If there’s one thing Regulus Black does well, according to Harry Potter, it’s making his father weak in the knees.
Harry has known Regulus for a vast majority of his life through Uncle Padfoot, AKA Sirius Black-Lupin, AKA Regulus Black’s older sibling. He’s known the man for going on two decades now and, with the divorce of his mother and father nearly six years ago and his father’s recent inclination toward romance again, he’s starting to see more and more of him.
At first, it was little things. Regulus would bring him home from school, listening to him muse about the various schemes he’d gotten up to that day. Then he’d offer to take Harry out for ice cream or a shopping trip. Sometimes he’d come under the pretense of Sirius being too busy to pick him up themselves.
Regulus is a handsome man. Of this Harry is very aware. He’s got sharp cheekbones, the same curly hair all Blacks are born with, the same silvery eyes. But there’s something different about Regulus. He’s just as tall as Sirius, just as slender and poised, but there’s simply something different about him. Regulus is quiet. Startlingly quiet, and with a near constant watchful gaze, as though he’s consistently taking mental notes of everything happening around him. Perhaps he is. Perhaps he isn’t. Harry isn’t sure he’ll ever know.
The most frequent thing Regulus seems to study is James Potter, Harry’s father.
Now, contrary to popular belief, Harry is not a complete dunce. He knows his dad is hot — too many of the girls at school have informed him of this on multiple occasions — and he knows that Regulus is obsessed with him. There’s only so much he can do for his poor, oblivious Papa.
So here he stands on a dreadfully bright and sunny Saturday morning, standing under an umbrella with Regulus Black while his Papa pays for amusement park tickets. Not that Regulus wanted to go, of course. He was actually vehemently against the entire idea of a family outing. Until James was brought up. Regulus was ready in a handful of minutes, which is honestly impressive considering his clothes consist of more buckles and buttons than is logically necessary. Sure, the eyeliner is sort of just smudged on, and so is the lipstick, but the hair should’ve taken at least three hours. Maybe it’s just those Black genes kicking in.
Off topic, Harry.
Right. Regulus looks thoroughly miserable standing beneath a black umbrella, dressed like he’s either attending the funeral of a common stripper or a human sacrifice, next to his sibling, who sports a rainbow coloured umbrella of their own.
Sirius is positively beaming, also dressed appropriately for a slutty funeral, joined by their husband Remus, who looks like he’s simply going for a trip to the library. The book under his arm only adds to the rustic, nerdy librarian charm. The only thing missing is their adopted daughter, Hermione, who unfortunately has plans with Aunt Marlene and Aunt Dorcas today. Hermione is like a perfect blend of Remus and Sirius — she loves her leather jacket and Doc Martens, but also adores a soft jumper and a nice pair of corduroy trousers.
“I wasn’t expecting you to come along,” Sirius chirps to their brother, lips spread wide beneath matching red lipstick. Regulus, clearly regretting his life choices, rolls his eyes.
“As if I’d pass this chance up. You know good and bloody well why I’m here,” he drones. Harry feels a spark of excitement. This is the closest he’s gotten Regulus to admitting his utter obsession with his Papa. Only a few more weeks, possibly a month, and he can complete his matchmaking process. All it takes is a few final pushes, and his Papa will be head over heels with Padfoot’s little brother.
He knows Regulus is his father’s exact type, to a T. He’s dark and gloomy, emotionally stunted, objectively hot, an enthusiast of dark and medieval torture. Papa has always adored historically accurate methods of punishment, and Regulus is a major fan of Vlad the Impaler. Hell, there’s a guillotine in the Black Manor. Papa would love him, if only he’d open up his blind ass eyes.
“Your crush on James is getting a bit worrying,” Remus comments absentmindedly, biting on his cuticle as his eyes anxiously dart around. Regulus makes an affronted sound that Harry almost laughs at. Harry, being the menace he is, nudges Regulus with his elbow and, upon the man glancing down at him, gives an approving nod.
“Don’t you worry, Reg. I’ve got it handled,” he mutters. Regulus, to his complete and utter surprise, actually cracks a smile. It’s a small one, sure, but it’s a smile nonetheless and it leaves him feeling quite successful for the rest of the day.
And what a day it was. Anytime Regulus was within a foot of James, James would immediately choke on his own spit and go extremely red in the face. At one point, he’d accidentally called Regulus “mi amor,” which led to a very long coughing fit from Sirius to cover their laughter over how cherry red James’ cheeks were. Regulus, equally as much of a little shit as Harry is, patted James’ cheek and told him he was “lucky to be so handsome, because there certainly isn’t anything inside his pretty head.”
Now, as they all pile into the Potter van, purchased for the sole reason of toting around the entire family (which includes Sirius and Remus, because Sirius refuses to go anywhere in a separate car from James), it’s very clear that Regulus is highly anticipating the trip back to the Potter Manor. He hasn’t stopped fidgeting since they’d all climbed in. Harry’s been forced to watch it from the middle seat, squished between Remus and Regulus.
“Do you use anything specific in your hair, Potter?” Regulus asks at some point while James is driving, running his fingers through the unkempt black hair on the back of James’ skull. Harry is disgusted to note the shiver that rocks his Papa’s entire body, though pleased to note the excited glint in Regulus’ eyes.
“How do you get your skin this smooth? I must tell Mother. Her blood masks simply are not working as of late,” Regulus purrs at another point, running a finger along the skin of James’ cheekbone. Harry doesn’t even want to think about the way Papa shifts in his seat. He’s disgusted. Padfoot is too, if the scowl on their face is anything to go by.
“You have impeccable bone structure, Potter. I’d bet your skull would make an impressive decoration, yes?” Regulus says, and runs a long black acrylic along the structure of James’ jaw. This one is sickening for an entirely separate reason. Harry very nearly vomits all over the floorboard. Remus, oddly enough, doesn’t even blink. Sirius is chortling in the passenger seat. And James? Oh, James is sweating. He’s sweating buckets, bouncing his leg, running his tongue over his bottom lip over and over again.
“Papa, can we all have a sleepover tonight?” Harry asks by the time they reach Potter Manor, innocently batting his eyelashes at his Papa. Papa, bless his poor heart, looks one comment away from fainting in the gravel driveway. He nods vigorously, making the most atrocious heart eyes at Regulus that Harry has ever seen.
“Of course, Haz. Anything for you,” the man answers. Regulus gets that excited twinkle in his eyes, and Sirius drops their head into their palms.
Harry is very pleased (and mildly grossed out) to say that Regulus has not left the Manor since. In fact, he’s made it into the perfect gothic torture dream (read: nightmare) house. There are torture devices every few steps, actual human skulls displayed on the mantle above the fireplace, far too many knife sets in the kitchen to be considered sane, and a garden of black roses in the back yard.
Twelve years and two more children later, there are now six relatives of Regulus’ buried behind the rose garden. They’ve been given horrifically gaudy statues above their burial sites, depicting their worst crimes during the span of their lives. Naturally, because the Blacks are notorious for being criminals and morally flawed brutalists, these statues are gory at best and obscene at worst.
Most notably: Aunt Cassie dismembered seventeen men on all separate occasions for wronging her in some form or fashion — one of them, the poor bloke, only glanced at another woman in her presence. According to Regulus, Cassie hadn’t quite liked the man to begin with, so it was well justified. Walburga, Regulus’ mother, is known for a string of murders of several virgin women. She’d used their blood to make a sort of face mask, claiming that it combatted aging. Uncle Alphard, Sirius’ favourite uncle and Walburga’s least favourite brother, is famous for the robbery of several fine arts museums spanning all of Europe and America. Many paintings now found in Black Manor, where Sirius resides, are the result of Alphard’s conquests.
It’s been a very wide debate of whether Abuela and Baba will wind up in the Manor’s graveyard when they inevitably find their end. Abuela insists on it, stating that it would be her greatest honour to receive a burial so close to her beloved son and son-in-law. Baba, on the other hand, desperately wants to be cremated and scattered in the North Sea.
Harry is rarely home anymore. He loves Regulus, more than anything, but he simply cannot bear waking up to the sound of his Papa’s sex life every single morning. It’s a very active sex life, in case you were wondering.
It is this morning too. With Halloween in less than twenty-four hours — Regulus’ absolute favourite holiday — the libido of his dad and stepdad has been dramatically increased. The headboard is slamming against the wall his bed is also situated on, echoing through the drywall.
“Jamie, my dear Jamie. Mon Cœur, you can do better than that,” Regulus admonishes, sounding not at all fazed by the railing he’s surely receiving. Or perhaps he’s doing the railing. Sure, Reg is missing the necessary biological equipment, but they’ve been very vocal about their enthusiasm for fun silicone toys. Honestly, Harry has never bothered to ask. Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t actually want to fall privy to knowledge of the sex life of his beloved and cherished father.
“Mi Amor, Mi Vida, I adore you. I would go to the ends of the Earth for you. I would slaughter thousands for a drop of your affection,” Papa babbles. Gross. So, so gross. Harry regrets coming home for the holidays (seeing as Regulus and Sirius both celebrate Samhain and it is a legitimate religious holiday he participates in, he’s gotten a pass from his job to come home the week of. He also happens to work for his Papa, so there’s a bonus).
He pulls his mobile out from beneath his pillow, sending off a quick message to Hermione, who’s been blowing up his phone with updates all morning. They’ve got an ongoing bet this year — which couple is more sappy with their Samhain morning fornication?
Spoiler alert: James and Regulus win more often than not.
However, if one of them doesn’t begin rattling off about a baby within the next ten seconds, Harry owes Hermione a hefty amount of money. It’s pocket change for rich kids like them, in all reality. Even so, it’s allowance he won’t be able to spend on fancy and overly formal parchment and ink for his letters home (Papa and Regulus insist on sending old fashioned letters, via messenger bird and everything. It makes Harry feel quite expensive to do it).
“Reggie, Mi Vida, please. Let me fill your womb. Bear another of my children. Let me prove my devotion to you, Regulus.”
There it is. With a victorious smile, he sends off a second text to Hermione, ignoring the new knowledge of his father’s position in their marriage. She begrudgingly sends him thirteen-hundred pounds via Paypal, which he fully intends on spending on Diwali and Yule gifts. Regulus could use a new set of daggers, and Papa has been dying to buy a first edition set of the Grimm’s Fairy Tales.
With a heavy stomach and a throat full of bile, Harry makes his way out of his bedroom. His half sister, Cassiopeia, now eleven and almost as tall as Harry (fuck the Black genes, honestly), gags as she joins him in his venture to the kitchen. They settle in at the kitchen island as Kreacher — an old, barely lucid man with a hunched back and an unhealthy devotion to serving the House of Black — prepares breakfast. His half brother, a seven-year-old who looks far too much like Regulus for his own good, enters just as the slamming of a headboard finally stops echoing through the house.
“Morning, Ali,” Cas chirps as Alioth slides onto one of the barstools. The seven-year-old, poor kid, merely shoots her an exhausted glare. She gives a mockingly sympathetic nod so similar to Sirius that Harry genuinely has to suppress laughter. Cassie the Younger is so much like Sirius it’s uncanny, and it never fails to bring Harry to laughter. She’s sassy, dramatic, and absolutely adores fire. Sirius is raising a fucking arsonist and Harry would be lying if he said he isn’t impressed by her knack for causing small forest fires.
“Papa and Appa are so loud this morning,” Ali groans. The way he holds himself, down to the head in his hands and the disgruntled twist of his upper lip, is so Regulus they may as well be twins. Well, except for the strong Indian nose they’ve all got from James, and by extension, Baba Monty. Both Cassie and Ali have the Black eyes — slanted and grey-blue — and all three siblings have the thick Greengrass lips from Abuela Effie.
“I’ve won the bet with Hermione this year, at least,” Harry sighs. He rubs his temples in a way he knows resembles his Papa. Samhain is easily the worst day of the year for the Potter siblings. It’s when Papa and Regulus are at their absolute worst, their absolute cheesiest, and their absolute most unhinged.
“I just want one Samhain in peace,” Cassie bemoans. Harry groans his assent. Kreacher places three plates before them, piled high with delectable-looking gyeran bap. Harry thanks him in a disgruntled mumble, says his daily prayer, then happily digs in with a pair of chopsticks and a spoon. The other two follow suit.
“‘Oh, mi vida, let me fill you with my babies,’” Alioth mutters, mimicking their poor, devoted father. Harry snickers into his rice, slathering it with a spicy mustard that Abuela Effie prides herself in and Regulus insists is an insult to his heritage.
“‘Mon cœur, would you live for me? Would you die for me? Prove your devotion to me, mon chéri,’” Harry tacks on. Cassie is now giggling into her breakfast as Alioth rolls his eyes in a purely Regulus manner.
Then Papa and Regulus walk in, looking just as disheveled as expected — that is to say, James is flushed with hair sticking up every which way and a suspicious sheen to his salt and pepper beard, and Regulus is just as impeccably composed as he always is. They take a seat along the island as well, with Papa humming happily under his breath and Regulus appearing notably less miserable for such an early morning.
“My darling children, how are you this morning?” Regulus hums, happily accepting a plate and a pair of suspiciously stained wooden chopsticks. Cassie, never one to beat around the bush, huffs as she stabs her chopsticks into her egg and glares at Regulus. Alioth, on the other hand, swings his little legs back and forth as he happily munches on his rice and eggs.
“I think you both forget where my room is located half the time,” Harry grumbles, stabbing his rice the same way Cassie does. To his credit, Papa has the decency to at least blush over it. Regulus, however, tosses a hand dismissively in the air.
“Yes, yes, we get the point. Be happy your father and I are fornicating and not committing crimes,” he huffs. Harry can only roll his eyes. James, ever the romantic, brushes his fingers over Regulus’ as he leaves the island to prepare himself a cup of tea. He uses an heirloom kettle gifted by Aunt Cassie at their wedding, which is supposedly the same kettle she’d used to poison her second husband. Naturally, it’s greatly treasured by Regulus and, according to Sirius, a wonderful reminder to James of what the Blacks are truly capable of. A security of fidelity, if you will.
“My apologies, Appa. I wasn’t aware murder was an option in this situation. Is it too late to choose that one?” Alioth snarks. He and Regulus glare at each other across the island, unfortunately catching Cassie between them.
“Are you volunteering, dearest?” Regulus asks. Alioth nods firmly, offering up his throat as he pulls a dagger from the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. Harry has to hand it to him — the kid’s got a pair of bollocks on him to talk to Regulus like that. Reg is absolutely fucking terrifying on one of his better days.
“Can I join the queue, Appa?” Cassie asks innocently enough, batting her little eyelashes up at Regulus. James, watching all of it transpire from the counter beside the stove, scoffs.
“You lot are so dramatic. Spending too much time with Padfoot, it seems.”
“We spend so much time with Padfoot because they aren’t fucking their husband nearly as much as you’re fucking yours, Papa,” Cassie chirps. She wears that stony smile Sirius wears right before they pull a dagger or hold a gun to your head. Cassie, Harry decides, is just as terrifying as Regulus is.
“Language, ma biche,” Reg admonishes, greedily accepting the herbal tea James offers him. Papa presses a kiss to his head as he takes his seat yet again at the island.
“She’s right, y’know,” Harry sighs wistfully. “I almost miss the days when I could go to Mum and Mary’s house. It’s too bad they’re traveling the Americas.”
“Yes, yes, we get it, Haz. You love your mum more than me,” James huffs dramatically.
“And you say your children are spending too much time with my sibling,” Regulus grumbles, side eyeing the fuck out of Papa. “You’ve grown to be just as dramatic. What’s next, a leather jacket and a miniskirt? A tattoo of Remus’ stupid nickname above your dick?”
“I would never disgrace Moony that way,” James sputters indignantly. “He deserves a dick far prettier than mine.”
“I happen to find your dick most beautiful, yeobo,” Regulus says silkily, gazing up through his lashes. Harry, thoroughly done, takes his plate to the kitchen sink and loudly gags the entire walk there.
“I’ll be at Padfoot’s until you two are done forming another sibling for me. Nice to see you all. Goodbye,” Harry announces melodramatically. He takes his leave ten minutes later, grimacing at the closed kitchen door. The kitchen door is only ever closed for one reason, and Harry decidedly does not want to dwell on what that reason is.
Samhain, as expected, is a shitshow. The ritual, as per usual, goes splendidly. It consists of a very large bonfire in the backyard of the Black Manor, where a vast majority of the dead are buried. They all dance in a circle around it, joined by Grandfather Orion and Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella, as well as their children, Narcissa, Bellatrix, and Andromeda, and their spouses and children. It’s a large celebration and is a massive hit, seeing as Andromeda’s child, Tonks, actually decides not to flirt with Remus this year. It’s become just as much tradition as the annual lamb sacrifice at midnight — Tonks flirts with Remus in front of Sirius, Sirius spends the entire night twirling a dagger in their fingers whilst staring them down, then Bellatrix excitedly referees a formal duel in the ballroom.
It always ends in blood, and it’s never Sirius’.
By the time dinner and the following seance is held, now taking place in the Potter Manor dining room as it is largest, Bellatrix has already made quite a big show of agitating Regulus. James, to Harry’s great amusement and disbelief, promptly challenges her to a formal duel.
It doesn’t end well.
James winds up on the floor with a stab wound and a finger half-dismembered, and so Regulus easily takes his place. Bellatrix, as a result, loses an entire finger and winds up with a far more fatal stab wound. After a quick trip to hospital, with Harry driving James and Narcissa driving Bellatrix to separate hospitals, it is officially declared that Bellatrix’ finger was saved and James’ was never actually in any danger of amputation.
With the festivities all but ruined by behavior the Blacks before them would deem most honourable, they drive home and resume with the seance and lamb sacrifice.
So, all in all, Harry has had a wonderful and amusing Samhain this year. Hermione even managed to look away from her girlfriend, Pansy, for long enough to laugh hysterically at the way Bellatrix still insisted on fighting even with a severed tendon in her thigh.
And if he shares his Samhain kiss with Draco, Regulus’ cousin Narcissa’s son, that is nobody’s business except his own.
So, maybe it wasn’t only his business.
“Your cousin, Haz?” James sighs, exasperated. Harry scoffs, tapping his foot on the floor as he crosses his arms. Draco, dressed awkwardly in his green and silver jeogori and grey baji, bounces his leg.
“Draco is hardly my cousin, Papa. He’s Regulus’. By blood, we aren’t related,” he explains calmly. Regulus, placing the finishing touches on his rather extravagant jeogori, sighs.
“Jamie, it will be fine, I’m sure. It is just as incestuous as Sirius insists our marriage is,” he says. James scoffs.
“Our marriage is not incestuous! Padfoot is not my sibling by blood, so you and I are perfectly fine together.”
“So are Draco and Haz. Do us all a favor and check on our children. I’d hate to be late to Diwali again this year,” Regulus dismisses. James huffs as he leaves the room, dragging his feet like a child.
With James gone, Regulus turns his eyes to Draco and Harry on the couch. Draco audibly gulps.
“I don’t need a lecture, Reg,” Harry grumbles, patting Draco’s hand. Regulus shakes his head, downturning his lips as if to say ‘I wasn’t.’
“No lecture from me. Just wanted to remind the both of you what a condom is,” Regulus says simply. Draco chokes on his spit, and Harry rolls his eyes so hard they genuinely hurt afterward.
“We haven’t even fucked yet, Reg,” Draco splutters through his coughing fit.
“Yeah, what he said,” Harry seconds. Regulus rolls his eyes in a very Sirius way, then sets to tying the top half of his hair away from his face.
“Yes, yes, I was once your age. It’s only a matter of time, judging by your colour coordinated outfits.” Harry promptly looks down at the green kurta and grey Jodhpuri pants and flushes, minorly embarrassed. “Did you at least teach Draco how to dance, Haz?”
Harry promptly goes pale. His face drains of blood, while Draco freezes in place.
“Dance? Harry, we have to dance?”
“Did you do any research at all on Diwali?”
“I didn’t think I’d have to. What kind of bloody festival are you bringing me to? Reg, scale of one to ten, how fucked am I?”
“Not at all!”
“You’re supremely fucked, Draco. Don’t listen to Harry.”
“Are we ready to go, everyone?”
So, yeah. Diwali fucking sucked. At least Abuela Effie adored the matching kurta and hanbok, even if Draco awkwardly stuck to the sidelines for the entirety of the celebration.
Following Diwali is Yule, which is yet another shit show, as are all celebrations with the Potter-Black-Lupin families. For the entirety of Yule, Draco brought very small gifts for the whole family. For the last day of Yule, leading into the new year, there is a gathering of the entire group. It’s honestly more trouble than it’s worth.
Hermione brings Pansy, who snarks off to Draco the entire time and works extremely hard to wind Harry up. Draco and Harry bring a friend each as well, just to lessen the amount of familial confrontation involved. Draco brings Theo Nott, a quiet bloke with a really cool snake tattoo on his forearm. Harry, per Hermione’s request (read: consistent badgering and light threatening with a meat cleaver) brings Ron Weasley, their best friend since diapers.
Lyall Lupin, Remus’ father, and Hope Howell, his mother, are also in attendance. They insist on calling Yule “Christmas” which enrages the entire Black side of the family to no end. As generational practitioners of the Pagan faith, it’s a personal insult. Luckily for the Lupin-Howells, Remus has placed a no-touch-no-torture order on his parents. Naturally, Bellatrix is pissed about this and it is only by the grace of the Gods that Remus managed to pry a vial of lethal poison from her fingers and away from his parents’ plates.
“I still don’t understand how you’re so mellow about the Black family, Haz,” Ron grumbles. Theo, to everyone’s surprise, actually snorts. Ron’s cheeks gain an adorable shade of pink and he stares at the other man like he’s a literal god.
“I swear these gatherings are matchmaking events,” Hermione sighs. Pansy gives a content hum, gently patting Hermione’s hand where a new sparkling ring rests.
Hermione and Pansy, to everyone’s immense delight, became engaged sometime between Diwali and Yule. According to Hermione, Pansy was the one to propose. According to Pansy, it was Hermione’s doing. Since neither of them can be trusted with the truth, it’s become Sirius’ mission to pry it out of them with an ancient familial truth serum buried in the Grimoire of a Black ancestor.
“I can attest to that,” Harry snorts, taking a rather long swig from his glass of wine as he adoringly side eyes Draco. The man is stiff, grimacing over a wine glass he keeps refilling, eyes narrowed at his Aunt Bellatrix trying to hook up with a woman invited by Hope and Lyall. To Harry, Draco has never looked more gorgeous. He’d sooner die than admit it, though. There’s just something about Draco groveling for his affection that he can’t quite seem to find the will to cease. Somehow, he can begin to understand how Regulus so easily soaks in Papa’s wide eyed devotion.
“I despise family events,” Draco finally grumbles. Theo raises his glass to this and Ron is quick to follow.
Surprisingly enough, Ron is not the only Weasley in attendance tonight. His older brother Charlie, short and broad and freckled all over, hangs off the arm of Tonks, whose hair is now a sickening shade of acid green.
“The heteros are catching up to us, Potter,” Pansy bemoans. “Do something about it.”
“Would you like for me to sleep with a male relative to even our scores?” Harry asks sarcastically.
“That would do wonderfully, thanks. Slut yourself out to the family, Harry,” is Pansy’s response. Draco, in retaliation, kisses Harry full on the mouth in front of the entire family. Harry, unable to resist on even his strongest of days, commits fully to snogging him in the middle of the annual Yule Ball.
“That’s so gross,” Sirius gags as they pass by. Remus, to the delight of literally everyone, gives Harry and Draco a very enthusiastic thumbs up.
“I feel so single,” Theo huffs miserably. Ron promptly blushes to the soles of his feet and nods along with stars in his eyes. Harry and Pansy exchange a look across the circular table in the corner — a silent truce in favor of bringing together yet another queer couple. With Harry and Pansy working together nothing is impossible. Ron and Theo will enter an active courtship by the end of the night.
“Haz, dance with me,” Cassie says as she approaches the table. Harry rolls his eyes affectionately and takes her little hand, letting her guide him to the center of the dance floor. They waltz from there, Harry’s movements stilted and slightly clumsy from months of lack of use. Cassie, to no one’s surprise, dances flawlessly and fluidly. It is to be expected as a child of Regulus Black, who waltzes like he does it in his sleep. In all honesty, Harry would expect nothing less of the man. He seems the type to sleep-dance.
“Papa and Appa are at it again,” Cassie groans miserably. Harry glances to where the couple is in the center of the floor, engaging in a very dramatic and very sensual bachata waltz, a rose hanging from between Papa’s clenched teeth.
“I sincerely despise our dads,” Harry monotones. Watching Regulus and James swing their hips together, defiling such a traditional dance right there in front of Abuela, is quite sickening. They’re a cute couple though. He’ll give them that.
“They aren’t even playing a song appropriate for bachata,” Cassie huffs. “Why do they insist on ruining every party with their weird sex stuff?”
“They’re in love, Bhen. Cut them some slack,” Harry muses. “One day, you’ll want to dance with your partner all the time. It’s how we Potters show our love.”
“I’m never getting married,” Cassie groans. Harry can’t help but laugh.
Eventually, he switches partners, winding up in a very intense cumbia with Regulus. The man is very good at dancing. It probably has something to do with his teenage days hanging out with Barty Crouch, a Dominican immigrant with a knack for partying. Even now, well into their forties, Barty spends most nights clubbing with his husband of over a decade, Evan. It’s a bit embarrassing to be loosely related to them, in all honesty. But at least Tia Pandora, Evan’s sister and Barty’s sister-in-law, is a joy to be around. Even Regulus, their family’s most talented dancer, has a hard time keeping up with her.
When it finally comes time for the gift exchange, usually referred to as Secret Santa by Christians, it becomes very clear who gave the best gift. Whilst Harry does quite enjoy the exotic spider gifted to him by Uncle Cygnus, he has to admit that the endangered boa snake Bellatrix somehow smuggled in and gifted to Alioth is rather amazing. Not even Regulus’ gift to Draco of a rare Black Family Tome can compete.
Yule begins getting messy with the grand feast held in the banquet hall. Bellatrix somehow manages to drizzle peanut oil atop Lyall’s food, which he is deathly allergic to, and the Lupin-Howell couple winds up taking an impromptu trip to hospital. Then Tonks challenges Sirius to yet another duel for Remus’ hand. In the end, they manage to get one decent slice in, and wind up hospitalized by Sirius’ hand.
Hermione, shockingly enough, duels Bellatrix over the attempted murder of her grandfather. She wins, which is almost as shocking as the initiation of said duel.
All in all, the best thing about Yule is the dope ass spider Harry gets to keep and the sick scar on Hermione’s arm.
With the new year comes Cassie’s birthday in January. It’s a nice little gathering, small and intimate the way Cassie prefers.
Naturally, James and Regulus get drunk on expensive wine and decide to try dancing.
It doesn’t go well. It goes splendidly for them, actually. Perfectly, according to most standards. Even while piss drunk Regulus is a phenomenal dancer and, with years of experience, James has committed it to muscle memory at this point. It’s not great for the kids, though.
What starts off as a sweet little waltz in the living room, joined by Sirius and Remus per Sirius’ drunken insistence, turns to what may as well be a clothed orgy. At some point, Harry and Hermione take the liberty of covering the eyes of the younger kids.
Harry is stuck in his childhood bedroom yet again that night, tortured by the slamming of the headboard and the knowledge that his father does, in fact, bottom on occasion. The only reprieve is the fact that he and Draco, thankfully sharing a room for the night, manage to make an even louder ruckus.
For every, “Mon cœur, you sound so pretty when you whine for me. I love seeing you so full of me, jagiya,” Harry says, “You’re so beautiful like this, mi vida. I love it when you’re so compliant for me.” And for every, “Fuck, mi amor, mahi, take me. Take me. Take me. Take every piece of me,” Draco babbles, “Haz, shit, you feel so good. Harder, mon amour, please, harder. I’m all yours, aein.”
Harry smiles smugly across the dining table the next morning.
Watching Remus and Sirius behave as a couple is honestly an interesting experience. Harry has decided to pay them a visit with Hermione during a free period with work, and he’s honestly not regretting it in the slightest.
They’ve got a new library built onto the house — this is the third one — filed to the brim with alphabetically organized novels and tomes. Some of them are even colour coded. They’ve decided to take their tea here, soaking up the natural light pouring in through floor to ceiling windows. The air smells distinctly of old books and sex, which is an obvious sign of Remus’ satisfaction.
Speaking of, Remus has not bothered to lift his head from the book he’s engaged in throughout the entire mealtime. He holds the novel in his right hand and scrawls his notes onto a fresh leather journal with his left. Harry has spent years wondering why Remus annotates books with his left hand when he’s right handed, though he can appreciate the talent the man displays when he turns a page one handed.
“Remus, mon amour, how do you fancy a trip to Greece?” Sirius asks as they scroll on their laptop. Remus merely hums and crinkles his nose. Sirius, noting his displeasure with the suggestion, dives right back into their search.
“I don’t understand what you have against Greece, Dad,” Hermione sighs. “It’s lovely there in the spring.”
“It has everything to do with the architecture, cariad,” Remus hums absentmindedly. “I’m not the biggest fan of Greek architecture and art.”
“Surely we can’t take another trip to Italy,” Sirius mutters. Remus looks up at them with raised eyebrows and a distinct frown. Sirius glances his way, then immediately starts clacking on their keyboard. “They’ve got a rather nice flight and a penthouse hotel room sometime in April. How does that sound?”
Harry hides his snort in his tea, stuffing a crumpet in his mouth when Hermione elbows him in the side.
“I think that sounds phenomenal, annwyl,” Remus agrees. He wears that smirk on his face that he always gets when Sirius agrees to his every whim. It’s an expression he wears often. Sirius is practically incapable of saying no.
“I love what you’ve done with your hair today, Appa,” Hermione chirps. Sirius promptly lifts their head, grinning as they twist one of their long, intricate braids around their finger.
“Really? I’ve been trying out some new braid styles since my hair has gotten longer. I copied this one from Game of Thrones,” they gush. Hermione nods along eagerly and offers up her much longer hair for Sirius to practice on. Harry grins at the sight. Hermione loves her parents so fucking much and it’s adorable to watch them interact. Adopted or not, Mione is really an Appa’s girl, and it shows every single time they’re within the same vicinity.
“I love watching them together,” Remus mumbles. Harry glances over, catching the softness in the man’s amber eyes as he gazes openly at his spouse and daughter. He looks just as endeared as Regulus typically does watching his three kids — Harry does in fact include himself in this — chat with their Papa.
“She’s so much like Sirius. They’re so sweet with each other,” Harry agrees as Sirius begins weaving Hermione’s hair into a series of difficult braids.
“I adore both of them with everything in me,” Remus sighs softly. There’s so much love in his voice that Harry can honestly understand why Sirius sticks around for all his gold digging tendencies. “I truly hope you marry your own Padfoot someday, Bambi. I don’t think a day goes by that I don’t find myself falling even more in love with them.”
“I hope so too,” Harry mutters. He can’t help but think about Draco in this moment — he can almost picture exactly how lovely the man would look on one knee. Suddenly, his left ring finger feels disturbingly empty.
Harry would never say that his Papa is pathetic. He’d never in his life insinuate anything of the sort. His Papa is a strong willed, prideful man with a big heart and a powerful aura. Papa is the absolute opposite of pathetic.
Until now, of course. Papa is sitting at his desk in the study, reading and rereading a case file for his law firm. His head is in his hands and his brow has been creased for the last several hours. Harry, reading over multiple call logs and text chains on the other end of the desk, sighs loudly. This case is an absolute monster. There’s so much to go through, so much evidence against their client, that this is definitely a losing case. For the first time in his life, Harry can safely say that his father is pathetic.
“Papa, perhaps we should take a break. Get something to eat, take a walk, come back with fresh eyes,” Harry recommends. James looks up through his lashes, his eye bags emphasized by the shadow his hair leaves on his face.
“I can’t step away right now, Haz. You know I can’t,” James responds. He rubs his temples, taking a swig from his sixth mug of pure espresso. Harry casts a glance to the clock on the wall, heaving a sigh himself. They’ve been at this for almost twelve hours — just reading, and highlighting, and reading, and scribbling notes.
“I’m genuinely second guessing my law degree right now,” Harry mutters. He dives right back into the call logs and text messages, highlighting what could be used and discarding a majority of it. Honestly, it’s their fault for choosing this client. Potter & Potter, Attorney Law takes great pride in representing underdogs, winning case after case for the less fortunate. Most of their clients are pro bono, which is an honest to Gods awful system, but it normally pays off.
Not this time. Harry has been going over the same information for days. James has been pouring over the exact same casefile for a week. There’s simply no defense to make for this client. They’re sinking time and money into this case, devoting their everything to it, and they’ll probably lose this one.
Which is totally okay. It’s not like every case can be won. But this one? This one didn’t have a chance from the start. He’s beginning to wish he’d followed Baba’s advice and kept his nose out of it. Baba’s been an attorney for longer than Harry has been alive — longer than James too, as a matter of fact. He really should’ve listened about this one.
“I’ve been staring at the same shit for days on end. There’s got to be something we’re missing,” James grunts, visibly frustrated. Harry huffs his agreement as he pushes up his glasses and rubs his fists into his eyes.
Regulus comes sweeping in then, a long fur lined robe billowing behind him as he floats to a stop directly behind Harry. He leans forward, muttering under his breath as he reads through some of the printed text logs. Harry’s learned by now that Regulus is going to read through classified information whether he hides it or not, so he simply allows it. Perhaps the man can work his magic and find them a sturdy defense.
“Reg, I swear this one is unbreakable. We can’t find shit for this defense,” Harry rants, glancing up at his stepfather. Regulus hums and snatches the folder straight from James’ hands, plopping down in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He thumbs through the pages rather quickly, barely scanning them before flipping to the next one. Harry silently curses the genetic eidetic memory of the Black family. All the Potters get is stubbornness and handsomeness, and the fucking Blacks get flawless memory and good looks and insanity and charm and-
Anyways, Regulus tosses that file down and picks up another, reading through it quickly. Then he plucks the folder out of Harry’s hands and thumbs through that, too. Once he finishes, he tosses all of them on the desk and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. Harry knows better than to speak now — this is Reg’s processing and analyzing time. It can last anywhere from six minutes to three hours depending on how little or much information he gathers.
“There’s an odd gap in the message logs. Is a page missing?” Regulus asks finally. James immediately hops to action, rifling through different unimportant aspects of the case. There, hidden between a birth certificate and a medical record, is the missing page of texts. Papa reads over it quickly, leaving Harry buzzing with anticipation, then sighs and slumps in his seat. He rubs his hands down his face, then drops his head onto his desk, then drops it again, and again, and finally looks up at Harry with a little relieved smile.
“I’ve been driving myself mad looking for this one little piece of information, and it’s been there the entire time,” he whines. Harry sighs in relief and lets the stress drain from his muscles. Regulus rounds the desk, rubbing James’ shoulders from behind with a smug smirk on his face. “I feel like I’ve been stuffed into an iron cow and left to broil.”
“Don’t torture yourself, jeobo,” the man utters as he leans close enough to Papa that his lips brush his ear. “That’s my job.”
Thoroughly disgusted, Harry springs from his chair and rushes out of the room. He needs to get back to his flat ASAP. He will not fall victim to his parents fornicating again. Besides, he’s got a lovely man waiting to buy him takeout.
As he sinks into bed with Draco that night, he rants and raves about the decade he’s spent watching his father fall so pathetically in love. And if he grins at any point, or mentally praises their all-or-nothing, ride-or-die relationship, that’s no one’s business but his own.
And if he chastises Draco about his devotion the following day — “Are you truly dedicated to me, Draco? I’m beginning to question your loyalty.” — just to see him grovel and beg for forgiveness, it’s absolutely not because of Regulus’ influence. (It’s all worth it in the end when Draco worships every inch of his body and insists on buying a larger engagement ring just to appease him. Maybe Regulus is onto something).