She — she tried, for a time. Letters slipped under my door. Soft words I refused to read. And then… she stopped. And I stepped deeper into the shadows that waited for me. The ones I thought would keep me safe.”

The old house creaked. And Harry thought he could almost see them there — the ghosts of two children on a train, pressed shoulder to shoulder, dreaming of magic and freedom and a future that never came.

Harry was sitting cross-legged on the threadbare rug like a boy at a ghost story told too close to the bone.

Snape leaned back, head tipped to the ceiling, breath thin in the hush he’d made with his confessions. When he spoke again, his voice came like ash stirred from the grate — low, grave, inevitable.

“After Lily…” His mouth twitched, the word sour on his tongue. “After the lake, after that word — the one I spat at her like a curse I knew would stick — I pulled away. Or maybe she did. It doesn’t matter anymore. The truth is, I let her slip through my fingers because it was easier than holding on.”

He flexed his hand once on the arm of the chair, the knuckles thin and pale. “I turned where Hogwarts turned me — into the arms of those who offered shelter when the walls of the castle only echoed with laughter at my back.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He didn’t look at Harry now. He didn’t look anywhere he might see pity reflected back at him.

“In the summer of 1976 — after fifth year — I came home.”

He said it simply, plainly. But Harry felt the cold bite of it all the same.

“I’d been sleeping in the castle as long as I could get away with it. Helping Slughorn bottle up his precious stocks, brewing things he was too lazy to do himself — anything to stay an extra week, an extra night. But you can’t hide forever, can you? Not when you’re sixteen and your father’s drunk debts hang over you like a stormcloud.”

Snape’s hand curled slowly into a fist on the armrest. He didn’t seem to notice.

“I came home one night — late. Mum hadn’t answered my last letter. I thought — Merlin, I thought she’d just given up the fussing. That maybe, for once, she’d found a bit of quiet while I was gone. I let myself in through the back door. The kitchen was dark. The sitting room…”

He drew a breath through his teeth. It caught halfway, fraying at the edges.

“She was there. On the floor.” He said it like reciting a potion’s instructions — steady, careful, because if he didn’t measure it right, it might blow apart in his hands. “A pool of blood around her head, seeping into the threadbare carpet. One shoe off. Her hair half-pulled from its braid.”

Harry could see it — too vividly — the flicker of a bare bulb overhead, the smell of cheap spirits soaked into the walls.

“My father was there,” Snape went on, voice low but brittle as frost. “Sat at the table. Bottle in one hand, belt in the other, the buckle stained dark. He looked at me like I was the punchline to his favourite joke. Smirked at me — that grin he’d wear when he’d taken something he knew you couldn’t get back.”

Snape’s mouth twisted, more a wound than a smile. “I knelt beside her. Tried to — to lift her head. She was still warm. Not alive — not anymore — but warm. That was worse, somehow. Knowing I’d missed her by an hour. Maybe less. He watched. Didn’t say a word.”

Harry’s nails bit crescents into his palms. His tongue felt useless in his mouth — there was nothing to say that didn’t sound like pity, and Snape would spit that back in his face if he offered it.

“I buried her,” Snape murmured. “Quietly. There’s no Prince grave left for her — they’d cut her off long before. So I did it here. Behind the fence by the river, under the willow that leaks factory soot every spring. Just me. No wand. Just dirt and these hands.”

He looked at them then — pale, thin-fingered, a Potions Master’s careful instruments — as if he could still see the soil under his nails.

Harry didn’t breathe until Snape did.

“That year, as usual, I left for Hogwarts. But there was no more Lily for me. But there were others.” He fell silent for a long moment. “I fell in with Avery first. A boy who liked to hex first and smirk second — but he had a spine, and he hated Potter as much as I did. He taught me curses the textbooks wouldn’t print. Mulciber came next — bigger, nastier, all bared teeth and cruelty. He’d corner younger students, show me how fear worked when the right spell was pressed to the throat. Then Wilkes, Selwyn.”

Snape’s mouth curved — something between self-disgust and dark honesty. “I didn’t flinch. Not then. I told myself it was power. That every curse, every hex, every shriek echoing off the corridor walls was proof I’d never be small again. That no father would lay a hand on me. That no boy in red and gold would dare strip me bare before an audience of laughing ghosts.”

Harry’s gut twisted — but he said nothing. He didn’t dare.

“Regulus Black —” Snape’s tone shifted, softer, curious at the edges. “He was there too. Younger. Quiet in the corners of the common room, always watching. Never the sort to get his hands dirty, not directly. He carried the family name like a crown and a chain both. I suppose you know that by now.”

Harry nodded, once, just enough that the silence knew he was listening.

“Regulus didn’t laugh when Avery baited first years. He didn’t sneer when Mulciber bragged about what he’d do to Muggle girls when the holidays came. He just watched — learned. Spoke little. I think, in some part of his black heart, he hated all of us. Even then.”

A ghost of a sigh slipped loose. “But he was useful. When the whispers came — the promises — Regulus knew the channels. Knew which older boys carried the mark hidden under winter sleeves. Knew which pureblood families would open the door when a boy like me came knocking, looking for more.”

Harry’s breath hitched — just once — but Snape’s voice rolled on, merciless as a slow knife.

“The Dark Lord was only a rumour at first. A name passed under the cover of flickering candlelight. He’ll remake the world, they said. No more Muggle filth. No more half-blood shame. Power, for those willing to take it.”

His eyes flicked to Harry — dark, glittering with something like disgust turned inward. “I wanted that power, Potter. Desperately. I told myself I’d wield it like a shield — carve a place for myself where no Black or Potter could look down on me again.”

The old pipes in the wall shivered. Snow clung to the window in soft, smothering drifts.

“He offered me an apprenticeship first,” Snape said. His voice almost gentle, like a teacher telling a story to a pupil who needed to understand how monsters made themselves. “Under a Potions Master so old his skin looked like parchment. I brewed draughts for Death Eaters too reckless to brew for themselves. Poisons. Antidotes. Untraceable toxins that turned blood to black sludge in days.”

He let that settle — heavy and sour as potion dregs at the bottom of a cauldron.

“When the Dark Lord's calling came,” Snape said, voice sharper now — the old venom laced with something hollow and final, “he told me what he required. A life for the Mark. Not a hex, not a brewing test. Blood. Pain. Proof I was willing to cut ties with the Muggle world once and for all.”

He gave a small, bitter laugh — thin and flat as the frost on the window. “Some found a stranger. A vagrant, a farmer on a lonely lane. I didn’t need to look that far. He was waiting for me right here. Same kitchen. Same bottle. Same grin.”

Harry felt his skin crawl — not with horror at Snape’s crime, but at the sharp, brutal justice coiled inside it.

“I stunned him first,” Snape said, almost conversational, like he were listing ingredients. “Bound him to the chair. I brewed potions on the stove while he spat curses at me — called me my mother’s filthy boy, called me her last mistake. I poured the draught of despair down his throat. Watched as he begged for mercy. Then i poured Moribund Venin on his mouth. Watched his veins blacken while he choked on his own hate.”

He let that hang between them, like smoke from a fire long gone out.

“I killed him, Potter. Not quick, either. I made him feel it. And I did not regret it. Not then. Not now.”

He looked at Harry then — and Harry found no apology in those fathomless black eyes, no plea for absolution. Just a truth as cold and bare as the snow piling up on the street outside.

“That was my offering,” Snape said, his voice gone very soft now, as if to remind Harry what monsters sometimes look like when they stand in lamplight.

“August, 1977.” Snape’s eyes shuttered, the lashes trembling once. “I took the Mark. Down in a cellar near Durham, under torchlight and cold stone. It burned — Merlin, it burned. But I welcomed it. It meant I belonged. For the first time since the riverbank where Lily found me, I belonged.”

His lip twitched — not quite a sneer, not quite a grimace. “I wore it under my Hogwarts robes for my final year. A student by day, a servant by night. Raids when the Dark Lord called. Torture when he demanded. Avery and Mulciber beside me — eager hounds sniffing blood in the dark.”

Harry’s stomach turned — but he kept his eyes steady, locked on Snape’s. If Snape noticed, he said nothing.

“Graduation, 1978.” Snape’s mouth curved again — a slash of bitterness. “Dumbledore congratulated me with that same grandfatherly twinkle he gave the Marauders. Maybe he knew. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just hoped the Mark on my arm would fade if he smiled kindly enough.”

A quiet, lethal hush settled between them.

“And so I was his,” Snape said — each word a weight dropped on cold stone. “The Dark Lord’s. I did what was asked. Raids in the dead of night. Muggle villages set alight for sport. Names on parchment, crossed off with wands and screams. I told myself it was necessary — that it kept my place at the table warm. That someday, when the power was mine, I’d wield it better.”

He laughed then — a low, broken thing. “But power doesn’t stay clean, Potter. It stains everything it touches. And I — I was already filthy long before he laid his wand across my skin.”

Harry’s heart thundered. His throat felt scraped raw. He couldn’t look away.

“Then — the prophecy.” Snape’s voice sharpened — not louder, but knifed with something cold and desperate. “I heard it by accident — eavesdropping at the Hog’s Head like a half-starved dog. I thought — I thought I’d win favour. Prove myself. So I carried it to him. A child born to those who thrice defied him…”

His eyes met Harry’s — black, bottomless, terrible in their honesty. “I did not know it was Lily. Not then. Not until he began to plan — until the pieces fell and the names were spoken plain: the Potters, and the Longbottoms.”

Harry’s hands trembled on his knees.

“I went to him — on my knees like a beast. Begged. Spare her. Kill the child. Kill the husband. But spare her.” His voice splintered, breath ragged, stitching itself back together on sheer will. “He promised nothing. He promised everything. I knew — even then — it was a lie.”

Snape’s shoulders sagged. He looked suddenly older than the stones holding this house upright.

“I went to Dumbledore next. Crawled to the man I hated more than any other, save one. Told him what I’d done. What would come. Pleaded — like a child again, begging mercy where none was deserved.”

His next breath cracked the hush wide open. “I became his. His spy. His snake in the tall grass. His monster turned traitor — too late to save her. Too late to do anything but watch the ruin I helped build swallow the only thing I ever loved.”

Outside, the snow fell thick and silent, burying the street and its old sins in a hush no spring would ever fully melt.

Inside, Harry sat in the ruins of Spinner’s End, heart splintered under the weight of truths he’d never asked for — but needed to carry now all the same.

Chapter Text

“It wasn’t much of a change.”

Severus’s voice cut the hush like a dull blade, ragged at the edges, half-dragged from a throat gone hoarse with truths too long buried.

“Just… one master traded for another.”

He didn’t look at Harry — not really. His gaze drifted past him, fixing somewhere over Harry’s shoulder, as if the walls of Spinner’s End had been stripped away to reveal old corridors, colder rooms where shadows lingered no matter how many candles you burned.

“Only difference was Dumbledore didn’t hand out Crucios like sweets at Halloween,” Snape rasped, mouth twisting into something that might have been a smile, if one squinted hard enough through the ruin of him. “Didn’t bark for dead Muggles stacked like cordwood. Didn’t care for blood purity or half-blood mongrels like me — not in the way the Dark Lord did.”

The wind rattled the cracked windowpane behind him, a low, hollow sound that made the room feel smaller, older than it already was.

“But freedom—”

A bitter laugh, too soft to echo. “Freedom was never part of the bargain. Not with either of them. Not really.”

His eyes flicked to Harry then — black as ink spilled across fresh parchment, all sharp edges and secrets Harry wished he could un-know.

“People think I chose my chains. They look at me — greasy-haired dungeon bat, Death Eater turned Order’s tame snake — and think monster. Traitor. And they’re not wrong.”

He exhaled, a slow, fraying thing that seemed to pull the dust in the corners closer.

“I stayed a traitor to the last. Killed my master for my master. Wore the Dark Mark even as I whispered secrets behind closed doors. Bowed to the Dark Lord who never knew how sharp my teeth really were.”

The words dragged themselves out like old bones unearthed from a shallow grave. Harry rose from the floor and walked towards the ratty old window, taking steady breaths that anchored him to the present while Severus dug up the dead.

“They don’t write that part in your pretty history books,” Snape sneered — not at Harry, not really, but at the ghosts pressing in around them. “How the Order’s greatest spy learned to carve out bits of himself until there was nothing left but duty. Nothing left but a name spat like poison from both sides of a war that was never mine to begin with.”

Outside, the snow pressed against the window in silent witness — a white hush trying to bury a man who had already buried himself long before a snake’s fangs ended it.

“I taught children how to bottle fame, brew glory, twist their tongues around words older than any grave,” Snape murmured. “I frightened them because that’s all I had left. Power enough to terrify brats too young to understand they were learning from a corpse in borrowed robes.”

He fell silent, breath hitching. A flicker of something soft bled through the bitterness then — so quick Harry almost missed it.

“But I stayed.” His fingers curled tight in the worn fabric of his coat sleeve. “Because I had to. Because I owed her. Because I had nothing else to offer the world but betrayal repackaged as loyalty.”

Harry opened his mouth to deny him — to argue that he hadn’t been worthless, that he had done more good than any Order medal could ever weigh — but Severus’s voice, raw and quiet, pressed down on the protest like a hand closing gently over a flame.

“The first time I ever saw you,” Snape said, as if Harry hadn’t spoken at all, “you were screaming your throat raw in that damned cottage. Your little fists white on the crib rails. That cursed scar leaking blood like it was trying to drain the curse itself out of you.”

His eyes didn’t meet Harry’s — they drifted somewhere else, distant and sharp all at once, tracing ghosts on the battered walls of Spinner’s End.

“Lily was—”

His mouth twitched, words threatening to crumble at the edges. He forced them through anyway.

“She was just there. On the floor. Her hair—” He exhaled, shaky. “I knelt. Held her. For some moments. Long enough to remember what it felt like to be sixteen again, standing by that lake, calling her Mudblood like a coward, and watching everything worth having slip through my fingers.”

His thumb rubbed absently over a faded seam in his sleeve, as if trying to scrub the memory off his skin.

“When I could stand again, you were still crying. Red-faced, furious at the world already.”

He barked out a laugh, short and mirthless. “Your father’s temper, her eyes. I suppose it was inevitable.”

Harry stayed silent, the words pinning him to the wall like a Sticking Charm.

“I didn’t know what to do.” Snape’s voice turned almost fragile, a thing too thin to hold the weight of what he carried. “I was good with poisons and hexes. Not children. Not you. But you were bleeding and you were all that was left of her. So I did what I could — Episkey, the only charm I trusted with hands that only ever knew how to hurt.”

He shook his head once, a brittle jerk of motion. “It didn’t close. Of course it didn’t. Magic like that — ancient, rotten — doesn’t care for mother’s love or traitor’s regrets. It burrows in. Makes a home.”

A faint bitterness curled his mouth. “I might have stayed. Might have… I don’t know what foolishness I was thinking. Some part of me — the same part that begged a madman for mercy — wanted to lift you out of that crib and run. Hide you away somewhere he’d never find you.”

A silence pulsed between them — heavy, brimming with what-ifs too jagged to name.

“But your godfather’s voice — Black — he was shouting for you from the front step, calling for Lily, for James, for you. I knew I had to leave. If he’d found me there — over her body —”

Snape’s mouth twisted, eyes glittering with something sharp. “I’d have died on that nursery floor beside her. And maybe that would have been the better ending for everyone.”

Harry’s throat worked around words that refused to come.

Severus drew in a slow breath, filling his lungs with the damp, dust-choked air of his old house.

“That was the first time,” he murmured. “The first time I stood at the edge of your life and chose not to touch it. Not properly. Not the way I wanted. Not the way I should have.”

A pause. Then softer — softer than Harry had ever heard him:

“The second time I saw you,” Severus went on, his voice drifting back through the long, dust-choked corridors of his memory, “you were standing in the Great Hall. A sea of faces, all wide-eyed and trembling under that damned ceiling of stars. I remember you looked so small — Merlin, smaller than Lily ever was. Smaller than James.”

A breath. A faint, bitter twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Skinny. Sharp elbows. Hollow cheeks. You were clutching that robe like it was armour that might split at the seams any moment.”

The fire sputtered low in the grate. Outside, the snow kept its vigil at the window, pressing soft against cold glass.

“You were skittish.” The word came out like a confession more than an observation — a ghost pressing itself against old stone. “Always glancing at the doors. The windows. Like you needed an escape plan even when you were meant to feel safe. Especially then.”

His gaze flicked to Harry — then away again, landing on the cracked hearth. “You never raised your hand. Never asked for more when the platters circled. You’d pile your plate the smallest you could get away with — push half of it around with your fork so the ghosts of that castle wouldn’t notice how thin you were getting. How small.”

Harry’s breath caught. The memory of it — the way the smell of roast and bacon never sat right in his gut, the way Durselys' voices would echo inside his head even under all that enchanted ceiling and candlelight — made his ribs feel too tight for his lungs.

“I should have noticed.” The words scraped out of Severus’s throat like they’d been waiting there for decades. “I should have seen it for what it was. Merlin knows — Merlin knows I should have seen it.” His fingers pressed into the fabric at his knee, the knuckles pale and strained. “I was that boy once. Hungry. Small. Afraid to take more than what I could hide in a pocket for later.”

A silence — heavy as stormclouds over the Black Lake.

“But I didn’t see you,” he forced out. “Not really. Didn’t want to. Because all I saw was James — that cursed smirk, that wind-ruffled hair, that easy confidence you never had and I told myself you did. It was easier — cleaner — to pretend you were him. To hate him all over again through you.”

His mouth twisted, a ghost of a sneer that had once made first-years flinch. Now it cracked at the edges, brittle as frost.

“And so I sharpened my tongue on your mistakes. Let my bitterness feed itself on your silences. Poured old poison into new wounds — your wounds — because I could not bring myself to look closer. Could not stand the mirror I might find.”

Harry’s eyes burned — he blinked, and the warmth on his cheek startled him when it slipped down to his jaw.

Severus saw. Of course he did. He looked at the tear, then away so sharply it might have drawn blood.

“I will not apologize to you, Pott—” He stopped himself, jaw clenching until the old name cracked. “Harry.”

It felt like something ancient giving way — stone split by root and rain.

“I won’t insult you with an apology,” Snape rasped. “I will not smear balm over wounds I salted myself. There are not enough I’m sorrys in the world to stitch up what I did with my own hands.”

Another pause. A softer breath, so raw Harry almost looked away from the sheer nakedness of it.

“But I will try.” The words dropped like small, heavy stones into the hush. “I will try — for whatever time this mangled timeline has given us — to see you. Not James. Not my failures. Just you.”

A ghost of a self-deprecating huff. “Merlin help me. I will try to be better. To put aside old ghosts — or at least not let them turn me into one.”

Something cracked in Harry then — the ache of years spent carrying a boy who never got to be just Harry. And he wept — quietly, stubbornly, as if his ribs had given up trying to hold all that salt and hurt inside.

Severus went still — the Potions Master, the double agent, the man who faced monsters in dark corridors with only poison and secrets as his shield — utterly frozen before the soft, unstoppable spill of a young man’s grief.

And then — so stiffly it was almost comical — he reached out. An awkward, bony hand hovered in the air for a breathless moment before landing, gentle as moth wings, on Harry’s shoulder. A single pat. Then another — like he was testing how to comfort a wound that didn’t take dittany or Episkey to close.

Harry laughed through the tears — a wet, breathless sound that cracked something softer open between them.

“Pathetic,” Snape muttered under his breath, hand retreating almost guiltily. But his mouth twitched — the faintest ghost of a thing that might one day become a smile.

Outside, the snow fell heavier — burying old roads and older sins. Inside, in the warm hush of Spinner’s End, two broken things tried — clumsily, imperfectly — to mend.

Andy was in the kitchen when the whoosh of green flame painted the hearth in flickering emerald. The sharp scent of cinnamon and scorched sugar clung to the air — the cookies turning slightly too brown while her mind ran circles around every worst-case scenario.

She startled when the Floo roared again. The tray of biscuits nearly slipped from her flour-dusted hands. She caught it against her hip just as Severus stepped out of the fireplace, looking rumpled and thunderclouded in his dark robes, and Harry stumbled out after him, eyes red rimmed, pink-cheeked and slightly singed at the hem of his jumper.

The second Harry’s feet found the rug, he didn’t bother brushing soot from his shoulders. His eyes darted across the cozy parlor — past the mismatched armchairs — until they landed on the sight that made the knot in his chest snap loose all at once.

Regulus was there — sprawled cross-legged on the rug like an ancient prince pretending to be mortal, hair undone around his collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Teddy perched on his knee, squealing delightedly as Regulus conjured shimmering bubbles that danced just out of the baby’s reach. Beside them, little Nymphadora sat like a tiny queen, hair bright turquoise today, giving Regulus very solemn instructions on which bubbles should pop first.

Harry’s breath caught, ribs aching with how simple and right it looked.

He didn’t think. He bolted.

The room blurred. Flour from Andy’s apron brushed his shoulder as he flew past. He nearly tripped over Nymphadora’s abandoned toy dragon.

Then Regulus looked up, quicksilver eyes catching Harry’s just in time for impact.

“Oof—” Regulus started, but whatever clever thing he’d meant to say vanished under Harry’s mouth crashing clumsily against his.

Nymphadora made an immediate sound of outrage. “Yuck!” She threw her hands in the air like a tiny scandalized matron. “Disgusting! I’m telling Mummy you’re being gross again—”

She reached over dramatically and slapped her small hands over Teddy’s eyes. The baby made a protesting noise, squirmed, then giggled when one of Regulus’s bubbles popped on his nose.

Severus stood frozen in the fireplace’s warm spill of light, a single soot-smudge on his sleeve like a fresh battle scar. His mouth flattened into a thin line, one brow creeping skyward with the weary despair of a man who regretted every life choice that led to this moment of public romantic spectacle.

Andromeda appeared then — apron askew, hair pinned up in a soft halo that made her look younger than her years. She stopped dead in the threshold, a half-panicked sigh tumbling out when she saw both of them alive, upright.

“Thank Merlin—” she breathed. The tray tilted in her hands, scattering a few biscuits to the rug, but she didn’t seem to care.

Severus arched a single eyebrow — so sharp it could have sliced parchment. His voice dripped dry acid. “What, precisely, did you imagine, Andromeda? That I would maim Potter and feed him to Nagini?”

Harry and Regulus broke apart at that, breathless, foreheads pressed together as they both laughed into each other’s skin — small, giddy sounds that made Harry feel nineteen and ancient at once.

“Considering your track record, Severus—” Andromeda huffed, bending to retrieve a runaway biscuit from Teddy’s chubby fist before he could see if it tasted better than his dragon toy. “—it wasn’t impossible.”

“I hate all of you,” Severus said mildly, crossing the rug in a sweep of black robes that made Nymphadora squeal “Bat!” at his ankles. He ignored her expertly, perching stiffly in the armchair nearest the fire like he might hex it for daring to creak under him.

Harry looked up from where Regulus still held him — hands firm at Harry’s waist, as if daring the universe to pry him away again. His grin cracked open wide and helpless. “You’re a terrible liar, Snape.”

“Not when it counts,” Severus shot back. But his mouth twitched at the corner — the faintest fracture in his gloom.

Nymphadora abandoned Teddy long enough to wag a scolding finger at Harry. “No snogging in front of babies. Or me.”

Regulus flicked her hair lightly — it turned bubblegum pink in mock outrage. “Jealous, Dora?”

She scowled, then immediately tackled him around the middle, her tiny giggle muffled in the fold of his shirt. Teddy squealed his approval and crawled up Harry’s leg like a determined, sticky koala.

Andromeda just sighed, catching Severus’s twitching eye over the tangle of humans.

In the hush that settled — warm, cluttered, impossibly alive — Severus exhaled a breath that might have been annoyance. Or surrender. Or maybe something smaller and softer than either.

“Next time,” he muttered to Andromeda as she offered him a fresh cup of tea, “remind me to apparently feed Potter to Nagini after all. It would be less work than enduring this.”

Harry just laughed — bright and too loud, echoing off old walls that had seen too many cold silences and not enough of this.

Later, after the last biscuit had been swiped by Teddy — and after Nymphadora had upended half a jar of lemon curd onto the kitchen rug while helping clean up — Andromeda turned her formidable gaze on Harry like a hawk sighting a mouse.

“No,” Harry protested immediately, backing toward the kitchen door, but Andy just clicked her tongue, crooked a finger, and Regulus — the traitor — snagged him by the back of his jumper like an errant kitten.

“Sit.” Andy pointed to the couch as if it were an execution bench.

Harry flopped down with all the dignity of a sulking cat. Teddy crawled up beside him, sticky fingers patting at Harry’s knee with the solemn air of a pint-sized emotional support creature. Regulus perched on the armrest behind him, one leg folded, his chin propped on his knuckles, watching with open amusement as Andromeda flicked her wand in brisk, no-nonsense arcs.

Snape lingered by the fireplace, arms crossed, expression a careful blend of 'I told you so' and 'I’m only here because I don’t trust you fools not to botch this.'

Soft blue diagnostic runes flickered across Harry’s skin — dancing over collarbones, wrists, ribs. He shivered at the gentle fizz of the charms, the way they hummed along old scars he usually did his best to ignore.

Andy muttered under her breath, lips pursed. With every hum and flick of her wand, Regulus’s brows inched higher — sharp eyes darting between the glowing script and Harry’s face.

Finally, she straightened with a small, weary sigh and rapped her wand lightly against her palm. “Hmm…”

That sound alone made Harry’s stomach twist. “What?”

She ignored him, turning slightly so all three Blacks could loom over him like a disappointed Greek chorus.

“Your growth is stunted,” she said briskly, tapping a floating rune that highlighted his spine. “Your bone density is low. The bones in your left wrist — honestly, Harry, what did They did to you? Never mind, don’t tell me — the bones need to be entirely removed and regrown.”

Harry winced. “Oh.”

“And you’re slightly anemic. Calcium’s in the cellar. Magical core is strong, but…” She flicked her wand and a spiral of tiny symbols pulsed at Harry’s chest, glowing gold. “There are signs of wild magical flaring under duress — I’d wager you force it down until it doesn’t know whether to help you or kill you.”

Harry shifted under their combined stare. “I don’t— It’s not that—”

“You also have scarrings that may be permanent,” Andy pressed on, overriding his stammer with the smooth ruthlessness only a Black matriarch could wield. “I’ll recommend Mellorra’s Veriderm balm. Slightly expensive, but the best for old scars. Might soften them if we start now.”

Regulus made a soft noise behind him — something dark and sharp at the edges, like a blade being drawn just a hair from its sheath. Harry didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. He could feel the heat of Regulus’s glare like a second hearth behind him.

“You’ll need Nutri-Bone Elixir,” Andy continued, counting off on her fingers like a general tallying ammunition. “Calcifortis Draught twice daily, mild doses of Blood-Replenishing Potion for five months — you’re lucky we caught it now, or you’d be looking at marrow treatment.”

Severus made a noise that might have been approval — the closest he ever got to encouragement. “She’s right, Potter. Your magical core compensates, but your body is a ruin.”

Harry bristled. “I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not,” Andromeda snapped, her voice low but unyielding. “Don’t start with me, Harry James Potter. You are not fine, and you won’t play hero in my sitting room.”

She turned back to her list. “You’ll also take a Calming Draught every time you feel that familiar itch under your skin — don’t lie, I know exactly what magical recoil feels like — for three months, then Dreamless Sleep twice a week for five weeks.”

Harry opened his mouth, fumbling for any protest that didn’t sound childish. “I don’t need—”

One low, warning hum from Regulus behind him stopped the words dead. Harry turned just enough to catch the look: cold, imperious, and yet so heartbreakingly soft around the edges. 'Try it,' that look said. 'See what happens.'

Harry shut his mouth with a small, defeated huff.

Nymphadora, who had reappeared with a suspicious smear of chocolate on her chin, peered up at him from the floor. “Are you sick?” she asked solemnly.

Harry’s face softened. “Just… tired, Dora.”

“Don’t die,” she ordered, very matter-of-fact. She patted his knee with a sticky hand. “I’ll bite you if you die.”

Regulus choked on a laugh. Severus pinched the bridge of his nose like he was reconsidering every life choice that had brought him here.

Andromeda just smiled faintly, then pressed the list of potions into Severus’s hand. “You’ll brew them?”

“Of course,” Snape sniffed, tucking it into his inner sleeve. “I wouldn’t trust any of you halfwits to measure a base infusion properly.”

Harry let his head drop back against Regulus’s thigh. He felt a warm hand slide into his hair, carding through it gently — more promise than comfort, but enough to make the knots in his chest loosen by a thread.

“Drama queens, all of you,” Harry muttered, eyes fluttering.

Regulus’s fingers stilled. “And yet you keep us around, darling.”

A beat of silence. Then Harry’s quiet laugh drifted up to meet the hush of the soft rustle of night settling over the world outside. 

The warmth of the living room settled thick and heavy. Harry, half curled sideways against Regulus’s thigh, felt his eyelids start to slip. Teddy had clambered onto his chest, now dozing with one fist tucked under his chin. Regulus’s fingers drifted absently through Harry’s hair, slow and absentminded, as if the quiet hum of domesticity might hold back the world for just one night longer.

But of course, it couldn’t.

Andromeda, ever practical, ever sharp, broke the hush with her voice — low but cutting through the peace like the crack of an old wand splitting at the core.

“All right,” she said, arms folded, eyes flicking between Regulus and Severus like they were two boys caught hexing each other behind the potting shed. “Now that you’ve hauled him back in one piece — and that I have my sitting room back in some semblance of order — someone tell me: what exactly are you two planning to do about him?”

Harry blinked his eyes open, blinking sleep-blurred lashes as he adjusted Teddy’s soft weight on his chest. Regulus’s fingers paused in his hair, then resumed with the barest hitch — buying time. Severus shifted where he sat on the arm of an old armchair, robes pooling around his boots like spilled ink.

Severus gave Andromeda a look — the sort of look that could have curdled fresh milk. “Do about him,” he repeated, dry enough to sand the edges off her patience. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Andromeda, but ‘doing something’ about the Dark Lord isn’t quite as simple as one might hope.”

Andromeda arched an eyebrow — all steel and good breeding. “You must have some plan.”

Harry shifted under Teddy, who snuffled and buried his face against Harry’s jumper. He frowned, glancing between them. “ Plan?” he asked, wary now — the word Dark Lord always pulled him up like cold water down the back of his neck. "Reggie and I already decided to hunt horcruxes. And we got the diadem from Hogwarts, with the help of Dumbledore"

Severus exhaled through his nose — a thin, tired thing that seemed to take half the warmth from the room with it. “You involved Dumbledore? No matter, you have to give up that plan right here. Before we can even think about what comes next,” he said, voice pitched carefully low, “there’s a more immediate problem.”

Regulus’s fingers paused again, this time pressing a little too tight against Harry’s scalp — like the words were pressing him, too.

“The Dark Mark,” Severus said simply. He rolled his sleeve back with deliberate, brittle care. The skin of his forearm looked pale and tired in the hearthlight — but the Mark itself throbbed under the surface, alive in a way ink shouldn’t be. It twitched faintly — Harry hated how it seemed to sense the air, like something breathing just beneath the skin.

Regulus mirrored the motion with a faint sneer — baring his own Mark like a confession. Two snakes coiled in the room now — two identical scars that bound them both to a man who should have been dead, would not stay dead, and would not let them go free without blood for payment.

Harry swallowed. His voice came out smaller than he meant it to. “Can you remove it?”

Severus’s eyes snapped to him — black and glinting, but not unkind. “Not I, Potter.” He dragged the sleeve down again with a sharp flick. “You.”

Chapter Text

Kreacher’s breath caught on a ragged edge — a cough that tasted of old iron and bile.The poison coiled in his gut like a nest of frozen snakes, every wheezing squeezing it tighter through veins too small for so much agony. He could feel the cold cave still clinging to his bones — the whisper of dead hands drifting just beyond reach. He wantedt o sink, to close his eyes and let the blackness under the lake swallow him whole.

But through the clawing haze came that voice — so quiet yet sharper than any curse Voldemort had ever hissed at him.

“Come back to me. Alive.”

Yong Master Regulus’s command. A whisper shaped like mercy — like chains, too, but kreacher had worn chains all his life. Chains were familiar. Chains were safe when they were his young master’s.

He could taste it — the promise he had made, curling like blood under his tongue. Regulus. His boy. His young master who once tucked bread crusts in his pocket when Walburga turned away, who once pressed trembling fingers to Kreacher’s burnt palms and whispered sorry when he was much too small to know what forgiveness cost.

Kreacher shuddered. The stone beneath him was slick with spit, tears, the remnants of that vile draught. His hands clawed at it, scraping skin raw as if he could burrow down and vanish. But there was nowhere to vanish to except back.

Back to young master Regulus.

A sob snagged in his throat — not fear, not pain, but something smaller, older: the wish to be good, to obey, to serve where love still flickered like a guttering candle. He pressed gnarled fingers to the stone — the last taste of the cave salt on his cracked lips — and sucked what magic he could from marrow and muscle and memory. His magic sputtered like a dying flame. He had so little left.

'Kreacher must obey.'

'Kreacher must go home.'

'Kreacher must not fail.'

A sharp pop cracked the silence — louder than thunder inside his tiny skull. The cavern lunged away from him — green light swallowed by dark, then dark swallowed by nothing at all.

L’Étoile Enchantée had always been one of the more respected places to dine in Diagon Alley. It wasn’t flashy like the newer places near Gringotts, nor did it try too hard to be 'pure wizarding' like some of the old inns down Knockturn Alley. Instead, it felt timeless— warm oak panels on the walls, flickering candles that floated mid-air above every table, and enchanted paintings of famous witches and wizards who sometimes leaned out of their frames to sniff the delicious aromas wafting by.

Soft jazz music played from an old gramophone in one corner, charmed to keep going without ever needing a needle change. The air smelled of rich sauces, fresh herbs, and warm pastries that reminded everyone of home — no matter where that was.

House-elves in neat little uniforms popped in and out of sight, bringing plates that hovered behind them until they set themselves down on tables with gentle clinks. Over at the far end, an open kitchen buzzed with activity: cauldrons stirred themselves, knives chopped vegetables mid-air, and tiny plumes of purple or gold steam rose when the chefs — in tall pointed hats — added just the right pinch of powdered salamander tail or mooncalf salt.

Albus Dumbledore sat alone at a corner table by the big bay window that overlooked the cobbled street outside. His half-moon glasses were perched low on his nose as he slowly turned a glass of deep red wine in his fingers — a rare bottle of Château Lumos, if the label was right. His eyes weren’t really on the street, nor on the wine. They were somewhere deeper, flickering behind all that calm, through countless thoughts and carefully balanced plans that only he truly understood.

He didn’t notice the door swing open at first — a little bell above it gave a cheerful jingle— but when he glanced up, he saw two men step inside, brushing stray snowflakes off their cloaks.

The older of the two looked to be in his late seventies — shoulders still strong, though his wild dark hair was streaked with grey. His hazel eyes swept the room with easy familiarity, and when they landed on Albus, they crinkled in a way that suggested mischief rather than age.

Beside him, the younger man — perhaps in his early sixties — was a touch leaner, though his dark hair was just as unruly. He wore square glasses that kept sliding down his nose, and every so often he pushed them up with the back of his hand while speaking to the older man in a low, quick voice. His eyes were a striking pale green — sharp and curious, darting over every flickering candle and drifting plate.

There was something about the way they smiled — both of them — that tugged at Dumbledore’s memory. It reminded him of one of his more troublesome students — the one who managed to earn more detention in a single month than all the other Gryffindors combined did in three.

The older man caught Albus’s eye first and lifted his chin in greeting, a smile playing at the edge of his mouth as if they were old friends. The younger one followed, his smile almost identical — though neither spoke straight away. They simply nodded, and for a heart beat the candlelight flickered between them, warm and bright.

Outside the window, rain kept falling softly onto the crooked roofs of Diagon Alley. Inside, the restaurant was alive with laughter and quiet conversations, spoons stirring tea on their own, goblets refilling themselves with a polite pop. Somewhere, a small flame floated above a dessert trolley, toasting the tops of a dozen crème brûlées to golden perfection.

Dumbledore watched them settle into their chairs, the candlelight flickering over their lined faces and wild dark hair. Fleamont tugged off his gloves and placed them neatly on the table, while Charlus leaned back, peering at Albus with a sharp, curious look through his round glasses.

“Fleamont, Charlus,” Dumbledore said warmly, setting down his glass of wine. “I’m truly glad you accepted my invitation tonight.”

Both men nodded in unison — not stiffly, but not exactly warmly either. They might have been kind of friends once, but time — and a fair share of disagreements — had made things complicated.

“Albus,” Fleamont said, his voice polite but edged with suspicion. “Why did you want to see us?”

Dumbledore folded his hands on the white linen tablecloth. His blue eyes, bright behind his half-moon glasses, flicked between them. “I know we don’t always see eye to eye, especially since James chose to join the Order,” he began. A passing candle hovered lower, illuminating the deep lines of worry on his face. “But there’s an important matter I must speak with you about. It concerns your family.”

Charlus tilted his head. “Important?” he repeated, his pale green eyes narrowing just a little.

Albus nodded slowly. He lowered his voice, though the soft hum of chatter and clinking cutlery around them helped keep their conversation private. “I know every old wizarding family has its own way of tracking the bloodline — an enchanted record, a tapestry, a tree in the library that writes itself. James once mentioned the Potters have a family tree for this very reason.”

Fleamont stiffened slightly, his hazel eyes sharp now. “And why,” he asked, voice low and tight, “should you be privy to our family secrets, Dumbledore? And more importantly, why is James discussing them with you in the first place?”

His tone turned a few nearby candles a shade sharper in the air, as if they too had tensed.

Dumbledore sighed, pushing his glass aside. “Dear Fleamont,” he said gently, “you know I have no desire to pry where I am not welcome. And I assure you, I have no nefarious purpose — no meddling beyond what must be done. There’s a reason I ask you this, and it isn’t for gossip or curiosity.”

Charlus leaned forward now, curiosity overtaking caution. “Go on,” he said.

Dumbledore looked at Fleamont first, then Charlus. “From your reaction, I gather neither of you have checked the tree in some time — at least not in the past eight months?”

Neither answered. Fleamont’s fingers tapped the table once, then stilled.

“If that is the case,” Albus continued, his voice softer but more urgent, “then I must strongly urge you to do so. Tonight, if you can manage it. I think you will be… surprised by what you find there.”

A hush settled between them. Somewhere behind the three men, a house-elf floated by with a tray of levitating profiteroles, but none of them noticed. Fleamont’s eyes flicked to Charlus, who raised his brows — that same wild glint in both their smiles dimmed by confusion now.

“And what exactly are we meant to find, Albus?” Charlus asked, trying to sound casual but failing.

Dumbledore only gave a small, tired smile and reached for his glass again. “Some truths,” he said quietly, “have a way of finding us whether we’re ready or not. All I ask is that you look. The rest… we can discuss when you’ve seen it for yourselves.”

Outside the blurred window, Diagon Alley glowed under enchanted lanterns. Inside L’Étoile Enchantée, the magic hummed on — spoons stirring, flames flickering, secrets brewing like old wine waiting to be uncorked.

Back at Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore sat alone in his office, the warm glow of the fireplace flickering off the shelves and portraits that lined the tall stone walls. The room smelled faintly of parchment and lemon — the scent stronger now because Albus was happily sucking on a lemon drop, rolling it over his tongue as he thought.

On his shoulder, a tiny, newly reborn Fawkes nestled against his neck. The baby phoenix was mostly downy fluff and awkward feathers, letting out a small, pleased squawk whenever Albus scratched the soft spot behind his crest. Every now and then, Fawkes would sneeze out a stray golden spark that drifted lazily toward the ceiling.

Outside his windows, the night pressed against the castle. Inside, all was calm — or it was, until the fireplace in the corner whooshed into bright green flames.

Albus didn’t even have time to swallow his lemon drop before Fleamont Potter came storming out of the Floo network in a swirl of emerald light and swirling, angry magic that made the stacks of papers on Albus’s desk ruffle like startled birds.

Charlus stumbled out behind him, his glasses askew and an expression halfway between disbelief and apology. A moment later, two more figures stepped through: Euphemia Potter, graceful and sharp-eyed even in her hurry, and Dorea Potter, her dark hair pinned up, lips pressed in a thin line that spoke volumes all on its own.

Baby Fawkes fluffed up his feathers and gave a startled squawk at Fleamont’s visible rage. The air around Fleamont shimmered, a faint gold crackling off his shoulders like static. His hazel eyes, usually warm and twinkling with mischief, now blazed with something close to fury.

He pointed a finger at Dumbledore, his voice booming around the stone walls like thunder.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS, DUMBLEDORE!”

Albus calmly popped the lemon drop out of his mouth and tucked it into a handkerchief on his desk. He gently lifted Fawkes from his shoulder and set the little phoenix on his perch beside the window, where the baby bird blinked at the angry visitors, fluffed up again, and tucked his head under his wing — deciding this was all far too dramatic for one night.

“Fleamont, Charlus,” Albus said, folding his hands neatly in front of him. He inclined his head politely at Euphemia and Dorea. “Please, do come in. There’s no need to shout — you’ll wake the portraits.”

Behind him, Phineas Nigellus Black muttered something rude from his frame and disappeared to another portrait before he could be asked to stay and listen.

Charlus stepped forward first, trying to calm his older brother with a hand on his arm. “Albus,” he said, voice tight, “you could have told us. You could have given us some warning — any warning — before sending us home to find that.”

Euphemia crossed her arms, her sharp eyes flicking over the Headmaster’s cluttered desk. “What exactly is happening, Albus?” she asked a bit desperately. “How did this happen? How can it happen?”

Dorea didn’t speak — not yet — but her gaze was fixed on Dumbledore’s face, studying him like she was looking for cracks in marble.

Albus let out a soft sigh, his fingers drumming the polished wood of his desk. “I understand you are angry and confused — I would be, too, in your place. But surely you see now why it was important you checked your family tree yourselves.”

Fleamont gave a frustrated laugh, the sound sharp as broken glass. “Important? Important?” His voice echoed off the stone walls. “Albus — you’ve upended everything! Do you understand what this means?” His magic flared again, rattling the metal instruments on the shelves.

Baby Fawkes peeped once from his perch and buried himself deeper into his feathers.

Albus stood slowly, pushing back his chair. The room fell quiet except for the faint crackle of the fire and the soft hiss of snow against the windows. He looked at each of them in turn — Fleamont’s fury, Charlus’s bewilderment, Euphemia’s disbelief, Dorea’s sharp silence.

“I do understand,” he said softly. “And I swear to you — I did not do this to cause you pain. But I could not keep this hidden, not when it will shape what comes next. For all of us.”

He paused, his blue eyes clear and piercing behind the half-moon glasses. “Please — before everything else, will you please allow me to visit the family tree myself? "

The Potters exchanged a glance. After a tense but silent moment in the Headmaster’s office, they agreed — and so, they Apparated with Dumbledore just outside the ancient wards of Potter Manor.

The night was crisp and cold, the moonlight silvering the grounds that stretched out wide and proud before the great old house. Dumbledore stood for a moment in the garden, breathing in the cold air, his boots crunching over dried leaves as he followed the Potters up the winding path. The manor rose out of the darkness like something carved out of old stories — tall windows, ivy-clad stone, soft yellow lights flickering inside.

No one spoke as they stepped through the grand oak doors. The warmth inside pressed around them immediately — fireplaces crackling in distant rooms, portraits shifting and whispering on the walls as they passed. Albus’s eyes flicked around, taking in the familiar signs of an old wizarding family: the moving tapestries, the self-polishing suits of armor, the gentle hum of protective enchantments woven deep into the walls.

Charlus led the way, his wand drawn to light the path down a quiet corridor. Fleamont and Euphemia walked ahead of Dumbledore, their footsteps muffled on the thick runner. Dorea followed behind, her expression sharp but unreadable.

Finally, they stopped before a tall door of dark, polished wood. Fleamont laid a hand on it, muttered something under his breath, and the heavy locks clicked open with a series of soft metallic sighs.

The room beyond was long and dim, lined with shelves full of scrolls and old leather-bound tomes. But it was the far wall that drew all eyes — an enormous tree stretched across ancient stone, its leaves glimmering faintly in the flickering candlelight. Names, dates, and delicate lines of connection shimmered gold and silver, shifting slightly as if the whole thing were alive.

Albus stepped forward, his footsteps echoing. He ran his fingers lightly across the lower branches, eyes scanning for the one name he knew he’d find. And there it was — at the very bottom, threads weaving together across generations to this single point:

Harry James Potter — Harry Ronald Granger

Birth: 1980 July 31

Death: 1997 May 2

Rebirth: 1997 May 2

Temporal Displacement: 1979 October 31

A soft sigh escaped Albus, long and weary, as if the truth he had suspected had finally grown too heavy to carry alone. “Exactly as I suspected,” he murmured, his breath misting in the cold air of the ancestry room.

He turned, the soft lamplight catching the tired lines on his face as he looked at Fleamont, Charlus, Euphemia, and Dorea in turn. They stood shoulder to shoulder, the flickering gold of their family tree painting them in shifting light.

“Well,” Albus said quietly, voice steady now that the secret was no longer just his, “if you are willing, I will explain everything soon.” His blue eyes, sharp behind the half-moon glasses, searched each of theirs in turn.

“But first,” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper yet echoing in the quiet room, “are you willing to meet the Order?”

The cramped living room of Dedalus Diggle’s little house was filled to the brim with warm lamplight and restless whispers. Every chair, sofa arm, and bit of floor seemed to hold an Order member or two, all packed together under the low-beamed ceiling. The air smelled faintly of tea, firewood, and someone’s half-finished glass of firewhisky — Fabian Prewett’s, probably.

In the corner, Fleamont Potter sat stiffly on an old velvet armchair that looked like it might collapse under the weight of his swirling irritation. His magic still prickled faintly at his fingertips, though he was trying to keep his temper under control for the sake of the gathering. Beside him, Charlus leaned back with a bemused expression, as if he were the only one who found this whole situation slightly funny — or at least too absurd not to laugh at later.

James sat on the arm of his father’s chair, looking back and forth between Fleamont and Charlus like he was trying to read a foreign language. His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again — but no words seemed big enough for the questions piling up in his head.

Across the room, Lily — her round belly proof of just how much her life was about to change — was nearly cornered by Euphemia and Dorea. The two older witches fussed over her like mother hens, smoothing down her hair, asking if she was eating enough, if she was resting, if she was ready for what was to come. Lily just laughed, cheeks flushed, her hand absently drifting to her belly every few seconds.

Near the fireplace, Sirius Black was perched on the edge of the hearth, deep in a loud conversation with Frank Longbottom about defensive wards for their respective safehouses. Alastor Moody stood nearby, one eye fixed suspiciously on the window while his real eye darted toward Alice Longbottom, who was giggling as she answered his gruff, awkward questions about her pregnancy.

Marlene McKinnon sat cross-legged on the floor, her head tipped back as she laughed at something Gideon and Fabian Prewett were arguing about — Fabian looking flushed and definitely a bit tipsy, his cheeks pink under his mop of red hair.

Peter Pettigrew, as usual these days, was nowhere to be seen. Someone had asked after him once at the start, but when no one answered, the room just quietly accepted his absence. Remus Lupin was absent too, off handling something Albus hadn’t quite explained.

All around the room, wizards and witches leaned close together, speaking in urgent whispers. Some kept glancing toward Fleamont and Charlus — old legends from a more “proper” wizarding time now thrown into the middle of Order business like unexpected guests at a family squabble.

Finally, near the fireplace, Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet. The low buzz of chatter quieted at once, all eyes turning toward him. Fawkes, tiny and fluffy again, peeked out from under Albus’s cloak where he’d tucked himself for warmth on the cold journey.

Elphias Doge, perched on a wobbly stool, cleared his throat nervously. “Albus, what is the purpose of this emergency meeting?” he asked, his quill already hovering above a scrap of parchment like he might take minutes.

Sturgis Podmore, standing near the window with his arms crossed, frowned. “Was there another Death Eater raid?” he asked. At that, the room stiffened, and a few worried murmurs rose. Someone’s teacup clinked too loud against its saucer.

Albus lifted a hand and the noise died as quickly as it had come. His blue eyes swept the room — James tense and confused, Fleamont and Charlus still bristling in their chairs, Lily flanked by her new in-laws, Sirius halfway through a sentence he never finished.

“No,” Albus said, his voice calm but carrying easily over the crackle of the fire. “There has been no raid. But there has been a change — something far more important than any single attack.”

He paused, letting the hush deepen. Even Fabian stopped giggling long enough to pay attention.

“The prophecy,” Albus said slowly, and a ripple went through the room — a shift in breath, the rustle of fabric as everyone leaned in closer. “The prophecy we know — it has changed. When I visited the Department of Mysteries, I found the original orb… shattered.”

For a heartbeat after Dumbledore’s words, the room stayed frozen — and then the air seemed to crack open with noise.

Gasps, mutters, and half-finished exclamations burst out at once. Marlene pressed a hand over her mouth. Gideon nearly dropped his glass of firewhisky. Elphias Doge’s quill slipped right off his parchment and clattered to the floor.

James Potter half-rose from the arm of Fleamont’s chair, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Wait — wait, does that mean we can come out of hiding?” he asked, his voice cracking just slightly with something like fragile hope.

Across the room, Frank Longbottom straightened, looking more awake than he had all evening. He exchanged a quick glance with Alice — her hand still resting protectively on the swell of her belly — and for a second, a small, bright flicker of relief crossed both their faces.

A few others nodded along, the hope passing through the crowded room like the first warm breeze after a long winter. Lily’s eyes flicked to James, then to Sirius, who gave a small, cautious grin at the thought — though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

But Albus only raised his hand again, palm steady in the firelight. The hush fell over them like a soft blanket — heavy with the weight of what he would say next.

“No,” Dumbledore said gently, but there was no mistaking the firmness underneath. “You must remain exactly where you are.”

The small flicker of hope died in Frank’s eyes. He sank back into his chair, running a hand through his hair while Alice rested her fingers on his wrist, trying to calm him even as her own shoulders sagged.

James pressed his lips together, glancing at Lily and then at Sirius, who only shrugged helplessly — his grin already gone. Lily reached out and rested a hand on James’s knee, her thumb brushing comfortingly over the fabric of his trousers.

Albus’s eyes swept the room, lingering on each young face — so many of them far too young to be carrying secrets and children and the burden of a prophecy no one fully understood.

“Voldemort does not know,” Albus said softly, the flames in the hearth dancing shadows over his face. “He does not know the prophecy has changed. He will continue to act on the words he heard. And that means his hunt will not stop — not until he believes his threat is ended, one way or another.”

The silence that settled over Diggle’s living room felt like the moment just before a storm breaks. The crackling fire and low murmurs were all that filled the space for a heartbeat — until Sirius suddenly blurted out what half the room was clearly thinking.

“Hang on,” Sirius said, pushing off the hearth and straightening up, his eyebrows raised almost to his hairline. “Why are they here?” He gestured broadly at Fleamont, Euphemia, Charlus, and Dorea Potter — the last people anyone expected at an Order meeting.

Before Dumbledore could answer, Alastor Moody, who’d been lurking stiffly near the fireplace, narrowed his good eye at Albus. “Never mind that for now — let’s have the new prophecy, Dumbledore. If you dragged us out of bed for this, best speak plain.”

Albus raised both hands, his half-moon glasses catching the glow of the firelight. “One thing at a time,” he said calmly. He turned to the gathered witches and wizards — some cross-armed, some shifting uncomfortably in their seats. “Lord and Lady Potter — Fleamont and Euphemia — along with Charlus and Dorea, have agreed to work with the Order. Given… recent circumstances.”

Dorea let out a sharp, short scoff at that, her lips twisting as if the word circumstances was far too polite for what they’d uncovered. She said nothing more, but a few heads turned to glance curiously her way.

“However,” Albus continued, his voice dropping lower — softer, but carrying a gravity that pressed against every heart in the room, “before I speak this new prophecy aloud, I must ask something of you all.”

A flicker of unease rippled through the Order. Fabian Prewett frowned, Frank shifted in his seat, Lily’s hand tightened around James’s.

Albus’s eyes, bright and old and unblinking, swept over each of them. “You must all swear a secrecy oath — one that will bind this knowledge to you alone. It will guard against loose tongues, Legilimency, even Veritaserum. Once you know this, you carry it in your blood until you draw your last breath. Do you understand?”

The room exploded at once — shocked voices tumbling over each other. Fabian sputtered something about trust, Gideon barked a protest, Alice started to say something but stopped when Frank squeezed her hand. Sirius made a rude sound that might have been a laugh or a curse — probably both. Even Dedalus Diggle squeaked in protest, his round face pale.

“ENOUGH!” Dumbledore said, and though he did not shout, the word snapped through the room like a whip crack. The uproar died under the force of it, leaving only the hiss and spit of the fire.

“This is not negotiable,” Albus said, softer again now, but no less firm. “You know how precious prophecy is to Voldemort — and how dangerous. This cannot be risked. If you cannot swear, you are free to leave now.”

No one moved for the door. Slowly, heads turned and nods were exchanged. James ran a hand through his hair, looking exhausted but resigned. Lily squeezed his knee again. Sirius crossed his arms and muttered something about mad old codger under his breath, but didn’t budge.

And so they formed a rough circle — friends, family, fighters — hands outstretched, wands ready. Dumbledore raised his own wand, Fawkes peeking from the fold of his cloak, watching with beady eyes.

“Place your wands to your heart,” Dumbledore said quietly. They obeyed — one by one, each tip pressed lightly to cloth and skin, the circle humming with the old hush of real magic.

“Repeat after me,” Albus intoned, voice solemn, deep as the stones beneath Hogwarts itself:

“By my wand and my will,

By my magic and my mind,

I bind my tongue, my thought, my truth —

This secret I shall guard,

This secret I shall keep,

In dream and wake, in life and sleep.”

A faint shimmer passed through the circle — a cool, weightless brush of something ancient and watchful. The magic settled in bones and blood like a promise older than any of them. A few people shivered as the last word left their lips.

It was done.

Albus lowered his wand. The firelight danced on his glasses as he met each pair of eyes in turn. And then, voice grave and steady, he spoke the new prophecy at last:

When moonlight cleaves the river of time,

 

A child of storms and broken crowns shall stand again.

 

Marked by grief and bound by blood,

 

He shall rise where shadows linger —

 

The serpent’s fang shall taste regret.

 

 

 

Twice-born, the wolf’s pup weeps where the lion roars,

 

And love, forgotten once, shall strike like thunder.

 

The heart that bleeds for the fallen star

 

Shall tear the dark root from the earth.

 

 

 

Beware, for rage and mercy both shall bind the chain,

 

And ashes feed the salt, and salt the flame.

 

Only when the lost name is spoken true,

 

Shall the Dark Lord meet the grave anew.

 

A silence followed so thick it felt alive. Diggle’s voice cracked the hush like a dropped plate. “Who — who is it about, Albus?” he asked, blinking through his round spectacles.

Albus didn’t flinch. His eyes held Fleamont’s, calm but bright, a storm hidden behind their clear blue. “I have an idea,” he said softly — too softly — “but I am not certain yet.”

He did not blink, did not look away — and Fleamont’s narrowed eyes said he knew, deep down, that Dumbledore was not telling him everything.

Chapter Text

Harry’s mouth opened and closed like he’d just swallowed a particularly nasty Doxy. “What?” he croaked. “M–Me? How?”

He tried to sit up straighter, but Teddy, curled up like a warm, drooling kitten against his chest, made a soft grumble in protest. Harry paused, peered down at his tiny, snuffling burden, then let himself sink back into the couch with a small huff of breath that made Regulus’s fingers twitch fondly in his hair again.

Severus, meanwhile, looked perilously close to rolling his eyes clean out of his head. He shifted where he sat on the battered arm of Andromeda’s armchair, long fingers drumming once against his knee before he leaned forward, robes sighing around him like an exasperated bat’s wings.

“I studied the Dark Mark for years,” he said, voice smooth but edged with that old bitterness that clung to him like damp. “Long before the old snake fell the first time. Long before I realized I’d signed away half my soul for the privilege of standing in drafty drawing rooms waiting for orders.”

Andromeda, perched on the arm of the sofa across from him, watched Severus with sharp, unblinking eyes. Her hair, half tumbling from its pins, made her look a little like Bellatrix for a moment — but then Teddy gave a soft hiccupping snore, and the spell broke.

Harry tugged the blanket higher around the baby’s back, eyes flicking between Snape and the faintly glowing runes still drifting across the coffee table where Andromeda had left her diagnostic charms fizzing and pulsing like tiny will-o’-the-wisps.

Severus went on, hands now steepled under his chin like he might be calculating the sum total of all Harry’s bad decisions. “I thought at first the Mark’s tether was the initiation  ceremony. So every time one of those imbeciles lined up, baring pale skin and cheaper souls for our master’s amusement — I watched. I memorized every wand flick, every incantation that rotted his tongue. If there was a way to unmake it, it had to start there.”

He paused. His mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but not a sneer either. Something softer. “And guess what I found?” he asked, tilting his head like a raven about to snatch up something shiny.

Harry, who was halfway to gnawing on his bottom lip, squeaked, “What?!” just as Andromeda leaned forward with a sharp, “What did you find?”

Their voices tangled in the warm hush of the sitting room — one too young, one too clipped and commanding. The moment they realized it, both froze, blinking at each other like startled kneazles.

Regulus, lounging behind Harry on the back of the couch like some princeling who’d misplaced his crown, let out a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. Nymphadora, curled in a tight turquoise ball beside the fireplace with her favourite knitted Puffskein, stirred at the sound but did not wake.

Severus watched them all — Harry braced like he expected to be hexed, Andromeda glaring like she was about to hex someone, Regulus half-choking on his mirth, the little ones sleeping soundly despite all of it. He let the silence stretch, milking it the way only a teacher of first-years could.

Then, with a dry, almost conspiratorial flick of his brows, he said, “The Dark Lord is a stupid, arrogant fool.”

Regulus choked properly this time — an ungraceful snort that made Teddy’s head bob on Harry’s chest. Harry clutched the baby tighter, wide-eyed.

“Truly,” Severus continued, leaning back just enough to look down his nose at them like an exhausted cat. “I gave him too much credit. He’s brilliant in some respects — utterly deranged in others. The Mark is not held by any rituals. It’s not a blood vow. It’s not locked behind ancient runes or ancient magicks. No — our dear master only trusted one language to bind his followers.”

He let the word hang, savour it like a particularly fine potion swirling in his mouth. “Parseltongue.”

Andromeda’s jaw dropped open so far Harry half-expected she’d drop her wand. Harry himself looked like someone had just stepped on his tail. “Parseltongue?” he echoed, faintly squeaky.

Regulus slapped his palm against his knee, barked out a laugh that sounded almost wild. “Ha — ha-ha — good one, Severus! Pull another one, why don’t you? Next you’ll tell me the madman tattooed our souls with Mermish.”

Severus sniffed, offended on behalf of all things sensible. “Don’t be more idiotic than necessary, Black.” He flicked his wand once, a small burst of pale green sparks dancing at the tip before winking out. “The Mark’s anchor spell — the moment it binds flesh — is spoken in Parseltongue. The rest is theatrics. The wand movements, the bloodletting — all decoration for his arrogance. He believed — still believes — he was the only living Parselmouth. He wanted it so. His signature — his curse. His own fail-safe.”

Regulus gaped at him. “I — but — that's — you must be lying!"

Severus shook his head once, a slow, deliberate motion like he was dislodging cobwebs only he could see. “No, Regulus. It’s true.”

He tapped his wand against his knee, a faint, absent clink of wood on bone. “After years of research — far too many wasted nights and enough bruised ribs from getting too close to the truth — I realised he didn’t invent something entirely new. He simply corrupted something very old. A charm, centuries old, used to bind magical ink into living skin. A magical tattoo.”

Regulus looked like he might be sick on the rug. He pressed his palm flat to Harry’s shoulder, fingers digging in a little, grounding himself. Harry didn’t mind. Teddy, drooling slightly on his chest, didn’t even stir.

Severus continued, words clipping neatly through the thick hush like a scalpel. “It’s clever. Simple, once you know where to look. He weaves Parselmagic through the ink as the Mark burns in — the snake’s tongue binding snake’s magic. It twists into the bearer’s magical core — a brand and a leash in one. He could summon us with a flick, and the Mark would sing like a struck chord.”

Harry’s mouth worked soundlessly for a second before something sensible stumbled out. “But — but — that spell. The one that puts the Mark in the sky? That’s not Parseltongue, is it?”

He gestured vaguely with the hand not currently pinned under Teddy’s warm weight. “You know — the Big ugly green one they used at Quidditch world cup in my fourth year?.”

Regulus, mid-breath, inhaled at exactly the wrong moment and immediately choked on it. He doubled over behind Harry, spluttering into the crook of his elbow while Harry tried to twist around and pat him, succeeding only in jostling Teddy into a soft whimper.

Severus didn’t so much as blink. He simply watched Regulus’s small coughing fit with the weary detachment of someone who’d once taught hormonal teenagers to brew Shrinking Solution without poisoning themselves. When Regulus finally wheezed back upright, Severus sniffed — the faintest curl of amusement slipping past his usual wall of dry disdain.

“Morsemordre,” he said, the word flicking off his tongue like a spark off flint. “Also Parseltongue. Or rather — a corruption of it. He taught us the chant by rote. Most never realised what they were saying. They thought it was Latin. He enjoyed that — the secrecy. The same snake’s tongue binding the same snake’s mark, just… projected larger. A boast in the sky, the same way the Mark on our skin boasts on his behalf.”

He flexed his fingers once, watching the firelight dance across his knuckles — pale, thin, steady despite the truth cracking through the air between them. “It is, in essence, the same magic. One calls a Mark to flesh. The other calls it to the clouds. Both root back to Parselmagic. His voice — or any Parselmouth’s voice — is the conduit.”

Harry’s brain felt like it was trying to fold in on itself. “So — wait — wait. Every time one of you lot burned that thing into the sky, you were basically speaking snake?”

Regulus let out a weak, incredulous huff of laughter, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Merlin’s bloody teeth. All these times — we were hissing at the heavens like half-baked garden adders and none of us knew it.”

Severus didn’t quite smile — but something close ghosted across his mouth. “Indeed. I told you — the man is an arrogant fool. The arrogance was his signature as much as the Mark. It never occurred to him another Parselmouth might exist — let alone stand against him. That was his oversight.”

Harry tipped his head back, narrowly missing Teddy’s small head. The baby mumbled, tiny fists flexing in sleep before burrowing even closer under Harry’s chin like a determined little barnacle. By the hearth, Nymphadora let out a squeaky snore and kicked one small foot free of her blanket. He stared up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of Severus’s words wrap around him like a second blanket — heavier, scratchier. “So — so I… I can. Actually do it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Severus inclined his head, the gesture almost gentle. “Yes, Harry. If you’re still a Parselmouth — which I assume you are?” His eyebrow ticked up in mild warning, as if daring Harry to say otherwise.

Harry gave a tiny nod, careful not to dislodge Teddy. “Yeah. Still am. I mean… last week Regulus found a garden snake in the kitchen and I… er… asked it nicely not to scare Dora.” He flushed a little at the memory. Regulus only smirked, clearly remembering too.

Severus’s mouth twitched — the ghost of approval. “Then yes. You can remove it. Or rather — you can command it. The Mark is magic, but it listens to the tongue it was born in. You don’t blast it off — you tell it to go.”

Harry blinked, wide-eyed behind smudged glasses. “That’s it? Just — ‘go away’ in parseltongue?”

Regulus barked out a soft laugh, pushing himself upright off the couch back. “Sometimes the simplest blade is the sharpest. Wizards like to make everything grand and dramatic. But old magic — family magicks — is more bone than fireworks.”

Harry’s mouth opened and closed. “I — hell, I never thought it’d be simple. I didn’t even think I’d keep it, you know? After that day — after voldemort died — Dumbledore said I could speak Parseltongue because he — you-know-who — transferred some of his powers to me. Like… the horcrux in my scar.”

Regulus let out an inelegant snort that startled a squeak from the kettle on the side table. He crossed the small space between the couch and the hearth in two strides, then pivoted sharply to face Harry again, eyes glittering like cold stars. “Harry. He was a master manipulator. Never forget that. Family magicks don’t get transferred like a coat you hand down. They’re born into blood. From parent to child, generation to generation. If you can speak Parseltongue, it’s because some Potter or Peverell or who-knows-who was hissing at snakes long before Riddle ever crawled out of his father’s grave.”

Harry opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again — nothing useful came out except a soft squeak that might’ve been a word.

Andromeda gave a small, humourless laugh as she dusted crumbs off her apron. She moved to stand beside Regulus, her presence solid and warm like a brick wall you might actually lean on. “He’s right. If magic like that was so easily stolen or handed off, do you think Parseltongue would be the pride of the Slytherins alone? Do you think the Metamorphmagus gift would stay tucked safe in the Black line?”

She flicked a glance at the sleeping Dora, her hair now drifting slowly from turquoise to soft bubblegum pink again in her dreams. “The Ministry would have had families trading secrets like sweets at a children’s party if it were so simple. Forced bloodlines to share gifts, like breeding Kneazles for show. That’s not how true family magic works.”

Harry felt something tight and ugly twist in his chest — that same old ache that flared whenever someone older than him pointed out just how thoroughly the adults in his childhood had failed at being adults.

“Oh. I — I didn’t think…” he started, words crumbling at the edges.

Andromeda’s voice cut through, gentle but sharp enough to carve away the worst of his guilt. “It’s fine, Harry.” She reached down, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead with the same brisk tenderness she used when scolding Dora for muddy boots. “You were a child. You trusted the people who were supposed to know better. It’s not your fault they buried you under the weight of their secrets, instead of doing their job and letting you be a boy.”

Regulus hummed, tapping his fingers against the back of the couch in thought. Then something seemed to click behind his quicksilver eyes — and he turned sharply toward Severus, one brow lifting in suspicion that would’ve made Narcissa proud.

“Snape,” he said slowly, drawing out the name just to be annoying. “Isn’t Harry supposed to be born on the thirty-first of July? Well? Did you tell the Dark Lord the prophecy this time too?”

The question dropped into the warm hush of the sitting room like a cauldron cracking on stone.

Harry turned his head so slowly it was almost comical — if it hadn’t been for the way his eyes went wide, panic catching in his throat like fishbones. He looked at Severus like he was seeing him through smoke and ghosts all at once.

Severus, to his credit, didn’t flinch under the weight of Harry’s horror. If anything, he just looked… tired. Old tired — the sort that made the lines around his eyes dig deeper into his skin like scars. He drew in a slow breath through his nose, exhaled it through thin lips.

“I don’t think Harry will be born this time,” he said at last, voice too calm, too sharp around the edges. “At least, not this Harry.” He flicked his eyes to Regulus, then back to Harry — who looked like someone had punched the wind out of him.

“There can’t be two of you, Potter. Magic — for all its cleverness — rarely tolerates paradoxes like that. As far as I know, Lily is pregnant. She’ll likely deliver around the end of July, same as before. But the odds — given everything you’ve displaced — well, it’s far more likely the child will be a girl. Eighty percent, by my calculations.”

He pushed himself upright, robes swishing around his ankles as he started pacing across Andromeda’s rug, wearing a thin trail into the pattern of faded roses. Teddy, still asleep, gave a small hiccuping snore as if protesting the disturbance. Dora, oblivious, snuffled deeper into her cushion fort by the hearth.

“Magic,” Severus went on, voice tightening as he spoke, “is strange. Unpredictable. No matter what Dumbledore liked to pretend. You think you know the rules — and then they slip sideways just to spite you. All we can do is plan. Hope. Try not to make things worse.”

He stopped pacing just short of Harry’s knees, looking down at him like a teacher staring at a half-finished essay — all sharp corners and something reluctant flickering underneath.

His tone softened, only a fraction — but enough for Regulus and Andromeda both to notice. “And no. I didn’t tell him the prophecy. I wasn’t even in Hogsmeade that night. I was at Spinner's End, drinking away. But he found out anyway. Macnair — the imbecile — must’ve taken my place in the shadows. He heard enough to twist the Dark Lord’s ear.”

Regulus made a sharp, ugly noise — halfway between a hiss and a laugh with no humor in it at all. Andromeda’s hand twitched at her side, wand flicking from nowhere to somewhere so fast it made Harry’s eyes water.

Severus continued. “Your parents are in hiding, Potter. Same as before. The Longbottoms too.”

Harry’s breath rattled in his chest. He felt the cold slip into his bones first — like frost blooming up his ribs. His mouth opened — once, twice — but whatever words were there tangled behind his teeth.

He sucked in a thin breath — tasted the sick panic sitting sour on his tongue — and then it was too late. He clamped a hand over his mouth, shoved Teddy gently off his chest just in time for Andromeda to conjure a small metal bin with a flick and a muttered curse that probably would’ve made her mother faint.

Harry retched — sharp, miserable sounds tearing at the quiet. Regulus’s hand found his back in an instant, warm and steady between his shoulder blades, rubbing small, helpless circles that felt like nothing and everything all at once.

Severus watched — eyes dark, mouth drawn tight, but for once no cutting remark rose to his lips. He only turned slightly, so his robes shielded Harry from the hearth’s light — a scrap of old courtesy that felt like mercy in a room that suddenly seemed too small for all the grief echoing inside it.

Andromeda crouched down beside Harry, her wand still glowing faintly at the tip. Her voice when she spoke was gentle and sure, the same tone she’d use for Dora’s nightmares.

“Easy, love,” she murmured. “Breathe. Just breathe. You’re here. We are here.”

And for now — that would have to be enough.

Harry sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the hearth, back hunched, knees drawn up just enough that his elbows could rest on them. The fire crackled and popped, throwing soft gold shadows across the walls — but the heat barely touched him. It felt like there was frost crawling up the inside of his ribs, clinging to his lungs.

Beside the hearth, a half-empty vial of stomach-soothing potion sat on the edge of an old tray, its glass glinting dully in the firelight. The bitter taste still lingered on Harry’s tongue, fighting with the sweetness of the calming draught that Andromeda had pressed into his hands with that no-nonsense tone that made it impossible to argue.

Behind him, he could hear Regulus’s low voice threading through Severus’s deeper murmur — the words too soft to catch, drifting like moths through the warm hush of the sitting room. Once in a while, Severus’s sharper consonants cut through — clipped, precise — but they never rose loud enough to shatter the fragile quiet they’d built around Harry like a shield.

It didn’t matter. Harry didn’t want to hear them anyway. He stared into the flames, but they barely registered — just flickers of movement in the corner of eyes that felt too dry, too tired. His hands were curled loose in his lap, fingers twitching now and then like they were reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Andromeda’s soft footsteps creaked on the old floorboards before he even realised she’d come back. She’d slipped away a few minutes ago, scooping up Teddy from where he’d been drooling on Regulus’s shoulder, gathering Nymphadora’s half-finished blanket fort in her arms like it was the most precious thing in the world.

She crossed the space between the door and the hearth in three careful steps. She didn’t say anything — didn’t ask permission or fuss or scold him for sitting on the cold floor like a sulky cat. She just lowered herself down beside him with a quiet little sigh, her knees brushing his.

She wrapped her arms around him without fussing. Just a simple, solid circle of warmth that anchored him where he was drifting.

Harry went without fighting — without thinking, really. He slumped into her side, pressed his forehead to her shoulder, felt her fingers slip into his hair and begin to comb through it in slow, gentle sweeps. It wasn’t the same as Mrs. Weasley’s bone-deep, cinnamon-scented embraces that always left him smiling like a goofy child. Andromeda’s hug felt different — quieter. A sturdy wall to lean on when the roof felt like it might cave in.

The knot in his chest cracked open just enough to let the words out — muffled against the soft linen of Andromeda’s sleeve.

“I... I hoped things would change once I was here. I hoped I’d be able to end him early. I hoped my parents would be spared this time.” He drew in a shaky breath, felt her hand pause at the crown of his head, then keep stroking, steady as a heartbeat. “Looks like some things are bound to happen whatever you do.”

His voice faded into the soft crackle of the fire.

Regulus let out a soft sigh, shaking his head like he was trying to dislodge all the worst thoughts Harry’s words had stirred up. Walking towards Harry, he dropped down to his knees right in front of him. 

Regulus reached out, found Harry’s hands limp in his lap, and gathered them up carefully — palms cold, knuckles scraped pink from where Harry had probably dug his own nails in without noticing. Regulus cupped them between his own warm ones, thumbs brushing back and forth over the bony ridges like he could smooth out all the ache hidden underneath.

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough that Harry’s dull, distant eyes had nowhere to look but at him. “You know that’s not true, Harry. Don’t say things like that — don’t think things like that.”

Harry blinked, but didn’t speak — just watched Regulus like he half-expected him to vanish too, same as every other good thing that had slipped through his fingers.

Regulus huffed out a breath, then pressed on, voice gentle but stubborn in that way he had when he decided something would happen simply because he said so. “Look at me. According to your time, I was supposed to be dead last year. Remember? Some underwater cave, inferi, all that dramatic hero’s death nonsense?”

Harry’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one, just for a heartbeat. Regulus squeezed his hands tighter, chasing that tiny spark like a star in fog.

“But I’m not dead, am I?” Regulus said, softer now. “I’m right here. You saved me, Harry. You gave me this second chance — us this second chance. And from what you told me — don’t think I wasn’t listening, by the way — you did more than just pull me back.”

Harry frowned a little, confusion slipping through the numb fog. “What do you mean—?”

Regulus’s lips curved in something like triumph, bright and fierce for a moment before it gentled back into something soft and unbearably fond. “You said Evan was arrested — Moody took him in and later he was killed, right? And Barty — mad, raving about serving the Dark Lord, torturing the Longbottoms — that didn’t just happen in a vacuum, Harry. People break for reasons. People follow monsters because something worse is waiting for them if they don’t.”

Harry opened his mouth, shut it again. Regulus’s thumb traced over the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger — slow, calming.

“You said Barty practically grew up in a prison cell because of his father. You said Evan stayed because he had nowhere else to go when I — when I died. When the only person who made him feel safe was gone. You changed that. You changed me. And now they’re not the same men you remember. They’re not lost yet.”

He leaned in until their foreheads almost touched, his hair brushing Harry’s lashes when he ducked his head. “I can sway them, Harry. I will. Evan’s already halfway there — Merlin knows he’s too soft for this war even if he pretends otherwise. And Barty… well, he trusts me. Still. If anyone can drag him away from the cliff before he jumps, it’s me.”

Harry’s breath shuddered in his chest — a tiny crack in the wall he’d built around his ribs. Regulus felt it, pressed closer, refused to let him hide behind old ghosts.

“Believe me,” Regulus whispered, voice fierce and quiet and so heartbreakingly young for someone who carried himself like a prince exiled from his own blood. “We can save them. We can save your parents, too. Do you hear me? This isn’t over — not unless you want it to be.”

He turned Harry’s cold hands over in his own and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles — right there, in front of the crackling hearth, with Andromeda watching like she was standing guard over hope itself.

“You did it once,” Regulus murmured, lips brushing Harry’s skin. “You’ll do it again. And this time, we’re all with you. No more dying alone, Harry. Not for you. Not for any of us.”

A beat of silence stretched between Regulus’s soft promise and the warm hiss of the fire. Then, behind them, Snape cleared his throat — loud enough to be pointed, quiet enough not to feel like a hex between the ribs.

“Stop being so pessimistic, Potter,” he said, tone dry enough to sand splinters off old wood. He crossed his arms over his chest, black robes bunching slightly at his elbows as he looked down his nose at Harry — not quite glaring, but close enough for tradition’s sake. “That isn’t you. Not really. Leave the dramatic wallowing to Black.”

Regulus shot him a look that might’ve curdled milk. Snape ignored him with the ease of someone who’d perfected ignoring Regulus Black back when they were both stringy boys with too many hexes and too few friends.

He pushed on, his voice low but certain — a thread of something steadier slipping through the usual clipped words. “Just because your parents have gone into hiding again doesn’t mean they’ll be slaughtered again. We know what’s coming this time. That alone gives us an advantage.”

Harry’s brows pinched, some flicker of fragile hope rising up like a stubborn flower through frost. Snape noticed — of course he did — and pressed forward like a man trying to pour tea into a cracked cup without spilling it all.

“There are things we can do. Many things,” he said briskly, fingers tapping once against his sleeve. “We can tip them off about Pettigrew’s true loyalties — Merlin knows that rat’s squeaking betrayal was half the reason things went so wrong the first time. We can send an anonymous warning to Lord Potter and Dowager Longbottom. Push them to drag their families back to their ancestral manors — wards older than some countries, thicker than anything Dumbledore can slap on a cottage in Godric’s Hollow.”

He sniffed — a short, sharp sound. “And if you lot insist on playing Horcrux scavenger hunt, we can do that faster too. Strip him down to bone and dust before he has a chance to slip through the cracks again. The possibilities are endless — if you’d only stop gnawing your fingernails and use that minuscule brain of yours.”

Regulus made a small amused sound, still kneeling in front of Harry, fingers tracing idle patterns over the backs of Harry’s hands like he couldn’t bear to let him drift too far away again.

Harry blinked at Snape, a small, startled laugh breaking loose. “Oh. I… I panicked. I thought —”

“Yes, well, try to limit that,” Snape cut in, voice softer than his words. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Potter. It was built brick by miserable brick — blood, sweat, and a few good knives hidden in togas. Same principle here. Tremendous effort. Unity. Planning. Not running around like a headless chicken on fire.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. The horror wasn’t gone — not fully — but some of the vacant dullness had drained from his eyes. He lifted one hand, scrubbing the heel of his palm under his glasses. “Right. Right. I know. Sorry, Severus.”

Snape just sniffed again, pretending that the faint approval in his eyes wasn’t there at all.

Andromeda chose that moment to stand, her presence as steady as the walls around them. She crossed her arms — a pose that turned her frame into something immovable, like a grandmother statue one did not argue with unless one liked living dangerously.

“One can only imagine what you’re carrying around inside that head of yours, Harry,” she said, her tone warm but edged with that same steel that made Regulus sit up a little straighter automatically. “But tonight? Enough.”

She swept a pointed look around the room — first at Regulus, who tried to look innocent and failed miserably, then at Severus, who didn’t bother pretending.

“All of you need sleep. Good, dreamless sleep. We’ll tear the universe apart tomorrow —Horcruxes, rat hunting, Dark mark — all of it. But not tonight.” She flicked her hand in a sharp little shooing motion that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an irate cat herder. “You, two — out. Off to your dens, or wherever you skulk when you’re not dragging war into my sitting room. Harry stays here tonight.”

Regulus opened his mouth — probably to argue — but Andromeda’s eyebrow arched halfway to her hairline and whatever he was about to say died a swift, silent death on his tongue. He settled for pressing another soft kiss to Harry’s cheeks before letting his hands go.

Snape, for his part, just gave Andromeda a long, tired look — the closest he’d ever come to admitting she was right — then turned, robes sweeping behind him like the world’s grumpiest bat as he stalked toward the floo.

Harry’s shoulders loosened just a fraction. He leaned into Andromeda’s side when she stepped close again, her hand brushing his hair once in silent promise. Tomorrow would come. Tonight — for once — he could just rest.

Chapter Text

The morning felt heavy. Not in a physical way — not like a hangover or lack of sleep — but like something thick had settled over Harry’s limbs and thoughts, making every little movement just a bit slower than it should be.

His eyes blinked open to the soft, sleepy light of dawn filtering through the curtains. The room was quiet except for Teddy’s faint breathing next to him, a tiny patch of warmth in a cold world. Harry didn’t move for a long minute. His body felt like it didn’t want to.

Eventually, he slid out from under the covers carefully, barely shifting the mattress so Teddy wouldn’t stir. The baby gave a small sigh and turned over, burying his nose into the pillow Harry had abandoned.

Barefoot and half-aware, Harry padded through the hallway in a sort of autopilot — the way he used to when he’d get up for tea in Grimmauld Place after a bad dream. The house creaked quietly under his steps, familiar in a strange way, even though this wasn’t really his time.

Andromeda was already awake. Of course she was. She stood by the kitchen counter in her dressing gown, her hair swept up into a messy bun, a spoon stirring a teapot behind her with slow, precise circles. She didn’t say a word when he entered — just turned toward the cupboard, summoned another cup, and poured a second steaming mug of tea.

“Morning,” Harry mumbled, sinking into the chair at the head of the kitchen table.

Andromeda nodded in greeting, sliding the cup toward him. “You look like you got stomped around by a hippogriff.”

Harry let out a weak breath that was almost a laugh. “Feel worse.”

They sat in silence for a while, broken only by the soft clink of Andromeda’s spoon tapping the side of her cup and the occasional rustle of the Daily Prophet pages nearby. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was quiet, warm, grounding.

A few minutes later, the patter of little feets echoed down the hall, and Nymphadora stumbled in, hair half-pink, half-blue, and sticking out in at least seven directions. She looked barely awake and slightly confused to be upright.

Trailing right behind her was a wide-awake Teddy, grinning like the sun had personally whispered a joke in his ear. He was wobbling, grabbing at her sleeves and bouncing slightly as he repeated in a high-pitched chant, “Da-da-da-da-da!”

Harry blinked down into his tea, then looked up just in time to see Teddy reach out toward him, wiggling his hands impatiently.

Nymphadora yawned and shuffled over to Harry’s chair. “He’s been doing that since he woke up. Wouldn’t shut up even when I offered him my chocolate frogs.”

Harry reached out automatically, scooping Teddy up with one arm. The baby curled into his chest like a koala, still babbling “da-da” into his shirt. Something in Harry’s chest loosened — just a bit — like a knot pulling apart. He buried his face in Teddy’s hair and let out a slow breath.

“Hey, munchkin,” he whispered, voice a little hoarse. “Missed me, did you?”

Teddy responded by slobbering on his collar and patting his cheek with sticky fingers. Harry didn’t even care.

Then the fireplace flared green, lighting up the room. Harry turned toward it just as Regulus stepped out, graceful and neat as always despite the soot that clung to his boots. Severus followed half a second later, looking significantly more unimpressed with the entire experience.

“Next time,” Snape muttered, brushing off his sleeves, “we’re Apparating. I’m not getting elbowed in the ribs by you again, Black.”

“You elbowed me first,” Regulus said primly, dusting himself off. “And you nearly landed on my foot. Again.”

Harry tried to smile at them — really, he did — but the expression came out half-formed, tight and tired. Regulus’s eyes caught the flicker of pain before Harry could mask it, and he stepped forward slightly, concern evident in the way his shoulders tensed.

But before anything could be said, Andromeda clapped her hands once. “Breakfast. No brooding on an empty stomach.” She waved them toward the table. “Everyone sit. You’ll have your war meeting after toast.”

Severus muttered something that might have been agreement or quiet protest — it was always hard to tell with him — and Regulus gave Harry one last look before pulling out a chair.

Harry sat back down, Teddy still snug against his chest, and tried to let the smell of warm bread and clinking spoons steady his thoughts. He wasn’t okay. Not fully. But maybe breakfast was a start.

The warm clatter of cutlery and the soft babble of Teddy faded into silence as the four adults made their way to the study.

Andromeda was the last to enter, flicking her wand toward the hallway with a precise flourish.

“Nymphadora, you stay in the living room. No sneaking, no spying, and do not try to crawl up the wall this time.”

A distant groan echoed back. “I wasn’t crawling, I was levitating.”

“That wall is load-bearing, child. Sit. Entertain your cousin.”

Satisfied, Andromeda closed the door with a quiet but firm click, then began layering a cascade of charms and wards over the study. Privacy spells. Shielding runes. Wards that would alert her if Nymphadora so much as stepped near the door.

Harry stood awkwardly near the writing desk, arms loosely folded, his tea already forgotten somewhere on the breakfast table. Regulus hovered near him, giving space but not straying far. Severus looked like he was ready to be dissected — stiff, arms crossed, eyes flicking to Harry every few seconds.

No one spoke for a long moment. The quiet buzz of magic in the air felt almost too loud.

Harry swallowed. The room suddenly felt too warm. His skin itched.

He’d known this was coming. He had said he’d try. But now that the moment was here, his hands felt wrong — too human, too small. Not enough. What if he made it worse? What if he couldn’t control it? What if he hurt Severus beyond repair?

'What if the magic didn’t listen? What if the Mark didn’t leave?'

A voice inside him whispered that he had no right to do this — that he was still just a boy who had to earn his keep, a boy who had merely stumbled into power, not someone meant to command Parselmagic, or pull curses out by the root. That voice sounded suspiciously like his own from a few years ago, echoing through old cupboards and broken nights.

And yet… here he was. Not in a cupboard. Not a boy.

He took a deep breath. “Alright,” he said, and it barely cracked. “Let’s… let’s do this.”

Severus nodded. His face betrayed nothing, but there was something oddly reassuring in his posture — like he’d already accepted the pain and was just waiting for the blow.

“I’ll go first.”

Harry blinked. “Are you sure?”

“You’d hesitate with Black. I don’t need your nerves compromising precision.”

Regulus scoffed. “You just want the Mark out of your arm as soon as possible.”

“I would rather anything than your dramatics, Black.”

Andromeda made a sharp noise, like she was mentally smacking both of them upside the head. “Enough. Harry?”

Harry nodded and took a careful step toward Severus. “Please?”

Severus pulled up his sleeve wordlessly and extended his arm. The skin was pale, tight over bone, but the Mark was unmistakable — black and bold against the inside of his forearm. The serpent in the skull stared back at Harry, coiled and unmoving — but alive with something beneath. A faint thrum, like a pulse. Olde Magic.

A curse. A chain.

The moment he touched the Mark, something shifted.

It was like brushing the surface of a frozen lake and finding something watching beneath the ice.

He leaned in slightly, letting his eyes shut. He searched for the Ancient language and murmured:

“Wake up.”

The tattoo didn’t move. Severus’s pinched expression told him that he’d spoken in English.

“Okay…” Harry let out a long breath. “Okay, let’s try again.”

He concentrated hard. Focusing on his magic, he imagined the small garden snake he’d seen days ago in place of the tattoo. He felt the old language rising in the back of his throat — not English, not words, exactly, but something older, slicker, sliding over his tongue like oil.

He hissed low and slow, “Sskei’irhss…”

The snake in the skull twitched.

A shiver ran up Severus’s arm.

Harry hissed again, “Wake up…”

The change was instant.

The serpent moved. It twisted inside the skull, coiling tighter, and the black lines of the tattoo began to shift, swell, and shimmer like liquid under skin. The skull’s mouth stretched open — wider than ink had any right to go — and from inside, the snake began to emerge.

Severus made a sound low in his throat, teeth gritted against the pain coursing through his arm. His entire body went rigid, and a faint tremble passed through his frame.

The Mark pulsed a deep, angry red. It was clear the Mark was infused with Voldemort’s power — anchored to Severus’s core.

“Harry,” Regulus said sharply, but not out of fear — it was a reminder. “Don’t stop.”

Harry nodded, teeth clenched, and hissed again:

“Let go. Leave him.”

The snake resisted. It hissed back — not with words, but with force. Harry’s fingers sparked, like his magic was caught in a tug-of-war. The air thickened, vibrating with the clash of three magics — Voldemort’s curse, Severus’s magical core, and Harry’s command.

The floor groaned. The room dimmed slightly, like the house itself was holding its breath.

Severus’s arm was burning red now, almost glowing with internal heat.

“Keep going,” he grit out, jaw clenched hard enough to crack, but he stayed upright.

The Mark began to pulse violently. Purplish-black veins spread around it, the redness of his arm deepening at an alarming rate. The skull distorted and twisted. The serpent writhed furiously in protest. Strange hissing sounds emanated from the Mark. Voldemort’s cruel and invasive magic lashed up Harry’s arms like fire, resisting removal with everything it had.

Harry hissed once more, his voice like a whip: “Leave him.”

It was as if the very core of the Mark had snapped awake — and was fighting back.

A violent surge of energy exploded outward, knocking Harry and Severus several steps apart. A searing heat spread from Severus's wrist to elbow, blistering red and white. He gave a strangled gasp, his face twisting in a pained grimace.

Andromeda was already casting cooling charms. Regulus caught Severus’s frame, tense and pale.

Harry sprang up and latched onto Severus’s left arm again. His own magic surged forward, latching onto the remnants of Voldemort’s threads and yanking them like a snare.

He hissed one last time, voice thunderous: “LET GO.”

With a loud, wet hiss, the snake finally peeled away from Severus’s skin. The skull cracked down the center.

Black ink spilled from the Mark like blood — thick and glossy. It dropped to the wooden floor in heavy blotches, smoking faintly. Severus let out a sharp exhale — more pain than relief — and collapsed to his knees.

But the Mark was gone.

Completely.

Where it had once been, the skin was scorched — blistered in places, the nerves trembling from magical recoil.

But there was no trace of the Dark Mark.

Harry staggered back a step, chest heaving. He didn’t know when he’d started sweating, but he felt damp, shaky, and drained.

The ink hissed once on the floor — one final, angry spit — and then dissolved into nothing.

A long silence stretched through the room.

Then Severus rasped, “It’s gone.” He let out a wheeze. “You did it.”

A longer pause followed.

Then Regulus let out a breath. “Bloody hell, Harry.”

Andromeda sat back on her heels, eyeing Severus’s arm. “There’s damage, but it’s mostly scarring. I can treat it over the next few days. You’ll live.”

Severus grunted — half-thankful, half-unconscious.

Harry wiped a trembling hand down his face.

One Mark down.

Another one to go.

He looked up to see Regulus pale and gulping — eyes wide, like a deer caught in headlights.

Removing Regulus’s mark was somehow worse.

Not messier. Not louder. But slower — like trying to tug free a root that didn’t want to be unplanted. It wasn’t as vicious as Voldemort’s magic had been in Snape’s arm. It didn’t lash out, didn’t try to fight. No, it clung. Dug its way deeper the harder Harry tried to pull. Every time Regulus hissed under his breath or tightened his jaw in pain, Harry’s hands wavered.

Three times, he nearly stopped.

Twice, he almost walked away completely.

“I can’t—” he began on the fourth try, but Severus, from his seat across the room, didn’t let him finish.

“You can. You’re just choosing not to.”

Harry gritted his teeth, barely glancing at the man with his arm still bandaged from earlier.

“I’m trying not to hurt him.”

“You’re trying not to feel guilty about it.”

Harry said nothing.

“You removed the Mark from me,” Severus said, voice even. “You will do the same for him. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to leave him marked as a slave..”

That was enough.

Harry breathed deep, stared at the shifting lines of ink beneath Regulus’s pale skin, and hissed out the old language with purpose. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t clean. But by the end of it, Regulus was curled into Harry’s chest, shaking and sweating and Mark-free.

Andromeda didn’t say a word as she guided them both to one of the guest rooms. They made it to the bed and collapsed without removing their shoes. Harry barely remembered the sensation of Regulus pressing against his side, his weight oddly comforting. Sleep swallowed him whole.

In the living room, Severus regretted everything.

“I don’t require supervision,” he snapped as Andromeda approached with an expression that promised no mercy.

“Of course not,” she said smoothly, conjuring two thick magical bindings with a flick of her wand. They glowed a bright, sparkling yellow. “You’re clearly at your healthiest. Just look at you — barely able to sit up straight. Truly, the image of independence.”

He didn’t answer. She took that as permission.

A moment later, he was magically fastened to the couch with little ceremony.

“I am still armed,” he warned, not moving.

“Try something,” Andromeda replied, walking away. “See if I blink.”

From the hallway, Nymphadora’s shriek echoed with joy. “I get to babysit Batty Snape?!”

Severus exhaled through his nose like a dying beast.

“Teddy,” Andromeda called, scooping the giggling baby into her arms, “let’s go find biscuits before Dora starts turning into barn animals.”

Later, sometime between late afternoon and almost evening, Harry stirred.

His limbs felt like wet sand — heavy, reluctant. He blinked himself upright and reached for his glasses by muscle memory. The world clicked back into shape.

Regulus wasn’t in the bed.

The sheets were still faintly warm on his side, the pillow dented. But the room was quiet — too quiet. It only took seconds for Harry’s brain to catch up with his senses.

He heard voices.

More than voices. Raised ones. Sharp, edged, unfamiliar.

He stood. His feet were unsteady, but panic overrode the exhaustion. He stumbled to the hallway, still barefoot, still wrung out from the earlier spellwork, but alert enough to know when something was wrong.

And something was wrong.

He picked up speed and skidded to a stop just before the living room doorway — breath caught somewhere between ribs, throat, and heart.

He froze.

Inside the room, Severus stood with wand drawn. Andromeda, calm but unreadable, had her body turned partially toward him — ready to intercept. Regulus stood nearby, jaw tight, hand twitching slightly like it was aching for his wand.

But the real shock came from the group facing them.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the center of the chaos, his hands loosely clasped, his expression cool and composed. He wore no smile, but his presence still felt like a presence — unsettling in its usual way, like he’d been watching longer than he had any right to.

And he wasn’t alone.

To his right stood two men Harry had only ever seen in family photographs — one with proud posture and intelligent eyes, the other taller, leaner, sharp-featured and quiet.

Near them, two women — equally regal, equally daunting. One with a proud, elegant tilt to her chin and the sort of expression that came from generations of pureblood training. The other sharper, darker — with cold grey eyes that matched Sirius’s, and a silent command to her stillness.

There were no introductions needed.

Harry knew who they were.

Even without the context. Even without the name plates in his own mind screaming at him — that’s your family. He knew.

They stared at him now — a cluster of emotions passing through their eyes.

"Oh." Harry blinked. They knew.

Of course they knew. 

'Why am I not surprised?'

Harry stood still, blinking, chest rising and falling with something that wasn’t quite panic but had its claws around his ribs.

His eyes flicked to Dumbledore. The man met his gaze evenly.

Harry’s head throbbed.

His mouth was dry.

'Oh, Not again.'