Chapter Text
Regulus was five years old when he witnessed his older brother take a beating for him for the first time. At only six-and-a-half, Sirius was fierce and protective, with a courage Regulus could never fathom. He was all blazing eyes and set jaw as he stood in front of Regulus, a shield between him and his parents. Even now, ten years later, Regulus remembers thinking that his brother had to have been the bravest person in the world.
This became a common theme over the years. Regulus making mistakes, messing up, unleashing their mother’s explosive anger with his clumsy missteps and teary eyes. Back then, Regulus hadn’t understood why some of the things he did would make his mother so angry. He hadn’t understood the tense silences that would follow whenever he spilled a glass of water at the dinner table or whinged about his chores—as if the house itself was waiting with bated breath for its matriarch’s inevitable rain of fury. He hadn’t understood the rage that would spew from his mother’s mouth like hot fire, spitting and blazing and burning him until it brought tears to his eyes—which, of course, only made his mother angrier. And each time, Sirius had been there ready to take the fall, brave the storm, stand in front of his brother and absorb each hit aimed for him as if it were his own. Sirius was always there.
“Do you think Mummy loves us?” Regulus had whispered to his brother one night in bed, after sneaking into his bedroom as he was wont to do most nights—particularly after another one of his mother’s tirades. He had felt Sirius stiffen beside him, hesitating before he answered.
“I think she wants to sometimes, Reggie,” Sirius had answered back quietly, a rare sadness to his tone. He tightened his grip as Regulus buried his face in his neck. There, in the warmth and safety of his older brother’s arms, he had let his tears fall freely.
Regulus had never been brave like his brother. He had never had the courage to talk back, to stand up against their parents, to face their punishments with stony acceptance, refusing to show any weakness or fear. Sirius had always been the rebel, ready for a fight at all times, bouncing back after each hit like it was nothing. Regulus could only watch from the sidelines as their mother yelled at Sirius, berating him and breaking him down—often physically as well as verbally. And Sirius would take all of it—his stubbornness as unwavering as his nerve.
Regulus had often dreamed of running away with Sirius when he was younger, to an open forest or a peaceful beach, somewhere where they would be free from the stone walls of Grimmauld Place. So when, two years ago, social services showed up at their doorstep to whisk Regulus and Sirius away from the only home they had ever known—a cold, marble mansion that held bitterness and anger and violent words and strikes in its walls—after one of Sirius’ teachers had finally reported the angry bruises and cuts that would materialize on Sirius’ body each week, each one more severe than the last as Sirius began rebelling against their parents more frequently, Regulus believed their chance had finally come. Back then, it had seemed like a miracle. Like someone besides Sirius was finally looking out for them. Of course, he knows now that these things are rarely so simple.
* * *
“Hello, I’m Dr. Potter.”
An older woman with kind eyes and a white coat stands before them, clipboard in hand. She gives them both a warm, motherly smile as her eyes run over Sirius’ black eye and busted lip, quickly assessing his injuries.
“Now, what do we have here?” she asks softly, “I’m assuming you’re Sirius?”
Sirius nods slowly, eyeing the doctor warily.
“Would you mind if I give you a quick look, Sirius?”
He shakes his head. Regulus reaches for his hand, protectively. Sirius gives it a reassuring squeeze.
“So,” Dr. Potter says as she holds a light to Sirius’ eyes, “Would either of you be able to tell me what happened? It would help if I had a better idea of what we might be dealing with here.”
Sirius stiffens.
“I got in a fight,” he says, after a brief silence.
Dr. Potter considers him for a moment.
“I see,” she says, her voice impossibly gentle. “And your parents? Are they on their way, dear?”
A brief pause.
“We live in a foster home,” Regulus states quietly.
Dr. Potter’s expression morphs into one of slow understanding.
Regulus shifts uncomfortably as she eyes the pair of them sympathetically. He dislikes being pitied. Having grown up disgustingly wealthy in comparison to the other foster children they have lived with, Regulus feels they don’t exactly deserve it. They’ve certainly had it better than most. It could always be worse.
“And this…fight. It happened in your foster home, did it?” Dr. Potter asks carefully.
“Yes.”
“With one of your foster siblings?”
“Does it matter?” Sirius shoots back, defensively, holding tighter onto Regulus’ hand.
Dr. Potter sighs. “I’m afraid it does, dear. We are required to report situations like this.”
Cold dread drips down Regulus’ spine. As usual, it’s Sirius who reacts first.
“NO!” he shouts abruptly, and Dr. Potter looks startled. Sirius takes a deep breath. “I mean, no, please, there’s no need to report anything. It’s nothing, really.”
Dr. Potter looks unconvinced. Sirius continues, desperately.
“Please, they’ll—they’ll take us away. We were separated for a few months and we were finally able to get put in the same home again. We’ve just gotten back together, I can’t let them separate us again,” he begs.
A tense silence follows, Dr. Potter’s eyes flicking between him and Regulus. Regulus briefly wonders if she gets many child abuse victims in her ER. She’s probably had this talk with countless other angry kids.
After a moment, Dr. Potter speaks up, “Alright. If that’s—if that’s what you both want,” she sounds unhappy about it, but presses no further. “Now, let me get a closer look at that lip, dear…”
The truth is that Regulus had made the mistake of going into the kitchen for a glass of water at precisely the moment their foster father had walked through the door, having just gotten back from the pub. Their current foster father, prone to violent episodes after a few drinks—as many of them often are—was regularly out of the house, returning only in the dark night or early hours of the morning. Unfortunately, Regulus had caught him at one of the few moments he was home, dragging in with him the pungent scent of whiskey, cigarettes, and something else Regulus would rather not think about.
Well if it ain’t the pretty boy, he had sneered, eyes glassy and yellow teeth bared, Ain’t you and your brother them ones from some old posh family? Spare a tenner, would’ya, posh boy? Go on then, help your old man out.
Regulus had stuttered, unsure how to respond as their foster father began stepping closer to him, waving a cigarette in his face.
‘Sa matter? Ain’t got your bodyguard out ‘ere wiv you, eh? S’pose I’ll hafta check ya myself, then.
As their foster father began roughly patting his hands down Regulus’ sides, Regulus had stood frozen to the spot—unable to do anything other than screw his eyes shut and breathe through his mouth to avoid inhaling any of the older man’s rancid breath.
Maybe if I stay still he’ll get bored and leave , Regulus had thought hopelessly to himself, unprepared to fully process what was happening in the moment.
Looking back, Regulus thinks he might just have shit survival skills from always having Sirius around to save him. He’d been in fights before, sure, with other foster kids or boys at school, but those were mostly in Sirius’ defense, rarely his own. If someone breathed a wrong word about his brother or threatened him in any way, Regulus would have them on the ground before they even saw him coming. Sirius is the one thing Regulus would fight for, without question, until his knuckles are bruised and bloody. Himself, well, that’s another thing entirely. Regulus doesn’t seem to have as much concern for that.
Their foster father had only just gotten his hands on the waistband of Regulus’ pajama pants when, as if on cue, Sirius came downstairs looking for him. Too drunk to properly function, the older man hadn’t registered Sirius backing him up against the wall until a few moments later, earning a furious Oi, back off, mate!
The fight had only escalated from there, with Regulus pathetically rooted to the spot—still feeling the warm, sweaty hand marks on his body and fighting the urge to run into the shower—as Sirius and their foster father threw wild punches at one another. It was only when their foster father was on the ground—knocked out either from the copious amount of liquor in his system or the particularly nasty punch Sirius had thrown at his nose, Regulus wasn’t quite sure—that Regulus ran over to Sirius, paling at the sight of his bloody eye. After some bickering ( I’m fine, Reg, bloody bastard had it coming!) he’d managed to convince Sirius to go to the hospital while their foster father was unconscious, unlikely to remember any of it the next morning. After all, it wasn’t unusual for him to come back from the pub with a bloody nose after another bar brawl—likely caused by some unpaid debt or shady gamble.
Sirius only ends up needing a few stitches for the gash on his lip, which Dr. Potter gracefully sews up in a few short minutes. She discharges them after Sirius dutifully promises to ice his black eye and stay out of fights from then on—though Regulus knows he has no intention of doing either, rolling his eyes at Sirius’ angelic tone.
“Now you take care of yourselves, dears,” Dr. Potter calls out to them with a resigned sigh as they leave the room, “I hope not to see either of you back here again.”
They manage to make it back to the house with their foster father still sprawled out on the kitchen floor, a puddle of sick next to his head. Regulus steps on his fingers for good measure.
* * *
James is in a great mood. First, he’d spent the morning playing football in his backyard with Peter and Marlene (he’d tried to invite Remus over as well, but his parents prefer to have him home as much as possible over the summer hols). The Potters’ chef, Cynthia, had brought them out some homemade cream soda—which James made sure to tell her tasted splendid—and icy pops after they’d tired themselves out. After Marlene had gone home, he and Peter went to the cinema downtown to see the latest romcom after James had won their rock-paper-scissors match, while Pete whinged the whole time about wanting to see Dinosaurs of the Jungle III instead. He’d phoned Lily for a bit as well, listening to her rant about her issues with Snape and her sister, Petunia—both of whom James hated with a burning passion. Apparently, Snape hadn’t been very accepting when she’d opened up to him about her sexuality ( Potter that awful in the sack, eh?) which James knew had hurt Lily more than she’d care to admit, though she’d played it off by claiming he was just being a “moody prat” since his parents were fighting again. Petunia, as usual, was being dreadful as well, finding opportunities to poke fun at Lily’s appearance whenever her boyfriend—some slimy git named Vernon Dursley, of all things—was over at their house. They’d ended the call laughing over some very creative nicknames James had come up with for Vernon ( Come on Lily, who gives a toss about a prick called Vermin anyway? ) . Later on, Remus had informed him that his parents had agreed to let him stay over for the last week of the summer hols, which had James eagerly rambling about everything they could do once he arrived ( Pete says he’s just got the new multiplayer edition of ‘Arctic Demons’! Multiplayer , Moony! ). To top it all off, both his parents had come home from work early and they were all eating supper together for the first time in days—shepherd’s pie, James’ favorite—since his mum had started working late hours in the ER. So, all in all, James would say this day has been pretty brilliant.
“Darling,” his mum says after James has finished recounting the day’s events to his parents, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant, “Your father and I have something to discuss with you.”
“Mm?” he hums distractedly through a mouthful of shepherd’s pie. His parents exchange a nervous look, which catches his attention. He swallows his food hastily, “Er, yeah, what is it Mum?”
Effie looks at her husband expectantly. Monty clears his throat.
“Well you remember, of course, James, that before you were born your mother and I were foster parents?”
James nods automatically, because of course he does. He knows all about the story of how his parents had wanted children ever since they had gotten married after university, but had had trouble conceiving for the first few years. After they had finally managed it, his mother had miscarried. The loss was incredibly hard on his parents, who had been so excited for a baby. They had been afraid to try again, unsure whether they could handle the pain of another miscarriage. So his parents had decided to register to become foster parents and, for about ten years, fostered loads of children in their home—many of whom they are still in contact with today and occasionally have over for dinner, some of the older ones even bringing along their own families as well. James can tell how proud his parents are of their former foster kids whenever they get updates on their lives, and it makes him happy knowing he’s not the only person lucky enough to have been raised by Euphemia and Fleamont Potter. His parents are brilliant, really.
Effie and Monty had loved fostering, and it brought them so much joy to help and raise children who were going through a rough time and just needed someone to be there for them. Being foster parents for nearly a decade had taught them a lot about the foster system, making them painfully aware of all its faults and shortcomings. It wasn’t easy being foster parents with a genuine desire to make a difference in children’s lives, and it certainly wasn’t always cheerful either. After they had James, Monty decided to continue working in foster care, and is currently an executive in the Office for Standards in Education, Children’s Services, and Skills, where he helps inspect and regulate the foster system in the UK. James’ parents had made sure to raise him with the fierce belief that all everyone should be loved, supported, and given a fair shot at life—regardless of age, circumstance, or social status.
“A few nights ago, your mother had two boys just about your age come into the ER. One of them was looking pretty rough with a black eye and a busted lip, poor lad. Said he’d been in a fight,” Monty sighs. Though his father has seen countless cases of this as a product of his work, it never does seem to get easier for him to talk about.
“They were foster kids, James. Two brothers. I tried telling them I needed to report the incident to social services, but that only upset them. They didn’t want to risk being transferred to another home and getting separated from each other. They said they’d only just gotten back together again and wanted to keep it that way,” his mother says sadly.
“So they just…left? They went back to their foster home?” James asks, feeling unsettled at the thought. “Surely, it can’t be safe for them? There has to be a way to keep them together, right, Dad?”
“It’s quite complicated, son. Even if they were transferred to another home together, there’s no guarantee that it would be much safer for them there than their last home. We’ve been trying our best to prevent this stuff from happening, but unfortunately Ofsted is crawling with money-hungry power trippers who benefit from this flawed system,” his father answers bitterly. James frowns at this. Surely there’s something his dad can do to help, with the position he has? he thinks to himself. James says nothing, though, waiting for his parents to continue.
“Darling, your father and I have been talking, and we wanted to ask you if it would be okay with you if… we took them in instead,” Effie says gently.
“What—like have them live here, you mean? With us?” James asks, not sure if he’s misunderstanding. His parents haven’t fostered at all since he was born, and it’s not as if his father doesn’t see cases like this everyday. He definitely wasn’t expecting them to suggest fostering the two boys themselves. Not that he would have a problem with it, of course.
As an only child, James grew up quite lonely, always wishing he had siblings to play with. Before he’d started going to school, he rarely saw other children. Though he was constantly showered with love and attention by his parents, he did often wish he had had someone else his age to keep him company growing up.
“Well, yes. But only if it’s okay with you, darling. We would never make a decision like this without consulting you first. This is your house as well, and we wouldn’t want to disrupt anything for you. You have the final say, James,” his mum tells him, giving him an understanding smile.
James considers this for a moment. All his life, it’s only been him and his parents. Though he has no problem sharing their home, really, he wonders what it would be like to finally have other people his age living at home.
“Oh, well…I don’t see why not? They need a place to stay, and we have one,” James says simply. “When are they moving in?” he asks, suddenly feeling both excited and nervous at the prospect of meeting the two boys. Would they get along well? Would they like him?
His parents seem surprised at his quick acceptance.
“Are you sure you don’t want to think about it a little longer, darling? We don’t have to make a decision yet. You can wait until tomorrow morning to decide, if you want,” Effie says reassuringly. James frowns.
“Well, I suppose so. But isn’t it better if we bring them here as soon as possible so they don’t have to stay at their foster home any longer?” James asks, looking to his father for confirmation.
“Of course, the sooner we get them out of there, the better,” his dad says in agreement, “But, we don’t want you to feel pressured to make a decision too quickly, son.”
“Really, Mum, Dad, I’m fine with it,” he assures them both, “I wouldn’t mind living with other people my age, anyway. Remember how bad I begged you both to let me dorm at St. Godric’s?”
“Well, it wouldn’t have made sense when the school’s only on the other side of town, now would it?” Monty asks, suppressing an amused smile as Effie shakes her head at him.
“You’re sure you’re okay with it, darling?” Effie asks uncertainly, “This isn’t exactly like having roommates at school. They may be living here indefinitely, it will take some getting used to.”
James refrains from pointing out that it kind of does sound exactly like having roommates. The thought makes him thrum with excitement and anxiety.
“Yes I’m sure, Mum,” James sighs exasperatedly, “This house is way too big for only three people, anyway. Oh, also, did I tell you guys about that wicked rabona Marlene pulled earlier? Bloody beautiful it was—sorry mum—reckon she’s gonna make captain of the girls’ team this year, since Alice just graduated…”
James, already distracted from the previous conversation, begins rambling on about football and his excitement for the upcoming season as his parents share an fondly exasperated look before giving their son their undivided attention.
* * *
A week after Sirius’ hospital visit, he and Regulus are sitting stiffly in the dingy living room of their foster home across from their foster father, their social worker, Ms. Bones, and—much to Regulus’ bewilderment—Dr. Potter.
“Hello again, Sirius, Regulus” Dr. Potter says cheerfully, “I’m sure you both must be confused to see me here, but I assure you it’s nothing to worry about.”
Before she can continue, the social worker clears her throat awkwardly.
“We’ve come to discuss something important with you boys.”
“That sounds vaguely ominous,” Sirius mutters. Regulus shoots him a look.
“Oh, not at all, dear,” Dr. Potter laughs lightly, “Ms. Bones here works at Ofsted—you know the Office for Standards in Education, Children’s Services, and Skills—where my husband, Fleamont, happens to work as well.”
They’re separating us again , Regulus thinks anxiously, scooting a bit closer to his brother. Sirius gently lays a hand on his arm, calming him.
“After meeting you both and hearing about your predicament, I wanted to help in any way I could. You see, my husband and I were foster parents for about ten years before we had our son. With our years of fostering experience, and my husband’s Ofsted position, we were able to get in touch with Ms. Bones through some connections and negotiate a set up that may be more… agreeable for you both” Dr. Potter says, seeming to choose her words with care as she shoots their foster father—who seems too hungover to absorb any of the conversation—a wary look.
Regulus holds in a breath.
“Er, what kind of set up?” Sirius asks suspiciously.
“Sorry but, ‘oo the fuck are you ?” their foster father’s slurred voice interrupts, “Who d’you work for, eh? Whatever these brats told ya, best believe they’re full o’ shit,” he spits roughly, taking a swig from his flask.
Sirius rolls his eyes, but Dr. Potter looks indignant.
“My name is Euphemia Potter, Mr. Filch,” she says stiffly. Their foster father snorts. “I treated Sirius in the ER at St. Mungo’s Hospital last week, when he showed up with a bloody lip and a black eye.”
Filch scoffs at her accusing gaze.
“Fuck does that gotta do wiv me? Little wanker probably got it on the streets,” he says dismissively.
“Is that so?” Dr. Potter asks, narrowing her eyes at him, “Well, in any case, I’ve come to invite Sirius and Regulus to live with me.”
Wait, what?
“What?” Sirius blurts, “Live with you ?”
“Only if you want to, of course, dears,” Dr. Potter says reassuringly.
“Dr. Potter and her husband have offered to foster you both for the time being,” Ms. Bones explains.
Regulus exchanges an incredulous look with his brother.
“You may live with us for however long you need,” Dr. Potter adds gently, “But it’s completely up to you boys.”
Too stunned to respond, they simply gape at the two women.
“Well fuck if I care,” Filch mutters, lighting a cigarette between his lips, “Two less ungrateful shits to feed, innit?”
If looks could kill, Dr. Potter would’ve had their foster father cold and stiff on the floor in seconds. Filch at least has the decency to shift uncomfortably under the woman’s steely gaze.
“We’ll give you two some time to discuss it in private. In the meantime,” Ms. Bones spares a withering glance at Filch, “We can take this time to conduct a quick inspection of the house.”
Filch pales at the words, spluttering, as Ms. Bones and Dr. Potter both stand and raise their eyebrows expectantly at him. Reluctantly, he rises from the couch, swearing under his breath.
“Best get it over with, then,” he grumbles, turning towards the stairs and glancing anxiously at the cupboard in the kitchen where Regulus knows he keeps his pot stash.
When they’re gone, Sirius turns to him.
“What do you think, Reggie? Reckon we can trust her?”
“No,” Regulus answers automatically. Sirius raises his eyebrows. Regulus sighs, “But…I doubt we’ll last much longer here after they’ve inspected the place.”
Sirius snorts. “Yeah, no way they’re letting old Filch keep his license after they see what he’s got hidden under the kitchen sink…and in the bathroom cupboards… and the basement.”
Regulus’ lips twitch.
“But…maybe it could be good for us, don’t you think? I mean, she said they’ve fostered before and her husband works for the bloody social services…”
“Ofsted,” Regulus corrects.
“Yeah, that,” Sirius says distractedly, “They must be pretty well-off, too. Probably got a nice place. Better than this one, at least…”
“You know that means nothing,” Regulus says quietly.
He and Sirius know better than anyone that all the money in the world can’t help whatever goes on within the walls of a home. The bigger the house, the bigger the secrets.
“Yeah,” Sirius sighs, “Yeah, I know. But we might not get an opportunity like this again, Reg. And who knows when they’ll separate us again?”
They’re both quiet for a moment, considering their options. Regulus knows it’s a risk. He’s certainly not naïve enough to believe that some good Samaritan doctor would swoop in out of nowhere and offer to put them up in her home without some sort of catch.
Regardless, their situation is still unstable, it always has been. The risk of him and Sirius being separated is always present. The risk of leaving one foster home just to be placed in one ten times worse is always present. Even if there is a catch with Dr. Potter’s offer, Regulus has to admit it couldn’t be much worse than what they’re facing if they stay.
After a long silence, he nods.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” Regulus shrugs, “It can’t be any worse than this place. And we’ll get to stay together, right?”
“Yeah, Reggie,” Sirius gives him a small smile, touching their shoulders together, “We’ll get to stay together.”
The rest of it happens fairly quickly, Regulus barely has time to process any of it. Within an hour, their rucksacks—filled with a modest number of possessions each—have been packed and they’re riding in Dr. Potter’s Volkswagen Beetle as she chats animatedly about their “new home”.
“Oh, James will be so excited to meet you both. He’s just about your age, I believe, Sirius dear. Huge football fanatic. Do you boys play?”
Sirius clears his throat, “Er, I used to, before…”
Sirius trails off, looking uncomfortable. Dr. Potter seems to understand and doesn’t push any further.
“Lovely! You can play together then, James is always looking for playmates,” Dr. Potter says, with an obvious fondness in her tone as she mentions her son, “Oh, we can get some posters to put up in your room! What team do you support, dear?”
Sirius seems taken aback by her enthusiasm.
“Manchester United,” he answers once he recovers, smiling weakly.
“And you, Regulus, are you a football fan as well?”
Growing up, Regulus knew, of course, that his mother was different from other mothers. That not all mothers regularly flew into fits of rage that left you shaking and struggling to breathe hours later. That some fathers are more than absent figures that just happen to live in your house—appearing whenever it benefits them and turning a blind eye whenever they can’t be bothered to get involved. That their home life wasn’t exactly normal, even compared to other wealthy families. He’d heard the way his classmates spoke about their parents. As if mothers were warm figures of comfort to seek solace in, angels that fed you chicken soup when you were ill and held you when you cried. As if fathers were jovial people that cracked bad jokes at the dinner table and cheered the loudest at your sports games.
Regulus knows that mothers like Euphemia Potter exist. He’d just never met one until now, never had one spoken to him like this—without open arms, ready to care and comfort as if it’s simply her nature—and it somehow manages to reopen the raw wounds he’s spent the past two years trying to heal, attempting to knit the skin back together with stoic acceptance and indifference.
It was always easier for Sirius to renounce their parents than it was for Regulus. Even after everything, Regulus still can’t bring himself to cut off all emotional ties with his mother and father. He still loves them, despite everything they’ve done, so why couldn’t they ever love him back? He’d thought that when he grew up and became more obedient, more compliant, that perhaps his parents would start loving him. He’d believed, all his life, that the key to gaining their love and affection was simply to follow their rules without question, to be the son they wanted him to be. But even after he’d done everything in his power to chip away at himself at his parents’ demands, carving out their very own model son, nothing had changed. He may have been punished less—certainly less than Sirius, who only rebelled more as he grew older—but his parents hadn’t loved him any more. They’d simply become apathetic towards him. On good days, his mother had treated him with cold neutrality at best.
Why couldn’t he be enough for her?
After a beat, Regulus responds, “Er, not really,” and then—so as not to sound rude—he quietly adds, “I like to read.”
Dr. Potter gives him a smile through the rear view mirror, “Oh, Monty will be so pleased. You two will get on quite well, I’m sure.”
Regulus isn’t sure what to say to that, so he stays quiet. They fall into a comfortable silence, Dr. Potter humming along softly to the music on the radio and occasionally making offhand comments about the weather and the buildings they pass.
Thirty minutes later, they’re pulling into a roundabout driveway with an elegant fountain in the center surrounded by orange and white flowers. In front of them is a large, cream stone, Tudor country manor. The house sits on a wide, open field, slightly obscured by a large weeping willow standing to its side. A sign near the door reads Potter Cottage —though, truthfully, “castle” might be more appropriate.
Regulus is used to money, of course. He grew up with money—too much of it, really. He isn’t impressed by big houses or any other opulent displays of wealth. But this—this is a home.
The windows are each lit with an orange glow and the willow tree twinkles with hanging lights, basking the front of the house in warm light as the sky begins to darken. There’s a tree swing hanging from one of the willow’s branches and the field is wild and overgrown with flowers. Underneath the willow, a calico cat lays curled up, sleeping soundly. Three bicycles are lined up side by side on the front lawn, and Regulus spots a football laying on the ground, as if it had just been thrown there haphazardly after a game. Despite its elegance and grandeur, the house looks soft and lived in even just from the outside.
“Home sweet home,” Dr. Potter says brightly, as she parks the car. Sirius lets out a whistle.
Waiting at the door to greet them is a tall man, all soft cashmere and warm brown skin, with wild, salt-and-pepper hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, as if he’s spent his whole life laughing. Regulus thinks he looks like a cross between a mad scientist and a librarian—disheveled and bright-eyed, yet peaceful and good-natured.
He must be the husband, Regulus thinks.
And standing next to the man, is—
Oh.
Regulus’ breath hitches.
“Hi, I’m James.”