Northern Sky

Somewhere near Regulus’s twenty-fourth and Castor’s fifth trip around the sun, the evening found Castor poking over street wares during a leisurely walk. Castor was an ever-curious child, to an extent that both perplexed and charmed Regulus. Regulus had been a quiet child, watching and learning what was expected of him so that he could make every correct move, so that he was always on the right side of his mother’s wrath.

Castor, it appeared, had inherited none of these survival instincts. Regulus thought this to be a good thing, that perhaps Castor felt safe enough to make mistakes in a way that Regulus had never been allowed.

“Papa!” Castor called, causing Regulus to cringe from his close perch over his shoulder. “Papa! Necklace! Look!”

“Yes, my love. I see, very beautiful.” Regulus responded; Portuguese accent far less practiced than his son’s. Regulus leaned over his son’s shoulder, peering down at the necklace in question.

Oh, a chord struck somewhere in the back of his mind. His fingers twitched, delicately grasping the long chain. The necklace was big, gaudy even. A thick amber locket sat at the end of a long silver-chain that pressed coolly against his fingers.

This sensation felt incorrect, he remembered that this metal was supposed to mean pain.

Oh, no, that is not this necklace. Regulus looks up, catching the watchful eyes of the merchant. This necklace is not quite right.

“Ma’am, we’ll take this one, please.”

Regulus gives her a weak smile as she delicately wraps the necklace in brown parcel paper.

“Great choice,” she winks at Castor, likely taken by his cherubic cheeks and neatly combed black curls, “Something for your future girlfriends, young heartbreaker!”

Regulus’s smile remained polite, although internally he had scoffed. It’s never too late to inflict heteronormativity on children, he snarked, once again, internally.

Castor, ever tactless, simply squealed and grabbed the package from her hands.

As they continued their walk, one of Castor’s chubby hands sat comfortably in Regulus’s, the other gripped tightly on parcel paper. Castor, without regard for volume, continued to babble about the necklace, about the sky, about the stones they walked on and about anything that he found pretty at the given moment.

Regulus, despite the unsettled mess that the necklace had stirred in his gut, smiled and quietly hummed his response.

Castor was a spirited child, taken quickly to shiny objects and reckless action. Or, maybe that was all children, and Regulus had been the odd one. Whatever it was, Regulus frequently found himself warmed by actions that he knew his own parents would’ve found frustrating.

So, he lets Castor skip and tug and babble. He lets his son take to his whims and experience joy as it comes.

And in those moments, he’s happy.

He knew his own parents had not tolerated this behavior from Sirius, nor would they have allowed it for him.

Perhaps that was part of what comforted him. That bit of Sirius that lived in Castor. Something more than just their shared blue eyes.

Stinging metal on his palm, he clenches the fist not attached to Castor’s.

Sirius, another reminder of what he’d been pushing from his mind for the last six years.

At home, the sound of Castor’s tiny boots stomp up the stairs to where Iria’s and Regulus’s rooms were located.

“Careful!” Regulus didn’t need to shout in this house, noise carried. A fact that he found comforting; he could be a man who never had to yell in his own home.

He lets himself bask in that, as well.

Then he comes back to reality. Comes back to a reality that he hadn’t acknowledged for years, giving it ample time to fester.

His son was surely off to show his Tia Iria his newest treasure, so he was now handled.

Leaving Regulus, in his reluctance, to unpack a newfound guilt for the past.

There was some old business to be dealt with. A reckoning that had been building beneath his skin and prickling at his nerve endings.

There was only one person, save for Regulus, who had access to the original amulet, the one that had teased at his memory just minutes prior. However, it had been years since he had last seen his friend, his closest confidant.

Regulus sighed, theoretically, if Kreacher was still alive, then he should respond to a summons.

Regulus just hoped that his old friend would be happy to see him again.

-

For all intents and purposes, Regulus Black was in hiding. While it had never been his intention to skip town in the middle of a war that he’d signed up to fight in, the tables had been rather forcibly turned.

So, while he had been mildly curious about what became of his personal affects in lieu of a will, he was resigned to a life without the comfort or luxury he was accustomed to. Similarly, he had begun to come to terms with what this meant for those he might actually have preferred to keep in his sphere. Sirius, for one, was entirely off the table in terms of contact.

Barty and Evan, while he believed them to not be traditional blood purists, were still inextricably entwined with the Death Eater movement.

Dorcas, well. Dorcas had made it clear to him where they had stood. A clenched fist from across the common room, the green glow from the lake striking against her teary cheeks. They had been best friends, Regulus supposes. No, there would be no going back to Dorcas.

Though Pandora, who Regulus had often pondered about, was a potential option. They, along with Dorcas, were one of the limited few he had shared his true thoughts with. They were someone who might understand. Who might be able to reconcile who he was and who he had become.

Kreacher, unsurprisingly, was the only one he had reconnected with in recent years.

Regulus was now thirty, older than he had ever known he could be, and quite happy about the fact.

Five years prior, Regulus had summoned his old friend after years of radio silence. Like most things, he hadn’t meant to leave him behind. Life had gotten in the way, and Regulus subconsciously had not wanted to touch anything wizard related the second Castor was born. Castor was more important than it all, and although this certainly made Regulus selfish, he couldn’t bear revisiting old business if it meant inviting anything potentially dangerous into his son’s life. Even if it had been at the expense of others, he cared more for Castor than the entirety of the wizarding world.

Though, this wasn’t a new sentiment to him. Regulus had always cared more for his people than he had for anyone else; more than he cared for even himself. He’s not certain, but he suspects that that’s why he had chased the locket in the first place.

Turning the tides of the war was far from his mind; rather, there had been pure petrol pumping through his veins the second Kreacher had returned to him, convulsing and on the brink of death.

It had not mattered if Regulus died, he wasn’t used to considering that consequence. It had only mattered that Voldemort deserved to feel the pain that he had inflicted on Regulus’s first, and then only, friend.

In the end, it was not any of the aforementioned individuals that spiraled back into his life after all those years. In fact, it wasn’t even his choice. Regrettably, fate led a once unlikely acquaintance right to his doorstep. This time, he was awake. And this time, he had skin in the game.

At 7:58am on May 24th, 1992, there was a polite knock on the front door of his home.

Regulus frowned over the mixing bowl sitting in front of him. It was much too early for anyone in town to be out and about. Besides, the only few who came to his and Iria’s door were old friends of her mother. And they only came to fret over the two adults and coo over Castor, speculating on his parentage. Regulus was well aware of the town gossip, and he was unbothered that they considered Iria to be Castor’s mother. Better they suspect inappropriate premarital hetero sex than the truth.

Still, even those early birds would not stop by when Iria was known to be extra irritable in the morning.

Reluctantly, Regulus set the wooden spoon off the corner of the sink. His fingers twitched, eyes catching on the coat rack haphazardly shoved by the front door. Better to be safe. He wipes his hands absentmindedly on a dishtowel, one that had been hand embroidered with stars, giving himself a moment to steel himself.

As he retrieves his wand, poorly hidden in the interior pocket of his worn denim jacket, he runs through every defensive spell he used to have ingrained in his muscle memory. He had little use for magic nowadays, and he was out of the practice. He hadn’t had to expect an attack from every corner in a long time.

Another polite knock shakes him from his studies.

Regulus glares at the chipping red paint of the front door, tucking his wand up the sleeve of his oversized black knit sweater.

Having taken his sweet time in getting there, he unlatches the deadbolt and yanks at the handle back.

“It is early, there is a child sleeping!” Regulus’s admonishment is out of his mouth before the door fully swings open.

The rusted joints groan as they reveal, in battered corduroy pants and worn cotton, a daunting yet familiar 6’3 figure.

Immediately, Regulus snaps.

He blinks and he’s on his own front steps, front door snuggly pulled shut behind him. He stands strong, wand drawn as he blocks the frame from the man in front of him.

In all his sepia-toned glory, Remus Lupin stands with his hands out placatingly.

“Whatever business you have,” Regulus bites out without giving a second for Lupin to open his mouth, “I can assure you that it does not involve anyone in this household.” His wand punctuates his point, involuntarily emitting a dangerous glow. Regulus was not surprised to see his shackled magic leaking out in this way, he was fucking pissed.

Lupin’s eyes dart down, taking in the deadly weapon that was currently inches from his heart. An eyebrow raise, and then something unexpected.

“I see you haven’t changed much.”

Okay, rude? Regulus thinks he’s changed quite a bit, thank you very much, Lupin.

Regulus scoffs, closing the gap between the man’s hand-me-down sweater and his wand, “You do not know me, nor do you need to.” His anger surges, “And if there is one thing that has not changed, it is that I am entirely unafraid to hex you into inexistence, Lupin.”

Remus tsks, his spread palms moving slowly. Regulus watches, face twisted in appall as Remus takes the pads of his fingers and redirects Regulus’s wand.

“Oh, I’m sure I believe you-” Remus pauses mid thought, eyes flicking over Regulus’s person as if not sure how to address him. “Black. But if there is one thing that has not changed about me, it is that I am entirely unafraid of Black family dramatics.”

Hesitantly, Regulus’s wand retracts.

Remus’s eyes twinkle at the movement. “Besides, my business has everything to do with the residents of this household.”

Now, Regulus is aware of a myriad of reasons that an Order member would be at his doorstep; however, it is the unarmed and relaxed nature of this particular freedom-fighter that gives him pause.

He’s not here to capture me, Regulus thinks. Or, he’s at least not prepared for an immediate fight. Perhaps it’s a lure.

Order members had resorted to worse in the war, after playing heroics had proved ineffective against the ruthless nature of the Death Eater movement.

“Black, we need to talk.” Remus’s hands move to his front pockets, dropping the white flag. “Dumbledore sent me for a reason, and I get the sense that you’d prefer a friend over that old schemer.”

“A friend?” Regulus scoffs. “You gave me, like, three cigarettes over the course of midnight rounds!” Regulus pauses, wand finding purchase against Lupin’s throat. “And you made me pay for them!”

Remus, to his credit, remains largely unphased, taking a cautious step downwards on the steps; thus, creating some distance between himself and an emotionally volatile Regulus.

“Yet, you’d rather see my face than his.” It’s said as a matter-of-fact, no hesitation.

Here, Remus knows he has Regulus. There’s an unspoken threat, a promise of a house call from his old Headmaster and leader of The Order of The Phoenix.

Regulus’s wand does not waiver as his thoughts swirl.

They both stand in silence, appraising one another.

“Fine. Wait here.”

Regulus steps backwards through the doorway, wand directed at Remus until the door is pressed shut firmly between them.

His heart races as he takes stock of the facts. Today is his son’s birthday. Castor will not be up for at least another hour. Iria is likely already up, smoking on the second-floor balcony.

Regulus’s eyes flick upwards, mind calculating the seconds it might cost him to alert her. He considers it. Lupin is waiting. Lupin might not be willing to wait for long.

There’s only one thing to be done, then.

“Expecto patronum,” he whispers, hoping to conceal his activity from the man just steps from his front door.

From his wand, a delicate mist curls into a familiar shape. “Company from before. Wizard. The docks. Keep Castor away”.

The curious creature cocks its head, then blinks once. It seemingly takes its time, unhurried by the situation at hand.

Once it is certain it understands, the cat gives a furtive glance about the entryway before gracefully curving around the edge of the stairs.

Regulus’s patronus, a creature that matches him in suspicion as well as curiosity, is always certain to ascertain the gravity of a situation before delivering a message.

It’s a natural reflection of its human counterpart. He’s a skittish little thing, always has been.

Regulus is quick to action, denim jacket pulled from the rack and tossed over his shoulders. He secures his wand in its proper pocket and grabs his set of keys from the hook. He takes a moment to carefully listen for any creaking boards above. Secure in the lack of movement, his hand finds the doorknob.

Another breath and he’s out the door, locking the antique knob and marching down the hill. He doesn’t wait for Lupin, he knows that the other man has to follow.

Regulus lets the familiar path fade into the background, tiled storefronts and the whistle of the ocean fade away. He focuses on what matters. Assesses what he needs to gain from this conversation, what he’ll need to protect.

It’s only when his priorities have been neatly ordered that he glances to his right. Lupin has fallen in step beside him, face impassively staring ahead.

Tough, Regulus notes with humor, he does seem to be struggling with the incline.

Regulus was aware of some of Lupin’s quirks, hyper-mobility certainly not being one of them. Even without their seldom shared cigarettes at the odd midnight round, Lupin had always grimaced as they treaded down stairs, panting by the time they’d reached the tops of towers.

Good, Regulus thinks unkindly, let him sweat it out.

It’s only a short walk from Regulus’s home to the sea, and it is not a trek he often makes. Iria and he use it as the occasional grounding tool. Staring at the waves, listening to the bustle of dock workers, letting the waves remind them of the past.

The docks are a place where Regulus lets gravity take him all at once. It seems fitting to use it to deal with this matter of the past. When Iria received his patronus, he knew it would tell her all she needed to know regarding the situation at hand.

There’s a paved street dividing the docks and the seafront from the town proper. Here, Regulus stops.

He’d rather not get any closer. He was being pushed enough today.

Remus has paused beside him, eyes taking in his surroundings. Regulus wonders if he had been expecting an ambush rather than a wide-open town square.

“Wait here.” Regulus commands, motioning with an open palm to a bench overseeing the ocean. “I’ll be back.”

Remus must have some trust in him, or at least trust in the leverage he has over him, because he nods and takes a seat. Regulus takes notice of the flicker of relief in his expression, the way Lupin’s palm rubs at his right calf.

Regulus does not wander far. Rather, he makes the short trek to the paderia that he and Iria use for emotional support during their “beach days”.

He sets a ceramic espresso cup next to Lupin, delicately pinching the handle of his own. As further peace offering, he joins it with a brown paper bag.

Neither man makes a move to open it as they sip their espresso. Remus grimaces, to Regulus’s delight. He immediately mixes in the sugar packet Regulus had thoughtfully provided.

“Alright,” Regulus does not give the espresso a moment to cool, “I can’t imagine you’re wanting to prolong this any more than I do.”

“Spot on,” Remus tips the rest of his mug back, “Although, I must confess that I was curious to attend this meeting. I would have offered, even if Dumbledore hadn’t asked me to be the one to go.”

“What a very Dumbledore move, to send in his favorite trained dog.” Regulus did not care to be kind. He wanted Remus to get to the point and get out of his life, lest he attract more trouble.

If Remus was offended by this, he did not show it. He hummed; eyes set on the horizon. “What should I call you, Black?”

Regulus flinches. Sometimes, he did forget. “Those in my acquaintance may call me Regulus. I didn’t think we were quite there yet, Lupin”.

Another hum. “Perhaps not, Black. But I’d like to refer to you properly when I tell Dumbledore about our chat. Which, we should get to any moment here. It’s brisk by the sea and I haven’t a coat.”

“I’d prefer you not refer to me at all, but if you must.”

“And I must.” Remus turns and meets his gaze. “I am here for a reason, as you know. I was just as surprised as you were to see me.”

“I’ll start with what I expect might be good news. The war is over, Regulus.” Remus says this kindly, warm brown eyes bursting with sincerity. “It’s been officially over for five years, been winding down closer to eleven.”

For a moment, Regulus is untethered. He’s staring at the ocean and he feels himself under the waves. He lets himself remember what drowning feels like.

But he’s older than he was when he was drowning. He’s got more practice at being alive. He knows how to come back to himself. He knows that he needs to come up for air.

So, Regulus breathes in, in, and out through the mouth. And he lets Remus talk. Lets Remus retrace his own steps through the end of Hogwarts through the thick of the war. Tries to not think about where he was, what steps he was taking while Remus was making his. Remus is careful to minimize his mentions of Sirius, and Regulus is grateful. He touches on his time in werewolf colonies across Europe, of his own disillusionment with The Order. Things had gotten even bleaker after the Black Heir had been announced dead. For years, Remus was trapped in a cycle of being cast off every few months to beg for allegiance from colonies that did not give a damn about a wizarding war, so long as they were left alone. The tides had only turned with a less than anonymous donation. Remus leans in as he shares this bit. It seemed that the locket that Regulus had Kreacher retrieve, after all those years, had been the key.

Regulus does feel a twinge of remorse here, after hearing everything that had happened. He could have gotten that locket to Dumbledore sooner; it wasn’t like it had been difficult to summon Kreacher and have him hand deliver it to the Headmaster. Regulus does not share this. Regulus doesn’t share anything with Remus, he lets him talk uninterrupted.

He learns that Remus does not trust Dumbledore after the events that he won’t go into detail on, nor does he much like him; however, he makes it clear that they have maintained a working relationship. All the way through his deployment to colonies, to horcrux hunting, to horcrux destroying, to his current position as the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. Remus, although not heralded as a hero for his work, has been allowed certain perks. Wryly, he says that they’d made a big concession for him, allowing a dark creature to take such a position at Hogwarts. Regulus finds it interesting how freely Remus offers this information to him. Sure, he’d made the dog comment, but he wasn’t sure how Lupin knew that Regulus was aware of his lycanthropy. He did not interrupt to inquire.

“Now, this is where you come back in.” Remus scoots closer, voice dropping. “I did not know you were alive until yesterday morning, Regulus. No one but Dumbeldore and Moody knew.”

“Why now?” Regulus is gripping the seat of the bench, awareness dawning on him. “If they do not want anything from me, if they did not tell anyone that they knew of my involvement, then why now?

Remus looks at Regulus. There’s a kind smile, but there’s remorse there too. “While I’m not sure why they did not tell me about you, why they did not tell Sirius that his brother was alive, I am sure that you know why I am here. Today’s an important day.”

And if that didn’t just wind Regulus.

He’s not sure why he hadn’t expected this, why he hadn’t been anticipating this every day for the past eleven years, why he hadn’t begun panicking when Castor’s magic manifested as a grease fire while he was screaming over not being allowed another bit of bacon.

He’d been so focused on giving Castor a normal childhood, that he had forgotten the implications of having a magical child.

“Castor, he’s eleven today.”

“Castor,” Remus’s eyes sparkle, “Now if that’s not a Black family name”.

“Oi!” Regulus defaults to offense. “I wasn’t going to pass up centuries of the singular Black family tradition that isn’t rooted in madness.”

“Debatable, perhaps. But I did not mean any offense. It’s a suiting name, I’m sure.” A pause, hesitance. “May I ask, what is his full name?”

Regulus isn’t sure why he feels his chest tighten. Perhaps it’s a protective instinct. He doesn’t want to share Castor; he isn’t sure if this will be opening up their world in a way that they aren’t ready for.

“Castor Sirius Marín-Black.” Regulus swallows. “I wanted him to have a bit of the celestial body he was born under, a bit of me, and a bit of his pai.”

Remus’s absolute mitt of a hand finds his knee, squeezing comfortingly. Regulus blinks at it, shocked at the touch and also at the size of this man.

“Regulus,” Remus begins carefully, “I have his letter. I’m told that I’m to deliver it face to face.”

Remus is being kind. He’s giving the information to Regulus in spoon sized doses. Giving him a moment to gag after every medicinal sip.

Regulus swallows it all down. “I’d thought I’d enroll him into another school, somewhere… Somewhere with less history.”

“Well,” Remus hums again, sympathetically, “That is still an option”. He takes a moment, preparing to deal a lethal blow. “But Regulus, even if you do enroll him in Beauxbatons, in Durmstrang, in whatever pretentious wizarding school you have in mind… That won’t change that I know you exist now. That you’re alive.”

And that is really it, isn’t it?

Remus knows, so Sirius will know soon, if he doesn’t already.

If Sirius knows, there’s nothing to keep the past from his doorstep.

There are consequences he can’t hold back. An incoming tide that he can do nothing to stop; he can only brace for impact.

“I know.” It comes out in a whisper.

“Regulus.” Another squeeze to his knee. “The letter.”

And there’s nothing more to say.

Regulus returns the dishes, ceramic clattering as his hands shake. He shoves the untouched brown bag into Lupin’s hands. “For the road,” he mutters.

Remembering the forgotten mixing bowl at home, he makes another quick purchase.

Then, it’s a steep uphill climb home. He tells himself that he’s letting Lupin take it slow, but they both know it’s him that needs the time.

They’re quiet as Regulus unlocks his front door, key pausing in the lock as he prepares himself for his own son.

He doesn’t get nearly long enough; the door is wrenched open the second the lock clicked.

Grinning from ear to ear, Castor stands proudly in ragged blue jeans and a much too large Talking Heads t-shirt. It was a favorite of his, purchased for him by Iria during one of their trips into the city.

“Papa! Did you bring me a present? Did you get malasadas for breakfast?” Castor is vibrating with energy, which is not out of the normal.

“Mon chéri, it is your birthday,” Regulus steps through the doorway, soothed by the sight of his boy, “Of course, I got malasadas for breakfast. Fresh, from Alma down by the docks.”

Regulus smooths the baby hairs haloing Castor’s face down, taking a moment to breathe him all in.

Castor wears his hair long, modelling after the punk rockers that he and Iria love to moon over. Inky black curls, a black family trait. Freckles dot across his cheeks, a quirk that he’d gotten from Regulus. He’s shaping up to be tall already, gaining on Regulus more every day; he’d certainly gotten that from his papai. That, and the pigment to his skin. While the sun only pinkened Regulus’s cheeks, his son seemed to tan and glow under the rays of summer. However, that’s the extent that he’d taken after his parents. The rest, from the length of his eyelashes to the mischievous tilt of his lips, that was all Sirius. Regulus had seen it the moment Castor was born, had seen all the good in him. Regulus was certain Castor could’ve never gotten that from Regulus himself.

Regulus has never been resentful to see his brother’s face when he looks at Castor. If anything, he’s grateful for every similarity.

“My baby.” Regulus is not tearing up, absolutely not. “You’re eleven today, I am sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.”

But Castor’s squirming out of Regulus’s careful grip, detangling his arms to peer at the man behind him.

“Papa, who is he?” Castor switches to Portuguese, wary of strangers in the same way as Iria. Careful to speak in secrets in the same way as Regulus.

Regulus doesn’t turn to look at Lupin, taking every second to appreciate the boy in front of him. Feeling the dread at what was coming, at what September would take from him.

There’s a moment of silence between the three of them, Castor and Lupin in some kind of stare-off as Regulus stands in the middle, detached from it all.

“Oh,” Remus exhales, “He looks just like Sirius.”

“Yes, he does.” Regulus feels pride sweep through his chest. “Castor,” Regulus regains his son’s fickle attention, “Mon chéri, do you remember three years ago, when you set the cast iron on fire during breakfast?”

Castor’s cheeks immediately darken, blue eyes flicking towards Remus and back to his father, “Papa! It was an accident. You said it was fine!”

“No, no, I’m not mad. I’ve never been mad,” Regulus can’t help his tearful smile, “But do you remember what I told you? How it was a good thing, because it meant you were coming into your magic?” He gives Castor a moment to reflect. “Well, this is just the next step of that.”

Castor’s mouth is slightly open, his eyes flickering between his father and the strange man behind him.

Castor’s processing is soon interrupted.

The stairs creak as Iria swings around the banister, wand in hand. Regulus is certain that she’d observed them cresting the hill and he’s even more sure that she had been eavesdropping from the moment they entered the door.

Regulus lets himself take her in, too. Takes a moment to appreciate the ways in which she’d grown since he’d first come back to himself in their kitchen.

Iria’s hair has taken on grey streaks, but she doesn’t tie it back anymore. She’d cut it into a bob years ago, strands always tucked behind her ears. Her cheeks are now adorned with smile lines, set in by the joy they’d experienced together. There are light creases over just one eyebrow, perhaps from all the judgmental looks she’d given Regulus when admonishing him. Her eyes, which he’d once thought of as murky, caught forest green in the lamplight of the foyer. She still wears utility pants and men’s work shirts, always collecting paint stains or smatterings of clay.

Iria is overwhelmingly beautiful, Regulus has always thought so.

“No solicitors, sorry.” Her tone is wry, singular eyebrow raised, wrinkles in full effect.

Regulus does not try to bite back his laugh. “Oh, shove off it, Iria.”

“Yeah, shove off it, Tia!” Castor parrots, bratty enough to be delighted by acts of rudeness.

Iria glances at Regulus only momentarily, eyes focusing instead on the young boy in front of her, “Oi! I thought someone said that he wanted presents this year?”

Castor is not fooled, letting out a delighted giggle. “Tia! Papa is home, he brought a handsome man.”

“A handsome man?” Iria looks back at Remus, who’s politely, albeit awkwardly, smiling through their banter. “Hm. I’m not impressed.”

“Erm,” Remus coughs, drawing three pairs of judgmental eyes, “My apologies, Monsieur Black, to be interrupting your birthday breakfast; I am an old friend of your Papa’s, from school.”

Castor’s eyes ignite, he knows precisely what sort of school Regulus had gone to. His mind is on magic.

“Normally, we mail these letters on the birthday of prospective young wizards. But yours is special, you see.”

Oh, he’s good. Regulus smirks, knowing Castor is allowing himself to get riled up.

“Although, I’ve never had a malasada, and I’ve been told presents are best paired with a sweet treat.” Remus looks to Regulus, who nods.

It doesn’t take much ushering to get Castor through to the kitchen, Remus and Iria trailing behind as they eye one another suspiciously.

Regulus doesn’t miss the way Iria twirls her wand between her fingers casually, eyes not breaking from Remus.

As they enter the kitchen, Regulus notes that Iria must have cleared the mess that Regulus had left. Out of character for her, really. Slob.

There is no spoon in the sink, no mixing bowl of pancake batter on the counter. For once, even the table was cleared off.

The table had been upgraded from when he’d first come into Iria’s home. Their folding table had gotten the boot when Castor reached crawling age and had been determined to rattle any unsteady surface that might cause him harm. They’d since taken in a heavy oak table, second hand from one of the older ladies that cooed over their mismatched family.

The table, which was now set for four.

Regulus quirks an eyebrow at Iria. She shrugs in return, wand continuing to twirl between her fingers expertly.

Right, she’d been ready for company. He eyed her wand. Whichever way it might’ve gone.

“Right, take a seat everyone. Birthday boy at the head, of course.” Regulus places the box of treats on the table. Iria, his natural second half, already moving with the kettle, filling up four mugs and dutifully taking tea orders.

From there, Castor anxiously twitches through a monologue from Remus. The speech boasts of the noble traditions of Hogwarts and the bright young pupils that study there.

Iria listens quietly, a soft smile playing on her face at Castor’s excitement. Regulus and her share a look as Remus hands Castor his letter, a flourish to his movement.

Regulus reluctantly finds himself enjoying his morning with Remus. Finds that perhaps, Remus is not an unwelcome addition to their dining table.

-

Breakfast had bled into lunch, Lupin overstaying his welcome, much to the delight of a now bewitched and blushing young Castor.

Somehow, in a few short hours, Remus had managed to impress Regulus’s son.

Eventually, Remus had made his leave, calling on school matters that he must attend to. As Regulus had walked Remus to the door, leaving Iria to coax Castor away from the sound knob of his new stereo, Remus passed him a postcard, haphazardly scribbled on with a dying pen’s ink.

Regulus takes it, curiously flipping it over.

It was a wide lens shot of the London Eye, splashed over in large red font was ‘Wish you were here!’

Regulus flipped it again, eyes skimming over Remus’s chicken scratch writing.

“I won’t force you,” Remus, again with his kind eyes, “But Sirius and I frequent this pub during our off weekends.” He points towards an address scrawled at the top of the card.

A pause.

“I’m going to tell him.” Regulus nods, he wasn’t going to ask Lupin to keep any secrets on his behalf. “And I’d like it if you’d join us next weekend for dinner. Bring Castor, if you’d like.”

Regulus should’ve been expecting this, but it hit him from behind all the same. His eyes flick up, finding Remus’s.

Regulus does not give any response.

Remus clears his throat, setting an awkward hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Any way that you decide, I’m giving you our home address and our landline number, if you’d prefer to give him a ring. The machine will pick up if we’re not home.” Remus nods down at the postcard, removing his hand with a final awkward pat. “Right then.”

“One last thing?” Remus is on his front porch again, his head turning to look over his shoulder as Regulus remains silent. “He’ll want to see you.”

Regulus blinks in return, trying to not give anything away. “Regulus, I know he’ll want to see you.”

And there wasn’t much else to be said.

Regulus stands in the doorway, unmoving as he watches Lupin take to the alley, opposite the path they’d taken just hours ago.

-

After Remus had long since cleared out, after the excitement of presents tuckered Castor to an early bed, after the need for solitude took Iria to the upstairs balcony, Regulus picks up the landline.

He dials a familiar number, not needing to open the black address book they kept.

It rings once. Twice.

Regulus eyes the clock on the wall. It’s late, but he shouldn’t be asleep yet.

“Regulus?” It doesn’t reach the third ring. “It is late, is everything alright?”

“João. We need to talk”