Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Numbers.

Harry learned them at school. His teachers said he was good with them—sharp, quick, attentive—but praise never felt like a gift. At home, it turned into bruises. Dudley hated when Harry was good at anything. So he beat the numbers out of him, again and again, until Harry started hiding in the library—not for the books, not even for the quiet, but for the corner between the back shelves and the radiator where no one ever looked. There, he’d whisper the numbers under his breath. One to a hundred. Not because he liked them. Not even because he was proud.

He did it because he remembered.

They had been walking through the grocery aisle, Aunt Petunia dragging him by the wrist as if she were embarrassed to be seen with him. A little boy—pudgy, flushed, sobbing—was in the middle of a tantrum near the tinned fruit. His older brother looked helpless, but their mother crouched to the floor, took the boy’s face in both hands, and said something too softly for Harry to hear.

But then the boy stopped. Thoughtful. His tears dried instantly, as if a secret spell had been whispered in his ear. He grabbed his mother’s hand and began to count—loudly, proudly, like it meant something sacred.

“One… five… seven… eight… eleven…”

The numbers were all wrong. They made no sense. But Harry had frozen right there in the middle of the aisle, just watching, listening, the plastic bag of canned peas nearly slipping from his grip.

Because for the first time, he saw what it looked like when a child believed in something.

And that night, lying in his cupboard, Harry tried it.

Not for dreams. Not really. But for something he couldn’t name. Something like hope. Or the shape of it. Or the way it might sound if it had a name.

Now, he did it every night. Lying flat on the thin cot, legs curled up to fit the space, his broken stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm. He stared at the wooden slats above him, the flaking plaster, the spiderweb threads that drifted from corners like tired ghosts. And he counted.

One. Two. Three.

He mouthed them, never aloud. Four. Five. Six. Each number like a pebble dropped into a well with no bottom.

He wondered what he’d wish for if it were true. What dream he’d spend all these numbers on. A warm bed? A real birthday? Someone who looked at him and saw him, not just the blur of what they hated?

By the time Harry reached twenty, he remembered.

It had been Mother’s Day. He was four. The kind of four that meant missing teeth and soft R’s, crayon-stained fingers and dreams still made of cartoons and chalk drawings. At kindergarten, the other kids were making letters—bright, messy scribbles with hearts and stickers and glitter, all saying I love you, Mommy.

So Harry did too.

He thought, maybe if I try. Maybe if he folded the paper just right, if he colored in the lines, if he signed his name and smiled when he gave it to her, she’d smile back. Maybe she’d call him something other than boy. Maybe just for a moment, he could belong to someone.

So he made the card.

Wobbly letters, shaky hearts, the word love drawn too big, as if trying to make up for everything that had never been said.

He waited until she was alone in the kitchen, drying a glass with her sharp, pale fingers. He stepped forward slowly, clutching the card in his hand so tightly it began to crumple.

“A-Aunt Petu’a,” he said, the lisp of a four-year-old softening the words. “This is fow you.”

His voice trembled like his hands.

She looked down at him. Sneered.

Then she snatched the letter from his hand, unfolded it with a wrinkle of disgust—and laughed. Not kindly. Not confused. But meanly.

Cruel.

And then, before he could explain it, before he could tell her it’s from me, I made it for you, she tore the card in half. Right in front of him.

The sound of it—the ripping—was louder than it should have been.

Harry’s eyes stung. His mouth wobbled open, but no sound came. Just breath. Just the kind of silence that comes before a child cries because they’re still trying to believe they misunderstood.

She didn’t speak. Not until she turned her back and said, sharply, without looking:

"Go tend to the garden. Now."

So he did.

The dirt clung to his hands, thick and cold. His little red knees stung from crouching too long on gravel. His face was sticky with tears he didn’t remember crying. He planted petunias with shaking fingers, wondering if maybe this was the test. Maybe if he planted them well—if they bloomed—she’d change her mind. Maybe she’d come outside, hold the torn card in her hands, tape it back together.

But she never did.

And so Harry counted. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.

The numbers were the only thing that didn’t hurt.

Fifty. Fifty-one. Fifty-two.

The numbers continued in his mind like breath—steady, familiar, something to hold on to. But thoughts didn’t stop coming. They never did.

He remembered Family Day.

He had been six. Old enough to know things but too young to understand why they happened. The classroom had been decorated in glitter and crooked banners. Balloons in primary colors, paper cut-out hearts taped to the windows. Everyone had someone. Mothers, fathers, siblings. Aunts, grandparents. Even Jason with the loud voice and a runny nose had three people in his photo.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon came for Dudley. Of course they did. They stood on either side of him, smiling wide as the camera flashed. The picture was instant, printed and warm, handed to Dudley like a reward. They ruffled his hair. Kissed his cheeks.

Harry watched from the corner of the room, where the wall met the cupboard that stored construction paper and forgotten coats.

He wasn’t called over. He wasn’t asked.

He was just there.

And then Ms. Miller, the teacher with kind eyes and a tired face, approached him. She bent down and smoothed her skirt beneath her knees as if this was going to be gentle.

“Harry,” she said, and her voice already sounded sorry, “why are you alone?”

He looked up at her, but not all the way. He couldn’t.

His lower lip trembled, and he hated that. He hated that it betrayed him first. His eyes burned, but he blinked hard, like that might stop them from spilling. And when he finally spoke, his voice came out small and broken:

“I—I have no family.”

He didn’t say it because he wanted pity. He said it because it was true.

Ms. Miller stared at him for a moment longer, then reached out and touched his hair. The way someone might pet a stray cat. Soft. Careful. But not like it meant something.

Then she stood. And walked away.

Harry hadn’t known what he expected. A photo, maybe. A moment. Someone to say, you belong somewhere. But she left, and he sat there as the room continued to buzz with flashbulbs and squeals and hugs that didn’t belong to him.

By the time the event ended, the hall had emptied and the sky outside had gone from bright to that strange blue-grey that always felt like a warning. Harry wandered out to the playground, where the wind was colder than it should’ve been.

He found the swing. The one that creaked the least. He sat on it and let the metal chains bite into his fingers as he moved back and forth—barely. Just enough to feel like he was going somewhere.

That’s when they came.

Dudley and his gang, loud and thick-footed, like they thought the ground owed them something. They stopped in front of him, shadowing the swing, their presence heavier than fists.

“Look at Potty,” one of them said. “All alone.”

“No parents. Pathetic,” said the other.

They laughed. All of them. One of them pointed. And Harry stayed silent.

Not because he agreed. But because anything he said would’ve made it worse.

Harry looked down. Said nothing.

They didn’t hit him—not this time. Too many adults nearby. But they didn’t have to.

Sometimes words could bruise deeper than fists.

And when they left, Harry kept swinging. Slowly. Not to fly, but to feel something move.

Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One hundred.

And then—silence.

The kind that didn't comfort. The kind that crept in through cracks in the walls and settled into the spaces between breaths, into the corners of your ribs, into the soft part of your throat that always hurt when you swallowed too hard.

"Happy birthday to me..." Harry whispered.

It wasn’t even a whisper. It was thinner than that. A thread unraveling in the dark.

He blinked, once, slowly. Right. It was his birthday. He was eight now.

Eight.

He turned the number over in his mind like something foreign. Like a word in a language he used to know but no longer spoke. It meant nothing, really—just another day in the cupboard, another set of numbers counted, another night where the ceiling felt a little lower than the night before.

Still, it surprised him that he remembered.

He sat up, knees pulled to his chest, toes curling into the hem of the too-short blanket he kept folded beneath him. He looked down at the slats of wood that made up the door. Light from the hallway spilled through them—soft and silver and so faint it looked like something already dying. Moonlight, he guessed. He didn’t know for sure.

Everything felt still. And Harry didn’t like it.

He was used to noise. The kind that bruised. Dudley’s stomping feet. Uncle Vernon’s shouting. Aunt Petunia’s sharp voice saying his name like it was a stain she couldn’t scrub out.

But this—this quiet—was worse.

Because in the quiet, all he had were his thoughts.

Birthdays, he’d learned from books and overheard stories, were supposed to be loud. Filled with voices, laughter, paper hats, fingers coated in icing, and the kind of warmth that comes when you’re surrounded by people who know you.

But Harry had none of those.

No family. No friends. No cake. No presents. Not even a bed. Just a cupboard, a cracked cot with springs that pinched, and a stuffed toy so worn its seams were more memory than fabric.

And still, he told himself things.

Lies, maybe. But lies he needed.

That someone—somewhere—would come for him. That maybe he was someone’s son. Someone’s something. That one day, one hundred wouldn’t just be a number. It would be the moment everything changed.

That was the wish. The real one.

Not for cake. Not for toys. But for someone to see him. Really see him. And choose him.

That was why he counted. Every night. From one to one hundred.

Because if he could make it to one hundred, maybe—just maybe—the wish would work.

And so he clung to it. With everything in him.

Silence.

Then shouting.

"WHERE IS HE!"

The voice boomed through the house, sharp and thunderous, as if it had been forged in the belly of a storm. It wasn’t the kind of shouting Harry knew—not Uncle Vernon’s rage, not Dudley’s tantrums. This voice came with something heavier. A command. A promise. It sent a tremor down Harry’s spine, and instinctively, he curled into himself, hands tight around his knees, forehead pressed to the curve of his stuffed rabbit’s worn body.

He heard Aunt Petunia’s voice next, shrill and clipped, descending the stairs like a threat in motion. Harry could tell where she was just by the sound of her footsteps. He always could. He knew how Vernon walked too—slower, louder, always with that weighted stomp that made the walls seem smaller.

There was a pause. A door creaked. And then—her voice, spitting with contempt.

“Your kind doesn’t belong here.”

She said it like she was spitting out poison. And for a moment, Harry thought the man might leave. Most people did when Petunia spoke like that. They backed away, fumbled for excuses, folded beneath her disgust.

But not this man.

"If you don't show me where he is," the man hissed, every word like broken glass dragged across the floor, "I will ruin your life, you wench."

Harry flinched. Not because the man had scared him—but because someone, for once, didn’t flinch first.

Then more shouting. Voices rising and tripping over each other, swelling like waves crashing through the hall. Harry gripped his stuffed rabbit tighter, tried to make himself smaller. Quieter. Maybe invisible.

And then—

Silence again.

But not the old silence. This was the kind that came right before.

Harry could hear Vernon’s footsteps. Heavy. Angry. Coming toward the cupboard. They stopped just in front of the door.

The lock clicked.

The door swung open, slow and creaking.

Uncle Vernon’s shadow filled the doorway, huge and hulking. Harry’s body shrank on instinct, curling deeper into himself, waiting for the blow, for the barked insult, the pulling of his arm.

But then—

Vernon was shoved.

Shoved hard, stumbling back with a thud and a curse.

In his place stood the man.

Soaked to the skin.

His hair was long and black, plastered to his neck, clinging to his shoulders in dark ropes. His cloak hung heavy with rain, dripping onto the floor in slow, steady drops. His chest heaved like he’d run through fire to get here. His face—pale, drawn, wild with something fierce and breaking.

His eyes—Harry couldn’t tell. Grey or onyx or something in between. But they locked onto Harry like a spell.

He looked familiar.

Not in the way people say when someone reminds them of a dream. But in the way his face felt. Like something carved into the back of Harry’s mind long before words ever took root there.

Harry opened his mouth, and the word slipped out before he could stop it:

"Papa?"

He didn’t know why he said it. He didn’t know what it meant.

But something in the man shattered.

His face folded in on itself, crumpling with grief and disbelief and something tender Harry had never seen directed at him before. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, blinked away like they’d been waiting years for permission. He reached forward—slowly, reverently, like Harry was something precious that might vanish if touched too roughly.

Harry didn’t think. He ran.

Out of the cupboard. Out of the dark. Straight into the man’s arms.

He buried his face in the man’s soaked cloak and sobbed—not because he knew why, but because his body had decided to, and there was no stopping it.

The man wrapped his arms around him and held him like he was something he’d once lost and never thought he’d find again. He held him like time could be rewound if only he held tight enough.

And he cried too.

Not loudly. Not like Dudley cried. But quietly. Deeply.

Harry didn’t understand. Not all of it. Not yet.

But for the first time, his tears weren’t met with slaps or scorn. They were held.

And even though he was soaked now, and confused, and everything felt like too much—he was warm.

He was confused. But he was held.

He didn’t know who the man was, not really.

But something in his chest whispered:

You’re safe now.

Chapter Text

Regulus still remembers it—too well.

The cave, the greenish light, the smell of rot clinging to the rocks. He remembers the basin—cold, shallow, deep as death—and how his own reflection in the potion had looked less like him and more like the ghost he was about to become.

He drank.

Each gulp was worse than the last. The poison didn’t burn. It coated. It crept. It clung to the back of his throat like oil and grief, seeping into the cracks of him, hollowing him out from the inside. It made him feel wrong in his own body. Made him forget how to breathe.

And still, he drank.

Because someone had to.

Because no one else would.

When the goblet finally slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor, he thought—Good. It was over. But the basin didn’t wait. It began to refill itself, smooth and silent, like it had never been touched. Like it had never tasted him.

He wanted to be angry. But he was too far gone.

His knees gave out first. Then his hands.

The stone beneath him was wet, cold, slick with something like algae and old magic. He heaved for air—uselessly. Every breath scraped against his throat like rusted knives. He was drowning on land.

“Kreacher,” he gasped. He didn’t know if the elf could hear him. He didn’t care. “Take it.”

The locket. The real one. The only thing that mattered.

He forced it into Kreacher’s hands. His fingers trembled so badly it felt like he might drop it.

And then Kreacher—frozen.

Just stood there.

Eyes wide and wet and terrified. Staring at him like this was the part he hadn’t been prepared for.

Regulus coughed—something sharp. Blood, maybe. He couldn’t tell anymore.

His mind was slipping. His chest felt like it was caving in. His body didn’t belong to him. But he still had one thing left.

His name. His House.

That ancient, brittle power still clinging to his voice.

He looked Kreacher dead in the eyes and said, through teeth that barely moved:

“As Lord of the House of Black… I order you… leave this cave.”

Kreacher whimpered. Shook his head.

“Destroy the locket,” Regulus whispered. “Do it for me.”

And then—he was alone.

No pop. No sound. Just absence.

The cave suddenly felt cavernous, echoing, alive. The Inferi stirred in the water, like they’d been waiting. He heard the first ripple. Then another. Then ten.

A hand—pale and bloated—wrapped around his ankle.

It was wet. It was cold.

And then another. And another.

They pulled.

He clawed at the stone with bloodied fingers, but it was too slick. The water rushed over him, swallowed him. He didn’t scream. There wasn’t enough air for that.

The cold hit him like a curse.

It wasn’t just temperature—it was memory. It was love. And loss. It was every dream he would never get to watch unfold. Every moment he had given up before it could begin.

But the one that returned—clearer than all the rest, brighter even than the cave’s green-dark haze—was Harry.

His baby boy.

Fourteen months old. Barely that.

Held in his other father’s arms, giggling as if joy were the only language he knew.

That was the memory Regulus clung to. That was the one he wished he could trap time inside, keep on repeat forever. Not the missions. Not the spells. Not the boy he had been, or the man he had become. Just this—James sitting on the sunlit floor of their flat, knees crossed and hair a mess, grinning so wide it made his eyes crinkle as he bounced Harry gently on his lap.

And Harry—sweet Merlin, Harry—

All cheeks and laughter. Gummy smiles that lit up the whole room, arms flailing with that soft, clumsy joy only babies knew.

And those eyes.

Green like spring, like leaves soaked in sunlight, like something impossibly alive. Everyone said they were Lily Evans’s, but Regulus had known better. They were his. Just like the dimple on the left cheek. Just like the quiet way Harry watched the world, thoughtful even when he was too little to speak.

People didn’t know. They never really knew. But James—his James—had never cared what they thought.

He had chosen him.

Chosen them.

What mattered was their son. Their family.

Their messy mornings. Their quiet nights. The way Harry reached for them with tiny fingers like he knew, already, where he belonged.

Regulus thought of that. Held it in his chest like a charm against the dark.

Because if this—this drowning, this cold, this cave—was what it took to keep that world intact, to give that child more days like that, to give James more mornings like that—

Then it was worth it.

All of it.

He could do this.

He would do this.

For Harry.

For James.

For the life they were supposed to have.

And so, as the Inferi dragged him under, and the light above him slipped away like spilled ink, Regulus closed his eyes—

And smiled.

Because he had loved.

Because he had been loved.

And because somewhere, right now, his baby was still laughing.

The water filled his lungs. It was slow. Intimate. Like death was a lover come to claim him.

And still—his fingers curled in protest. His body bucked. His mind screamed no even when his voice couldn’t.

But no one heard.

The Inferi pulled him deeper. Into nothing. Into dark. Into the cold beyond thought.

And just before everything slipped away—before the light behind his eyes turned black—Regulus thought:

Please let it mean something.

Please let someone be saved.

Please… let someone remember I tried.

←-----------<[•]>------------→

And that—

That memory of Harry, giggling in James’s arms, radiant and untouched by the war breathing down their necks—

That was the last thing Regulus remembered before the darkness cracked and the cold came flooding back.

It began as coughing. Sharp. Violent.

His whole body convulsed with it. He doubled over, retching up lake water in thick, choking waves. Each breath stabbed. Each cough tore. His throat was raw, his lungs unfamiliar with air again. It was as though death had wrapped itself around his ribs and was now being scraped off, inch by inch.

He tried to move, and his fingers met stone. Cold, slick, familiar stone.

He remembered this place.

His temple hit the ground with a soft thud as his arms gave out beneath him. His chest rose and fell in frantic, uneven gasps, and his vision swam—water clung to his lashes, his cheeks, his hair. He blinked once. Twice. The third time, light fractured in from somewhere—moonlight, maybe. Or magic. Or both.

He felt himself sink again. But this time into unconsciousness.

No Inferi. No hands dragging him back. Just silence. And the sound of water breathing behind him.

When he awoke, the world didn’t rush back all at once.

It came slowly.

A pulse. A sound. The faint, echoing drip of the cave. His own heartbeat, faint and distant, like it was happening in someone else’s chest.

He lay still.

Even thinking hurt. His thoughts were soft, slurred around the edges. Time had been folded strangely—minutes became hours, hours felt like seconds.

And then—groaning—he turned his head.

The stone beneath him was cold, still wet, still real. He pressed one palm to it, fingers splayed as if testing whether this world would collapse under his touch. It didn’t.

He exhaled shakily. Then, slowly, painfully, sat up.

His limbs protested. His muscles felt like they’d been carved out and filled with lead. But he moved. He could move.

He closed his eyes.

Opened them again.

Closed them.

He didn’t know what he was hoping to see instead. His mother’s sitting room? Grimmauld Place at sixteen? A baby’s crib, a crib James had painted gold and silver in defiance of all the colors Walburga would have chosen?

No.

The cave. Still the cave.

The lake behind him lay still now. Deceptively still. As if it hadn’t taken him. As if it hadn’t pulled him under and fed on him like a secret.

Regulus rose slowly to his feet. They wobbled beneath him. He reached for the wall and leaned into it, letting his weight fall against the stone. The cold didn’t scare him anymore. He welcomed it—it told him he was awake. Alive.

Barely.

He took one step. Then another.

Each movement required effort. Each breath required thought. It was like his body and soul were reacquainting themselves after too long apart.

He pressed his forehead to the wall, shutting his eyes again.

And he tried to remember.

The locket. Kreacher. The Inferi.

His death.

Or what he thought was death.

But now—he was here. Again. And the world, somehow, had not ended in his absence.

He opened his eyes.

Everything was the same. The stones. The dripping water. The lake. The dark. The cold.

And he wondered—

Had it worked?

Had the locket been destroyed?

Was Harry safe?

Was James—?

The questions flooded in faster than he could breathe. They sat heavy in his chest like the water had. Not drowning, but something close.

He didn’t know why he was alive.

Didn’t know how.

But he knew one thing, even as he stood trembling and broken against the cave wall.

He hadn’t come back for nothing.

It took a while before Regulus found the strength to move again.

The cold had settled into his bones, but he let it be. He had stopped fearing discomfort—pain reminded him he was still here, still tethered. Each breath was steadier now, though it caught in his throat if he tried to take too much at once. He moved carefully, sparing his ribs, his shoulders, his knees, like an old man waking up in a body that no longer obeyed the laws of time.

Eventually, he lifted one trembling hand and patted over his robes, searching—

There.

Tucked snugly in the worn leather of his holster, near the inside of his ankle, was his wand. Miraculously still there. Still his.

He exhaled. The tension dropped from his shoulders in a shudder.

“Kreacher,” he rasped. His voice cracked against the cave walls. The name felt like an anchor, like something from before.

He waited.

A heartbeat.

Another.

Then—pop.

The sound was like a crack in reality. The air shifted. And then he saw him.

Regulus froze.

Kreacher—his Kreacher—was standing there in the cave’s entrance, hunched, shaking slightly, clutching something wrapped in aged cloth.

He looked—

Old.

So old Regulus barely recognized him. The elf’s back was more hunched, his ears drooping, his face lined with so many years of wear and waiting. Even the magic clinging to him felt faded, like fabric left too long in the sun.

Had it really been—?

But before the thought could take root, Kreacher let out a sharp sob and launched himself toward Regulus’s feet, collapsing there with a wail.

“I’m so sorry, Master Regulus!” the elf cried, clutching at the hem of his robes with thin, desperate fingers. “Kreacher tried—tried—to destroy mean no-nose’s locket but it wouldn’t, it wouldn’t break! Such dark magic, yes, old and cruel, it screamed when Kreacher tried—”

His voice cracked into a whimper, his hands shaking harder.

“Oh, Master Regulus, Kreacher has failed you! And the little Master—Harry—he—”

He didn’t get to finish.

Regulus had dropped to his knees before the last word had even left Kreacher’s mouth.

His hands clutched the elf’s frail shoulders, tighter than they should have, and his eyes—wide, wild, unblinking—searched Kreacher’s face like he could dig truth out of it with just his stare.

“Where’s my son?” he demanded, breath sharp and slicing between clenched teeth. “Where is Harry? What happened to him? Tell me!.”

His voice broke at the end. Not out of weakness, but out of urgency. The kind of urgency that belongs only to fathers.

Kreacher flinched, eyes swimming with tears. “Oh, Master, Kreacher doesn’t—Kreacher only watched from far. So many years. Kreacher tried. But the boy, the boy was with them. With the Dursleys, oh Kreacher begged Dumbledore, Kreacher begged, but they said it was safest—safest with blood—filthy Muggle blood as if that filfthy muggles were ever to be compared against the most anci—”

“Kreacher,” Regulus said, and his voice cracked somewhere between the first syllable and the second—like it wasn’t used to being real again. He swallowed, tasting salt and blood, and tried again.

“Kreacher…” softer now, almost a breath. “W-what year is it?”

He wasn’t sure why he asked. The question felt loose in his mouth, almost silly. But the silence that followed was terrifying. Not because Kreacher didn’t answer—but because for a moment, he hesitated.

The hesitation was everything.

The pause was long enough for dread to bloom in Regulus’s stomach like frostbite.

Kreacher looked up at him—slowly. His wrinkled face, his sunken eyes, the tremble in his bony hands… it all came together now, like pieces of a photograph Regulus didn’t want to see. He didn’t even recognize his own elf.

“It’s been… eight years, Master,” Kreacher said softly.

Eight years.

Regulus blinked.

No breath came.

“eight…?” he echoed, the word barely reaching his own ears.

“It is 1989, Master Regulus.”

Regulus didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

Eight years.

Eight years.

His knees gave way. He sat back hard against the stone floor, arms limp at his sides. Not in grief. Not in shock. Not even in pain. But in numbness. That bone-deep stillness that comes when time decides to keep moving without you.

Harry was…

Fourteen months old, last he saw. Just learning to walk. Just starting to speak. Smiling like the world had never hurt him.

And now—he was eight. Maybe nine. Maybe… no. He couldn’t even say it.

He'd missed everything.

His first steps. His first words. The sound of his laugh turning into something older. Birthdays. Nights with fevers. Toothaches. Falling asleep to stories.

All of it.

Gone.

Stolen.

Regulus stared at his own hands, dirtied and trembling. They didn’t even look like his hands anymore. He looked older, too. More than eight years should allow. Or maybe he’d simply never looked alive in the first place.

He pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes. Not to cry. No, the tears wouldn’t come. This wasn’t sadness. This was something worse.

This was knowing the world had gone on without him. And so had his son.

Kreacher started apologizing once more.

But Regulus wasn’t listening anymore.

Kreacher’s voice became distant, like it was speaking through water, or through years. Maybe both. Regulus didn’t even blink. He just… stood there, still kneeling, his fingers still pressed into Kreacher’s thin shoulders, but no longer holding. Just touching.

His mind was unraveling.

Dumbledore.

Dumbledore had taken his son. His Harry. And handed him to those people. Claimed—had the audacity to claim—that the boy belonged with the Evans line. As if Regulus had not watched James bleed for that child. As if Regulus had not burned for that child.

As if Harry was not his.

His chest felt like it would cave in. Like grief and rage were punching through the ribs he’d only just returned to.

He thought of Petunia Evans—no, Petunia Dursley—and bile rose in his throat. James had told him stories. Little things, always tucked between jokes. “You should’ve seen her at the wedding,” he’d snorted. “Stood in the back like the pew might catch fire. Wouldn’t even look Lily in the eye.”

But Lily hadn’t been innocent either.

People loved to talk about her like she was a saint. A tragic flower. But Regulus had seen her. Had known her. She was clever, yes, but brittle. Cold when she needed to be. She had loved hard—but only when it suited her. And she’d always loved herself just a little more than anything else.

He had tried to forgive that. For James’s sake. But now—now there was nothing left to forgive.

And slowly—slowly—his hands dropped from Kreacher’s arms. He stood up on trembling legs, his jaw clenched so tightly he thought something in his face might snap. His fingers curled at his sides, then twitched—once, twice—as though fighting the urge to lash out, to destroy, to undo.

He didn’t remember stepping back. Or turning.

He just knew that something inside him had broken.

Not my son. Not my Harry. Not there.

He thought of James. Of that summer evening in Godric’s Hollow—James barefoot in the garden, Harry gurgling in his arms, Regulus curled up on the old bench half-watching them with a book open in his lap he never really read.

And now?

That baby had been handed off like luggage. Dropped into the arms of a woman who probably sneered every time he spoke.

He shut his eyes and pressed the heel of his palm against them until everything went dark, then stars, then dark again.

“Dear Salazar,” he whispered. His voice was low. Shaking. He didn’t know if it was a prayer or a curse. Maybe both.

Then—before Kreacher could even speak again—Regulus gripped his wand.

His magic cracked like a live wire down his spine.

And he Disapparated.

Not because he had a plan.

But because if even half of what Kreacher said was true—if Harry had been neglected, if he had ever been afraid—then someone was going to bleed for it.

And Regulus Black had just come back from the dead, he was a Black on top all of that. He was better than them. And no one messes with his family.

Regulus landed hard, and with none of the usual grace he'd once been known for. His knees bent wrong, his boots scraped concrete, and his balance faltered just enough to remind him that he had not come back whole. Not entirely.

The wind cut at his robes. They clung to his legs, still damp with lakewater and death.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t wait to catch his breath.

He walked.

Little Whinging. Surrey. The name itself had always sounded like something brittle—too clean, too restrained, too far from anything real. And the street proved it true. A row of homes, indistinguishable from each other, lined the road like hollowed teeth. Perfectly trimmed hedges. Identical windows. Cars that hadn’t moved in hours. Gardens that smelled more like chemicals than flowers.

It was suffocating.

His steps echoed softly as he walked, but even that sound felt wrong. Like it didn’t belong.

What happened?

The question pounded through his skull, over and over again, each repetition louder than the last.

What happened since then?

Where was James?

Why was Harry here—of all places?

Regulus didn’t want to think it. Didn’t want to entertain the idea. But it gnawed at the edge of his mind like rot.

Did James…?

No. No. He knew better.

James would rather die—had always said so—than let Lily Evans anywhere near their son. James was a devoted husband to him, and him only- and to a father to Harry.

So why—why—had Dumbledore handed his child to her?

His fists clenched. He didn’t remember choosing to quicken his pace, but suddenly he was moving faster, breathing harder. Fury buzzed beneath his skin. Or maybe it wasn’t fury. Maybe it was panic.

Maybe it was both.

Then he saw it.

Number Four.

He stopped.

Everything about it reeked of control. Of performance. The lawn was too trimmed. The windows too clean. Even the doormat—Welcome—looked like a lie.

Regulus stared at it, unblinking, as if the house itself might confess something.

He could feel the magic in his fingers now—tingling, on edge, like a blade drawn but not swung.

What if Harry was in there, alone?

What if he'd never been hugged?

What if he was locked in a room for being different?

.....What if he didn’t even know what it meant to be loved?

Regulus stepped forward.

The path to the door was short, but each step felt like miles. The world had gone silent. The wind had stilled. Even the stars above looked like they were holding their breath.

He raised his hand.

Hesitated.

What if he doesn’t remember me? What if he never knew?

He knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The door opened.

Not fully. Just a sliver. A hinge’s width of space and suspicion.

A woman’s face peeked through, sharp and sunken and drawn too tight around the mouth. Petunia.

Even after all these years, she looked exactly the same. Pale in that bloodless way that wasn’t illness but meanness. Her eyes narrowed instantly, like she smelled something foul. Like just seeing him—dripping, wild-eyed, barely alive—was an inconvenience.

“What—” she began, but her voice was already too familiar. Too much like Lily’s when she was angry and hadn’t learned to whisper yet.

Regulus didn’t let her finish.

“Where is he?” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

He stepped forward, forcing the door open wider, and his voice—when it came again—didn’t sound human. It thundered from some place deeper than lungs. A place built of grave dirt and wandlight and the ache of eight stolen years.

“WHERE IS HE!”

The house fell silent.

There were footsteps upstairs. A muttered curse. And then another voice—his. Vernon. Large, loud, oafish. Still using sound as a substitute for power.

Petunia’s face twisted into something hateful.

“Your kind doesn’t belong here,” she spat, like it was sacred.

Regulus didn’t blink.

“If you don’t show me where he is,” he said, and each word sliced sharper than the last, “I will ruin your life, you wench.”

There it was—her flinch.

Vernon came stomping in then, red-faced and puffing like a toad in heat. “Now see here, you freak, I—”

But Regulus had already raised his wand. Not to cast—yet—but to warn. The kind of warning that didn’t require words. Vernon froze mid-step. The fat man’s face went slack, sweat beading instantly under his double chin. The man sneered at him before walking towards back to the hall, kneeling down Infront of a cupboard before opening the latch on the door. 

And that's when he realized..

No.

He expected this.

But not his son in a cupboard.

He didn't waste any time, he shoved the man to the side making the fat whale stumble to the side. 

He wasn’t prepared for how small Harry was.

A child. Curled in the corner like someone had told him to take up as little space as possible, and he'd listened. Knees to his chest. Chin to his knees. A stuffed rabbit crushed beneath one thin arm, grey with wear, eyes long since gone. He looked like something abandoned behind glass. A museum of a boy. Or the ghost of one.

Regulus forgot to breathe.

And then he forgot to remember how to breathe.

It had been years—eight, Kreacher had said. Eight years since he’d touched the world. Since he’d touched Harry. And yet… there he was. Breathing. Real. Fragile. And so dreadfully alone.

The boy didn’t cry. Not like children did in the stories. He didn’t ask who Regulus was. Didn’t scream. He just looked up. And that look—those green eyes, too big for his face—were filled with something so ancient, it made Regulus want to run and never stop.

Not fear.

But recognition.

As if even memory had bones. As if love could survive in fragments.

And then—soft as breath against glass, almost not there—

“Papa?”

That word.

That word.

The way it left the boy’s lips—not in hope, not in confusion, but as though it had always belonged to him, as if it had waited eight years just to be said aloud—Regulus felt everything in him fold inward.

His knees gave way.

He dropped to the floor before he could stop himself. Hands trembling, shoulders shaking in a way that had nothing to do with the cold still dripping from his cloak.

“Papa…”

He had heard James whisper it once in their old flat. Had once kissed his son’s forehead and signed letters with that name. Had once sworn he’d never let the world teach Harry what being unloved felt like.

And yet here he was.

On the floor.

In a stranger’s home.

In front of a cupboard.

Facing the truth that he had failed.

But the boy didn’t know that. The boy—his boy—only knew that something had arrived. Something that looked like safety.

And he ran.

Straight into Regulus’s arms. As if his bones remembered what his mind had forgotten. As if the word “Papa” had cracked open something old and true and left only instinct behind.

Regulus gathered him close. He didn't think. There was nothing to think. There was only Harry—this trembling, half-starved child, burying his face in a stranger’s soaked cloak—and the overwhelming, blistering realization that no one had held him like this in years.

He was so light.

Too light.

So small, even now, and yet already carrying the weight of silence. Of shame. Of being tolerated instead of loved.

And Regulus cried.

Not loudly. Not like someone who’d survived death. But like someone who had come back too late.

Like someone who had missed the birthdays. The nightmares. The first steps. The first words.

He cried because Harry still clutched that rabbit like it could protect him. Because no child should ever know how to flinch like that. Because he didn’t ask who Regulus was—because the cupboard had taught him to be grateful for anything that resembled gentleness.

Regulus pressed his face into Harry’s hair and wept, not knowing whether he was mourning the years or himself. His hand shook as it curled around the boy’s back, grounding himself in the feel of something that was real.

Harry didn’t say anything else. Didn’t ask.

He just stayed there, held.

And Regulus knew that even if he spent the rest of his life trying, he would never undo the image of his son in that cupboard.

He would carry it forever.

The cupboard.

The silence.

The sound of a child saying Papa, not as a question, but like it was all he had left.

And somewhere inside him, something old and sharp and grieving whispered:

Too late.

Too late.

Too late.

But even if it was, he held him anyway.

Because maybe—just maybe—this time, he wouldn’t let go.

Chapter Text

James had never known pain like this. Not the splitting throb behind his eyes, not the blood trailing sluggishly down the side of his face, nor the jagged bolt of fire in his ribs every time he breathed. No, the pain was watching his son—his little boy—reaching for him and not being able to go to him.

“Dada,” Harry sobbed, his voice high, cracked, wet with tears. Over and over again. A sound more desperate than words had any right to be. His arms stretched toward James, little hands opening and closing in the air like he thought if he reached hard enough, if he cried loud enough, his father would rise and take him back.

James tried. He truly did. One arm trembled beneath him as he pushed himself up from the floor, pain flaring down his spine. The stone beneath his palms was slick with his own blood. His limbs felt like they didn’t belong to him anymore—heavy, wrong, distant. But none of it mattered. Only Harry mattered.

“Harry…” he choked, voice broken, breath catching in his throat.

Harry thrashed wildly in the arms of the woman holding him, wriggling and kicking in protest. His sobs were louder now, more frantic. James watched through blurred eyes as Harry’s tiny fists fisted in the woman’s red hair, yanking at it as he wailed. “Dada! Dada!”

Lily didn't let go. She didn’t even flinch. Her grip only tightened. Her jaw was set, her gaze sharp and unyielding. James stared at her, a dawning horror crawling up his spine—not just for what she was doing, but for the look in her eyes as she did it. Lily, who had once laughed with him in the Gryffindor common room, who had once called him a reckless idiot and still meant it with warmth. Lily, who had changed the moment he had chosen Regulus. It had been there, in her silence, in the way she stopped looking him in the eye. He hadn’t seen it before. Not like this.

She was whispering to Harry now—low, hushed things that James couldn’t make out. But he could see the way Harry writhed harder, confused, frightened. And it shattered him. There were no words for it. No spell. No plea.

And then—him.

Dumbledore.

Standing just beyond the pair, his wand held in a pale, firm hand, eyes as cold as James had ever seen them. Not unkind. Not cruel. Just—detached. Like this wasn’t a person on the floor before him, but a puzzle piece that no longer fit. A problem to be cleared away.

“I’m sorry this had to turn out this way, my boy,” Dumbledore said softly, with the same voice he had once used when handing James a lemon drop across his office desk. “But it’s for the greater good.”

The greater good. Always those words. Always that reason.

“No…” James rasped, his voice splintering. He tried to move again, gritting his teeth against the scream rising in his throat. “P-please… not my son…”

But the Headmaster didn’t blink. Didn’t lower his wand.

And Harry—Harry was still crying, still begging, his sobs echoing against the stone walls. His little hands reached, desperate. Every time he called for his dada, it sounded like his heart was breaking open a little more.

James didn’t know what hurt more: the pain in his body or the pain in his son's voice.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, though he knew Harry couldn’t hear him. “I’m here, baby…”

But Lily didn’t let go.

And Dumbledore didn’t look away.

“Please… let him go!” James gasped, the words torn from him more as a plea than a command. His voice cracked, hoarse from pain, but still full of that fierce, desperate edge only a parent could carry.

Dumbledore didn’t move. He only frowned—subtle, practiced. But James had known the man long enough to see through the performance. Beneath that mask of calm, beneath the eyes that pretended to mourn what they were doing, lived something else entirely. A satisfaction. A cold certainty. James saw it clearly now—the way power had changed him, warped something in him. The man was capable of greatness, yes. But also of cruelty, precise and justified cruelty. The kind that came cloaked in the words for the greater good.

“No,” Dumbledore said, simply. His voice was steady, unshaken. Unfeeling.

James glared up at him, chest heaving. His body screamed with every movement, but his fury burned hotter than the pain. His eyes stung—not just from blood and tears, but from memory.

James remembered how it happened. Quiet, warm, uneventful. He had been sitting at the kitchen table in Godric’s Hollow, the golden lamplight glowing soft on the wooden walls. Harry was in his lap, chubby fingers sticky with juice, giggling around slices of strawberry James had cut into little hearts. He remembered brushing a bit of fruit from his son’s lip and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Harry had leaned into him with that tired, sleepy trust only toddlers had, and James had smiled—soft and full.

Then it happened.

The door hadn’t creaked. It hadn’t opened gently. It exploded.

The hinges blasted inward in a violent gust, shards of wood splintering into the air like shrapnel. The warmth in the house drained in a single breath. Harry had flinched in his arms, startled, and then began to cry—those quick, broken sobs that stabbed right through James’s chest. He had held him close, Harry clutching at his shirt with both fists, burying his face into James’s collarbone, confused and trembling.

And when James looked up, he saw him.

Dumbledore. Framed in the doorway like death itself, wand raised, eyes already set on James. Not a word spoken. Just standing there like he had every right to destroy the peace James had carved out for his family.

And behind him—Lily.

James’s heart had turned to ice. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t even angry. Her face was set in something worse—purpose.

He didn’t wait. He couldn’t.

His expression had hardened instantly. Instinct moved faster than thought. James gathered Harry into his arms, holding him tight against his chest, and ran. Up the stairs, two at a time, heart slamming against his ribs. Behind him, Harry whimpered, “Dada,” voice breaking again and again, clinging to him like he was the only truth he knew in the chaos.

James didn’t have time to grieve the betrayal. He didn’t have time to think of how far things had fallen. All he could think of was the little boy in his arms, the weight of him, the warmth, the trust. And how he had to protect it.

No matter the cost.

And now here he is. Laying slump against the wall sideways, blood pouring down somewhere from his head as his vision dimmed. The only thing he remembered was Harry's wailing voice calling out for him... 

"Dada"

🌟~~~~~~~~~~~<•>~~~~~~~~~🌟

Harry woke with a sound caught between a gasp and a groan.

His head throbbed, but it was dull—like a bruise pressing from the inside—and not nearly as sharp as the fear that followed when he realized something was wrong. Not wrong like danger, not yet. Wrong like different.

He didn’t open his eyes at first.

Instead, he lay still, listening.

There was no shouting. No footsteps stomping down the stairs. No cupboard door creaking open. No Dudley banging against the wall just to frighten him. Nothing.

Only quiet.

And sunlight. He could feel it. Warm against his face, across his eyelids. It filtered in like honey, golden and slow, painting soft lines across the covers pulled around him. Covers. Real ones. Not the thin scratchy sheet and itchy wool blanket he usually had, both riddled with moth holes and the faint smell of mold.

This wasn’t right.

There was warmth, but the kind that didn’t feel like it had to be earned or stolen. There was space. The air didn’t smell like mildew. And the mattress—it was soft. Not just better than his cot. It was soft in a way that made Harry’s throat ache. As if softness itself was suspicious.

Something twisted in his gut.

He opened his eyes.

And panicked.

He sat up too fast, eyes flying open wide—and immediately regretted it. The motion made his head spin, and a stab of pain lanced through his temples. He clutched his forehead, wincing, heart hammering now, faster than before.

The room—this room—was unfamiliar.

He blinked. Slowly. Then again. Trying to adjust, trying to take it in.

The ceiling was white. The curtains were open. A gentle breeze shifted the hem of them, making them sway like breath. The walls were clean, the floor carpeted. There was a real bed. A bedside table. A window.

A window.

He hadn’t had a proper one in… ever, maybe.

A soundless question stirred in him, but his throat was tight. He gripped the edge of the blanket with both hands, holding it to his chest as if it could offer answers.

Where am I?

And beneath that, layered thin and brittle—

What did I do wrong?

Because good things didn’t just happen. Not to him. Not without something worse following right behind.

Then it came back, slow and dreamlike.

The shouting. The cupboard door flying open. Uncle Vernon’s stunned face, shoved aside like he was nothing. The man, soaked and wild-eyed, taking up the whole doorway like a shadow from a half-remembered dream.

And the word.

"Papa?"

He had said it. He knew he had.

His cheeks burned with the memory. It had come out so fast, so natural, as if it had always been sitting there behind his teeth, waiting to be said. He didn’t even know why. He didn’t remember a father. Not really. Not clearly. Just flashes—soft smells, a voice too distant to hold on to, something warm like a hand on his back. That was all.

And yet, when he saw that man’s face—his wet hair clinging to his cheeks, his expression cracked down the middle—it was the only word that made sense.

Harry’s arms curled tighter around his knees. He stared at the window, at the light creeping across the floor, and tried to breathe slowly. In. Out.

He should be worried.

He was worried.

He didn’t know this place. He didn’t know where the Dursleys were. He didn’t know if the man was real—or just a very good dream. He didn’t know why he felt safe. Safety wasn't something he was used to. It didn't fit him right.

But he also didn’t want to move.

Didn’t want to ruin it.

Because maybe—just maybe—if he stayed very still, and didn’t speak, and didn’t ask for too much… whoever put him here would let him stay.

Maybe the man from last night was real.

Maybe the arms that had held him weren’t just a dream.

Maybe “Papa” hadn’t been a mistake after all.

He wanted to believe it. He did. But belief was a dangerous thing. Hope even more so. He had learned, too early, that wanting something too badly usually made it vanish.

So he pressed his forehead to his knees and closed his eyes again. He whispered numbers to himself, under his breath.

One.

Two.

Three.

Just like always.

Because counting felt safe. Predictable. Like a story he knew the ending of.

This—this bed, this room, this feeling—was something else.

Something terrifying.

Because it almost felt like love.

And Harry didn’t know what to do with that.

Just then, a sound—a faint rustle beside him.

It made Harry freeze.

For a second, his heart thudded, panic flickering through his chest like a bird startled in its cage. He hadn’t even realized there was someone else in the bed. How hadn’t he noticed? He should have. He always noticed. At the Dursleys’, not knowing meant punishment. But this room was quiet, warm, unthreatening. Maybe that’s why he’d let his guard slip.

Stupid, he thought. Stupid, stupid.

He blinked hard, willing his eyes to focus, but of course—he wasn’t wearing his glasses. The world was a blur of soft light and colorless shapes. He squinted, trying to make sense of the form beside him.

There—tucked under the covers.

A mess of dark hair.

It stuck out just above the edge of the blanket, curling and falling in quiet disarray, like it didn’t care to be tamed. It moved gently as the figure breathed—slow, even breaths that rose and fell in a rhythm Harry didn’t want to disturb.

His fingers twitched toward the blanket.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

But the curiosity won. A child’s instinct for answers. The kind of hunger that came from never being told the truth, never being held long enough to ask.

He reached out and, with the same carefulness he used when sneaking leftovers out of the fridge, he peeled the blanket back just a little.

His breath caught.

Him.

It was the man.

From the night before.

Harry’s body locked in place, but his eyes didn’t move away. Not even for a second. He stared.

The man was fast asleep—his chest moving steadily beneath the blanket, his features slack and soft with sleep. He looked different now. Less wild. Less broken. But still a little haunted, like even dreams didn’t leave him alone.

Harry had never seen someone sleep so… gently.

The man’s skin was pale, almost translucent in the morning light, like parchment that had been handled too many times. His lashes were long, casting little shadows under his eyes. His mouth was slightly parted, and his hair—Harry couldn’t help it—his hair looked soft. Like silk, if silk had shadows. It fell around his face in loose strands, curling near the collar of his robe.

And then—

His eyes.

Not open. Not yet. But Harry could see the edges of them, the faint peek beneath closed lids. And in the pale light of morning, just barely, he saw the green.

Not bright. Not like his own when he looked in the mirror at school.

No—darker. Deeper. But unmistakably familiar.

The same green.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t meant to, a small, accidental sound—a soft gasp, too quiet to wake anyone, but too loud to swallow back.

Because suddenly… he hoped.

Something sharp and ridiculous bloomed in his chest. What if—he didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t dare. Hopes like that had teeth.

But still—

What if this man really was his father?

His papa.

He remembered the word on his tongue last night, how it had fallen from his lips like it had always belonged to him. Like it had been waiting. Waiting for him. For this moment. For this man.

He clutched the blanket close again, hands suddenly cold.

He didn’t want to wake him. Didn’t want to break the spell.

Because right now, in this quiet morning, in this room that smelled like lavender and wood and not like cupboard mold—he could believe it.

That maybe someone had come back for him.

That maybe someone had always wanted him.

And that the man beside him, with his dark silk hair and quiet green eyes, had come through storm and shadow to find him again.

Because he had missed him.

Because he had loved him.

Because—just maybe—he still did.

Harry didn’t know what to do.

The man—his papa?—was still asleep, his chest rising and falling with that steady rhythm that made Harry feel like maybe he could keep watching forever. But he also didn’t know if he was allowed to. Didn’t know if it was safe to stay that close.

So he slipped out of bed.

Carefully.

Like he was sneaking out of the cupboard. One leg over the edge, then the other. Slow, slow, so the mattress wouldn’t dip, wouldn’t shift, wouldn’t wake the man he still didn’t know the name of.

When his bare feet touched the floor, a chill rushed up through his toes and into his bones. The room had a warmth to it, yes, but the floor was cold—and it reminded him suddenly, sharply, that he still couldn’t see properly. His glasses. He blinked into the blur and let out a small breath.

And then—

A gasp, soft but startled, tumbled from his lips.

“Mr. Bunny.”

His voice barely reached the air, but the relief in it was so full, so raw, that it could’ve cracked glass.

He’d forgotten. In all the confusion, the shouting, the cupboard door opening, the arms around him, the word Papa, the soft bed—he had forgotten. And now it hit him like guilt: he’d left Mr. Bunny behind.

But there he was.

Tucked right at the edge of the bed, one floppy ear curled beneath him, the other stretched out as if reaching for Harry. His threadbare body sagged a little at the middle, one button eye a bit loose, the stitching on his left paw half-come undone. Harry had once tried to fix it with a sewing needle he found in the bin. He’d pricked his finger four times and bled on the sheet, but he hadn’t cried. Not then.

He stepped closer and scooped Mr. Bunny into his arms, holding him tight to his chest. His throat prickled.

It wasn’t just a toy. It was memory. Proof that someone had held him once. That someone had given him something to keep.

He turned, still clutching Mr. Bunny, planning to look for his glasses next—maybe find a bathroom or a hallway, just to see where he was—but then he froze.

There was something else in the room.

Someone.

He squinted, peering into the blur.

A figure stood just past the edge of the doorframe. Small. Slender. Bony. Its ears—huge—stuck out like bat wings, and its skin was an odd greyish tint. Not the pink of humans. Not quite brown either. More like the underside of an old mushroom.

Its eyes were enormous and black, like wet beads, sunk deep into a wrinkled face.

It wasn’t moving.

Harry didn’t scream.

He didn’t back away, either.

Because for some reason—he wasn’t afraid.

Maybe it was the way the creature looked at him. Not like a stranger. Not like Vernon or Petunia did. Not even like teachers or the school nurse, who always looked at him like they couldn’t quite figure out what he was.

This creature looked at him… like he knew him.

Harry took a small step forward. Mr. Bunny clutched to his chest like a shield, but his eyes steady, curious.

“Are you—are you real?” he whispered.

The creature blinked once. Then bowed so low his long nose nearly brushed the floor.

“Master Harry,” it rasped, voice like paper tearing in half. “You is awake.”

Harry blinked.

Master?

No one had ever called him that. Not even the Dursleys when they were mocking him. Not even teachers when he did something clever. And certainly not grown-ups—or… or whatever this creature was.

He felt something odd twist in his stomach again. Not quite fear. Not quite confusion.

Something closer to wonder.

“Do you… do you know my name?”

The creature straightened. “Of course, Master Harry. Kreacher always knows. Kreacher watched over you while Master Regulus slept. Kreacher waited. Kreacher never left.”

Harry looked back at the bed, then again at the creature—Kreacher. It sounded like a name from a storybook. Like something you shouldn’t say out loud unless you meant it.

He clutched Mr. Bunny tighter. His voice came quieter this time.

“That man… is he my…?”

The words were too heavy to finish. Saying them made them more real. Or more breakable.

But Kreacher didn’t need him to finish.

“Yes,” he said simply, eyes soft and ancient and knowing. “That man is your papa.”

🌟~~~~~~~~~~~<•>~~~~~~~~~🌟

Regulus stirred before he truly woke.

The sun, pale and harmless, filtered through the curtains like silk being pulled across a stage. His breath came slow, shallow. There was a warmth where the cold used to live in his bones. Not the damp chill of the cave. Not the salt-rancid breath of death or the endless silence of time sealed shut. No. This warmth was soft and domestic. He could feel it in his shoulders, in the way the pillow gave beneath his cheek. There was linen, the scent of old wood and tea, and faintly—sweetness, like jam spread too generously on toast.

Then he blinked.

And his body remembered before his mind did.

He sat up slowly, the blanket falling from his shoulders in a sigh. His hair clung damply to the nape of his neck. His wand lay on the bedside table. A framed photo—one he didn’t recognize—stood beside it, slightly crooked. But none of that mattered.

Not when the memories came surging forward like waves breaking over him.

The cupboard. The shouting. The boy’s voice: “Papa?” The way he had run. The way he had held on. The way Regulus had held back tears for fourteen years and failed the moment Harry touched him.

And then… home.

They had made it back. Kreacher, trembling and weeping, had collapsed at the sight of him holding Harry. The elf had pressed his forehead to Harry’s tiny, sleeping shoulder and cried harder than Regulus had ever seen anyone cry. He remembered that—remembered how Kreacher had sworn, by the binding of his blood and the name of House Black, that he would serve and protect little Master Harry from this day forward with a fierceness no elf had ever held.

Regulus had smiled at that. A soft, broken smile. And he’d whispered, “Thank you, old friend,” before carrying Harry upstairs.

He remembered tucking the boy under the covers—gingerly, reverently, like he might bruise if touched too roughly. Harry had murmured something in his sleep, something garbled and childlike and beautiful. Regulus had stayed still for a long time after that. Just watching. Just breathing. Just… being alive again.

And then he must’ve fallen asleep beside him.

He turned now—slowly, cautiously, still half-caught in the haze of sleep—and reached toward the other side of the bed.

But all he found was the ghost of heat and a crumple of empty sheets.

His breath caught.

He blinked again. Sat up straighter.

“Harry?” he whispered, almost on instinct.

There was no reply.

And that’s when the fear returned—slick and fast, like blood rushing to the heart.

The covers were folded in like a hollow. The pillow still held the shape of a small head. But there was no child.

His heart slammed into his ribs.

He flung the sheets aside and rose to his feet, not caring that he stumbled slightly or that his hair stuck to his temples. The room spun for a moment, but he didn’t wait for it to steady. His legs moved before his thoughts did, taking him out of the room, down the stairs, barefoot on cold wood, panic rising like a fire he couldn’t put out.

Not again. Not again.

What if Harry had woken and wandered out? What if he had been frightened and left the house? What if he thought this too was a dream and tried to go back to those monsters?

What if he thought Regulus had left him again?

He was halfway down the stairs when he heard it.

A sound.

No—laughter.

High, small, unburdened.

It wrapped around the room like a ribbon, light and full of life. Not the cruel cackling he remembered from pureblood parties, not the smug snickering of his childhood. No. This was different.

This was joy.

Unfiltered. Unpracticed.

Harry.

Regulus’s hand gripped the banister, and he let his body slow. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and let the sound settle deep in his chest.

He didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t deserve him.

But the world had broken and bent and somehow handed Regulus this—this second chance, this moment, this tiny miracle of a boy whose laughter rang through Grimmauld Place like light in a cathedral.

And all he could think was:

Let me be worthy of it. Let me not fail again.

When Regulus finally stepped into the kitchen, he came to a full and stunned halt—his breath catching somewhere between his chest and throat.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at.

Flour.

Everywhere.

The air shimmered with it, like fine white mist caught in sunlight. It clung to the edges of the counters, floated like lazy snowfall toward the ground, and covered the black tile floors in soft, uneven clouds.

And in the middle of it—

Harry.

Small, barefoot, shirt askew, cheeks flushed red from laughing too hard. A bag of flour cradled in his arms like some sacred prize, open and half-spilling as he ran.

Kreacher—poor, miserable, pretending-to-be-miserable Kreacher—was chasing after him with the theatrical slowness of someone who didn’t truly want to catch the culprit. He popped from one end of the kitchen to the other, always just a second too late, always a step too far, giving Harry the perfect gap to duck under a chair or spin behind the table.

And Harry—his son—screeched with joy.

Real joy.

The kind that came from knowing, for the first time in your life, that you wouldn’t be punished for being loud. Or messy. Or happy.

Regulus stood there, frozen in the doorway, and something inside him cracked open again.

He didn’t call out.

He didn’t scold.

He didn’t tell Harry to stop, or warn Kreacher to clean, or demand silence the way Walburga used to when Sirius and Regulus were caught being children.

He just watched.

And for a second, he forgot what year it was. Forgot the war. Forgot the inferi. Forgot that there had been a time when he thought he would never feel anything again.

Because Harry—Harry was smiling.

And Regulus had never seen anything more holy than that.

The boy’s feet skidded across the powder-coated floor as he turned too sharply, laughing like it was the first sound he’d ever made that wasn’t drowned in fear. He moved with a kind of cunning and grace that startled Regulus, and for a moment he wondered if that came from James—some old Quidditch blood passed down.

But then Harry ducked, spun, and darted behind Kreacher with such sharp instinct, such speed—and a gleam of survival in his eyes that was too familiar—and Regulus knew.

It wasn’t Quidditch.

It was Dudley.

It was cupboard-silence and survival in every step. It was all the times Harry must have run from fists and flung insults, the instinct to twist, dodge, hide behind furniture, move faster than anger.

And yet here he was—doing it while laughing.

Somehow, miraculously, Harry had made a game out of the pain.

Regulus’s heart clenched.

Not out of pity.

Out of awe.

How had this boy grown so wild and bright in a world that had tried so hard to dull him?

Harry noticed him then.

He skidded to a halt—arms full of flour, white powder streaking his cheeks and hair like paint, his eyes wide behind crooked glasses. He looked like a child caught red-handed with the universe in his pocket.

The shift in Harry’s expression was so sudden, Regulus nearly missed it.

One blink ago, he’d been laughing—freely, recklessly, with white flour streaking his hair and joy spilling from his mouth in little shrieks of play. But now… his face had gone still. His whole body had gone still.

His small eyes—so much like Regulus’s own—were wide, pupils dilated, frozen in the kind of terror Regulus remembered from the war. The bag of flour slipped from Harry’s fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud, exploding into white clouds around his ankles.

And then—

Then came the crying.

Not soft, not subtle.

Shattering.

Harry dropped to his knees as if pulled by gravity, sobs erupting from his throat in great, gasping hiccups. He bent forward, hands trembling as he tried to scoop the flour back into the broken bag, his fingers dragging helplessly through the powder.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—please—please, I didn’t mean to—” The words tumbled from his lips, slurred by tears, by snot, by a voice that had been taught long ago to beg before it broke.

Kreacher stood there, horrified, his old hands shaking as he watched his young master unravel like this. But Regulus was already moving.

He didn’t think—he couldn’t think.

He knelt hard beside Harry, not feeling the cold bite of the floor through his trousers or the sting in his knees. All he saw was his child—his baby—bent over, crumbling under the weight of fear that had been waiting, silently, inside him all along.

Harry covered his face with his flour-covered hands and sobbed harder.

“No, no, no—don’t hurt me—please, I didn’t mean to—I’ll clean it, I’ll fix it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Harry,” Regulus breathed, voice breaking like wet paper.

But Harry didn’t hear him.

He couldn’t.

He was somewhere far away—some cupboard, some slap, some night too long and too silent—and he was drowning in it all over again.

Regulus reached out, slowly, like he might approach a wounded animal. He brushed Harry’s shaking hands aside and gently—so gently—pulled him into his arms.

At first, Harry flinched.

He tensed, like he was expecting the blow to come from behind the hug.

And then he screamed into Regulus’s chest.

Not from pain.

From grief.

From terror.

From everything he had never been allowed to cry out loud.

And Regulus—

Regulus held him.

Tight.

Tighter than he thought possible.

Harry sobbed until his body shook, until he was gasping against Regulus’s shoulder, his fists beating weakly against Regulus’s chest in apology before going limp from exhaustion. Regulus rocked him, whispering words he didn’t even know he remembered how to say.

“It’s okay—shh—it’s alright, my love. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I swear I’ve got you.”

And for every cry that left Harry’s lips, a guilt Regulus hadn’t known he was still capable of feeling tore into his ribs.

How long had his son suffered like this?

How many nights?

How many punishments?

How many birthdays in silence?

Regulus pressed his face to Harry’s hair, the scent of flour and salt and fear overwhelming him.

“You’ll never be hurt like that again,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “Not while I’m breathing.”

And as Harry finally began to quiet—hiccuping, sniffling, curling into Regulus’s chest like something small and folded—Regulus just held him there.

The flour covered the floor, the counters, their clothes, their skin.

But Harry was safe.

And Regulus wasn’t letting go.

Not now.

Not ever again.

🌟~~~~~~~~~~~<•>~~~~~~~~~🌟

Harry had been having more fun than he could remember being allowed in his entire life.

It began innocuously enough—Kreacher had offered to teach him how to cook, and to Harry’s own quiet surprise, he had accepted. Despite being routinely ordered to cook for the Dursleys under threat or ridicule, he had always found the act itself somewhat soothing. It gave him structure. Purpose. And now, under no obligation, the kitchen felt different—open, welcoming. Kind.

They had started with breakfast, and Harry, small hands flour-dusted and sleeves rolled to the elbows, watched with fascination as Kreacher instructed him with surprising gentleness. The elf's directions were patient and measured, absent of any reprimand. After breakfast came dessert, and when Kreacher asked if he had any favourites, Harry had hesitated, then sheepishly admitted he once had a slice of treacle tart, shared by a classmate, and never forgotten since.

Kreacher didn’t question. He merely nodded and began preparing the ingredients.

That was when it started—first with a dusting of flour on Harry’s nose, a misstep in measuring, a clumsy spill—and then it escalated. Kreacher flicked a bit of flour toward Harry’s shirt with a crooked smile. Harry, half in disbelief, retaliated. And then—chaos.

White clouds filled the air, laughter echoed off the stone walls, and Harry ran, not from fear, but from joy, shrieking and breathless as Kreacher feigned chase. His heart pounded, but it was from exhilaration, not dread. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed like this—really laughed. Unrestrained. Free.

He rounded the corner of the kitchen, still gripping the torn edge of the flour bag like a prize, and that was when he saw him.

Regulus.

Standing in the doorway, silent.

The joy halted mid-breath.

In a single heartbeat, Harry’s mind recalibrated. His body recognized the posture—upright, rigid. The silence in the doorway. The mess on the floor. It registered not in thought, but in memory. The Dursleys. Uncle Vernon’s shadow when he tracked flour on the carpet. Aunt Petunia’s face when the living room wasn’t clean. The sound of Dudley’s mocking laughter turning to tattling.

And Harry froze.

His laughter died instantly. The bag of flour, still half full, slipped from his hands and fell to the floor with a dull thump. A plume of white shot up around his ankles. He looked down. Then up. And panic bloomed in his chest.

His muscles locked. His face went pale.

His eyes met Regulus’s, and though Regulus’s expression was unreadable—neither angry nor cold—Harry had already filled in the blanks.

He was in trouble.

Just like always.

And just like always, his first instinct was to fix it before the punishment came.

He dropped to his knees without a word.

And began to scoop up the spilled flour with his bare hands. Frantic, fruitless gestures. Hands too small to make any difference. He could feel it getting everywhere—on his sleeves, on his arms, in his lungs—but he didn’t stop.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” His voice cracked on each repetition, eyes brimming with tears as he worked faster, less effectively. He sniffled violently, shoulders beginning to shake. “I didn’t mean to, I swear—I didn’t mean—”

And now Harry sat still as a statue, small and trembling in Regulus’s lap, his limbs curled inward like he was trying to fold himself out of existence.

His clothes were damp with warm water now, not tears. His cheeks were red—part from crying, part from the gentle friction of the soft towel Regulus used to clean him up, inch by inch, with the care of someone trying to patch up a painting ruined by years of dust and neglect. The cloth dragged gently over the tear-tracked hollows of Harry’s face, down the bridge of his nose, around his mouth, across his flour-dusted neck. A soft press of damp warmth behind his ears, through his fringe.

Harry didn’t speak.

He hiccuped.

Once.

Then again.

A sniffle followed, as if he was trying to swallow the rest of the shame with it. He let Regulus clean his hands too, even when he flinched at the first touch, as though he expected to be slapped instead of wiped.

He didn’t meet his eyes.

His lashes were still wet, his lips parted in the shallow aftermath of sobbing, and his small fingers gripped the edge of Regulus’s sleeve like an anchor he didn’t know he was allowed to hold. When the last smudge of flour was gone and Harry looked somewhat more like a child again and less like a ghost, Regulus dropped the towel to the side and reached up.

Gently, he cupped Harry’s face.

The boy stiffened.

His breath caught.

Regulus tilted Harry’s chin up with just his thumb. The boy resisted at first—eyes downcast, breath shaky—but Regulus was patient. He waited, thumb brushing gently against his cheek, until Harry’s gaze finally, hesitantly, lifted.

Green eyes met grey.

And before Harry could shrink back or apologize again, Regulus leaned forward and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to the center of his forehead.

It was light. Barely there. But it lingered.

A beat passed.

Then two.

And into that quiet, Regulus whispered like a promise, like a lullaby, like something sacred.

“I am not mad, my little star. Never.”

Harry’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

His throat was too tight.

His eyes burned again—not from fear, not this time, but something else. Something deeper and older and messier. The kind of crying that came after the storm, when it was safe to fall apart.

No one had ever said that to him before.

No one had ever meant it.

And now someone had.

And it was his papa.

He nodded, once, as if the motion alone might hold him together.

Then he leaned forward and tucked his head against Regulus’s chest—quietly, gently—like maybe, just maybe, it would be okay to believe him.

Chapter Text

"Agh!" James hissed, wincing as Regulus pressed a fresh strip of gauze to his side.

"It wouldn’t hurt if you’d just keep still," Regulus snapped, voice tight as a wire. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his wand discarded on the floor after a few too many failed attempts at healing charms. Now it was just his hands—ink-stained, slender, methodical—working to bind the bruised flesh around James’s ribs.

James winced again. “You’re bloody medieval.”

Regulus muttered something vicious under his breath. French, of course. The language he defaulted to when he was angry, exhausted, or feeling too much and didn’t know what to do with it.

“Têtu comme une mule, toujours… et stupide avec ça,” he grumbled.

“I heard that,” James said, brow furrowed. “Something about being stubborn?”

Regulus glanced up, lips tight. “Têtu comme une mule means ‘stubborn as a mule.’ Stupide avec ça means ‘and stupid with it.’”

“Ah,” James said. “Romantic.”

“Not everything I say in French is romantic,” Regulus replied curtly, though a flush crept up the side of his neck.

James grinned. “Depends who’s listening.”

Regulus looked away.

The bandage tugged tighter, almost punishing. James sucked in a sharp breath.

“Could’ve just let Pomfrey deal with this,” Regulus muttered, biting down on the ache in his voice. “You didn’t have to come dragging me into this—this classroom, of all places. There’s chalk on the floor.”

“You came running,” James pointed out.

Regulus’s hands paused.

There it was. The bare truth of it. He had come running. Through the castle. Past curfew. Through the rain. Because Sirius had said, with a roll of his eyes, “He’s being dramatic, but I think the bludger cracked something,” and Regulus didn’t wait to hear more.

“I always do,” Regulus murmured at last, eyes focused on the knot he was tying.

“What?”

Regulus tugged the bandage once more, then leaned back, exhaling. His hands hovered for a second at James’s side before falling away.

“I always come, James,” he repeated. “Even when you make it impossible.”

James swallowed.

For a second, neither of them moved. The only sound was the soft crinkle of linen and the faint echo of laughter somewhere far down the corridor.

James shifted, slowly sitting up straighter, though every muscle ached.

“You speak like I make things hard for you,” he said softly.

“You do,” Regulus said, just as softly. “But you also make it harder for me not to care.”

A silence bloomed between them, thick and fragile.

Then James, ever himself, smirked just a little. “Say that in French.”

Regulus glared. “No.”

“Please.”

Regulus sighed, shook his head, but relented in a whisper, like the words cost him something to say:

“Tu rends les choses difficiles… mais tu rends aussi impossible de ne pas t’aimer.”

James blinked. “Okay. I definitely caught ‘difficult’ and ‘impossible.’ And something about... loving?”

Regulus pressed his lips together. “Let it go.”

“No way,” James said, leaning just slightly closer. “Say it again.”

Regulus stood abruptly. “You’re healed. Don’t push it.”

James reached out and grabbed his wrist before he could step back. “Say it again.”

Regulus didn’t. But he didn’t pull away either.

Instead, he looked at James—truly looked—and for a moment, everything about him softened. The way the corners of his mouth stopped fighting themselves. The way his shoulders relaxed. The way his eyes, usually so sharp and cautious, blinked slow.

He bent down, slowly.

And with careful fingers, he brushed a lock of damp hair off James’s forehead.

“You heard me,” he said quietly.

And then he kissed him.

Not desperately. Not hurried. Just... softly. The way one would kiss someone who might disappear if held too tightly.

The kiss lingered—soft and almost fragile. Regulus’s hand hovered by James’s jaw, hesitant, as if unsure he was allowed this much. James tilted his head just enough to lean into it, just enough to say I’m here, I want this too, when—

Ahem.

It was a quiet sound. Polite. Chilly. But it shattered the air like glass against tile.

Both boys froze.

James’s eyes snapped open. Regulus’s breath hitched.

“Mr. Potter,” came the calm, unmistakable voice of Professor McGonagall, “would you care to explain why you’re half-naked and sitting on a desk while Mr. Black appears to be... involved in some sort of illicit first aid ritual?”

James turned slowly—horrified. Regulus stepped back so fast he nearly tripped over the open bandage tin.

“Professor,” James said, voice too high, too fast. “We can explain—”

“I sincerely doubt that,” McGonagall said, stepping fully into the room now, tartan robes brushing the floor like judgment incarnate. Her eyes landed on the discarded shirt, the wand on the ground, the gauze, the slight flush on both their faces.

Regulus opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I—I was just—he was hurt—”

“On his ribs, yes,” she said, one brow rising, “and you felt the most appropriate healing location was the nearest abandoned classroom?”

There was no answer that wouldn’t get them detention for a month.

“I advised him to go to Madam Pomfrey,” Regulus added quickly, trying and failing to straighten his collar with any dignity.

“And yet here you are. Playing Florence Nightingale. In French, apparently.”

James stifled a snort. Regulus shot him a glare.

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed as if she had aged five years in the last thirty seconds.

“Ten points from each of your houses for inappropriate use of school property,” she said crisply, turning toward the door. “And I suggest you both compose yourselves immediately. I will pretend I did not see anything further—for my own sanity, mind you.”

She paused at the door, turned halfway back, eyes narrowing.

“And if you must engage in your... recreational activities, I recommend doing so with a locked door and less flour on the floor.”

Then she was gone, robes sweeping behind her like a final curtain.

The silence left in her wake was cavernous.

James coughed. “Well,” he said, pulling his shirt back on, “that wasn’t... ideal.”

Regulus stared at the door, face pale. “I’m going to die. I’m going to transfer to Beauxbatons.”

“You’re welcome to drag me with you,” James said, grinning. “Just... maybe next time, we go to the library.”

Regulus slapped James on the shoulder—not hard, but not gentle either—and the sound echoed off the stone walls with a finality that stung more than the impact.

“Imbécile,” he muttered, voice low and sharp as he turned on his heel.

James blinked. “What?”

But Regulus wasn’t listening anymore. He was already gathering the scattered gauze and potion vials with brisk, practiced movements, his jaw set, his fingers tight. His annoyance radiated from him in waves, like heat off stone. Every movement said I care about you, and you’re an idiot.

“Tu es impossible,” Regulus hissed under his breath as he shoved bandages back into the tin. “Toujours à te blesser, à faire le malin. Et moi, je cours derrière toi comme un crétin.”

James winced, half because of the pain in his ribs, half because he only caught a few of those words—and none of them sounded like compliments.

Then Regulus straightened, strode over, and shoved a small glass vial into James’s hand with surgical precision. His eyes narrowed, voice clipped, but there was a tremor under it that James knew too well by now—it was worry. Pure, over-boiled, poorly disguised worry.

“Pain relief potion. Drink it later, after dinner,” he said sternly, as though James had ever followed instructions a day in his life. “After. Or you’ll throw up, and I’m not cleaning it.”

James blinked down at the bottle, then looked up. “You’re mad.”

“No,” Regulus said, brushing past him, his voice like cut glass. “I’m tired.”

“Reggie—wait, hey, don’t—” James fumbled for his shirt, still halfway unbuttoned, and stumbled toward the door, wincing as his bruised ribs protested every step. “Don’t storm off—”

But Regulus was already gone, disappearing down the corridor like a storm in velvet, his footsteps quiet but certain, his head high, his heart—if James knew him at all—thrashing wildly behind his ribs.

James clutched the potion in one hand, the bottle still warm from Regulus’s touch. He stood there, shirt hanging loose in one hand, breath shallow, listening to the silence Regulus had left behind.

Then he sighed, tucked the vial into his pocket, and limped after him, muttering to himself.

“Bloody hell. I’m in love with a walking hurricane.”

🌟~~~~~~~~~~~<•>~~~~~~~~~🌟

They ate breakfast in relative silence.

Not the kind of silence that choked the room like it used to at Privet Drive, where every scrape of a chair or clink of a fork felt like a warning. That kind of silence waited like a trap, coiled and cruel. This silence was… different. Breathing. It didn’t hover above them like a threat—it folded itself around them, soft and calm, like the way light settles on still water.

Harry sat on Regulus’s lap, smaller than small, the weight of him barely there—but the way he clung, as if afraid even his shadow might be taken, made the air feel heavier. His little fingers still curled into the hem of Regulus’s soft cotton shirt, like he wasn’t sure the man holding him wouldn’t vanish if he let go.

And Regulus didn’t move to undo the grip. He simply held him, one arm around Harry’s waist, and with the other hand, continued feeding him—slowly, gently, as if every forkful needed to be earned with care. Scrambled eggs. Crispy bacon broken into little pieces. A few soft bites of toast. A small glass of water, tilted to Harry’s lips just enough not to spill.

Harry said nothing.

Not because he had nothing to say, but because words hadn’t yet caught up with the feeling.

He was warm.

Not just on the outside—though that was new enough. His skin, still damp from the flannel Regulus had used to wipe the tears and flour from his face, tingled from the heat of the man’s body against his. But it was something deeper. Something harder to name. Like that strange quiet after a nightmare when you’re not quite sure you’ve woken up, but someone has switched on the light anyway.

He should’ve been embarrassed, really. Nearly nine years old and sitting in someone’s lap, being fed like a toddler. But Harry didn’t feel shame.

He felt… full.

Of things he didn’t understand. Things like warmth, safety, confusion. Things like wanting to curl into someone’s chest and not be asked to explain himself. Things like being cared for without being made to earn it.

He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want the moment to pass.

Because this was the first time someone had done this for him.

No one had ever noticed when he cried—much less comforted him. No one had ever fed him with patience. No one had ever held him without flinching at the weight of him. But this man—his papa, he thought quietly, afraid to say it out loud again in case it disappeared—was just holding him. As if it were nothing. As if it were everything.

He blinked slowly, eyes wandering over the breakfast table. Two plates. One fork. One mug of tea—black, slightly steaming still. A single slice of toast with a bite missing.

He didn’t want this to end. But new things always did. That’s how it had always gone. He would touch something good—something his—and then it would be taken. A toy. A sweater. A smile.

His throat tightened.

Regulus must have noticed, because his hand moved from Harry’s side to cradle the back of his head.

“Do you want more?” he asked quietly, not just about food.

Harry shook his head no, but didn’t speak. He looked down at his lap.

Regulus set the fork down. Then, with slow fingers, tilted Harry’s chin until their eyes met. Harry’s gaze flickered, unsure—then steadied.

“I’m not going anywhere, my little star,” Regulus said, barely above a whisper. “You can stay right here as long as you need.”

Harry’s lips parted slightly, like he was trying to believe him, but didn’t know how. So instead, he just nodded. A small, broken nod. The kind you give when you don’t yet have the language to believe in hope.

Regulus leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. And Harry—Harry closed his eyes at the touch, the way a flower turns its face toward the sun.

The world outside could have burned, and he would not have noticed.

He was seated in his papa’s lap, warm and full, his shirt slightly stained with egg yolk and his face blotchy from tears—and he had never felt safer.

He didn’t understand it. Not all of it. Not yet.

But he didn’t need to.

Because he was here.

Because he was held.

Because someone had kissed his forehead and called him my little star.

And that, for now, was enough.

After breakfast, Regulus carried Harry gently up the stairs, one hand beneath his legs, the other curled securely around his back as if he were something fragile that the world had already tried too hard to shatter. Harry said nothing, only rested his cheek against Regulus’s shoulder, listening to the heartbeat beneath the thin fabric of his shirt—steady, like a metronome. Not rushed. Not angry. Just there.

The bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and old parchment, the air warmer than the corridor. Regulus walked across the soft rug and knelt beside the bed, easing Harry down until he was sitting. But even then, Harry didn’t let go. His small fingers remained knotted in Regulus’s shirt, his grip trembling—not from strength, but from the effort of not clinging too tightly.

Regulus didn’t force him. He simply cupped the side of Harry’s head and leaned down, brushing a kiss against his brow, just where the scar curved like a crescent moon. “It’s alright,” he said softly.

Harry hesitated, then—slowly, as if testing the promise—he let go.

Regulus stood and moved to the closet, opening it with a familiar creak. The scent of mothballs and pine drifted out, mingled with something older, something like memory. He rummaged through hangers and shelves, his fingers grazing over wool and cotton, velvets that hadn’t been touched in years.

“Aha,” he said finally, with a quiet triumph.

He turned and held up a deep navy peacoat. The buttons were large, tarnished brass, the kind that took effort for small hands. It looked just a little too big for Harry, but not comically so—just enough to suggest it was meant for growing into.

Harry stared at it, wide-eyed.

“Is that… for me?” he whispered, his voice small and cautious, like he didn’t want to want it.

Regulus nodded, his expression softening into something almost sorrowful. “It was mine,” he said. “When I was ten. Not new, but yours now. We’ll get you a proper set later—something warmer, something you choose. But for now…”

Harry reached out, fingers hovering just short of the fabric like he was afraid touching it would make it disappear. His hands were still dusted faintly with flour. “Really?” he asked.

Regulus could only nod again. Something in his chest twisted. The boy’s joy came in such thin, tentative threads. As if happiness was a muscle he hadn’t been taught how to use.

He walked back to the wardrobe and picked out a long-sleeved white shirt—simple, soft—and a pair of dark brown trousers with a slight stretch in the waistband. He found an old knitted beanie, worn at the edges, the color of warm earth. When he turned, Harry was still gazing at the coat as though it were something sacred.

“There,” Regulus said, setting the folded clothes gently beside him. “All yours.”

Harry looked up, blinking, unsure. He hadn’t moved. “Why?” he asked quietly. “Why are you giving me things?”

Regulus crouched before him, one hand resting over Harry’s. “Because you're my son,” he said, without hesitation. “Because I should have been there sooner. Because you deserve more than what they gave you.”

Harry looked down at the clothes again. “They never… they never gave me anything,” he said, barely audible. His voice broke slightly on the last word.

Regulus inhaled slowly, resisting the ache behind his eyes. He didn’t say I know. He didn’t say I’m sorry—though it lived in the space between every breath he took.

Instead, he offered, “Why don’t we bathe you, hm? Get you cleaned up, and then we can go shopping. A real coat. Some boots. Anything you want.”

Harry looked uncertain, as though the offer might come with hidden strings. But when Regulus stood and held out a hand, he reached for it instinctively, like a plant toward the sun.

And together, they walked to the bathroom, quiet but not in silence.

This, Regulus thought, watching the way Harry’s hand fit into his own, is what being a father feels like.

After his bath, Harry felt different. Not just clean—but peeled open, like a layer of his skin had been gently sloughed away and something softer had been left behind. The scent of the soap still clung faintly to his arms and hair—something warm and herbal, like lavender and firewood. The steam had curled his fringe, and Kreacher had wrapped him in a towel so soft it didn’t feel real. It didn’t scratch. It didn’t smell of mildew. It had smelled…like home.

Now he stood alone in the quiet of Regulus’s bedroom, in front of a tall gilded mirror that nearly reached the ceiling. He’d only meant to glance, maybe fix his hair, but instead he stood there, rooted, watching himself. Watching this version of himself.

The boy staring back didn’t look like Harry—not the cupboard Harry, not the Dudley’s-punching-bag Harry. This Harry wore a white buttoned shirt and soft brown trousers that were slightly too long at the hems. The sleeves were rolled up just a little. His hair—though stubborn as always—was clean. His face, pale and pink from the warmth of the water, looked almost…calm. He didn’t look like a freak.

He looked like a boy.

A normal boy.

And the thought made Harry’s throat tighten, made his fingers curl at his sides. Because he wasn't normal, was he?

He still remembered—just hours ago—when Kreacher had shown him the portraits. The paintings that moved and spoke, like ghosts frozen in frames. He’d been stunned. He’d clung to the elf’s side, wide-eyed and trembling, until Kreacher had reassured him that it was meant to be like that. That this world—this house, this magic—was his birthright. Kreacher had even knelt beside him and whispered the words like a secret Harry wasn’t supposed to know yet:

“You are a wizard, little master.”

Harry had blinked up at him.

Me?

He remembered asking if that’s why strange things always happened when Dudley tried to punch him and missed. Or why the window disappeared when he tried to run away once. Kreacher had nodded, eyes full of something between pride and grief.

And then Kreacher had smiled—really smiled—and said, “You are your papa’s son.”

That had been the best part.

Harry had stood a little taller then. Not quite proud, not quite sure, but lighter somehow. Like his name didn’t weigh so much on his chest anymore.

Now, in the mirror, he studied that very boy.

Same green eyes.

Same scar.

Same ribs poking too close to the skin.

And yet… for the first time, the reflection didn’t feel like a punishment.

But something inside him still whispered—faint, like breath against a windowpane—that maybe this was all a mistake. That maybe someone would come in and realize he wasn’t meant to have this. The bath. The clothes. The kindness.

The mirror didn’t speak, but it seemed to agree with him. It didn’t flatter him. It didn’t lie. It showed him exactly what he was: a boy trying to learn how to believe in goodness. A boy who didn’t know what to do with love when it was handed to him freely.

He touched the edge of the mirror, fingertips cold against the golden frame, and whispered to himself—just to hear how it sounded: “I’m a wizard.”

It felt like speaking a dream aloud.

Harry blinked at his reflection one last time, then pulled the sleeves of his shirt down over his hands, trying to look small again. Just in case it had all been pretend.

Harry looked toward the doorway, not directly, but through the reflection in the tall mirror. The soft creak of wood under careful footsteps told him someone was coming. Not someone. Him. His papa.

And there he was—Regulus Black—appearing in the frame like a memory made real, with a quiet smile that didn't just stretch his lips, but softened every edge of his face. He looked… proud. And Harry, catching that expression, felt something flutter in his chest.

"Ready?" Regulus asked, voice low, almost playful, but still gentle in that way Harry hadn't quite learned how to trust yet.

Harry turned fully this time, twisting on his heel in his new trousers, fingers still curled nervously in the fabric. He gave a small smile—one that bloomed slowly, shyly, but brightened his entire face.

"Yes…" he answered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Regulus stepped forward and knelt in front of him with practiced grace. From his hand, he held out the small black peacoat—well-loved but neat, a little worn at the elbows, a relic of his own childhood now being passed on. Harry obediently lifted his arms, and Regulus eased the coat over his shoulders, smoothing the sleeves and adjusting the collar with all the reverence of someone tending to a fragile painting.

"There we are," Regulus murmured.

And then, without asking, without hesitation, he drew Harry into his arms.

"My little man," he breathed into the boy’s damp, tousled hair, voice barely more than a hum. “Look at how you've grown.”

Harry flushed. His cheeks warmed immediately, as if the words had turned to sunlight against his skin. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t even look down.

Instead, he looked directly into his papa’s eyes—those dark, storm-soft eyes—and searched for something in them. Maybe it was reassurance. Maybe it was permanence. Maybe it was the answer to the question he hadn’t known he was carrying until just now.

It slipped from his lips before he could stop it.

“Wh–where have you been?”

There was no accusation in his voice. No sharpness. Just a trembling kind of curiosity, the kind that came from wondering too long if someone ever meant to come back for you.

Regulus froze.

Just slightly.

And in that split second, Harry thought maybe he shouldn’t have asked. He looked down. But Regulus brought a hand gently to his chin and tipped his face back up.

His expression was unreadable at first, something between grief and awe. Then he smiled—small, sad, and aching all at once.

“I was lost,” he said finally. His thumb brushed a stray curl from Harry’s forehead. “For a very long time.”

Harry didn’t know what that meant. Not fully. But something in the way his papa said it made his chest tighten again.

Regulus pulled him closer, holding him as though the weight of the question had only made him love the boy more. "But I found my way back to you," he whispered. "I promise you, I’m not going anywhere now."

And in the stillness of that moment—in the quiet hallway of the house that now smelled like sunlight and soap—Harry closed his eyes.

And believed him.

🌟~~~~~~~~~~~<•>~~~~~~~~~🌟

Regulus exhaled as they landed with a soft crack in the shadowed mouth of a narrow alley just off Diagon Alley. The winter air bit at the edges of his coat, but it wasn’t unpleasant—it was a crispness that seemed to keep the rest of the world at bay, if only for a little while. He looked around, one arm instinctively tucking Harry closer to his side.

The street ahead was only just beginning to stir with life. A squat wizard with brass spectacles unlocked the apothecary, while a witch arranging floating candles inside a bakery hummed something slow and nostalgic. Soft golden sunlight spilled between the crooked rooftops, catching on the cobblestones and warming the icier edges of the morning.

Regulus knelt and adjusted Harry’s scarf and coat, tucking the beanie down gently over his ears. It slouched sideways a little, almost comically, but it suited him. Harry looked up at him with that wide-eyed quiet he always wore now, something halfway between awe and disbelief. As though none of this—being warm, being safe, being seen—could possibly last.

And Regulus understood that feeling too well.

They started walking.

Harry kept close, hand curled tightly into Regulus’s, but he looked everywhere. His head darted left and right, mouth slightly parted in wonder, as if each brick and banner and window held a secret meant for him. And perhaps they did.

But Regulus noticed something else, too. Something subtler.

Harry squinted. Every few steps. Every time a sign came into view. He leaned forward just slightly when something caught his attention, like he was chasing clarity.

At first, Regulus ignored it—until he couldn’t.

He slowed to a stop.

Harry stopped beside him, glancing up in confusion. “Papa?”

Regulus crouched down, carefully, so they were eye level. The way Harry looked at him—open, trusting, uncertain—nearly broke something in his chest.

“Darling,” he said, voice quiet but steady, “I need you to be honest with me, alright?”

Harry nodded immediately, his brows knitting in a way that made Regulus want to kiss the crease away.

“When was the last time you had your eyes checked?”

There was a pause. A flicker of confusion.

“My eyes?”

“Yes.” Regulus tilted his head. “By a Healer or… an eye doctor, as Muggles say. An optometrist.”

Harry frowned slightly, as if trying to remember something buried. “I don’t think I ever did.”

Regulus blinked. “Never?”

Harry shook his head. “Aunt Petunia… she got these at the pharmacy.” He pointed to his taped, crooked glasses. “She gave them to me on my…” He paused again, looking down at his fingers, lips moving.

“One… two… three.” He lifted his hand with pride. “Three. On my birthday.”

Three.

Regulus felt the air stall in his lungs.

He stared at the little glasses, the frame so bent it sat unevenly on Harry’s nose, the plastic cloudy from scratches. And he imagined—imagined a small boy being handed a pair of generic reading glasses as a gift. As a solution. As if that counted.

He felt something sharp twist beneath his ribs.

His hand came up, unthinking, to brush Harry’s hair back gently from his forehead. His fingers lingered a moment longer than they needed to. He thought of every photo in the Prophet. Every whisper of the Boy Who Lived. Not one of them had mentioned that the boy behind the scar was wearing glasses that didn’t even fit.

Not one of them had looked.

“All this time…” he murmured, more to himself than to Harry. “You’ve been seeing the world through those.”

Harry shrugged, then smiled faintly—like it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t known it could be any different.

Regulus looked at him for a long moment, something fierce and unspeakable in his gaze. Then he stood, brushed off his trousers, and extended a hand.

“Then we’re making one more stop today.”

Harry looked puzzled. “More than the clothes store?”

Regulus nodded. “Yes. Far more important.”

Harry took his hand, still confused, still squinting. “Where?”

Regulus leaned down, touched their foreheads together briefly. “To help you see everything the way it’s meant to be seen.”

He wanted to say more. So you don’t have to squint through your life anymore. So you stop apologizing for looking too hard at things. So you can finally look someone in the eye and not feel like you’re not meant to.

But Harry just smiled and squeezed his hand tighter.

Regulus scanned each swinging sign like he was deciphering an old text, one where the meaning wasn’t just in the words but in the space between them. The air in Diagon Alley was brisk, touched faintly with the scent of soot and the metallic tang of old spells, and it curled around the cuffs of his sleeves like it was trying to pull him backward. But he pressed on, Harry’s small hand nestled in his own like a lifeline—too tight, too trusting.

They passed shops that hawked magical teas and miniature storm clouds in bottles, broom polishing kits and shrieking sneakoscopes, all of it a riot of color and motion that made Harry’s head spin. But Regulus’s eyes were careful, reserved, narrowing each time they passed another storefront that wasn't what he needed.

Then he saw it.

Vellum & Lens.

A modest, almost shy little shop tucked between a cauldron repair service and a curtain of flowering vines that seemed to bloom from the very brick. The sign was hand-painted, slightly faded with age, and above it hovered a pair of antique glasses—charms keeping them afloat, gently turning, like they were peering down into the minds of those who looked up. They didn’t sparkle. They didn’t hum. They just… waited.

It was quiet magic, the kind that didn’t announce itself, didn’t beg to be admired. It reminded Regulus of the Black library back at Grimmauld Place—spells bound so deep in silence that you had to sit with them, sometimes for hours, before they spoke to you.

He felt Harry tug slightly on his sleeve, trying to make sense of the floating spectacles.

“Papa?” Harry asked quietly, unsure. “Is this it?”

Regulus nodded once. “This is it.”

He opened the door with the softest touch, and the bell overhead gave a subdued chime—nothing shrill, just a gentle, polished note like the last key of a lullaby. They stepped inside.

And at once, the world shifted.

The air here was thicker, dusted in something sweet and soft—lavender, perhaps, or pages long sealed. Shelves lined the walls with glasses that floated freely in neat rows, enchanted to pause midair until chosen. Everything was wood and gold, like an old study, and the lights hung low and warm as if they had learned over time to dim themselves when a child walked in.

Harry's eyes were wide, but not with fear this time—with a quiet, almost reluctant wonder. He clung to Regulus’s coat a little tighter.

From behind the counter came the sound of footsteps—measured, not rushed. A man emerged. He was tall, lean, with tousled dirty blond hair and a pair of fine square spectacles that perched on his nose like they belonged there. He looked like the sort of man who could take apart a timepiece and put it back together with just his fingers.

“Hello, welcome to Vellum & Lens,” the man said brightly. “I’m Andre—”

But then his voice broke.

He stopped.

His eyes widened, and his expression faltered like a candle flame caught in a sudden wind.

“…Regulus?”

Regulus offered a smile. Wry. Tired. Honest. “Still alive, apparently.”

André crossed the room in two strides, barely giving Regulus time to brace himself before he was swept into an embrace. It was tight and trembling and stunned all at once—the kind of hug reserved for ghosts you never thought you’d hold again.

“My gods,” André whispered, voice raw. “I thought—I thought they said you were—”

“Everyone did,” Regulus said softly, one hand pressed lightly against André’s back, the other still resting on the tiny shoulder at his side. “But death had other plans.”

Only then did André notice the boy. Small, blinking up at him through unsure eyes. The resemblance was subtle, but unmistakable.

“And who is this?” André asked gently.

Regulus looked down. Harry was halfway hiding behind his coat again.

“This,” Regulus said, voice low, reverent, “is my son.”

Chapter Text

André’s eyes widened, caught somewhere between wonder and disbelief as they fell upon the small boy beside Regulus. The child was half-hidden behind his father’s robes, clutching the fabric like it was a shield against the world. His head peeked out just barely, curls tousled beneath a slightly askew beanie, those impossibly green eyes narrowed with shy curiosity.

He looked up at André the way wild animals look at outstretched hands—ready to flee, not because they expect cruelty, but because they’ve only ever known it.

Regulus felt the tremor in that tiny grip on his robes and crouched without thinking, lowering himself to Harry’s eye level. His knees brushed the floor as he leaned in and tapped his son’s nose gently with a single, gloved finger.

“Boop,” he whispered, as if the word itself were sacred.

Harry blinked in surprise before his face cracked open with a giggle, a sound so sudden and small that it felt like a miracle. He batted Regulus’s hand away with an embarrassed little swipe, trying to hold back the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Regulus laughed too, but quietly—almost reverently. As if he were afraid to scare away the moment.

“Don’t you worry, mon petit étoile,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Harry’s forehead. “He won’t hurt you.”

Harry looked at his father for a long breath, searching his face for some proof—of what, he wasn’t even sure. But whatever he saw made him nod once, almost imperceptibly. Then his gaze slowly, cautiously returned to André.

The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t dared speak. But his smile had bloomed—tentative, warm, a kind of sunlight Harry didn’t know he could stand under. He raised one hand and gave a little wave, careful and slow.

Harry hesitated.

Then—awkward, uncertain—he waved back. Just once.

Regulus beamed like the boy had recited an entire speech. “That’s my good boy,” he murmured, ruffling Harry’s hair fondly.

“Hey!” Harry muttered under his breath, more flustered than annoyed, cheeks coloring faintly pink.

Regulus stood and guided him gently toward one of the padded chairs near the enchanted display mirrors. “Sit here, darling,” he said, patting the cushion. “Let me help you with your coat.”

Harry obeyed with the quiet obedience of someone who didn’t quite believe he was allowed to. He climbed into the chair carefully, awkwardly, like he didn’t trust it to hold him. Then he removed his beanie with both hands and gave it a quick shake. A small flurry of snowflakes tumbled down from it, scattering across the floor like whispers. He stared at them for a moment, amazed.

And then, with delicate fingers, he placed the beanie on his lap and looked around the shop.

Everything here felt like it had been made to hold moments gently. The warm wood, the humming shelves, the low hanging lamps with golden pull-strings—it was the kind of room people dreamed about when they longed for home.

But Harry looked so small in it. Too small.

Legs swinging just above the floor. Hands folded neatly, like he was afraid to touch anything. Eyes wide, but not in excitement—in awe that bordered on fear.

Regulus stood just a few feet away, but the distance felt enormous. And in it lived everything Harry had lost. Everything Regulus had missed.

It hurt in a way Regulus didn’t know how to name. It was the kind of pain that made a man want to kneel again, if only to hold that child’s face in his palms and promise him something better, something warmer. Something permanent.

He didn’t. Not yet.

But he sat beside his hand resting gently on the boy’s back.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, though Harry hadn’t asked.

André watched them both in silence, his heart caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. He had questions. So many. But the answers would come later.

For now, he simply stepped forward, kneeling beside the boy with a softness that matched the room.

“Shall we find you the perfect pair, young sir?” he asked with a kind smile.

Harry blinked, unsure.

But for the first time in a very long time, he nodded.

André smiled, understanding more than he let on. With a small flick of his wand, five boxes floated from the shelves behind him and came to hover gently in the air before Harry, who looked at them like they might vanish if he blinked.

"Five choices," André said, tone warm and light as he guided the boxes down to the counter. "All charmed for magical enhancement, and all stylish, of course."

The boxes settled in a neat row before Harry, each marked with fine calligraphy and sealed with a tiny silver clasp. Three black, one green, and one gold. All different shapes. Some sleek, others rounded, each made with a kind of elegance that even a child could appreciate—if they’d ever been given the chance to.

Harry reached out with careful fingers. Not the kind of care that came from reverence or awe—but the kind born from fear. From habit. From the learned precision of someone who’d been punished for doing things too fast. Too loudly. Too wrong.

He unfastened each clasp one by one with a delicate slowness, as if the boxes themselves might shout at him. His small hands trembled slightly, though he tried to hide it. And when he tried on the first pair—thin black rims with angular sides—he looked up immediately, eyes darting to Regulus like he was asking permission to breathe.

Regulus’s heart fractured.

It wasn’t just the glasses. It wasn’t just the way Harry winced at his own reflection or how he adjusted the frames like he thought they weren’t meant for him. It was the echo of something deeper—an entire childhood reduced to the question: “Am I allowed to want this?”

He stayed silent at first. Watching. Letting Harry move at his own pace.

And move he did. One by one, Harry tried each pair. His lips pressed into a thin line, his shoulders slightly hunched, like he expected a slap on the wrist at any moment. Even when Regulus and André said nothing but soft, encouraging things, Harry remained wary—until he opened the final box.

Gold. Not a flashy, gaudy gold. But warm, honey-dipped, polished. Round lenses. Just a bit too big for his face.

He put them on slowly.

And when he looked in the mirror, his breath caught.

Not because of vanity. But because—for the first time—he saw a boy that didn’t look broken. The boy in the mirror looked... real. Like someone who belonged to the world.

Regulus’s breath hitched. His voice, when it came, was a soft exhale.

“You look adorable, my little star,” he said, walking closer. “So handsome.”

Harry ducked his head, ears pink, fingers fiddling with the frames.

André laughed gently, folding his arms as he leaned back against the counter. “Your father’s right, you know. Keep looking like that and you’re going to grow up and steal all the hearts.”

Harry looked up, eyes wide, confused.

“Hearts?” he repeated, voice small.

André winked. “It’s a compliment, petit.” Then, softer, “It means people will love you.”

Harry blinked at that—like he didn’t know whether to believe it or run from it. Love had always come with conditions. If it came at all.

Regulus placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “They will,” he said firmly. “They’ll love you because there’s everything to love.”

Harry looked up into his papa’s eyes, glassy with something he couldn’t name. He didn’t speak. Just leaned into the hand resting on him, just slightly. Enough to say he heard.

Regulus looked at André then, his eyes saying the thank-you his pride wouldn’t let him speak aloud.

André just smiled.

“Keep them,” he said, nodding at the glasses. “On the house.”

Regulus shook his head. “I’ll pay.”

“No,” André said simply, with a warmth that made Regulus pause. “You’ve already paid enough.”

And neither of them said another word about it.

Regulus nodded, not with indifference, but with the quiet weight of someone who was learning—bit by bit—just how much had been stolen from the boy in his arms. He stood by as André, ever gentle in his movements, raised his hand again. With the ease of someone who had done this many times before, he summoned the remaining boxes away with a graceful wave. They floated upward, silent and elegant, vanishing behind the counter with a soft swish, like forgotten thoughts shelved away.

Then came the pink bottle. Pale rose in color, glowing faintly in the morning light that filtered through the frosted shop windows. It looked innocuous, almost lovely, like the kind of thing that should belong in a child’s nursery—until André held it with the precision of someone who knew better.

He gestured gently toward Harry.

“Come, petit. Just here in front of me,” he said, voice light, coaxing.

Harry looked at the bottle. Then at André. Then at his father.

His small body tensed.

Regulus immediately crouched down behind him, placing a hand at the small of his back, the other combing gently through Harry’s untamed hair. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” he murmured. “It’s just for your eyes. Two drops. That’s all. I promise I’m right here.”

Harry nodded slowly. Hesitantly. The kind of nod that was made not from trust—but from obedience. And it broke something inside Regulus. Again.

He scooted forward, sitting straight and still, like he was preparing for a punishment. Eyes wide, mouth tight. Bracing.

“It will sting, but only for a moment,” André warned softly.

And with the utmost care, he tilted Harry’s chin up with a single finger.

The first drop landed with a sharp blink. The second followed. Then the other eye.

It took a second.

Then Harry’s lips parted.

His hands flew up—not to claw or rub, but to clutch. His small fists curled into his shirt. And the tears came fast and sudden, like someone had struck a nerve buried beneath years of being told not to cry.

“Ah, dear—” André started, startled but still gentle.

But Regulus was already there.

He swept Harry into his arms, hoisting him with the instinct of someone who had dreamed of this moment every night since he had died. Harry didn’t sob—he broke. His tiny chest heaved with the kind of crying that made no sound at first. Just gasps. Tremors. Then small, choking whimpers as he buried his tear-streaked face into the crook of Regulus’s neck.

“It burns,” Harry whimpered between hiccups. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it—”

“I know,” Regulus whispered into his hair, kissing the crown of his head. “I know, I’ve got you, little star. Let it out, I’m here.”

André stood in silence for a moment, letting the two have their moment. He folded his arms across his chest, then summoned a parchment from the far wall. It floated into his waiting hand. He glanced over it, eyes scanning the page with growing tension before he cleared his throat softly.

“The glasses will need a few hours,” he said, voice lower, more formal now. “I’ll have to enchant the frames to match his real prescription. It’s… not mild, I’m afraid.”

Regulus nodded, still rocking Harry gently. “Do what you must. We’ll return later today.”

André hesitated. “The drops may continue to sting for another half hour. If he starts seeing sparks or color trails, that’s normal. It’s just the magic settling.”

Harry sniffled again, quieter now, but he clung tightly to Regulus’s robes, refusing to move.

Regulus held him tighter.

It wasn’t just pain. It wasn’t just the sting of the drops. It was the release of it all. All the times no one had explained things. All the times he’d been left in the dark, quite literally, with a pair of useless pharmacy glasses and a “Happy Birthday” that never came. All the times he had to squint to read, only to be called stupid when he couldn’t.

Regulus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, the kind that trembled faintly at the end, as if his body was still unsure whether it was safe to let go. His fingers, careful and reverent, reached for the small black coat draped across the counter—the one Harry had taken to like it belonged to him in another life. He turned toward the boy, whose small hands clung tightly to the fabric of Regulus’s robes like an anchor, unwilling to drift too far.

“It’s alright, darling,” Regulus said softly, as though afraid to startle the moment. “I’m just going to put your coat on, alright?”

Harry blinked up at him, eyes still red-rimmed from earlier tears, but he gave the faintest nod. Not trusting his voice, maybe. Not needing to.

Regulus helped him stand on the cushioned chair—small legs trembling ever so slightly, either from tiredness or something older, more ingrained. Harry held very still, his eyes fixed on the buttons as Regulus fastened them one by one. When the last one was done, Regulus smoothed down the collar, then gently tugged the boy’s beanie over his soft, messy hair.

He tucked a stray curl behind Harry’s ear.

Then, without needing to say anything, he kissed one cheek, then the other. Light as falling snow.

Harry’s hands reached forward—uncertain at first, then sure—and wrapped around his father’s neck, holding tight as Regulus scooped him up. His small frame curled naturally into the crook of Regulus’s shoulder, and Regulus felt the unmistakable nuzzle of a child burrowing into comfort, into safety, into something he had never been allowed to ask for.

Regulus closed his eyes for just a moment and held him tighter.

He turned to André, who stood by the counter with a kind smile, his eyes softer now, a little misted. There was something knowing in them, something that said I’ve seen this before, and I’ll keep it safe for you.

“Thank you,” Regulus said, voice more hoarse than he meant it to be.

André tilted his head with a small grin. “Any time, Artie. Truly.”

Regulus allowed a faint smile, the kind that came slowly, as though still afraid to take up space. “I’ll invite you soon. For tea. Or something stronger.”

“You’d better,” André replied with a chuckle, his fingers tapping once against the counter. “And bring him with you. I want to see those new glasses when they’re done.”

Harry, half-asleep already from the comfort of the warm arms around him, peeked up for a second at the sound of André’s voice, then promptly nestled deeper into Regulus’s shoulder.

Regulus gave a small wave as he turned, one hand gripping the fabric of his son’s coat tighter, the other adjusting the collar again as they stepped into the weak light spilling through the shop’s glass door.

The bell above the door chimed as they exited, and the cold met them at once.

Regulus pulled his own coat tighter, then did the same for Harry—folding the front of the boy’s peacoat over itself, protecting him from the breeze that wandered down Diagon Alley like a ghost between shops.

Harry didn’t speak, only sighed quietly into Regulus’s neck. Not tired. Not sad. Just full. As if he was still trying to make room inside his small chest for everything he’d never had before.

Regulus walked slowly, deliberately, every footstep echoing with a tenderness he didn’t know he was capable of. Past shops. Past strangers. Toward Gringotts.

And with each step, the child in his arms didn’t loosen his hold.

Not once.

The steps of Gringotts echoed beneath their feet, stone against shoe, the sound lost in the cold hush of the great marble hall. Regulus moved with the grace of someone trying not to be seen, though he had long learned that people didn’t really see what they didn’t understand. And no one here understood this: the man who had died, walking again beneath chandeliers and goblin gaze, shielding a boy too small to be so silent.

And now a awake Harry walked close to his side, half-shielded by Regulus’s coat, his tiny hand folded inside the longer fingers of his father's own. The child kept looking up—not with wonder, but uncertainty. Like everything around him might vanish, or worse, turn cruel. Regulus had seen that look before. On himself, once. On Sirius, too.

A goblin at the far desk dropped his quill.

Recognition moved slowly across Ragthar’s face, and then something else. Not quite disbelief. Not quite awe. More like grief dressed in astonishment. He stood, motioned once with a hand that trembled slightly, and wordlessly led them down a side corridor without a single question.

No need for words.

Inside the office, the hush deepened. Ragthar took his seat behind the obsidian desk, fingers steepled before him, expression unreadable. The hearth burned quietly behind his chair, flames casting slow-moving shadows on ancient stone. And Regulus sat down as if returning to a place he'd never truly left.

Harry didn’t sit in the other chair.

He crawled wordlessly into Regulus’s lap, facing forward, small hands clutching the folds of his coat like roots finding earth.

Neither of them said anything, for a long moment.

“I thought I’d buried you,” Ragthar finally said. The words were flat, but not cold. He wasn’t looking for explanation—just testing the reality of what sat before him.

“You did,” Regulus replied, voice soft and without irony. “So did I.”

Ragthar exhaled, slow. “This is a strange meeting, Lord Black. Spooky.”

The word lingered oddly in the air, like a ghost that didn’t quite belong.

Regulus offered something like a smile, thin and brittle. “There are things,” he murmured, brushing Harry’s fringe aside gently, “that can’t be explained. Not easily. Not kindly. And even I—” he swallowed, voice thickening, “—find it difficult to believe I’m sitting here.”

The goblin's eyes slid from Regulus’s pale face to the boy curled against him.

“Is that—?”

“My son,” Regulus answered before the question had fully formed. “Harry Potter.”

The name settled into the silence with the weight of a spell.

Ragthar blinked. His hands, for the first time in a century, trembled where they rested.

“He’s grown,” he said, and then his voice fell. “And yet... not.”

The pause afterward said everything that couldn’t be spoken in polite company.

Because yes, he was small.

Too small.

His arms too thin, his eyes too quiet, his presence too apologetic.

There was a rage simmering beneath Ragthar’s words. The kind only ancient beings knew—something forged not in heat, but pressure, like stone beneath time. Who did this to him? Who dared to wound the heir of two great Houses—of Potter and of Black?

Regulus didn’t answer aloud. He didn’t need to.

He simply pulled Harry a little closer, letting his hand rest on the child’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of breath that once—just once—he thought he’d never feel again.

“He doesn’t understand all of it,” Regulus said softly, voice catching somewhere between weariness and wonder. “Not yet. But he knows. He feels the hunger, the fear, the silence. It’s in him like frost in old wood.”

The boy shifted in his lap, blinking up at nothing, eyes glassy with the remnants of something that had outlived his vocabulary.

“his still recovering" Regulus whispered, 

Ragthar stared for a long time. Then nodded.

“This... changes everything,” the goblin said quietly. 

Regulus nodded too. But his eyes stayed on Harry.

“I know.”

“But not yet,” he added, so quietly it was almost to himself. “Let him just be a child. Just for now.”

Ragthar gave a slow nod, his clawed fingers tapping once, twice, against the ink-stained desk. “Very well, then,” he said. His voice was low and ceremonial, as though he were opening an ancient door that hadn’t been touched in years. “Let us get down to business. For the past… nearly a decade, many things have changed. Some you may have heard of. Others, I imagine, you have not. I assume you would like to be briefed?”

Regulus nodded, once. “Yes, please,” he said softly, though his eyes did not leave Harry’s face. He had memorized the boy already—his lashes, his brow, the particular way he leaned into Regulus's chest like a shadow that didn’t want to be left behind.

Ragthar glanced at Harry, then back again.

That look was enough.

Regulus understood.

Without a word, the goblin murmured something low and guttural in Gobbledegook, the syllables humming through the stone like something half-sung, half-carved. Moments later, the door creaked open, and another goblin entered—taller, thinner, with sharp eyes like twin pins and a familiar gait. Griphook. Regulus recognized him instantly; the vault-keeper of the Potter family. Of James.

Griphook nodded in solemn greeting, his eyes flickering briefly to the boy in Regulus’s lap, and then lowering with something like reverence. As if he, too, knew what this meant.

Regulus stood, slowly, reluctantly, like a man waking from something warm only to step into something cold.

He shifted Harry in his arms and crouched low, placing the boy gently on the ground before him.

“Harry, darling,” he said, brushing a curl from his son’s temple. “Would you mind going with Mr. Griphook for a little while? Just while Papa and Mr. Ragthar talk about some unfinished business. Nothing scary, I promise.”

Harry looked up at him with wide eyes, his hand already tightening on Regulus’s sleeve. “W–wait… Are you going to leave me?” he whispered.

His voice—so soft, so frightened—cracked open something old and hidden in Regulus’s chest. He had not expected that question to wound him. But it did.

He dropped to his knees.

“No,” he said, instantly, fiercely. “Oh, my darling. No. Never.”

He took Harry’s small face in both hands, thumbs gently brushing over soft skin, eyes locked onto his. “I will always be here. Always. You hear me?”

Harry’s bottom lip trembled. “But what if you don’t come back?”

“I will,” Regulus promised, brushing a kiss to one tear-streaked cheek, then the other. “I will come back to you every time. Forever and ever—”

He kissed his forehead.

“—and ever—”

He kissed his nose.

“—and ever—”

Harry gave a wet giggle, eyes blinking through tears, his cheeks now damp not from crying, but from laughter.

Regulus wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, his lips buried in the boy’s hair.

“You can’t get rid of me,” he whispered, half-laughing, half-breaking. “You’d have to be sick of me first, and I’m afraid that would take a very long time.”

Harry giggled again—something high and sweet and a little surprised, as though joy was still unfamiliar, but not unwelcomed.

“I’m not sick of you,” he mumbled.

“Good,” Regulus said, hugging him tighter. “Because I’m never letting go.”

When he finally pulled back, Harry looked more calm, though he still reached out and took Regulus’s pinky in his hand. He held it as if it were a lifeline, some unbreakable tether. Regulus didn’t pull away until the very last moment, until Harry had been gently taken by the hand by Griphook and led toward the adjoining room.

Harry looked back once, just once, his glasses slightly askew, his expression unsure.

Regulus pressed his hand to his heart.

Harry gave a small nod and disappeared around the corner.

The door shut softly behind them.

The silence returned like a breath held too long.

Regulus sat down again, slowly, his palm still warm from where Harry had clutched him, as if the ghost of that small touch lingered.

“Where do I even begin?” he said, his voice no longer tired—but heavy with all the years he’d lost.

Chapter Text

"I believe," Ragthar began, his voice low and deliberate, as if wary of stirring a nest of ghosts, "we need to take a step back. Revisit what really happened that Halloween night."

Regulus gave a silent nod, his fingers curling lightly around the armrest of his chair. He had thought about that night a thousand times—what scraps of knowledge he’d managed to collect, whispered rumors from behind ancient veils, pieces of stories that didn’t quite fit together. What he remembered most, what clung to him like smoke, was that Harry had been placed with the Dursleys afterward. After what, he had never been fully told.

And James—

He shut his eyes for a second too long. The name alone felt like falling into water.

"There was an attack," Ragthar continued. "Voldemort."

Of course. Regulus didn’t flinch at the name. He never had. But it rang now with something more jagged than memory. He nodded, once. He understood. Of course Voldemort would be at the center of this. He always was.

But why?

Ragthar studied him for a beat, as if weighing the truth in his expression, then leaned forward slightly.

"Did you notice," he asked carefully, "the scar on your son’s forehead?"

Regulus blinked. He had. He remembered now—in that first night, after he’d taken Harry home like a man possessed, after Kreacher had collapsed in tears at the sight of the boy curled against him like a prayer answered, Regulus had noticed a thin line just beneath the unruly fringe of hair. He’d dismissed it at first. Children scar easily—falling, tripping, childhood accidents. He had thought no more of it. Or perhaps he had, but he’d chosen not to think too hard. Denial was a gentle thing. It waited, until it couldn’t anymore.

"A lightning bolt," Ragthar said quietly. "Right here."

He gestured to his own brow.

Regulus nodded slowly.

"That scar," Ragthar said, "is what remains after the Killing Curse rebounded."

There was a beat of silence.

And then another.

And then—

Regulus stilled, his hands curling into fists so tight the nails dug crescents into his skin. His breath left him as if punched from his lungs, not all at once, but staggered—like drowning in reverse.

"The curse…" he whispered.

"Rebounded," Ragthar said. "And struck Voldemort himself."

Regulus didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

Because the words were circling inside him like fireflies without light, without sound, without anything to tether them down. The Killing Curse. On Harry. On his son. The monster had pointed his wand at a toddler. A child still learning words. A child who clung to stuffed rabbits and blinked up at the world with green eyes full of unknowing.

The shelves in Ragthar’s office rattled.

Not violently, but subtly. A soft quake in the air, a hum in the floorboards. His magic was bleeding out—furious and afraid and uninvited. The inkpot tipped over. Papers lifted as if by wind. The goblin said nothing.

Regulus swallowed hard.

That monster had dared.

Had dared to raise his wand, to speak that curse, to look upon his son—not just with intent, but with action.

He hadn’t even known. He had gone to that wretched house and taken Harry without knowing the truth. He had kissed that scar. He had touched it and thought nothing of it.

"Regulus," Ragthar called, gently, but with weight. "Regulus."

The name pulled him back.

He blinked, once. Then again.

The shelves stilled. The magic curled back inward.

Regulus inhaled sharply, as if he had forgotten how.

"How did he survive it?" he asked, though his voice was raw, almost hoarse. "No one… no one survives that curse."

Ragthar nodded solemnly. "No one ever had—until Harry Potter. There are theories. Ancient protections. James’s love, they say. But we may never fully understand. What we do know is that the curse rebounded. Voldemort’s body was destroyed. And your son… lived."

Lived.

Regulus closed his eyes.

He lived.

But at what cost?

A scar, etched like a brand into his skin. A decade in a cupboard. A name distorted by prophecy and myth. And now, only now, did Regulus begin to understand the storm that had been forced into Harry’s veins.

He had not saved him in time.

But he would, now.

He had to.

For James. For himself. For the little boy who still asked if Regulus would leave.

Ragthar sighed, long and tired, the sound of someone burdened by truths that never sit easily. He leaned back slightly in his chair, tapping a clawed finger once against the ink-stained parchment before him. Regulus could feel the weight in the room shift—thicker somehow. Like a fog had crept in unnoticed.

Across from him, Regulus looked away, shame tingling across the back of his neck like cold rain. The outburst—his magic rattling the room, the sharp flare of uncontained fury—it embarrassed him. He was usually more composed than this. He had always been composed. That was what being a Black had taught him, hadn’t it? How to feel nothing visibly. How to fold rage and grief and heartbreak into well-cut words and gloved hands.

"I… apologize," he muttered stiffly, voice thin and frayed at the edges. As if regret was something he had forgotten how to speak.

Ragthar, ever formal, only nodded. “It’s alright, Mr. Black.”

Regulus watched, silent, as the goblin began to straighten the mess his magic had left behind. Ink pots rolled back into place with faint clinks. Scrolls flattened themselves obediently. The edge of a quill twitched once, then stilled. Everything in the room rearranged itself into order again—but nothing inside Regulus felt ordered.

Then Ragthar cleared his throat. “Now. If you’ll allow me to continue…”

Regulus nodded, but his eyes narrowed slightly when the goblin added, almost too casually:

“—but that is only a rumor.”

A pause.

Regulus blinked. “What do you mean, a rumor?”

His voice had changed—barely—but there was an edge to it now. Quiet, yes, but sharp like ice.

Ragthar’s eyes flicked up to meet his, unreadable.

“No one saw what happened that night,” he said slowly. “Not exactly. Only Dumbledore.”

The name hit Regulus like a backhand.

His body stiffened. Cold bloomed in his chest, seeping into his limbs. He stared forward but didn’t quite see. “I—what?” he breathed, and for once in his life, he was at a loss. Not because he didn’t understand—but because he did. Because it made too much sense.

Only Dumbledore.

Of course.

The one man who always had answers and yet left everyone drowning in more questions. The man who walked into rooms after the tragedy and rewrote the narrative before anyone had a chance to breathe. The man who had placed Harry in that house. Who had allowed him to live in a cupboard.

He could feel the rage again, curling inside him like something hungry. But this time it didn’t erupt. It just sat there. Sunk deeper.

Ragthar leaned forward.

“After the attack,” he said, voice measured, “as you know, when a family line dies out, the family’s main vault—particularly one as old and warded as the Potter Vault—automatically locks. Irretrievably. It is tradition, and it is magically enforced. Only blood can open it again.”

Regulus nodded, slowly, trying to keep up.

Ragthar’s expression didn’t change, but his voice softened by a degree. “Now here is where things grow… strange. The vault never closed.”

Regulus’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“The Potter Main Vault,” Ragthar repeated. “It never shut.”

Regulus felt something turn in his stomach. “But—if James—if he died—”

“It would have closed immediately,” Ragthar said with quiet finality. “But it did not. It remained open.”

Regulus stared. Blinked. Swallowed.

“That… that can’t be. That doesn’t make sense—”

“That is what I thought,” Ragthar said with a nod. “Griphook came to me the day after the attack. He was confused. The vault had not locked. Which could mean only one thing.”

A silence stretched. And in it, the world tilted.

Regulus spoke, barely above a whisper.

“James Potter did not die.”

The words didn’t even feel real coming out of his mouth. Like he was repeating someone else’s dream aloud, waiting for it to crumble in the daylight.

But Ragthar nodded.

And Regulus could do nothing but sit there, hands limp, mouth slightly parted, a soundless breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t even react. Because the possibility—the impossibility—of it was so great that it eclipsed everything else.

James.

Alive.

Somewhere.

All these years.

James.

The boy he had once kissed behind library shelves with shaking hands and too-fast hearts. The man he had loved in silence, against war and logic and every Pureblood expectation burned into his skin. The man who he had married. The man who had held their child.

Gone.

But not gone?

Regulus’s eyes burned.

He didn’t know what emotion was surfacing anymore—hope, disbelief, rage, longing—but it made him ache. It made him feel seventeen again. And utterly wrecked.

He looked up, his voice hollow.

“Then… where is he?”

“That we do not know.”

The words were offered without ceremony, and yet they echoed—slowly, terribly—through every hollow part of Regulus that had managed, in the last hour, not to ache.

It wasn’t disappointment he felt. Nor even surprise. It was worse than both—it was inevitability. Of course they didn’t know. Of course James was a question mark carved into every margin of this story. Of course the only man Regulus had ever let his guard down for, the only person he had loved in the quiet, shameful corners of himself, had become a ghost even to the goblins.

He didn’t speak. He wasn’t ready to.

The silence, however, didn’t press like an insult. Ragthar looked at him with something that resembled sympathy. As much as a goblin could give. His expression didn’t soften—goblins rarely did—but there was a flicker in his eyes, the subtle lowering of his brows, like the admission itself had cost something. Regulus nodded once in silent understanding, a gesture that said: I know what it means to lose something and pretend you didn’t.

There was a breath. Then another.

“But,” Ragthar said finally, his voice softened at the edges now, less stone and more smoke, “we could, of course, assign some of our kin to be on the lookout for him—should you wish. Quietly that is.”

Regulus lifted his eyes, slowly, as if the air itself had thickened. He blinked.

Then Ragthar added, in the most Goblin-esque way possible: “For a fee, of course.”

And Regulus—tired, hollowed out, but not yet empty—laughed. It was a soft, strangled thing. Not quite mirthful. Not bitter either. Just the kind of laugh that came when your soul didn’t know what else to offer.

The corners of Ragthar’s mouth twitched—almost like a smirk, but older, like stone remembering a smile. “You’ll find, Lord Black, we may not be generous, but we are fair.”

Regulus inclined his head. “And I am grateful. Truly. Even for this.”

Regulus nodded, quietly grateful. He understood what wasn’t being said: We don’t do this often. But we’re doing it for you. And that meant something. In this place of marble and cold-blooded business, sentiment didn’t speak louder than coin—unless the coin came with old magic and older names.

He took a breath, the kind that ached on the way in.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Truly.”

The goblin gave a slow nod, then turned and barked something sharp in Gobbledegook—his voice a clash of syllables that reminded Regulus of steel on stone, ancient and efficient. A moment later, the door opened and a she-goblin entered: tall for her kind, with dark braids pulled tightly against her scalp, a clipboard clutched in fingers ink-stained and ringed with callouses.

The two goblins exchanged words in their native tongue—efficient, curt, impersonal—before she nodded, jotted something down, and disappeared as quietly as she came. The scent of dust and iron lingered in her wake.

Regulus watched her go, still cradling the weight of it all. James might be alive. Or might not. But the vaults never lie. Magic never lies. Only people do.

Ragthar turned back toward him, his tone sharper now, shifting with purpose.

“There’s more,” he said. Not cruelly. Just inevitably.

“Now…” Ragthar continued, straightening a stack of ledgers, his tone growing brisker. “Onto the second matter.”

Regulus inhaled slowly, drawing the air through his nose as if it would steady him.

Because the first matter had already cracked open something in him—he wasn’t sure what was left to unearth.

But he nodded.

And the air in the room turned again.

“We had our usual check-up in Godric’s Hollow… where the incident happened,” Ragthar began, voice composed but low, almost reverent now. “And we picked up a magical signature. Of a child.”

The room seemed to hush again. The way a forest hushes before the wind arrives. Regulus straightened, barely, his mind flickering behind his eyes. He didn’t need to ask what kind of magic it was—he already knew. He had known before the sentence even finished forming.

But it couldn’t have been Harry. His son was with them then—rotting in a cupboard while the world turned blindly onward. It wasn’t Harry. He was sure.

“Did you go in further?” Regulus asked, almost too casually.

Ragthar shook his head. “No. The child was nowhere in sight by the time we reached the cottage. Likely a burst of accidental magic. A frightened child, by the feel of it.”

Regulus exhaled slowly, as if every word Ragthar said weighed something different on his chest.

A frightened child…

Of course it had been. Magic like that only clung when the fear ran deep enough to leave fingerprints on the air.

He stood, slowly, adjusting his sleeves as though he hadn’t just been told something quietly devastating. “Well then,” he murmured, brushing imaginary lint from his coat, “I suppose we’ll need to check Godric’s Hollow.”

Ragthar blinked, caught off guard for the first time all afternoon. “Would you be needing me to come with you, Mr. Black?”

Regulus hesitated for a heartbeat. He’d always been the sort to work alone. Quieter that way. Less explaining. Less pretending not to care. But something about today—the heaviness of names, the weight of ghosts, the way his son had cried in his arms not an hour ago—made him nod.

“Yes,” he said. “That would be nice.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. His feet had already turned, his steps already moving toward the chamber doors. Toward where his son had disappeared with Griphook.

He opened the door and—

Time stopped.

In a room lit only by the golden sweep of late morning sun through enchanted windows, Harry sat on a conjured mat of navy blue, his small form nestled like a sleeping bird among silken cushions.

Above him, a galaxy spun.

Not a real one—but close. Constellations swirled in gentle orbits overhead, each star trailing silver stardust as it moved in slow, harmonious circles. Regulus recognized them immediately.

Andromeda. Orion. His own.

Regulus. Shining dimly near the southern curve of the magical sky, next to the dog star, Sirius.

The boy reached up, tiny fingers spread wide as if to gather the light into his hands. His eyes—those same green eyes—reflected every star like glass marbles in the dark.

And then he laughed.

That sound.

It was pure. Unselfconscious. Loud. Loud in the way only children laugh when they forget they’ve been taught to be quiet.

Loud in a way that said, I am safe here.

Regulus’s breath caught in his chest. And not from sorrow. Not exactly.

But from wonder.

From grief and joy melting into one impossible emotion he had no name for.

From the knowledge that this—this soft moment, this boy unburdened—should never have taken nine years to arrive.

“Ragthar,” he whispered.

“Yes?” the goblin murmured from beside him, suddenly quiet too.

Regulus didn’t look away. “We’ll need to stop at my vault first.”

A pause.

“I’ll have it prepared.”

Still, Regulus’s gaze never moved.

Harry had flopped backward now, arms stretched wide on the mat, the little dragon he’d been holding nestled on his chest. He was smiling. Not at anything in particular—just the sky above him. Just the stars. Just the feeling of them there. Just the knowledge that for once, he could reach for things without being told he wasn’t allowed to.

And Regulus… he stood and watched. His eyes soft. His breath slow. His whole being balancing on the edge of something breaking and something mending all at once.

Papa. Father. Me.

He’d heard Harry whisper it once already, watching the stars above. Naming them. Placing himself among them like he’d always belonged.

It was everything Regulus had never dared to want—and now here it was, curled before him on a blanket, laughing.

He closed his eyes for just a moment.

Thank you, he whispered to whatever was listening.

Thank you for not letting me die.