Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

***September 3rd 1971***

Fleamont hadn’t expected the house to be so quiet.

He and Effie had spent more years in that house without a child than with one, so the silence was hardly unfamiliar. But now that James was gone, it felt different, somehow, like the walls themselves had forgotten how to be still. There was no cheeky banter at the breakfast bar, no thundering up and down the stairs, no little voice shouting at the top of its lungs from a broom as it streaked past the kitchen window. Just quiet.

He kept telling himself it was fine. Told Effie and  himself—over and over—that this was normal; healthy, even. That, of course they hadn’t heard from James yet, it had only been two days. He was probably just playing it cool, too caught up in the excitement of Hogwarts to write his old, stuffy parents.

And yet — he found himself pausing by the front window more often than usual, the one that overlooked the lane where their family owl liked to perch. That winding strip of cobblestone and earth, flanked by wild hedgerows. He wasn’t hoping, exactly, just passing by, waiting for some small sign that their son had arrived safely: a letter, a scrap of news, anything.

But James was keeping him waiting.

The garden outside was soft with morning mist. He’d meant to water the rosemary, or check the boundary charm on the back fence, or offer to walk the neighbours cat. Anything idle to pass the time, really. But, he found himself completely unable to move from the window. He took another sip of tea instead.

Effie found him there eventually—barefoot, her dark hair pinned up haphazardly, dressing gown knotted loosely at the waist. She didn’t speak at first, only stepped up behind him, wrapping her arms around his middle and resting her chin on his shoulder as if she belonged there.

“You’re worried,” she murmured against the fabric of his collar.

“I’m admiring the hedge.”

“Mmhmm.”

He was lying, of course. Because the truth was, how could he not be worried? There was a war at their doorstep, and that made the silence so much harder to swallow.

She rocked him gently on his heels, the softest rebuke, before tugging his hand. “Come on. Before the eggs get cold.”

He let her lead him back to the kitchen, where late-morning light glowed through the windows and the air smelled faintly of cinnamon. She’d already half-buttered his toast and set another pot of tea to boil.

He kissed her temple as he passed and thought—not for the first time—how lucky he was to have made a life with her, how easily she could dull the ache of a morning like this. She poured his tea without asking how he took it, nudging the sugar bowl toward him with a look that said don’t you dare take three spoons.

“You know,” she said after a moment, “I dreamt last night that we’d forgotten to pack James’s socks.”

Monty glanced up over his glasses, amused. “Not his wand, not his books? His socks?”

“Yes, I know. It’s ridiculous.”

He smiled around his toast. “We’ve raised a boy who’d proudly go barefoot if he had to.”

“Which is exactly what worries me,” she laughed.

“He’ll be fine, Eff. Socks or no socks.”

For a moment, he almost let himself relax—

—until he heard claws tapping at the glass.

His head snapped up immediately. Bramble, their old tawny owl, was perched on the windowsill, feathers fluffing in the breeze, a neat seal tied at her leg, talons rapping like against the glass like she owned the place.

Effie didn’t need to ask where he was going, she only laughed softly as he stood.

“You’re hopeless.”

“It’s his first week. I’m allowed to be excited,” he said, though he was already unfastening the latch.

“You’re not fooling anyone.”

He didn’t try, just grinned as he untied the twine, something uncoiling in his chest at last. The parchment was slightly damp from the flight, sagging in his hands.

She turned back to the stove, humming as she stirred, pretending she wasn’t just as interested in what it said. Monty lingered, letter in hand. “We could always wait to read it after breakfast, of course. Since you’re so calm and collected about all this.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You wouldn’t last two minutes.”

“No,” he admitted. “I absolutely would not.” He cracked the seal. James’s handwriting spilled across the page—slanted, sprawling, over-eager, trailing off and picking up again mid-thought. Ink pooled where he’d paused too long.

Monty scanned the first lines, unable to stop the smile tugging at his mouth: the train ride, the sweets trolley, a rat with a ridiculous name. He’d found a compartment with two boys; One had shared his chocolate frogs with him, another picked a fight with a soon-to-be Slytherin and won. James thought they were brilliant. I just know we’re going to be friends, he wrote.

Something warm bloomed behind Monty’s ribs. Effie had come up beside him again, peering down at the page. “They all got sorted into Gryffindor together,” he murmured, the words catching in his throat like something falling into place. Of course James would be in Gryffindor. Of course he would find his people.

And then came the names—Peter Pettigrew... and Sirius Black.

The words landed with a different kind of weight. Monty blinked, and read it again. Sirius Black. He didn’t speak, just let the name wash over him like a cold draught. Effie stilled beside him. She’d seen it too.

Monty didn’t finish the letter. His eyes moved, but the warmth from before had already drained away. He knew that name, everyone did. It all came rushing back at once. Not the politics, or the headlines, but the feeling.

Charlus—his cousin, his first friend, his best friend. They’d grown up tangled together, like James and the McKinnons next door—racing brooms through the orchard, sneaking pastries, laughing until they couldn’t breathe. And then Charlus had married Dorea Black. Because Monty’s uncle had wanted the name. The ties. The power.

Monty had been lucky. He’d found Effie—brilliant, unpredictable Effie, who kissed him first, danced barefoot with him in the rain, and didn’t give a damn about his grandfather. But Charlus… Charlus had been drawn in. Slowly, then all at once, by he parties, the rhetoric, the smug little turns of phrase: toujours pur. As if that meant something noble. First it drove a wedge between their fathers, and then, inevitably, between them.

Monty hadn’t thought about it in years. It was easier that way. Cleaner. But now? Now there was a boy with that name sitting beside his son in a Gryffindor dormitory, and it didn’t feel like history anymore. It felt like a warning.

Effie, sensing his unease, spoke first. “He’s not Charlus.”

He looked at her, surprised. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. You’re clamming up.”

He gave a brittle laugh, trying to deflect. “James. He’s a Gryffindor. Just like his dad.”

But Effie didn’t let him. “I mean it, Monty. He’s just a child.”

The words snagged. What did she know about that boy? About that family? What did anyone? The anger rose, sharp and unfair. “Stop it,” he said—sharper than he meant. “Effie. Just—stop.”

The silence settled between them, followed by dread. Because they’d made a choice—not to speak of the war over breakfast, not to name names when James was nearby. They hadn’t wanted to darken his world too soon, He was just a boy after all: still wide-eyed and full of light. But they should have warned him, that much was clear now.

The parchment crinkled in his hand. “I should’ve told him,” Monty said at last. “Told James about Charlus. About these so-called Death Eaters. I thought we were protecting him, and now…”

Effie turned from the sink, her expression careful. “It’s not fair to assume the worst of a boy you’ve never met.”

Monty huffed, not quite a laugh. Because, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that exactly what families like the Blacks had done for centuries—drawing lines in the sand over bloodlines and family names? He didn’t say it, because it wasn't proper, but he couldn't help but add: “I should write him. Let him know—”

Effie cut him off with an unkind laugh. “You’ll be doing no such thing.”

He stilled. She was already wiping down the counter, as if the matter were closed, as if his spiralling didn’t deserve space. And maybe it didn’t. But still—he couldn’t shake the feeling that silence had already cost them something. Like they might be actively flirting with their son’s safety.

Effie could count on one hand the number of times she and Monty had truly argued since they were married.

Not because they didn’t disagree — they disagreed often, sometimes daily, sometimes spectacularly. He was methodical where she was instinctive. She trusted people too quickly; he didn’t trust them at all. She’d once invited a hag to tea because she’d looked cold. He’d rewritten their warding scheme that same night.

But disagreement was never what broke them.

They didn’t shout, or snipe, or name call. They talked. Or more often, they listened.

Because beneath every opinion, every disagreement, every tense, quiet morning — there had always been this unshakable certainty: that they loved each other more than anything else in the world. Not blindly, or simply, but wholeheartedly and completely.

They had argued for the first time — properly— when Monty had suggested they stop trying after the second miscarriage. Again when James had nearly killed himself at three by drinking a potion Monty had left out on the kitchen table. And once, years later, when he had said something careless about a friend of hers at a Ministry dinner, not realising the friend in question was standing just behind them.

Three.

That was it. Three real fights in over three decades.

But Effie could feel another one brewing. Because Monty — her Monty, who always chose his words carefully, who weighed things — was acting completely out of character. And not just out of character, but out of step with the very values they’d spent their marriage holding each other to: Patience, compassion, and integrity. It was  the bedrock of everything they had, and now he wanted to write their son — not out of concern, but out of fear. He wanted to interfere because of a name.

Monty was seeing ghosts again, and calling it foresight.

So while they had never fought about something as small as a letter before — or who their son chose to befriend — they were going to fight about this. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name, and it was written all over her face when Monty came to bed that night.

He didn’t look sorry.

That, more than anything, made her furious. She had thought — hoped — that leaving him to stew on it all afternoon might bring him to his senses. That by the time the sun set, by the time the fire settled low and the house grew quiet again, he might come up with something resembling clarity. Or guilt. But when he finally pushed open the door, long after the lights had dimmed, he didn’t say a word, just started undoing the buttons on his shirt like nothing had happened.

Effie sat up straighter in bed, book closed neatly in her lap. “Well?”

Monty didn’t look at her. “I haven’t written him.”

She waited.

“Yet,” he added.

Effie exhaled through her nose. “You’re not interfering, Monty.”

He finally looked at her. “You can’t possibly understand what families like theirs are like.”

Her jaw tensed.

He went on, gesturing vaguely, “You haven’t seen the inside of those events. Not like I have. The way they talk. The way they—”

“Oh, don’t talk down to me,” she snapped, throwing the covers back and standing. “As if I didn’t go to school with boys just like that. As if I didn’t sit beside them in classes where they’d hex your chair out from under you if your surname wasn’t good enough.”

Monty opened his mouth, but she didn’t stop.

“As if my family didn’t care about the stupid list too, even if they said they didn’t. They must’ve, at least a little, to have married me off.”

That touched a nerve. She saw it land before he even replied.

“Like that’s the only reason we married?” he said, voice sharp now.

“No,” she said quickly. “Of course not. Of course not, Monty. But—” her voice softened, barely — “why do you think it’s any different for the Blacks?”

He scoffed. “Really?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You think they’re the only ones with arranged marriages? Ours was practically drawn up the moment I asked you to dance that first night”

“And you think that’s the same? Out parents seeing a connection and running with it?” he shot back. “You went to school with Pollux Black, did you not?”

She blinked.

Her mouth parted slightly. Because—yes.

Yes, she had.

Effie’s arms fell loosely to her sides. Her voice dropped to a hush. “Yes. I remember him.”

How that poor boy had always looked like he was trying to balance his own wants and desires against what was expected of him. How he’d pushed boundaries with everything he had — his mouth, his magic, his clothes. Trying, always, to find the line. And then he’d become a father at thirteen to a pureblood woman almost twice his age. The story, of course, was that they were in love. That was why they’d married so quickly, or at least, that was what the society pages said. But even as children, they’d all known the truth.

She remembered the way the other girls in her year whispered with something like horror, once they understood. Because no one had the words for what had happened back then. It had all just been gossip.

But he had been a child.

And she had not been.

Effie’s stomach turned at the thought. She looked at Monty then — standing stiffly at the foot of their bed, arms crossed — all righteous, all sure of himself, and couldn't help but frown.

“And those,” he said, voice like ice, “are his grandparents.” As if it proved something. But all it did was make her feel profoundly, crushingly sad.

Effie swallowed hard. She hadn’t meant to feel so much, but the words came anyway — soft and certain. “Maybe… this is exactly why that boy needs someone like James.”

Monty turned toward her, sharp. “Our son is not a pawn in this game.”

“No,” Effie agreed. “But he’s going to live through this war whether we want him to or not.”

That did it.

Monty’s voice rose — not quite a roar, but close. “Not with the Black heir he’s not.”

Effie felt it rise up in her chest —  some horrible mixture of fury, grief, disbelief. It caught in her throat and burned in her limbs.

“You’re not writing him.”

“I can say what I want to my son.”

“Our son,” she snapped. “Our son, Monty.”

They both stood there, breathless in the quiet, just staring at one another. Neither spoke again after that. Monty crossed the room and stripped off his shirt without looking at her, climbing into bed facing the wall.

Effie didn’t move from where she stood, blinking hard at the window where the moonlight had begun to spill across the rug. She couldn't bring herself to climb in beside him for a long time. Didn’t think she could bear it. 

He hadn’t written, in the end, because he was not the type of man to go behind his wife’s back and disrespect her like that. Deep down, he also knew that Effie had probably been right... about interfering at least. It wasn’t his place to step in like that. But that didn’t make her right about everything.

Monty still believed what he believed: that the Black name wasn’t just something dusty in a ledger or on a crest. It meant something. It still did.

He’d grown up around those people, been invited to the same parties, heard the way they spoke when they thought no one was listening. He’d seen what they passed down to their children dressed up as tradition: the prejudice and malice. They were very much the sorts of people the Potters had always tried to keep their distance from.

And yet… that boy — Sirius — was in Gryffindor now. He was in James’s year, James’s dormitory, James’s world, whether Monty liked it or not. He couldn't stop it from being true. 

He hadn’t spoken to Euphemia since that night, hadn't been able to find the words. They hadn't even spoken about novel things like the weather or the news. Certainly, they hadn't spoken about Sirius, or the letter, or anything that mattered.

Still, somehow Effie had known he hadn't written the letter. His silence had been enough to stop her asking.

Even so, he supposed owed her something. Not a retraction, obviously. He still believed what he believed. But an apology for the way that he had spoken to her. He was a man of integrity, and he hadn't acted particularly honourably that night, far from it in fact.

They made up over lunch few days later.

The weather had turned damp and grey — that quiet, steady sort of rain that made the garden look like a painting left out too long in the sun. One of the kitchen windows was cracked open just slightly, letting in the scent of wet grass and cool air. Effie had made soup  for the both of them— something lightly spiced and simple. The table was quiet. Just the soft clink of cutlery, the hum of the kettle, and the feint rustle of the Daily Prophet beneath Monty's fingers breaking the silence.

Monty sipped at his tea while he mulled the words over in his head, then set the spoon down beside him with a light clink. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” he offered eventually.

Effie didn’t look up right away, perhaps mulling her own thoughts over in her head. She was slicing an an apple into quarters, turning it over in her hand.

“I still think I’m right,” he said, quieter now. “About the boy. About the name. I don’t trust it.”

She placed one wedge gently on the edge of his plate, almost like a peace offering.

“But I’m not going to write him,” Monty finished. “I promised we’d trust James. So I will. Even if I hate every second of it.”

She looked at him them, slow and steady, before reaching across the table to wrap her fingers around his — a quiet, steady touch saying more than words ever could. They made eye contact across the table, holding each others gaze for a few breaths longer than needed. Then she let go, dropping his hand as if nothing had happened at all.

Chapter Text

***December 20th 1971***

With every letter James sent them, it was becoming increasingly clear that Sirius Black wasn’t just part of James’s orbit, he was the orbit. Every owl dripped with him: Sirius said this, Sirius did that, Sirius showed him a spell that could make toads burp, Sirius got them all in trouble for something involving a self-inking quill and a group of slytherins. Isn’t he brilliant?

It was relentless, joyful, and so childishly endearing. James wrote about him the way she’d once gushed about teen sensation Celestina Warbeck, The Singing Sorceress. With wonder. With admiration. And, if Effie were being honest… the boy sounded lovely. Cheeky, wonderful and clever, a lot like James really.

Still — every time Sirius’s name came up in a letter, Monty’s went a little stiff. She could almost feel him seize up beside her. His fingers would tighten on his cutlery, or still as he turned the page of his book. He wouldn't say much, if anything at all, but Effie noticed nonetheless. Her husband wasn't a particularly hard man to read. Like their son, he wore his emotions all over his face.

Which is why, as they stood by the front door pulling on coats and gloves before heading to King’s Cross to bring James home for Christmas, she slid a hand onto his arm and said lightly, “You will play nice, won’t you?”

Monty didn’t meet her eye. He was too busy  winding a checkered blue scarf around his neck — a little too tightly. “Of course I’ll be nice.”

Effie raised an eyebrow. “He’s your son’s best friend, remember?”

Monty muttered something under his breath — low and grumbly — about how they’d only known each other a few months, hardly enough time to declare a best anything.

She snorted. Actually snorted. “Merlin, you sound just like James when he’s throwing a tantrum.”

“I do not.”

“You do. All you need is a sulk and a slammed door.”

Monty gave her a look — long-suffering and theatrical — but said nothing as he opened the front door. Effie just smiled to herself and followed him out, tucking her arm through his. Because of course he’d be nice. He didn’t have a nasty bone in his body.

They stood side by side on the platform, shoulder to shoulder in the pale winter light. Around them, children tumbled out of carriages, parents waved, and trunks scraped along cobblestones. It hadn't changed much since they were children. Which was saying something, considering how long ago that had been.

Effie rubbed Monty’s arm lightly — once — as they spotted him. Her husbands brilliant hazel eyes lit up the moment their son came into view, pushing through the crowd with boyish enthusiasm. James came bounding off the train like a Bludger let loose, all limbs and hair and breathless joy. He wore the same wild smile he always wore, and bore the same enthusiasm they’d both missed in small, quiet ways these past few months — in the echo of footsteps, in the stillness of the breakfast table, in the silence that never used to last long.

As he came crashing towards them, Monty caught him in a solid hug that lasted longer than either of them expected. Effie could see the relief in the way his eyes closed, just for a second in the the way he melted into their son. She saw James melt too — his little body softening in his father’s arms, all that restless energy fizzling out like it had finally found somewhere safe to land.

But her gaze had already shifted — over Monty’s shoulder, to the boy James had half-dragged along with him. He was more hair than child, to be perfectly honest. An absolute mane of it — thick and dark, falling just below his shoulders, framing his too-still face. He looked utterly terrified, the poor dear.

Effie smiled at him — soft, warm, and maternal. Intentional in the way she watched him, so as not to spook him. He offered a crooked half-smile back, but it didn't reach his eyes. Effie wondered what he must have thought of the whole display: of james wrapped up in his fathers arms, being swaddled like a child much younger than he actually was.

But hen her son moved to hug her, and she forgot herself for a moment. She wrapped him up tight, breathing in the smell of his shampoo and taking in the shape of him. She planted a kiss on his forehead before turning back to the boy still hovering on the step.

“Mum! Dad!” James beamed, grabbing the other boy’s sleeve and tugging him forward like a particularly reluctant second trunk. “This is Sirius.”

Monty gave a polite little nod, still catching his breath, cheeks pink. “We’ve heard all about you.”

They didn’t need the introduction, of course. He looked just like them: The Blacks. It was there in the sharpness of the cheekbones, the dark tilt of the eyes, the set of his mouth. You couldn’t miss it. The only thing out of place was the tie; which crimson and gold, and tucked into a neatly pressed jumper. It looked wrong on those features. Startling, almost. Like someone had scribbled on a portrait in red ink.

Effie stepped forward anyway, brushing her hand gently over the boy’s shoulder — not possessively, but with reassurance.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Sirius,” she said.

He nodded, light blue eyes skimming past her and Monty, scanning the platform like he was still waiting for someone else to appear.

Then, all at once, she saw the mask go up as he said, very dryly: “It’s not like I had a say, did I? I just held onto James’ trunk and hoped for the best.”

It was had to explain the shift. It was sudden, almost theatrical.  The way his posture changed. The way his expression shifted. His voice took on a louder, cheekier lilt, like he was delivering a punchline to a room full of mates. The nervousness from before — the flitting eyes, the too-still posture, the twitch of his fingers — vanished beneath the performance.

Effie laughed — a little wary — and Monty, despite himself, let out a breath of a chuckle.

The tension broke if only for a moment, and she didn’t miss the way Sirius stood straighter after that. She looked at him — truly looked — and understood immediately why James liked him. He was quick, clever, and hilariously dry. Brave enough to joke with strangers.

A voice piped up behind them.

“Oi! There you are!”

A short, tubby boy was making his way over, waving enthusiastically with one arm and dragging a too-full trunk with the other; Peter Pettigrew she suspected. Behind him followed a pair of polite-looking, rumpled people — a man in a striped scarf and a woman carrying a knitting bag the size of her son.

A second boy and his father trailed after them, hands in the pockets of an oversized jumper, sleeves pulled down past his knuckles. He wore a shy, faintly embarrased expression.

James lit up immediately.

“Right — Mum, Dad, this is Peter. He collects Chocolate Frog cards and has memorised the entire Famous Witches and Wizards index—”

“I thought it would make for a cool party trick,” Peter offered proudly, cheeks going pink.

James grinned and turned to the other boy, who must have been Remus Lupin. “And this is Remus. He wears grandpa jumpers and knows more spells than anyone else in our year.”

“James,” Remus said, embarrassed, “please stop it.”

The adults laughed — all of them. Even Monty, though he tried to hide it behind a cough.

Peter’s parents stepped forward first — all eager smiles and nervous energy. They shook hands and introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew. She had a voice like birdsong and he looked at her lovingly every time she spoke.

Effie liked them immediately. They seemed… normal. Anxious, perhaps. But sweet. Kind.

Then Remus’s father offered his hand — tall and reedy, with a worn but warm face. “Lyall Lupin. My wife Hope’s at home — Muggle, you see. Lovely woman, sharp as anything, but this whole Wizarding business still spooks her now and then. Especially running at a brick wall.”

He said it with fondness, not apology, and Effie smiled. “Completely understandable. Took me years to get used to the moving stairwells at hogwarts.”

That earned a chuckle from everyone — the kind that said we’ve all been there, even if none of them really had. If Effie were being honest, she wasn't even sure she'd met a muggle in the flesh before. Though she'd certainly like to.

But even as they chatted and exchanged stories, Effie felt a thread of something sharp and cold tug at the edge of her attention. Sirius was still looking for his parents, eyes flicking over the crowd — scanning, skimming.

Harrowingly, she could pinpoint the exact moment he found them too. His face didn’t quite fall, but the tentative smile he’d started to form — the ghost of joy from moments earlier — stilled. He cleared his throat and stepped slightly back from the group.

“Excuse me,” he said, polite as anything.

Effie followed his gaze. Walburga Black stood stiffly by a pillar, her dark robes pristine and her hair scraped back so tightly it looked painful. Next to her, Orion Black looked completely emotionless. Like he would rather be anywhere else but here. They didn't wave, or smile, or move towards him. In fact, nothing about their demeanor looked like they had been waiting the nearly four months to see their child like the rest of them had. 

Sirius approached them slowly, almost cautiously, the way one might approach a sleeping bear. He stood in front of them with his arms swinging awkwardly at his sides, like he couldn’t remember what he was meant to do with them. Walburga didn’t embrace him, only bent — just slightly — and whispered something low and sharp into his ear.

Whatever it was, it made Sirius’s entire face harden. His jaw locked, eyes dropped to the floor. The lightness he’d carried from the train — the happiness James had coaxed out of him — vanished complerely.

Then, Eddie watched on in horror as Walburga’s hand clamped around his arm, tight enough to leave a mark. Orion didn’t so much as blink.

And with a crack, they were gone.

No hug.

No warmth.

Nothing.

Just the echo of the apparition, and the quiet ripple of silence it left in its wake.

Effie couldn't tear her eyes away from the place they had once stood, until someone — maybe Lyall — said something beside her. She couldn't manage a response, the back of her throat had gone dry.

The others were still chatting — Peter showing off something in his trunk, James elbowing Remus — but Effie felt suddenly apart from it all. Like she’d just witnessed something delicate being broken. She glanced glass eyed toward Monty, but he was looking down, fixing the strap on James’ trunk, and missed the look completely.  

Peter’s mum asked her something — about how many socks she had packed for james, or whether the house elves maybe— and Effie smiled automatically, nodding. She couldn’t even remember what she said in response. But the image stayed with her — of that poor boy, standing very still, while the only people in the world meant to love him took one look and seemed disappointed he’d come home at all.

Monty had barely stepped through the door before James launched into it — something about their potions professor, or a potion gone wrong maybe? It didn’t matter.

He was home.

Monty let himself stand in the hallway for an extra moment, just watching. James was halfway through dropping his trunk, already moving into the kitchen as if he’d never left, voice bouncing off every wall like it had been waiting months to come home too.

Effie caught his eye from the doorway, smiling. She mouthed, go on then , and Monty smiled back.

He followed his son into the kitchen and sat, letting James’s words wash over him like rain after a dry spell. He didn’t catch all of it — didn’t need to. James had always talked like he was narrating a broom race mid-flight, all acceleration and no brakes.

Monty just… watched him. Let himself take it in: the extra inch or two of height, the new freckle at his jaw, the way he gestured bigger now, like he was picking up habits from someone other than himself and Effie. 

His laugh though— loud, loose, and self assured— hadn’t changed a bit.

Something tight in his chest softened as he listened to his boy talk. He reached absently for his mug, smiling into it like it might ground him.

And then—

“And get this, right? Sirius’ parents didn’t even write to him on his birthday.”

It came so easily and lightly, that Monty almost missed it. Because, his son hadn't even paused for a breath to knowledge it, just kept talking, and reached for another biscuit like he hadn’t said anything remarkable. 

Though, Monty wasn't sure James felt as casual as what was letting on. Because, his next question betrayed him: “They probably just forgot, right?”

There was something in James’s voice — hesitant almost — like he might’ve known better, but didn’t want to address it head on.

Monty nodded, watching him carefully. “Right.”

It came out before he meant it to. And to be honest, he wasn't entirely sure it was the right thing to say. He just, didn’t want to crush his boy’s spirit. Didn’t want to shine a light on the darkest part of the world before James was old enough to understand it. But still, it felt wrong to brush off so casuallyly.

James started at him for a moment at first, unsure, before he barrelled on to something else. Quidditch, naturally— how he wanted to make the team next year, how talented Matthew McKinnon was, how cool it was to see a game firsthand. Monty nodded along with him, smiled where he should, made a few quiet noises of agreement. But the warmth had started to leak out of the room. Because it had been Sirius’s twelfth birthday, hadn’t it?

Twelve .

The number settled in Monty’s chest before he could push it away. And it made him sick.

Charlus had been twelve once, too — all elbows and noise, stealing second helpings and dragging Monty into trouble before either of them knew what the word legacy meant.

For a moment — almost too brief to hold — he saw it. The child Charlus had been before it all.  Before the parties. Before the speeches. Before the name swallowed him whole.

Monty exhaled slowly and took a sip of tea, like he could rinse the foul taste from his mouth before it settled. But, it lingered.

It wasn’t the same. Sirius wasn’t Charlus.

He wasn’t.

He had to remind himself that his son, James, was just a child to. That he didn’t yet understand what names like that carried. What they cost. What they meant. And Monty didn’t want him to. 

He had to remind himself that his loyalty was to his son first and foremost. So, if he felt a little wary — if something in him stiffened every time that boy’s name showed up in a letter, wrapped in exclamation points and admiration — well, he was allowed. He was a father. Not a fool.

He didn’t look at Effie, who was sat at the opposite end of the table pretending to read a book. Though, he didn’t have to, he knew she'd d heard it too. She wasn’t saying anything, but he could feel her watching over the pages of her novel.

James was laughing again, reaching for more toast, already halfway into a new story. Off on a new tangent. Both of them watched him carefully, looking for any new cracks in his armour. But he seemed unfased by it all. 

Monty, despite himself, reached across the table and rested a hand briefly over James’s.

“It’s good to have you home,” he said.

James blinked, surprised at the sudden burst of of affection— but smiled. “Yeah. It’s good to be back.”

Effie stood at the end of their bed, folding the last of the laundry with practiced hands. The house was finally still around her. The kettle had been emptied, the last cup washed and left to dry by the sink, and James’s voice had finally gone quiet in the room beside theirs — the kind of quiet that meant he’d talked himself straight into sleep.

She could have done it all with magic, of course, but she liked caring for them this way, it made her feel useful. 

Monty was brushing his teeth in their ensuite bedroom. She could hear the water running, the cabinet door creak open, then sound of his toothbrush clinking against the porcelain sink, just the way it had been before James left for Hogwarts. Both of her boys were finally under the same roof again.  It should’ve been enough to fill her with joy. And for the most part — it was.

Only —

Effie smoothed a wrinkle from the edge of her dressing gown and told herself to exhale.

Monty came into the room still towelling off his hands, hair slightly damp from his shower, eyes soft in the low light. He looked tired, but in that good, satisfied sort of way — the way he always did after chasing James around for an afternoon. He climbed into bed first, nestling into the pillows.  She followed a moment later, the mattress dipping beneath her weight as she reached to turn off the lamp.

But she hesitated, just for a moment. As if willing her husband to break the silence first, say what they were both obviously already thinking.

They lay in that sort of half-quite for a while, the kind that only years of marriage could earn. Monty laced their fingers together without a word. Effie curled toward him slightly, her nose brushing his shoulder.

“It’s good to have him back,” Monty murmured.

Effie smiled into the cotton of his shirt. “Isn’t it?”

“Even if he hasn’t stopped talking since the platform.”

She let out a quiet laugh. “I’m not sure he even stopped for breath.”

Monty chuckled — that deep, rumbling sound she’d missed without realising how much.

“He’s taller,” she said softly. “Filled out a bit more, too. He’s starting to look like—well. Less like a baby.”

Monty gave a quiet hum of agreement.

They let the silence stretch for a beat longer, staring up at the ceiling, watching nothing in particular.

She tried — really tried — not to think about the boy who had followed James off the train. Who had stood a few paces behind him like he wasn’t quite sure whether he was allowed to arrive, too. She tried not to think about the sharpness of his shoulders. The stillness of his face. The way he’d hesitated before stepping forward, scanning the platform like he was searching for softness he already knew he wasn't going to find.

She tried not to think about what James had said about his birthday, how he had dropped it into conversation like it was nothing. 

It had taken her breath away. Not because it was shocking — but because it wasn’t. Because she’d already known. It was in his posture, in the way he’d lit up under James’s chatter like he was used to being spoken over, in the way he'd flinched at whatever his mother had said to him on the platform.  Her chest ached with it now, lying here in the lamplight.  She hadn’t expected to spend her first night with her son back under their roof thinking about someone else’s, but she couldn’t stop herself.

Monty hadn’t said anything either, so she knew he'd felt it too, the weight of it.

He was thinking about it now, too. She could could tell. He was rubbing his thumb slowly and repetitively across his knuckles, and fiddling with his wedding ring, like he needed something to ground him there.

She couldn't bring herself to look at him, or say much of anything at all. Because if she did, she might ask something. Or worse — he might answer. And she wasn't sure that she could stomach hearing it tonight. She didn't need, or want, to be told that the boy might be in trouble, or that they should be worried about James.  And she Especially didn't want to be told that there was nothing they could do about any of it.

Instead, she made a mental note to ask James when his birthday was, so she could send a card, so it wouldn’t pass by unmarked again. 

Effie blinked up at the ceiling again, her throat tight. Beside her, Monty gave her hand a final squeeze and shifted in closer, hair tickling her cheek as he moved to kiss her goodnight.

She leaned over and turned off the beside lamp, and let darkness fall over the room, along with the silence. Because what was there to say, really?

***December 23rd 1971***

Fleamont Potter stood just outside the front gate, mug in hand, the morning sun settling gently across his face. The light caught the silver in his hair, but he didn’t mind. He’d long since mourned his youth. 

James was flying circles around the lane, Marlene McKinnon hot on his heels and her younger brother Millard lagging behind, tongue poked out in concentration. They were using the hedge line as a boundary, shrieking each time one of them clipped too close. It was all whooping, and dodging, and mock outrage — broomsticks weaving wildly as if joy had taken the reins.

Monty leaned against the fencepost, half-amused, half-bewildered by the sound of it all. How quickly James had folded those kids into his orbit — shouting instructions like he’d been elected their general. Laughing like they were his siblings. 

Monty loved that about him. The ease. The charisma.

Across the lane, he spotted a familiar shape near the McKinnon hedge. Edward — their father — was waving at him. Monty raised a hand in return, then jerked his head toward the fence.

“Come on over. Unless your lot’s driven you mad already.”

Edward chuckled and made his way over, brushing soil from his trousers. “Don’t joke. Matthew’s got the other two running drills in the backyard like it’s pre-season.”

Monty grinned. “Quidditch practice or Quidditch cult?”

“At this point, unclear.”

They stood like that for a minute — two fathers at the edge of their territory, smiling over fences like it was still a simpler world.

“They’re exhausting,” Edward said after a beat.

Monty exhaled through his nose. “You can say that again.”

“Five under one roof,” Edward said with a low whistle. “You’d think we were running a boarding house. I’ve lost count of the number of cereal boxes we’ve gone through.”

Monty huffed a laugh. “There’s something comforting about a house full of mismatched socks and empty teacups, though, isn’t there?”

Edward grinned. “Spoken like someone who only has one.”

They shared a companionable pause, watching their kids loop around again, mid-air argument over who had clipped the hydrangeas first.

And then—

“Did you hear,” Edward said, casually, “the Black heir was sorted into Gryffindor?”

Monty groaned, turning his mug in his hands. “Don’t remind me.”

“Marlene seems fond of him.”

Monty hummed. “James too.”

Edward raised his brows. “Merlin help us.”

Monty chuckled. But it was thin. Surface-level. It caught in his throat as soon as it left.

Because he had been trying — actively trying — not to think about him since he’d seen the boy on the platform.

All scrawny limbs and too-long hair, smaller than Monty had pictured. Sharper, too, in the way he moved — like someone always braced for bad weather. And then James had to go and say what he did about the birthday, didn’t he? 

They stood in the quiet for a moment, not watching each other.

Then Monty asked — because he’d always meant to, but never quite had. “How’d you feel… when Macbeth was sorted into Slytherin?” because he thought the answer might give him some insight on how he was supposed to feel about this boy James had spent the better half of four months sharing a dorm with.

It came out softer than intended. Almost like an apology.

Edward didn’t flinch. Just exhaled, slow. “Didn’t mind,” he said first. Then, more honest: “Or I didn’t want to, anyway.”

Monty nodded, gaze steady on the children.

“He’s a good boy, my son” Edward went on. “Smart. Quiet. Always been… a bit inward. Especially after we lost their mum. The house doesn’t matter. How could it? It’s just a silly school division, isn’t it?”

Monty gave a small sound in his throat. Then, after a beat:

“That’s not what the Blacks think.”

Edward went still for a moment. Then nodded. “No. Of course they don’t.”

“Margaret went to school with one of the sisters,” he added, voice low. “Druella’s, maybe? The one with the sharp mouth — the middle one. Merlin, the stories she came home with…”

Monty didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know.

“Horrible, isn’t it?” he said.

Edward just sighed. “Yeah. It is.”

They fell quiet again. The kind of quiet that says we’ve both seen something we’d rather not name.

Across the street, James and Marlene raced past the fence, their laughter ringing clear through the air.

Edward watched them go, thoughtful.

“Macbeth’s fine, you know,” he said eventually. “Keeps mostly to himself. Writes home every week like clockwork. He’s happy. Or says he is.”

“I’m glad,” Monty said — and meant it.

“It’s not the house,” Edward said again, more to himself this time. “It’s who they’re in it with.”

Monty nodded, slow.

He didn’t say anything else.

Because he was worried if he said anything at all, he might never stop. And he honestly wasn’t sure whether to be comforted by Edwards words, or concerned by them.

Perhaps a bit of both.

***January 2nd 1972***

Effie had barely stepped two feet onto the platform before James broke into a full sprint.

“James Fleamont Potter—!”

She lunged after him instinctively, only to be caught short by her own coat and the weight of the trunk she’d insisted on helping with. Monty, behind her, was laughing under his breath as he adjusted his grip on the owl cage.

“We’re not even halfway to the train and he’s already escaped.”

Effie gave him a look that had very little bite left in it. “I can still remember when he needed me to hold his hand in crowds.”

Monty arched an eyebrow. “You mean last term?”

“Oh don’t, you’ll make me cry.”

They made their way through the swirl of students and trolleys, weaving past parents calling out reminders, a Prefect barking something about first years forming a line, and a scattering of cats protesting from carriers. The usual September madness.

Effie exhaled slowly. She loved this chaos. But it had a way of making her feel ancient.

There were mothers here who looked barely old enough to have eleven-year-olds. Effie had lines around her eyes, and knees that didn’t quite forgive stairs the way they used to. Sometimes she struggled to keep up with James, the way he moved so fast and tumbled over everything with boundless enthusiasm. She loved him so much it ached.

She caught sight of him again just as he skidded to a halt next to two boys — one tall and pale with tired eyes, the other shorter, rounder, bouncing on his heels. Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew. James lit up the moment he reached them, like slipping back into a familiar rhythm.

Effie smiled to herself.

They looked happy. 

“Euphemia,” someone said brightly.

She turned to find Peter’s mother standing beside her with a small, gentle smile. She wore a bright pink coat and floral scarf. 

“Look at them,” Effie said, nodding toward the boys. “Like they’ve never been apart.”

Mrs. Pettigrew laughed. “Mine’s been talking about nothing else for a week.”

“Mine, too.”

They stood there, in friendly conversation, watching their sons climb all over one another. But even as they chatted, Effie could feel the current shift.

The boys were lingering. Their eyes drifted to the far end of the platform.

Waiting.

Effie felt it too.

The absence of the fourth boy.

She didn’t even realise she’d fallen quiet until James came back, kissed her on the cheek, and muttered, “I’ll see you at Easter, Mum.”

She blinked at him, touched by how shy he looked. But she wasn’t fooled. Not even for a moment.

He was trying to get rid of her. 

Peter’s parents were peeling away now. Most others, too. But Effie remained still.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said softly. “Not until that train leaves.”

She kissed the top of his head, and he whinged, predictably, “Muuu-um,” Effie laughed, pushed him lightly back toward his friends—

—and then she saw him.

Sirius Black: all  sharp-jawed, dark-haired, and something regal and resentful in the way he held himself.

He was flanked by his mother who wore deep emerald robes, and a younger boy, a mirror image of the him, only smaller. The resemblance was unnerving.

Effie’s eyes narrowed.

Walburga Black didn’t look at either of her sons with affection. Her hand rested on the younger boy’s shoulder, but it was more positioning than care.

Effie felt her stomach twist.

Sirius looked uncomfortable. Fractured. Like someone trying to walk straight through a windstorm.

And before she realised what she was doing, she was stepping forward.

“Effie,” Monty said, low beside her. A warning.

But she was already moving.

“Excuse me,” she called gently. “Walburga? Euphemia Potter.”

She offered her hand with a practiced smile. It wasn’t quite warm, but it was polite. She held her chin high. Walburga, of course, already knew who she was.

“Mrs. Potter,” she said coolly, nodding once. “Of course.”

Effie kept her smile fixed. “I just wanted to come and introduce myself.”

Walburga offered something vague and dismissive. A hum. A flick of the eyes. She made no move to introduce herself or her children in return.

Monty came up behind her then, sliding his hand around her waist with the kind of pressure Effie recognised to mean Don’t push it.

Effie turned toward the older boy.

“Are you excited to be going back to school, love?”

Sirius blinked at her like she’d asked him in a language no one had spoken in his house.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said finally. Polite. Careful. 

She’d never known a child to be so well-mannered. James barely remembered to say please and thank you unless prompted — and usually not even then.

Effie smiled wider. “What a polite little boy you’ve raised.”

Walburga followed her gaze — past Sirius, to where James was now attempting to levitate someone’s cat for a laugh.

“Is that one yours?”

Effie startled into a laugh before she could stop herself. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

It made her blush for some reason. She wasn’t sure why. Walburga Black wasn’t the kind of woman who she usually set out to impress. 

And she wasn’t trying to impress her. Not really. But something about the woman’s silence — her poise, her precision — got under the skin. Effie straightened before she realised she’d done it.

Then she looked down at the other little Black boy standing beside her. All wide eyed and distant. She couldn’t tell if he was awestruck by the station… or something else entirely.

“And what’s your name?” she asked, gentler now.

“Regulus,” he said.

“That’s a lovely name.”

He stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Effie just smiled.

“Perhaps we ought to get together sometime,” she offered, looking back to walnuts. “Since the boys are so close.”

Walburga tilted her head slightly. “Perhaps.”

Monty shifted beside her again. She could feel his discomfort now — a rising pressure in the silence.

Effie looked down at Sirius once more. He was standing too still.

On instinct, she reached out and touched his shoulder — the lightest brush. She felt him jolt slightly beneath her hand.

“I think James and the others are waiting for you,” she said, voice warm.

He didn’t answer. But his eyes — those beautiful blue eyes — flicked to the side, sharp and skittish, like he thought it might be a trick.

And then, just for a moment, the mask slipped. A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth when he saw the others waiting for him.

He was gone before she could say another word. She’d never seen a child move so fast.

Didn’t even say goodbye.

Not to his mother, brother, or either of them. 

The quiet returned, awkward and brittle. Monty cleared his throat.

Effie could tell it was taking every ounce of Walburga’s self-control not to lose it right then and there — not to snap, not to spit some sharp, punishing remark after her son’s back. As if what Sirius had done was unforgivable. As if he hadn’t just been a twelve-year-old boy, excited to see his friends.

Her mouth was set in a grimace — all tight lips and clenched teeth — and her grip on the younger boy’s shoulder had tightened enough to make him squirm. Regulus didn’t say a word. Just shifted under her hand, blinking hard, gaze fixed on a scuff mark on the floor.

“Always a pleasure, Walburga,” Effie eventually spat out. Unsure how else to break the tension.

It took just as much self-control not to say what she was really thinking. Not to call it what it was.

Not to tell that woman to let go of her child before she left bruises.

“Likewise.”

They turned away together.

Effie didn’t say anything. Neither did Monty, not yet.

James came running back for one last hug before disappearing up the train steps, beaming.

They stood together as the train pulled out.

And finally, Monty said it, dry as anything:

“I really dislike that family.”

Effie hummed, gaze still fixed on the smoke trail.

“You and I both.”

Chapter Text

***March 6th 1972***

Monty should have known something wicked was brewing the moment he stepped back into the house after drinks at The Crooked Thistle with Edward McKinnon. The lamps were low, the kitchen smelled of cinnamon and lemon zest, and—

Gooseberry.

He paused eyes sweeping the room.

And there it was.  Still warm. Sitting on the counter like a quiet bribe.

Effie’s gooseberry tart.

His feet stilled in the doorway, hesitant at first.  But he wasn’t thinking straight, his head was still all happy and groggy — the way it always got after a few rounds and a few louder-than-usual stories. He toed off his boots, scarf trailing from his neck as he wandered toward the kitchen like someone under the imperious curse. Like his feet didn’t belong to him. 

Two arms wrapped around his middle from behind.

He didn’t startle. Just smiled, slow and crooked, and leaned back into her.

She smelt delightful, wearing the perfume he’d bought her for their 20th wedding anniversary — warm, familiar, and utterly disarming.

“You,” he murmured, turning in her arms. His eyes crinkled behind his glasses. “Smell like trouble.”

“Good trouble,” Effie said, nuzzling into the side of his neck.

He kissed her then — properly. Like they were twenty again: young, dumb, and disgustingly love-drunk. She slid her hands into his hair, fingers catching on the silver at his temples, whispering something stupidly sweet against his mouth, breath hitching in the space between them.

He let out a stilted, needy sound — something between a breath and a moan.

“Good trouble indeed,” he teased, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Had a good evening, did you? No wild parties? No banshee summoning?”

“Oh, just the one banshee,” Effie said breezily, leading him by the hand toward the kitchen table. “She and I had a lovely little chat about taxation reform while I baked the pie.”

Monty laughed, settling into his chair. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your edge.”

Effie brushed a kiss against his hair, then moved to the counter. “Tea?”

“Please. Something to cut through the six pints.”

She clattered around the kitchen, humming under her breath. He watched her — all soft robes and quick hands — and was just about to ask about the tart when—

It hit him, all at once.

She never made gooseberry tart out of the blue. Only on birthdays. Anniversaries. Or—

His eyes narrowed.

“You’re buttering me up.”

Effie turned, wide-eyed. “I am not.”

“You are.” He gestured grandly at the tart. “You lured me here under false pretenses.”

She laughed, too quick. “I did no such thing.”

“You just happened to make my favourite tart? On a random Wednesday? With fresh cream?” He raised a brow.

She crossed her arms. “Is it a crime to treat my husband?”

“It is,” he said, mock serious, “if it comes with an agenda.”

Another laugh.

“Effie Potter,” he said, standing slowly, pointing his finger like a wand, “you… sly, wicked woman… you're up to something.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were flushed pink. Like he might be right. 

He grinned. “Just tell me how much I need to write the cheque for.”

She laughed — light and dismissive — and reached for a knife.

“Oh please,” she said, sawing neatly into the tart with practiced hands. “Like I’ve ever asked before spending our money.”

“So you are asking for something then?,” Monty muttered, watching as she plated a slice with entirely too much care. “This is weaponised dessert.”

She ignored him, of course, and placed the dish in front of him with a flourish.

The smell hit first — buttery, tart, and just a little sharp at the edges. The top was golden, Dusted with sugar, and still warm enough that the filling hadn’t quite set, bubbling softly beneath the crust. She served it with a dollop of cream, which was already melting into the plate.

Bloody hell.

He hadn’t even picked up a fork yet, and he was already prepared to say yes to just about anything.

New furniture? Yes.

Hosting the entire McKinnon clan for supper? Fine.

Renaming the family owl? Done.

Effie sat across from him, nibbling a piece off the side of her own slice, talking complete nonsense about her afternoon. About a new book she’d been reading, how she’d taken the opportunity to tidy the spare bedroom. 

Monty barely heard her. He was too busy smiling at the way her nose scrunched when she laughed at her own joke. He’d long given up trying to track the thread of her stories. This was the dance. Let her chatter, let her dazzle, and wait for the drop.

He didn’t have to wait long.

She said it so casually, between sips of tea.

“Your son wrote.”

Monty’s eyebrow rose. He took another bite of tart. “My son, is it?”

Effie slid the letter across the table. 

“What’s he done now?”

Monty didn’t reach for it. Not yet. He was already shaking his head, the way fathers do when they know mischief has taken root and there’s no sense in pretending otherwise.

Because James had been getting into all sorts of trouble lately. 

Not the dire kind — just enough that Monty had become intimately familiar with the headmaster's handwriting. Mostly it was harmless: sneaking out past curfew, showing off during flying lessons, speaking out of turn in class. That sort of thing.

But sometimes, if the mess was big enough, the school had politely asked them to contribute to the repair fund.

Monty sighed, still smiling, and finally reached for the envelope.

He read aloud, mostly for Effie’s benefit.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I’m alive! Thought I should say that first.

Potions was a bit of a mess.

Professor Slughorn says it was my fault, but his handwriting is awful. I thought it said “nettle leaf,” not “needle-lace.” No idea what that even is.

Anyway, the boils are almost gone.

Sirius says I still look like a half-plucked gooseberry, but I told him he wouldn’t know, since he can’t see much of anything with all that hair in his eyes.

School’s good. Lots of reading, but I’m keeping up. Remus helps.

Peter finally did a proper charm in class and we threw him a party 

OH! Speaking of parties. Everyone’s birthday is in March.

Peter’s was the other day, Remus’s is soon, mine’s after that.

We’re calling it birthday month!

So… everyone’s going home for Easter to celebrate their birthdays with their family.  Except Sirius. 

He’ll be all alone. Which is rubbish.

Can he stay with us? Just for the week? He’s tidy and doesn’t snore as loud as Peter.

Please say yes.

Call it an early birthday present. Or late. 

Write back soon! And please send biscuits. 

Love,

James

Monty was quiet for a moment, folding the letter over in his hands.

He looked up over the parchment and the rim of his glasses. And Effie was smiling. Not smugly, or sweetly. Just soft and certain. The way she always did when She was hoping to win favour.

Monty exhaled through his nose. “I knew you were up to no good.”

She said nothing. Just reached for the kettle like she had no idea what he was talking about.

He sighed loudly, then pinched the bridge of his nose and placed his glasses carefully on the table beside the tart.

Monty leaned back in his chair, the letter still resting open in front of him. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then let his hand fall to the table, fingers drumming lightly on the wood.

The Black boy.

Here.

For Easter.

He tried to picture it — The Black heir, all hair and bravado, sitting at their breakfast table, feet probably on the furniture, saying something outrageous with that infuriating charm James admired so much.

Why wasn’t he going home?

And really, what did it matter if he stayed behind at school? It wasn’t uncommon — there were always a few left rattling around the castle over the break. The castle had staff. Supervision. Heating. Meals.

It wasn’t cruel.

And, what would people say? Their neighbours, the older ones especially — the ones who still kept tabs on that sort of thing and always asked Effie if she was “from that Irish line or the other one.” what would they think?

And the boys parents, Orion and —

Well.

He already knew what they’d think.

Effie’s voice cut through gently, pulling him back.

“It’d be nice,” she said, tone light, “for James to have someone to knock about with. He doesn’t have any siblings to keep him company.”

Monty let out a dry laugh, because they both knew that wasn’t the case. “Effie, there are five McKinnons living directly across the road. If he’s ever truly alone, it’s because he’s run out of energy.”

She smiled without looking up, still nibbling at her tart.

“Maybe he’ll be lonely at night,” she added then, like an afterthought. “He’s used to sharing a dorm with three other boys.”

“He can sleep at the McKinnons place then,” Monty said, grinning. “I’m sure they’ll have a bunk free.”

“Monty,” she said, mock-scandalised.

He laughed again — low and hoarse now, suddenly aware of how heavy his limbs felt. Six pints. That’s what this was. Six pints, and Effie stuffing him with tart, trying to take advantage of him in his weakened state.

Still…

He wasn’t saying no.

He should have. It was a horrible idea, really. Inviting one of them into their home. Giving that boy a room, a plate, a seat at their table. 

And yet—

Effie was already up again, returning to the tart with a satisfied hum. Her knife slid through the crust like she’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“Really laying it on thick, aren’t you?” he muttered.

She didn’t turn around. “Just want to make sure you’re properly fed before I completely upend your worldview.”

Monty shook his head, smiling despite himself, and put his glasses back on. 

“Fine,” he said at last, lifting his plate toward her in surrender. “Fine. But you do know what you’re getting us into, don’t you?”

Effie shrugged lightly, lifting the slice and setting it in front of him.

“I know.”

He looked down at it — golden and scrumptious and utterly damning.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

But he accepted the tart.

***April 11th 1971***

Effie ushered both boys through the door with one hand on each of their shoulders, boots thudding on the floorboards, cloaks damp from the misty spring air.

James was vibrating  with excitement, already halfway through a sentence that didn’t seem to be slowing down. He’d barely taken a breath since Platform 9¾, and seemed determined to show Sirius every corner of the house before his father had even shut the door behind them.

Sirius, for his part, was quieter — but not quiet. His jokes still came quick, sharp and perfectly timed. He had that look about him, though. The one he’d worn back the first time they’d met— all tight shoulders and darting eyes, like he was waiting for the shoe to drop. 

Monty was behind them, carrying both trunks like a martyr. She caught the stiffness in his jaw, the way he raked his hands through his hair. He was still uncomfortable. She could tell - noticed it in way that he held himself, all polite civility and too bright smiles. 

Still.

He hadn’t said a word of protest.

Just picked up the boys’ things and followed them inside like a good host, even if he flinched every time James said Sirius’s name. 

She smiled at him as he passed, small and knowing.

He didn’t roll his eyes exactly — but it was close. 

James, meanwhile, had launched into a full house tour like a tiny real estate agent.

“And this,” he was saying proudly, “is the sitting room, which isn’t very exciting but—”

James was already halfway into the kitchen with Sirius in tow, narrating as he went. His voice echoed down the hall, eager and unrelenting.

“Kitchen’s this way — and that’s the pantry where Mum hides the biscuits. I’ll show you later.”

Effie lingered in the doorway, smiling, shoulder to shoulder with Monty now. The front door still half-open behind them. A cool breeze filtered in. 

She looked up at him and smiled.

He looked back — a breath of laughter in his eyes, maybe a sigh trying not to escape.

They didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

She knew he was thinking it too: that this was a bit mad. That this wasn’t how they pictured their son’s first year at Hogwarts. Not an Easter break with an extra boy in tow. And certainly not the Black heir.

But, still, she smiled. Because from down the hall, James’s laugh rang out — bright and full and utterly delighted. And the sound that wrapped itself around her heart like a ribbon. She could hear the grin in it. The sheer, unfiltered joy of having his best friend here, in his world, like it was the most natural thing.

How could she ever be disappointed by that?

And then—.

A crash. A clatter. Something toppled. A second’s pause.

“Shit!” James yelled, voice muffled.

Effie didn’t miss a beat.

“Language, James!” she called from the doorway.

Beside her, Monty exhaled — bone dry.

“This,” he said, “is on you.”

Effie snorted, elbowing him lightly. “You ate the tart.”

“I was drunk.”

“Oh, hardly.”

He just shook his head, already moving toward the kitchen, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “bloody birthday month.”

The boys spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden, chasing Marlene and Matthew McKinnon around on brooms. Effie watched eagerly from the kitchen window, one hand curled around her tea, a smile tugging at her mouth. Monty, on the other hand, had made himself scarce.

He’d retreated to the potions room — a little basement nook just off the kitchen, where the ceiling sloped too low and the stone walls stayed cool no matter the season. It smelled like old parchment and dried dried rosemary, and was crammed full of books. It was homely. 

He didn’t need to be down there.

Not really.

His days of toiling for new breakthroughs were well behind him. The formula for Sleekeazy’s had more than earned its keep. Even if James thought the stuff smelled like ‘cat piss’. Merlin knew it had more than paid for James’s schoolbooks, all of Effie’s expensive dress robes, and a new roof last winter when the charmwork finally failed.

They were more than comfortable. He hadn’t needed to brew for money in years. But he liked the room. The quiet. The weight of glass and purpose in his hands.

And if he was being honest with himself — painfully, privately honest — he hated that an twelve-year-old boy made him feel so bloody out of his depth.

So he’d hidden.

Not for long. Just long enough to catch his breath.

By dinner, he’d composed himself — or at least convinced himself he had. He rolled the pasta out by wand, sliced the basil by hand, and charmed the garlic into chopping itself before the smell could get under his fingernails.

The kitchen was warm and filled with steam by the time the boys came crashing through the door.

James was filthy.

There was dirt on his nose, twigs in his hair, and what might have been a grass stain on the inside of his elbow. He looked feral. Delighted.

“Merlin’s sake, James—” Monty muttered, levitating bowls toward the table. “Go wash your hands.”

James vanished in the direction of the sink with a shout of “Already on it!” that was clearly a lie.

Sirius lingered in the doorway.

Spotless.

Head to toe.

Not a single smudge on his jumper. Hair wild, but not chaotic. He looked put together enough to stand for a portrait. 

He hovered awkwardly at the threshold, one hand still on the doorframe, as if unsure whether he was meant to follow James or stand at attention.

And then—he stayed.

Monty felt it immediately — the shift.

Because they were alone now.

Sirius looked at him — not directly. More like sideways, like he’d been trained not to meet eyes too quickly.

Monty didn’t know what to say. He was still floating the last of the dishes onto the table, watching the boy from the corner of his eye, trying not to project anything.

But he couldn’t help it.

He cleared his throat and asked, too casually, “Why didn’t you go home for the break?”

It hung there, like a lead balloon 

Sirius blinked.

Monty felt the question settle, heavier than intended. He didn’t know why he’d asked it out loud. He hadn’t meant to. Not really. It had just… come out.

Was he testing him?

The thought made his stomach turn.

He hated that. Hated the idea that some part of him, even still, was treating this twelve-year-old boy like a riddle to be solved. A name to be unpicked. A risk to be assessed.

But the words were already out there.It’s not like he could take them back. 

And Sirius had heard them.

He was watching him now — still, silent, guarded — like someone who’d been preparing for that question from the moment he walked through the door, and knew it came with teeth.

“They didn’t want me there,” Sirius said.

Too easily.

Too practiced.

Like it was just another fact — like saying it was Tuesday, or that he didn’t like parsnips.

Monty stilled.

He hadn’t expected that. Not really.

Sirius was looking at him now — properly. Eyes level. No flinching, no shrinking. And that unnerved him more than if the boy had looked away.

Because he didn’t seem sad. Or even angry.

He just… wasn’t surprised.

Like he’d said it a hundred times before. Like it wasn’t worth flinching over anymore.

“Oh,” Monty said — and immediately regretted it.

Because what else could he say?

What had you expected, you idiot? That the boy would laugh it off? Say it was a misunderstanding? That he’d chosen to stay behind for the peace and quiet?

What a stupid, lazy question to have asked.

Of course they hadn’t wanted him. Effie had seen it. Monty had seen it too, If he were being honest with himself, in the way that woman gripped her younger son’s shoulder like a vice and didn’t so much as glance at the one walking away.

There was a beat of silence.

Monty cleared his throat, tried to find the shape of a better thought, but nothing came. So he said the only thing that felt remotely honest.

“Sorry.”

Just that.

Quiet. Unadorned. Nothing else.

Sirius shrugged — a too-adult shrug, the kind that didn’t fit on a child’s shoulders. “It’s fine.”

But his voice caught on the second word. 

Barely.

A thread of tension that frayed at the edges, even as he looked away and tried to pretend it hadn’t.

And Monty—

Merlin.

What was wrong with him?

He was a grown man — a father — and he’d cornered a twelve-year-old into saying something no child should ever have to say.

He should’ve known better.

He did know better.

And still, he’d asked.

Like a test.

Like a trap.

He felt it then, all at once — the deep, creeping shame of it. The way it curled in his gut and made his voice stick in his throat.

He opened his mouth again—

And stopped.

Because he didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know if he could.

James came thundering back down the stairs, shirt damp where he had used it like a washcloth and socks mismatched, looking every bit like someone who had technically washed his hands but had done so with the enthusiasm of a boy trying not to miss dinner.

“Oi! Did you start without me?”

Before either Of them could answer, James threw his arm around Sirius’ shoulder with practiced ease and moved onto something else entirely. 

They collapsed into their usual rhythm — elbows knocking, voices overlapping, grins sharp-edged and familiar.

And Monty—

Monty looked at them.

Properly.

Side by side now, lit by the low kitchen light and framed by the soft clatter of floating plates. Their silhouettes were almost the same. Both wiry and growing too fast, long limbs and knobbly knees. Both with thick, unruly dark hair that refused to be tamed by either brush or charm. Both with a fire in their expressions — eyes too bright, smiles a little too quick. They didn’t move the same, not exactly. Sirius had a certain stillness in him, a precision, like someone always waiting for something to go wrong.

But Merlin did they look alike.

It was like watching James stand beside a version of himself that had grown up under different stars.

That same grin. That same glint. But a shadow behind it. Something hard-earned, or inherited, or both.

He hadn’t expected that.

Hadn’t expected how much it would feel like James had brought home a second version of himself — a mirror image, if slightly blurred around the edges.

It did something to him.

He didn’t have a name for it.

Not yet at least.

But it softened him. Just slightly.

Chapter Text

***June 23rd 1972***

Monty was halfway through rolling his sleeves when he heard Effie calling out from the kitchen.

“You’re just as bad as your son. Hurry up or we’re going to be late.”

He smiled to himself as he buttoned his cuffs. Caught it in the mirror—goofy, lopsided, the same grin he’d been flashing at her since they were nineteen. Even when she was raving on. Especially then.

Not that they were nineteen anymore. Far from it. The years they’d spent together were written into his face: the silver threading through his hair at the temples, the smile lines at the corners of his mouth, the creases of laughter beside his dark eyes, hidden behind spectacles, that were the spitting image of his son’s—who, at that very moment, was also being yelled at by his wife.

“James, shoes on please! And for heaven’s sake, don’t wipe your hands on—oh, never mind.”

A beat of laughter drifted up the stairs.

“Monty!”

“Coming,” he called back, still smiling as he turned away from the mirror, looping his tie into a lazy knot.

By the time they stepped out into the warm evening air, Monty couldn’t help but glance sideways at her. Because he could see all those happy years behind her too—in the light callouses on her hands, resting on their son’s shoulder; in the way her face carried the memory of a hundred mock-frustrated frowns aimed at the two of them; and in the small, subtle change to the way she wore her hair tonight—which he, of course, noticed instantly, because he’d been lucky enough to wake to the same face every morning for decades and was attuned to noticing things like that.

“You look stunning,” he said quietly. “I like what you’ve done with your hair.”

A quick, bashful smile flickered over her face before the moment was gone—her hand snaring James’s sleeve with practiced ease, tugging him back from the road. “Honestly, James, you’ll get yourself flattened.”

“It’s a wizarding neighbourhood!” James protested, grinning. “I’ve never seen a car on this street.”

“Knowing your luck,” Effie shot back, “you’ll get barrelled over by the first one you do.”

James laughed and bolted ahead, making for the McKinnon’s front door. Edward opened it for him, dressed in a crisp button-up with his hair slicked back neatly for the party, stepping aside to let the boy through. Effie greeted him warmly—planting an easy kiss on his cheek before passing over a still-warm gooseberry tart. Monty eyed it longingly, the smell of his wife’s pastry enough to make him go weak at the knees.

Edward offered Monty a firm handshake and a slap on the back. “Come in, come in—before my lot eats without us.”

Behind him, a tide of children were running feral across the hall, the thud of bare feet and the squeal of voices bouncing off every wall. James was swept into the chaos instantly, folding into the noise like he was just another one of the siblings.

The entire clan was there, including Edward’s eldest, Margaret, who’d moved out a few months earlier with her Auror boyfriend. They’d met at the academy. Monty smiled at her in passing—pleased to see she still came home for the important events.

Somehow, they’d even managed to wrangle Marlene into a dress, which James was already mocking mercilessly. Monty shook his head, fighting the twitch of a smile. Typical.

He caught his wife’s eye across the room, already halfway to the kitchen and deep in conversation with one of the brothers. She looked as if she belonged here—but of course she did. She’d been part of these children’s world from the first, especially after their mother’s death. Those first horrible few months had been a steady parade of casseroles, patched jumpers, and Effie coaxing reluctant laughter out of even the most grief-stricken McKinnon. Nobody had ever had to ask her. Effie’s heart simply worked that way.

“Cider?” Edward’s voice came at his elbow, pulling him from the thought. He was holding out a glass with a stick of cinnamon resting against the rim.

Monty accepted it with a nod. “Trying to soften me up before the meal?”

At some point, Edward’s second wife, Madeline—no, Maddison… all these damn M names—slipped in beside them, her bracelets chiming as she raised her glass and tapped it playfully against Monty’s. “To making it through Jamie’s first year.”

“And you Marlene’s,” Monty replied, tipping his glass toward her in return.

“We’re taking the brood up to the Lakes next month. Bit of fishing, camping. You and the family should come. It’ll be fun.”

Monty smiled without thinking. “The boys—” The word was out before he could stop it. “James would love that.”

It hit him a beat later—how easily he’d slipped into plural. Usually that was Effie’s habit, folding someone else’s child into their family without blinking. Not his.

Edward’s brow quirked. “Oh, not you too.”

Monty rolled the cider in his glass, watching the amber shift. “She’s rubbing off on me.”

The three of them laughed, glasses catching the light, but Monty’s thoughts had already gone sideways—back to James’s letter before term’s end, the offhand mention that Sirius wouldn’t be coming for the break. His son had assumed—naively—that maybe it meant the Blacks were softening. But in his gut—in Effie’s too—they’d known otherwise.

And how silly it was, really, that they’d just assumed he would be coming home with them again. It had never been promised. Or even mentioned. They’d only had him for a few weeks over Easter—nothing serious, nothing binding. Of course his family would want him back under their thumb eventually. To tighten the reins. To try and whip him back into shape. He just thought they’d have a bit more time. The thought of it made Monty’s stomach turn, a faint, bitter taste lingering at the back of his throat that he tried to rinse down with cider.

Edward broke the thought with a wry smile. “Effie’s got a knack for collecting strays. Bet she’s mothering the hell out of that Black boy too.”

Monty huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “Something like that.”

Eventually, Edward shuffled them all towards the dining room, which was bursting at the seams—two mismatched tables shoved together, leaves extended, every chair in the house dragged in, none of them matching. The noise in the room was almost deafening, but comfortable—Millard, Edward’s youngest, flushed with the drama of it all, was yelling over the others about the unfairness of being stuck at the very end.

Monty let the sound fill the emptiness still lingering at the edges of his thoughts, the hollow space Sirius’s absence had left whether he wanted to admit it or not.

He caught sight of James and Marlene bent together in some private joke, and couldn’t help but notice there was space there—just enough for one more.

Sirius should have been in it. He could picture him without effort: the silly, boyish smirk, the restless energy, the brightness that came out around James.

The thought landed heavy, quiet, and uncomfortable.

Monty pushed it aside, thanked Edward for the dinner, and slipped an arm around Effie’s waist. She smiled at him kindly, almost enough to fill the void.

Behind them, the McKinnon windows glowed gold against the summer night.

He wondered, absentmindedly, what they were having for dinner in the Black household that night.

***July 9th 1972***

Effie had written to Walburga over the summer, of course. More than once. Asking about Sirius.

A few polite lines after school had broken up, again in early June, once a few weeks back. Always asking the same sort of things: whether Sirius might like to come along to a Quidditch match, or spend a weekend with them, or join them in Diagon Alley for school shopping. Each time, she’d made sure to say all the right things—how wonderful he was, how clever, how polite, how much James liked him. All the things a mother might want to hear about her child.

And every time, she’d been turned down.

So when the fourth rejection came, she’d known it was coming. But knowing didn’t make it hurt less.

Especially this time.

Because this time, Walburga hadn’t even bothered with an excuse, or a full sentence for that matter. Just a single word scratched onto the parchment, in curly, deliberate script: no .

Two letters. Nothing else.

No.

Effie sat at the kitchen table, smoothing it flat with her palm, the pale summer light spilling over the parchment, and felt her blood start to boil. Her face flushed red.

She didn’t hear Monty until he was right behind her, leaning down just enough to read over her shoulder. His sigh ruffled the hair near her temple, warm and weary.

“Eff,” he said gently.

She shook her head, already winding herself up. “I can’t stand that wretched woman.”

“Effie—”

“No, listen to me. I hate her.”

She pressed her thumb harder into the paper, like she might dent Walburga instead. Because, she could feel it— the worry, the dread— like a certainty in her bones. She knew what neglect looked like. Even when it was dressed up in silk and perfect posture and passed off as something else. It might not have been the unwashed clothes and unkempt hair others were prone to picturing. But it was neglect nonetheless. Absence —an absence you could feel in the way that poor boy flinched from kindness. First the absence of his own parents' affection. And now, the absence of James’s.

“She’s using our son as a pawn in whatever game she’s playing with her twelve-year-old,” Effie went on. “And I—” Her voice caught, low and sharp. “It doesn’t make sense. Not to me.”

The letters from Sirius had slowed a few weeks back. He’d had stopped writing as frequently. And James—Merlin, James had been furious about it at first, then frantic, and then just quietly upset in that way that made him prickly..

The letter was warm under her palm from how tightly she’d pressed it.

Monty’s hand came to rest on her hair, smoothing gently, thumb catching on the pins she’d haphazardly put in that morning. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not.”

“I know,” he murmured. Then, after a beat, “Summer is pureblood party season. She’s probably parading him around like prize stock. Showing him off at every gala, every luncheon. It’s what they do—line up the next generation like a stable of purebred horses. Looking for potential matches. They’ll grow tired of him soon enough.”

Effie’s head jerked up. “Grow tired of him?”

He winced. “You know what I mean.”

She did. And she hated that she did. “I know. Sorry.”

Monty straightened, reaching for the kettle. “We get all those silly invites in the post every summer. You know what it’s like.”

Effie did. She glanced toward the sideboard where a neat pile of unopened envelopes still sat—overly lavish things printed on expensive parchment in every shade imaginable. Left to yellow on the windowsill.

Usually, she hated that their name was on that silly list. It was the only reason they got these ridiculous invitations in the first place. But her gaze snagged on the top one—the Travers fundraiser. Next weekend. She’d tossed it aside with the rest, forgotten about it entirely.

Until now.

“Monty,” she said slowly. “Will the Blacks be there?”

He paused mid-pour, then gave a reluctant nod. “Yes.”

“Hmm.” Effie’s mind was already moving. “Maybe we should get dressed up.”

“Effie…” A warning in his voice now.

“What? Who says we’re interfering? I just thought we could do with a bit of adult time. A reason to put on something nice.”

Monty gave her a look over the rim of his mug. “You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

She smiled to herself, not answering.

Because yes. She had.

***July 8th 1972***

Monty had been fussing with his tie for nearly ten minutes, a slow, rising anxiety about the evening somehow attaching itself to the way it sat—like it said something about him, or about them as a family. But the moment Effie stepped into the bedroom, dressed in a low cut, floor-length black silk gown, he forgot all about that silliness entirely.

“Merlin’s beard,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re going to cause a scene.”

Effie rolled her eyes, smoothing the skirt of her dress. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re scrumptious,” he countered. “New earrings?”

She touched them lightly, a beautiful pair of pearl studs, a small smile playing at her lips. “Maybe.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And how much did maybe set me back?”

“Not nearly as much as you’d think.” She kissed his cheek before he could push the matter.

When they crossed the lane to drop James with Edward McKinnon, their son made a show of groaning about the injustice of being left behind. Effie promised to bring him something from the dessert table. And James brightened instantly, already halfway inside to join the chaos of the McKinnon house.

The Travers gala was everything Monty disliked about pure-blood society in one glittering, tastelessly excessive room. Chandeliers dripping with crystals, tables laden with more food than the Hogwarts feasts, half of it purely decorative. The sheer wastefulness made him uncomfortable; he’d stepped away from this world years ago, and walking back into it felt like slipping into clothes that no longer fit.

Thankfully, by some small mercy, they were swept into polite conversation with the Goldsteins—a perfectly tolerable couple by the room’s standards. Though, Effie did not look particularly engaged. She kept glancing toward the main doors, her fingers tapping lightly against the stem of her wineglass.

Monty nudged her with his elbow. “At least pretend to be listening.”

She laughed and sipped her wine. Forcing a smile. The silk of her black gloves caught the light, her green peridot engagement ring sparkling against the dark fabric. Her birthstone, just as jawdropping as the day he’d put it on her hand.

Then the room shifted. A small stir of recognition rippled through the crowd as the Blacks entered—Orion tall and severe, Walburga beside him like a portrait brought to life. She wore her hair in a harsh updo, and impossibly dark lipstick. Effie’s spine went straight the moment she saw them, her beautiful brown eyes narrowing slightly.

“Horrible about Andromeda, isn’t it?” Mr. Goldstein said casually, still watching the door.

Monty stilled. “What about her?”

“You haven’t heard?” Mrs. Goldstein leaned in, clearly relishing the telling. “They’ve disowned Cygnus’ middle daughter. Ran off with a Muggle-born, of all things. Burnt her off the family tapestry.”

Monty blinked. “Burnt. Off a tapestry.” The phrase tasted like ash in his mouth, bringing to mind an image he’d rather not envision: gold-stitched branches curling around a young girl’s face, the threads scorched away until only a charred hole remained where she’d been. Barbaric—not just in the act itself, but in the theatre of it, making the destruction permanent. A warning to anyone else in that house who might dare step out of line.

Mrs. Goldstein nodded primly, as if it were an unpleasant but inevitable bit of house-keeping.

Effie made a sharp, disapproving sound in the back of her throat while the story unfolded—or whatever version the Blacks had decided to allow to spread. Monty’s jaw tightened. Some part of him, foolishly, had hoped they might be beyond this sort of thing.

He was still looking for the right words when Effie excused herself.

Monty sighed. “Pardon us,” he told the Goldsteins, already moving after her. Across the room, he spotted her heading directly for Orion and Walburga. Of course she was.

He knew this would happen, but knowing didn’t always necessarily help where his wife was involved. Effie was a Gryffindor through and through—a wildcard. He could never be sure what she was going to say or do until it was already happening.

To his surprise, she played the game. She greeted them politely, exchanging the usual pleasantries, her expression perfectly cordial.

And then, casually, she asked after Sirius.

“At home,” Walburga said, “with his brother and the house elf.”

“How lovely,” Effie said brightly, tilting her head just so. “We’d love to have him for a weekend. James is just beside himself missing him, since he hasn’t written much.”

Easy there, Effie, Monty thought. We don’t want to scare them off.

Not that it wasn’t true.

For the briefest moment, Walburga’s polished mask slipped—just a flicker—before she recovered. “Sirius can be… particular about who he writes to,” she said, her tone almost sweet, though the edge beneath it was sharp enough to cut.

Monty felt it land, the meaning just vague enough to deny if challenged, but heavy with implication all the same. They absolutely knew what that was supposed to mean. And it sat wrong with him—deeply, stubbornly wrong.

Walburga’s powered through, her smile razor thin. “Either way. I don’t think that will be possible.”

Monty recognised the glint in Effie’s eye. She wasn’t finished.

Which, he was quietly thankful for—because if he opened his mouth even once, he wasn’t sure he’d like what came out.

“And Christmas?” she asked, smooth as silk.

“He’ll be at school,” Orion replied flatly. Trying desperately to cut the conversation short, like being seen in their presence for too long might sully their family name even further. 

“We’d be delighted to have him stay,” Effie said, before the pause could settle.

Monty braced for the refusal, but somehow—through some deft twist of Effie’s tone, some perfectly chosen smile—they didn’t refuse. He suspected it was simply the quickest escape route for them.

By the time they moved away, Effie’s cheeks were faintly flushed and her grip on his arm had tightened.

He gave her a sidelong look. “You’ve got him for Christmas, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” she said, smiling to herself.

And Monty knew—just as he’d known from the moment she’d spotted the Travers invitation—that maybe meant yes.

***August 1st 1972***

Every year, the Potters threw a neighbourhood-wide garden party for Euphemia’s birthday. The date was fixed on every calendar in the village, as certain as the summer solstice. They would throw the back gates open and let half the street wander through, carrying plates and chatter and the sort of gossip that would last them until winter. What had begun as a modest tea with neighbours had swelled over the decades into a sprawling, happy sort of chaos.

She loved it. The bustle gave her something to point her heart at—especially this year, with James inviting his new school friends and their families. It was starting to feel like a proper extended family affair.

By midmorning the house was already humming with anticipation. Monty was in the garden, levitating trestle tables into place and trimming back the hedges. Effie was doing her best not to point out that she’d asked him to do it nearly a week ago. She bit her tongue.

Inside, she was in the thick of it—apron over her robes, birthday cake cooling on the sill, a platoon of jam tarts marching themselves neatly onto a platter, cream whisking itself in the corner. “James! Come help your father with the chairs, would you!” she called toward the back garden.

No answer.

Typical. She glanced through the open door at her husband, who was currently wrestling with a pair of garden shears that clearly had a mind of their own. “Where’s our son?”

Monty didn’t look up from his wandwork. “Vanished after I told him to fetch the tablecloths. Probably avoiding the heavy lifting.” His eyes flicked instinctively toward their son’s window. Father’s intuition.

Effie set down the icing bag, dusted flour from her hands, and wiped them against her apron for good measure. “I’ll find him. If the McKinnons arrive before I’m back, keep Millard away from the cakes.”

Monty gave a half-laugh, half-sigh in response.

She took the stairs two at a time, her gaze catching on the family portraits that lined the wall as she went: James at three on a toy broom; James, gap-toothed and sticky with jam; Monty grinning beside his best man on their wedding day. She couldn’t help but smile as she passed.

James’s door was ajar. She pushed it open with two fingers, bracing herself for his usual theatrics—for him to be sprawled across the bed with a sour look, moaning about the injustice of being asked to help set up for the very party he’d been looking forward to all year.

Instead: he was sat cross-legged on the floor, face buried in his hands. His head came up at the sound, and the look on his face—oh, love—embarrassment tangled with something heavier. The temperature in the room seemed to drop all at once.

“James?” she said, gentler than she’d meant to.

“I’m fine,” he blurted, eyes dropping to the floor as if it might betray him if he held her gaze too long.

She crossed the room and sank to the rug beside him, her knees cracking on the way down. Her hands found him without hesitation. “Darling, what’s wrong?” she murmured, brushing his fringe back.

A few soft words were all it took. He folded instantly, collapsing into her lap with a shudder. Two quiet, embarrassed little sobs escaped him—the kind boys give when they aren’t sure yet whether they’re allowed to cry. She kept quiet, stroking his hair, slow and steady.

“What’s happened, love?”

He faltered, and her chest tightened—rage sparking at the thought of anyone making her boy cry like this. She swallowed it back along with the lump rising in her throat.

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“Sirius hasn’t written. Not for weeks. And now Peter and Remus are coming for the party—” he hiccupped, “—it’s going to be brilliant, but… I thought he’d be here too. Or at least write.” His fingers curled into her apron strings. “Maybe he’s busy. Or maybe… he doesn’t care.”

Her hand faltered for a breath before she forced it to keep moving. Because there it was—the thing she’d been dreading since the first moment she’d heard that boy’s name on her son’s lips.

Heartbreak.

She would have swallowed glass rather than speak the next words aloud to her child—the child whose world she had spent twelve years shielding from cruelties like this.

“Oh, Jamie.” She heard the crack in her own voice and hated it. “It’s possible he hasn’t written because he isn’t allowed to.”

His head lifted, confused. Too young and naïve to understand. “Not allowed?”

She wished she could shield him from it. But she couldn’t. So the words came anyway, heavy in her chest.

“Not everyone’s mum will sit on the floor with them, or play with their hair, or rub their back when they’re sad,” she said—and every soft word felt like setting a stone in his pockets. “Not everyone grows up in a house where you can say how you feel without it costing you. Some mothers… don’t think it’s their job to make things softer.”

Walburga’s face flashed across her mind; Effie had to force her jaw to unclench.

“Some make it harder. On purpose.”

“That’s stupid,” James said, dumbfounded.

“Yes,” she said, and it scraped. “It is. But it’s true. And if Sirius is in that kind of house… writing to you might be something he has to fight for.”

Say it gently. Don’t make it worse. Don’t let that woman inside your boy’s lovely head.

Effie bent and pressed a kiss to his hair—taking in the smell of his shampoo—and shut her eyes.

“But… why wouldn’t she let him?” he asked, slow and hesitant, as if trying to make sense of something senseless. “He’s not doing anything wrong.”

“I know.” The ache speared clean through her. She had wished—selfishly—that he might’ve made it through childhood without having to learn all the ways adults fail you on purpose. “I wish I knew the answer. But even mums and dads don’t know everything.”

He went quiet. His breath slowed, steadied.

She could feel the old, useless fury at Walburga rising like heat.

“What if it’s not that?” he said at last, small and sharp. “What if he’s just… not bothered?”

Her temper surged—the Gryffindor in her ready to bite. “Then he’s a fool,” she said, fiercer than she meant, “and it’s his loss. Not yours.” She smoothed her thumb at his temple until her voice matched her hand. “But I don’t think that’s what’s happening.”

He shrugged against her, as if bargaining with hurt. Effie could have wept.

“I just really wanted him to come,” he whispered. “It’s stupid. I thought maybe he might…”

“Oh, darling.” She cupped the back of his head. “I know.”

A faint shuffle at the doorway interrupted them. Monty—hands in his pockets, shoulders soft, the stubborn line of his mouth curved down in that helpless way he wore when James’s feelings were larger than he knew how to handle.

“All set up downstairs,” he said, soft but teasing. “Party’s about to start—and if you don’t come down soon, I’ll eat the cake myself. Get fat as a goose.”

James gave a watery huff. Bless him. “Fine. But only because you don’t need to get any chubbier.”

Effie let out a laugh of her own. She rose with him, smoothing her skirt. Monty wrapped an arm around each of them, planting a kiss on James’s forehead. He didn’t try to fix it—thank God, he was hopeless with words—but just held them close.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang, and the first of the guests began to arrive.

Chapter Text

*** December 23rd 1972 ***

Maybe did indeed mean yes.

So when Christmas break rolled around, Effie found herself standing on the platform with two boys tumbling toward her instead of her usual one. It made her heart sing — the sight of James grinning so wide it split his face, Sirius dragged along in his wake, trying not to look too pleased about it. James promptly shoved his trunk into his father’s hands, while Sirius wrestled with his own until Effie, tutting, took it from him herself.

But it stung too, if she was honest. Because only a few carriages down, Walburga Black was also waiting. But only for the younger one.

Effie couldn’t shake it — the jolt of anger that caught her like a stone in the chest. Because she still didn’t understand it. Maybe she never would.

How could one mother find joy in claiming two children, while the other did everything in her power to avoid it? What kind of woman would choose to collect one son and leave the other behind, like he was an inconvenience?

She tried not to dwell on it. Tried to shake the thought loose as she stood over the stove the next morning, wand in hand, eggs bubbling away in the pan. But it sat under her skin, hot and splintering. Not the sharp, righteous anger she felt when someone slighted her family at a dinner party, nor the quick spark of temper when Monty left muddy boots in the hall, but something deeper, thicker. Like grief disguised as fury. A helpless, hollow rage that someone could look at a child — their own child — and decide he wasn’t worth the trouble.

The pan hissed, popping hot oil at her, and filling the kitchen with the smell of eggs and tomatoes. Effie flicked her wand to turn the toast, shaking her head.

Behind her, James and Sirius sat at the table, shoulders brushing. James was chatting his ear off, words tumbling out in the same breathless way they always did when he was excited — all Quidditch scores and half-finished stories, his hands waving around in the air. Sirius, for his part, said very little, but played along. He swung his feet awkwardly against the chair, his beautiful black hair falling in front of his eyes.

Outside, it was beginning to snow. But in the kitchen it was warm — warm with noise, and because of the fire they’d charmed to keep burning overnight.

She smiled at the pair of them before glancing around for her husband. who was nowhere to be seen.

“James,” she said, flicking her wand to levitate another plate onto the table, “go and fetch your father for me, will you? And tell him he’d better not be messing about with those potions again before breakfast. I told him last night we were going to eat as a family.”

James groaned but slid off his chair, already calling toward the door to the cellar, “Dad! Mum says you’re in trouble!”

Effie rolled her eyes, amused despite herself.

She noticed Sirius stiffen the moment James pattered away, and tried not to read too much into it. Instead, she set about the small business of breakfast, placing cutlery neatly on the table.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you here for Christmas, dear,” she said softly, sliding a fork across the wood toward him with a smile.

He only dipped his head, and kept his eyes fixed on the plate. 

His silence threw her.

“With James,” she pushed gently, “you’re always such a ruckus I can hardly hear myself think. But now look at you — quiet as a church mouse.”

That coaxed the faintest twitch of a smile out of him, but he still didn’t make eye contact. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry,” he murmured, so politely it almost broke her heart.

“None of that ‘ma’am’ business. Effie will do.”

He nodded but didn’t answer, shifting on the chair like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands.

She let it go for a moment, busying herself with the frying pan. But now that she was alone with him, there was something that had been nagging at her ever since she’d learned of it at the Travers function. The whispers about Andromeda — her marriage, her name scorched from the tapestry. Effie wondered what Sirius had heard.

She wondered what he thought of it all.

Effie turned back, voice light but deliberate. “So, what happened with Andromeda over the summer, dear? I heard she’s not at home anymore.”

He nudged the fork in front of him with his index finger. For a long time he only stared at the same spot on the wall, then gave a shrug.

She waited.

“She got what she deserved,” he muttered at last, beneath his breath, almost too quiet to register. 

But it landed hard, nearly knocked the air out of her. “Oh?”

“Running off with a Mud—” He cut himself off, eyes flicking up, then down again, his cheeks flushing red. The word hung there anyway, souring the air. It came out too easily, too polished — like something he’d said before. 

Her stomach turned. She could hear the echo of other voices in it — older, crueler ones. His parents.

Sirius’s leg bounced under the table. Another quick glance upward, testing her. Or at least, so far as she could tell.

Effie pulled out the chair beside him and sat. The cushion was pink and lacy, stitched with a silly little cow pattern. “Sirius,” she said, steady, “we don’t speak about people that way in this house.”

Colour rose higher up his cheeks, which were surprisingly sharp for a child’s. “Well, it’s true. She’s ruined everything. Shamed the family. Everyone says so.” His voice pitched higher, bravado clinging like armour.

“Do you really think that?”

He picked up the fork, twisting it in his hand now. “Doesn’t matter what I think.”

“It matters to me.” She said softly, afraid to spook him.

He shifted, “That’d be a first—” before cutting himself off, mouth snapping shut.

It made her horribly sad — that a child could speak as though no one had ever cared what he thought. As though his words, his feelings, had never mattered to anyone at all. But still, it was no excuse to spread hate. No excuse to talk that way about anyone. Especially not his own cousin.

Effie reached out, laying her hand flat on the table. Not touching him — not quite. She saw how quickly he pulled his own hand back the moment she got close.

“For as long as you’re here,” she said gently, “I expect you to follow our rules. Do you understand? And here, we don’t speak like that. Not about Andromeda. Not about anyone.”

She didn’t want to be cruel, not to him — Merlin, he’d probably had enough of that for a lifetime already. But she also couldn’t let it slide. Not in her kitchen. Not when James hung off his every word.

He scoffed, trying for indifference, but landing somewhere closer to wounded pride. His light blue eyes met hers. “Doesn’t make it untrue. You can’t change the way things are.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I can decide what’s allowed at my breakfast table.”

The words hung heavy between them. Sirius’s face flushed deeper. He slumped back in his chair, fork clattering against the plate as he dropped it. “Fine,” he muttered eventually, indignant. “Whatever you say.”

On any other day, in any other argument, it might have made her laugh — this childish fit he was throwing. But today, Effie just nodded, quiet and steady. “James and Monty will be back soon. Set their cutlery for me, would you?”

She stood and smoothed her skirt, turned back to the stove, and gave him room to mull it over. She could hear his feet swinging under the chair again, faster and more urgent this time. She tried to pretend she wasn’t still replaying it over in her head. That it didn’t bother her.

But it did.

The silence stretched.

At last, a small voice broke it: “Am I in trouble?”

She looked over her shoulder, softening. “Of course not.”

He blinked, wide-eyed, like he didn’t quite believe her. Then he ducked his head again, shoulders hunched.

And Effie’s heart broke at the question itself — at the way he looked so startled, so wary, as if punishment was the only kind of consequence he knew. She turned back to the dishes, hands busy, but her thoughts snagged on him all the same. 

On the one hand, she saw a boy desperate to be heard, to belong to someone — shell-shocked at the very idea he might not be punished. On the other, she saw a boy already shaped by those same sharp voices that punished him, and she feared what those voices might yet make of him.

She stared out the window for a moment, the clatter of plates filling the silence, until James came tumbling back in with his father in tow, both breathless from the climb. They smelt faintly of potion smoke, and Effie knew Monty hadn’t listened to her plea last night to leave all that faffing about until after they’d eaten.

Monty leaned over the table, eyeing the spread. “Smells delicious, Eff.”

She smiled at him, small and warm, and pushed the ache aside for the time being.

Many hours later, after the boys had gone up to bed, Effie was still turning it over in her mind. The words, the look on Sirius’s face, the hollow ache it left behind. She’d washed the dishes by hand, folded the tea towels, even polished the counter twice, but still, the thought lingered.

At last she sighed — sharp, weary — and admitted she wasn’t any closer to solving it than she had been that morning. So she did as she always did when the questions grew too heavy to shoulder alone: she sought out her husband.

She chose a nice bottle of red wine to soften the blow. The good stuff, the kind they usually reserved for anniversaries and guests. The kind that Monty claimed to be able to tell apart from the cheap stuff they usually drank in the afternoons. Personally, she couldn’t tell the difference.

She found him in the sitting room by the fireplace, already in his pajama bottoms, the fire throwing long shadows across his face. He was reading something French and pretentious. And the sight of him there, so steady and immersed, made her smile despite her sour mood.

She set two glasses on the table between them, uncorked the wine, and poured — heavier than usual.

“Effie,” he said, a little smile tugging at his lips, “what’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” she replied, but her voice was distracted. She slid him a glass and settled beside him, tucking her legs under her — reaching for a knit blanket to throw over her lap. For a long moment she only watched the fire crackle, the flame catching on the rim of her glass.

Then she said it. “Sirius said something today. At breakfast.”

Monty’s brow furrowed. He set the book aside, but didn’t reach for the wine yet. “Go on.”

She hesitated, fingers tracing the stem of her glass. Part of her wanted to keep it to herself, not give her husband another reason to distrust the poor boy, not when she’d seen how carefully Sirius had tried to behave in their house. But hiding it felt wrong too, like a betrayal of the trust between them.

So she drew a slow breath, steadying herself. “He parroted what they’ve told him about Andromeda. That she deserved what happened to her. For marrying a Muggle-born.”

She had meant to stop there. Perhaps she should have. Monty’s brow had already faltered, his gaze fixed a little too intently on the wine glass. But she pressed on. “Only, he didn’t use the word Muggle-born.”

Monty’s jaw tightened. He leaned back into the chair, staring into the hearth. “Bloody hell.”

Effie hummed into her wine. “I told him we don’t speak like that in this house. That was all. He got defensive, of course, but…” She trailed off, frowning. “I could hear them in his voice, Monty. His parents.”

Monty finally took a large gulp of his drink. He deliberately swished around in his mouth, buying time. Then, low: “Do you think he talks like that around James?”

She hesitated. The truth pressed heavy in her throat. “I don’t know.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. The fire popped, and a coal shifted with a soft collapse.

Monty’s voice came rougher than usual, almost reluctant. “They’re so impressionable at that age, aren’t they? A few words, said often enough, and it sticks.”

Effie reached across and laid her hand over his, but neither of them said more. They just sat, watching the flames dance, the silence full but uneasy.

And all she could think was that she hoped they were enough. That James was enough. That they weren’t already too late. That Monty had it in him to look past it. That she did too.

*** December 25th 1972 ***

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t shake him a little. If it didn’t worry him. If it didn’t waver his resolve that they were doing the right thing by having the boy here. But still—he couldn’t ignore how happy this child made his son. The way James’s entire face lit the moment Sirius walked into the room, like he’d been waiting for that exact laugh, that exact voice, his entire life.

That adoration made James miss things though. Things Monty and Effie didn’t.

The way Sirius always shrugged off his jacket before roughhousing, laying it carefully to the side as if it were something fragile. The way he held himself straighter, prouder, than any boy his age ought to. The little slips of knowledge he had about potions, or curses, or hexes—precise, advanced things Monty knew full well weren’t being taught to twelve-year-olds.

None of it was bad, exactly. Just… different. Bred into him in the same way the slur had been.

So when Christmas morning came, Monty didn’t quite know what to expect. He had no idea what holidays looked like in the house Sirius had come from.

But he knew what they looked like here.

James came thundering down the stairs with enough enthusiasm to shake the floorboards, already shouting about presents before he’d even greeted them. It made Monty chuckle despite himself. Effie chided him gently, steering him toward the tree with a warning not to tear into anything until they’d all gathered.

Monty’s gaze, though, lingered behind him. On the small boy still hovering at the foot of the stairs. Pajamas neat and pressed—black silk, of all things. A far cry from James’s ridiculous green flannelette set covered in dinosaurs.

Effie smiled at him—soft, deliberate. “There are a few things under the tree with your name on them too, love. Don’t let James open them all for you.”

He shifted, uncomfortable. The words seemed to land wrong. 

That’s when Monty noticed what he was holding. Something wrapped clumsily in brown paper, edges taped down unevenly. And his heart lurched.

Because he hadn’t—

Had he?

Sheepishly, Sirius made his way toward the Christmas tree. It stood proud in the corner, decked out in a hodgepodge of decoration—James’s lopsided macaroni wreath from when he was eight, a set of delicate china baubles handed down from Effie’s parents, little trinkets collected from their travels before James had been born.

Beneath it, Sirius crouched and, very quietly, set down three small gifts.

And Monty—

Well.

Merlin.

He didn’t know what came over him. He could have cried.

Instead, he swallowed it back, the lump tight in his throat, and glanced at his wife. Because it was one thing for them, as adults, to buy a present for the boy staying under their roof. For the boy whose parents hadn’t sent him so much as a card. But for that twelve-year-old to spend what little he had on them?

That was something else entirely.

Effie, bless her, was already gushing. “Oh, Sirius, that’s far too kind. You’ll put us all to shame. Honestly, James hasn’t even got his own parents anything.”

James gasped, affronted. “That’s not true! I was going to make breakfast for you both —”

“Burnt toast doesn’t count,” Effie said lightly, smiling as she reached to straighten one of the baubles.

“It does too!” James shot back.

Monty let them bicker, grateful for the noise. Because if he tried to speak just then, he wasn’t sure his voice would hold steady.

When he finally looked up, Sirius was watching him. Tucked away in the corner, shoulders drawn in, as if he meant to make himself small against the glow of the tree.

Their eyes met. Monty managed a smile — soft, a little unsteady.

And Sirius… just nodded back.

Not much. Barely anything at all.

But enough to make the tears prick at his eyes again.

Later that evening, while Sirius was in the shower, Monty found himself lingering by his son’s door. He knocked lightly, just once, before easing it open.

James was sprawled across the bed, all his new treasures scattered in untidy piles around him—some new toys, a few clever little bits and bobs for his broom, some fresh clothes and socks for school.

He was overtired; Monty could see it in the way his body slouched against the wall, in the quick, stubborn blinks he tried to hide as though he could hold sleep off by sheer will. But he still lit up when Monty knocked — just happy to see him.

It melted his heart, really.

When Monty stepped inside, James shoved a few things aside, making space on the bed without a word.

It made him feel a little guilty. Because, he wasn’t just here to kiss him goodnight this times 

He didn’t like having these sorts of conversations with his son. Truly, he didn’t. But lately, it felt as though they were having more and more of them.

He couldn’t decide how much of it was Sirius being around, and how much of it was everything else pressing in from the world beyond their gates. Every day brought another headline—some fringe pure-blood group stirring, another whisper of threats against Muggle-borns. And then there was Dumbledore of it all. James’s headmaster.

The old man had been knocking for months now, quietly asking for Monty’s help. Potions—discreet ones, difficult ones—for some group he was gathering outside the Ministry’s reach. Monty always refused. But each time, he found it harder to shake the feeling that his refusals would only hold for so long. 

Not that Monty had any intention of being swept into politics like that. Not when it might put Effie and James at risk.

He sat on the edge of his son’s bed, making easy talk at first. James was only half-listening, still setting off is new things, voice already groggy with sleep. 

It wasn’t until the quiet had stretched that Monty finally said what was on his mind.

“James,” he said, carefully. “I just wondered… does Sirius ever talk about home to you?”

The change was instant. His son’s face fell, all the grogginess gone in a blink. His eyes snapped open. 

And Monty felt the mistake hit him at once. The weight of it.

Of all the nights—Christmas—he hadn’t needed to press this.

He sat back slightly, embarrassed with himself, wishing he’d let it wait. At least until tomorrow.

James’s eyes flicked up, wary. “Why?”

Monty cleared his throat. “No reason.”

But the way James kept staring at him—steady, suspicious—made it clear the answer hadn’t landed.

So Monty tried again. Softer this time. “It’s only that… Sirius’s cousin, Andromeda, I’ve been hearing some things about her lately. She’s been… causing waves, you could say. I wondered if he’d said anything about it.”

James shook his head. “No.”

Monty nodded slowly. Let the silence stretch a beat before asking, careful, “Does he ever say anything about Muggle-borns, or—”

James cut him off sharp. “He’s not like that.”

Monty blinked. “I didn’t mean—”

But James interrupted again, this time with real heat. “I know what you meant. Some of the older kids asked me the same thing. Marlene’s brother. They think just because of his family, that he must be the same as them. But he isn’t.”

Monty let the words settle. His son’s voice was firm, certain. Not the babble of a child anymore. Still his little boy—always his boy—but more attuned than he’d realised. Sharper. Watching the world in ways Monty hadn’t taught him to.

He treaded carefully then. “Alright,” he said, voice gentler. “I’m sorry. It’s just—your mum and I worry, you know. With you so far away. In another country, where we can’t protect you from the bad things.”

James’s eyes narrowed. “Sirius isn’t one of the bad things.”

Monty breathed out slowly, the words striking harder than he’d expected.

He reached across and stroked James’s hair, letting his hand linger.

“Okay,” he said simply.

And he meant it.

He could feel his son watching him, not wanting to let it go, and Monty couldn’t help but think he’d crossed a line. It was obvious—blatantly so—that James had already chosen his side in all of this. Sirius’s side.

Even if Monty hadn’t.

He sighed, quiet and resigned, and pulled James closer. Let his fingers drift across his son’s forehead, brushing through his hair, soft and absent, the way he had when he was small.

And if James had picked a side, well… Monty knew what that meant: Sirius Black would have a seat at their table for a very long time.

Maybe—just maybe—it was time to pay Albus a visit. 

Chapter Text

*** January 13th 1973 ***

The house was quiet again. 

It always was in those first weeks after the boys went back to school. Effie filled the silence with chores, little rituals—charmed laundry, biscuits for the neighbours, packing down the spare room. The house felt too big, too empty — the echoes of their little voices gone, the garden strangely still without the thud of broomsticks or laughter spilling in through the windows. Truth be told, they didn’t need this much space anymore. Perhaps, once James had moved out for good, they might even downsize. A smaller house. Fewer rooms to tidy. Less air between the two of them.

She pulled the blankets free, smoothing them into a neat fold, but paused when her hand brushed against something beneath the pillow. A quill — battered, chewed halfway down the feather. Sirius’s, almost certainly. A nervous habit. She smiled faintly, shaking her head as she set it on the side table with the rest of the mess he’d left behind.

Monty appeared in the doorway, shoulder braced against the frame. “Find a relic?”

She held up the quill. “Our new lodger has terrible habits.”

He snorted. “Please. You think he actually slept in here?”

She chuckled, tugging the sheet loose. “Not a chance. James’s room must’ve looked like a tent at the Quidditch World Cup with the two of them crammed in there.”

Monty’s mouth twitched in amusement, but he didn’t bite back with another quip. He stayed leaning there, watching her fuss with the sheets, his silence stretching out — not heavy, not sharp, just… thoughtful.

She stilled. “What?”

He huffed, quiet, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Eff… I’ve been thinking.”

She straightened, and looked at him long and hard, sheet still bunched in her arms. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed, huffing out a laugh. He moved to help her with the pillowslips, before slipping in. “Maybe it’s time I started brewing again.”

She tilted her head, suspicious. “You’ve never really stopped.”

But the truth was, he hadn’t brewed anything properly in months. Years, really. Not since Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion. That recipe had changed their lives for the better — freed them from the constant grind, given Monty the chance to step back, to spend more time with Effie and James instead of vanishing for weeks into his cellar.

And to think, none of it ever would have happened if James had been born with a tame set of hair like her side of the family.

“I mean properly,” he clarified. “Not just the little things for us. Not tinkering. Something useful.” He exhaled, steadying himself. “Potions that matter.”

Effie fussed with the sheets. “You mean… for Albus.”

Monty didn’t answer straight away. His jaw worked, the old habit of a man who weighed every word. The morning light caught his glasses, briefly hiding his eyes. Finally, he nodded.

“He’s asked more than once. I’ve always said no. But…” His gaze dropped to the bed, tracing the frayed seam of the pillow case. “I keep thinking about James. About that boy. About the world they’re growing up in. And I wonder if staying quiet — staying out of it — has stopped being noble. Maybe it’s just cowardice now.”

Effie’s chest tightened. She reached across, covering his hand with her own. “Monty—”

“I know it’s dangerous,” he cut in gently. “I know what it would mean. But I can’t ignore it anymore, Eff. You should have heard the way James spoke about Sirius, about his family. If he can be that certain — if a twelve-year-old can plant his feet and decide where he stands — then what excuse do I have?”

For a long moment, she only looked at him. Daylight poured through the window, playing across the lines of his face—lines she knew as well as her own. Worry. Weariness. Love.

“You’ve always had a penchant for finding trouble. And you wonder where James gets it from,” she said softly.

Her thumb brushed absently over the back of his hand, her smile fond even as her eyes betrayed her worry. “You dress it up as duty, as principle — but really, Monty, you’ve never been able to look away when someone needed you. Not once in all the years I’ve known you.”

He huffed a laugh, low and a little pained. “Nobody has to know.”

She laughed along with him, because that was what he needed at that moment. But when the house went quiet and Monty’s breathing slowed into sleep beside her, she couldn’t help but worry.

She lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the tick of the clock on the mantel. Turning it all over in her head: young Margaret McKinnon across the road — barely out of her teens and already an Auror sharing stories she was far too young to have lived through. Effie had seen the tremor in her hands when she poured cider at Edward’s party. Margaret had laughed it off, some self-deprecating joke about clumsy fingers, but Effie had known.

She thought of the Murray’s, who had moved house suddenly in the dead of night, leaving only a “For Sale” sign and whispers that they had gone into hiding after refusing to renounce their Muggle relatives.

She thought of the owls that came too often these days, carrying headlines she didn’t want James to read: disappearances, trials, quiet executions no one dared name as such.

And she thought of Monty, her Monty — steady, cautious Monty — saying he was ready to step into that storm.

It was dangerous . The word kept circling back, no matter how she turned it. 

Effie pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, stifling the urge to wake Monty then and there, to beg him not to do it. To remind him what he’d be leaving behind if he ever got in too deep: James, their boy who still left dirty socks under the bed and laughed so hard at his own jokes he couldn’t finish them. Sirius, who had already grown attached to him in such a short amount of time — who looked to Monty with that sharp, searching gaze as though trying to decide if he might be safe here.

And her .

God, she couldn’t live without him. She knew that with a certainty that made her throat ache. A life without Monty was no life at all — she’d built her world around him. The thought of that being torn away left her breathless.

But she didn’t wake him.

She only lay there, staring at the dark ceiling, turning it all over in her mind until the edges of it blurred. Because beneath the fear, beneath the selfish ache, was the truth she couldn’t escape: he was right. This wasn’t something they could run from anymore. The war was already in their garden, already at their table. Pretending otherwise wouldn’t keep James safe. Wouldn’t keep Sirius safe. Wouldn’t keep any of them safe.

And Monty — stubborn, principled Monty — had always been this way. Righteous, even when it was inconvenient. Even when it was dangerous. That same streak of integrity was the reason she’d fallen in love with him all those years ago.

So who was she to say no now?

Effie rolled onto her side, watching the curve of his shoulder in the moonlight, the steady rise and fall of his breath. Her heart ached with it — love and fear and resignation all tangled into one. She shut her eyes, pressing her face into the pillow, and told herself she would be strong enough to follow where he led.

Because she always had.

* ** February 18th 1973 ***

Monty had never liked entertaining. Not really. He tolerated it for Effie’s sake — her roasts, her puddings, her delight in showing off the house. But tonight, even her charm couldn’t quite settle the unease prickling along his collar.

Dumbledore was in their sitting room.

Which was just off the kitchen;  a modest space compared to what they might have afforded by now. Homely, lived-in, with books stacked in mismatched piles beside the hearth and a pair of armchairs that had seen better days. The rug was worn at the edges from years of James skidding across it, and the mantel was crowded with photographs that moved slightly: James on his first day of school, Effie and Monty on their wedding day, the two of them wrapped in scarves at the Quidditch Cup, cheeks flushed from the cold and grinning like fools holding pints of butterbeer.

They could have done more with the place, dressed it up. But they didn’t want James to grow up spoiled. And besides—this was their home.

Of course, the man filled the room easily — not with size, but with presence. A cascade of silver hair, the half-moon spectacles perched precariously on his nose, his voice lilting politely as he complimented Effie’s shepherd’s pie — which was grand. All her pies and baking were grand, and Monty thought it a small mercy Dumbledore hadn’t started in on the tart, lest there be none left over for tomorrow.

Dumbledore had always had a weakness for sweets. Monty too. He could remember more than one occasion at Hogwarts when the Headmaster had been caught sneaking treacle tart from the High Table as though he were a student again. He had also always carried a soft spot for the Potters. Especially Euphemia. Though, Monty thought as he watched his wife glow under the praise, who could blame him?

He could have been anyone’s eccentric uncle, except for the weight of his gaze — the one that kept finding Monty as though to say: well then?

Monty poured the wine, his hand steady only by force of will. They served it in the nice glasses tonight — the ones his parents had handed down. Not the tinny, everyday goblets they used when James was around, but the thin-stemmed crystal ones, delicate enough that Monty still half-feared breaking them each time he touched them. 

They talked of James first, naturally — his Quidditch prospects, his growing list of detentions, the way he seemed to have taken to Hogwarts like a broom to air. Effie lit up with every anecdote. Dumbledore listened with genuine delight, eyes twinkling, asking after Sirius, after the other boys.

But Monty knew it was only a matter of time.

And sure enough, once the plates were cleared and Effie had charmed the dishes into washing themselves, Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers. “So, dear Fleamont,” he said lightly, “what did you invite me here for?”

Monty exhaled through his nose, leaning back as well. He glanced toward Effie. She gave him a little nod — just enough.

So Monty said it. Plain. “I’ll do it.”

One of Dumbledore’s brows arched. “Do it?”

“Brew for you,” Monty clarified. “For your little group of… anarchists.”

Dumbledore chuckled — a warm, rolling sound. “Ah. Anarchists, is it?” He tapped a finger thoughtfully against his glass. “No, no. Nothing quite so dramatic. We’re simply an order .”

Monty huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “You make it sound terribly tidy.”

“That is the hope,” Dumbledore replied, eyes glinting. “Though tidy is not a word often used for the times we are living in.”

It wasn’t. Fleamont could recall all too clearly the headlines that had littered the Prophet of late — werewolf attacks in the north, wizarding shops in Diagon Alley raided under cover of night, families reporting frightening heirlooms missing. Each article had carried that same queasy blend of speculation and silence, as though no one dared to say what they all suspected.

Monty picked up his glass, swirled the wine, and said nothing for a moment. He felt Effie’s hand brush against his under the table — just the briefest touch, steadying.

Finally, he met Dumbledore’s gaze. “I’m not a fighter. Never have been. But if potions will help — if they’ll keep my son’s world intact a little longer — then I’ll brew. Just don’t ask me to raise a wand on a battlefield.”

Dumbledore inclined his head gravely, and for once, the twinkle softened into something older. Wearier. “I would never ask more of you than you are willing to give. But what you offer, Monty, is more than enough. Far more.”

Monty looked away, embarrassed, muttering into his glass. “We’ll see.”

For a while, that was the end of it. Life carried on in the usual rhythms — Effie fussing in the garden, James’s letters full of broomsticks and mischief, Sirius’s name cropping up with ridiculous regularity. Monty buried himself in tinkering, with potions and odd jobs, convincing himself the promise he’d made over dinner might yet fade into nothing.

But promises made to Albus Dumbledore never really went unanswered.

A few weeks later, Dumbledore’s phoenix Fawkes arrived at the window with a heavy roll of parchment tied to her leg. Monty unfastened it, brow furrowed. He read once. Then again, slower.

And his stomach turned.

This wasn’t pottering with potions in the cellar for fun, or even Sleekeazy’s. This was something else entirely: Blood replenishing potions, burn healing paste, polyjuice, antidotes to common poisons, veritaserum.

Monty lowered the parchment, bile creeping up the back of his throat.

This war was already more progressed than he had realised. They weren’t talking about hypothetical skirmishes anymore. Dumbledore’s “order” had apparently seen the worst of it already — enough to know exactly which injuries they were treating, which lies they needed to uncover, which disguises they meant to wear.

Monty sat heavily at the kitchen table, parchment curling in his hands. He swallowed hard. Folded the parchment. Set it down beside the teapot.

Effie found him there not long after, staring at nothing. She didn’t need to ask — not when she saw the list.

“Monty,” she said gently, her voice catching.

He pressed a hand over his mouth, exhaled through his nose, and muttered, “This is worse than I thought.”

*** February 24th 1973 ***

And it was... worse than they both thought.

Effie noticed it first. Not just in the headings of the newspapers anymore, or even the gossip heart through the grapevine — but in the street. In the way people were acting towards them.

Diagon Alley, on a bright Saturday morning. Bright, but not warm — still sharp with the bite of winter. Snow clung stubbornly to the gutters of the crooked rooftops, sliding down in uneven drifts that sent the owls fluttering when it dropped. She’d gone alone, humming to herself as she stopped in at the apothecary for fresh murtlap tentacles for Monty, then Flourish and Blotts for James’s next round of textbooks. It should have been ordinary. Comforting. A nice way to spend a weekend.

But something had shifted in the air.

The shopkeepers still smiled — polite, practiced — but the families in the lanes did not. The older ones especially. The Notts, the Dolohovs, the Averys. Witches and wizards she had known since she was a girl, the sort who had once tipped their hats or stopped for a polite word about the weather. They no longer met her eye. One woman, Victoria Rookwood, whom Effie had shared tea with at a Ministry gala years ago, walked straight past as though she were invisible — her nose pitched to the sky like she’d caught the faintest whiff of something rotten.

At first, she puzzled over it. Nothing had changed. Nothing public, anyway. It wasn’t as if they knew what Monty was doing for Albus. That was quiet, carefully hidden. They were neutral. Always had been.

Except—

Her hand stilled on the spine of a book.

Except they had taken in Sirius Black over Christmas.

Given him a soft place to land.

Effie’s stomach dropped, the truth crashing down in a wave that left her breathless.

Oh.  

That was it. That was what they saw now.  What they all whispered when her back was turned. Not Euphemia Potter, friendly face from the neighbourhood. But Euphemia Potter, who had opened her door to the Black heir and let him sit at her table.

It explained the coolness. The narrowed glances. The space people suddenly found in the middle of the pavement when she passed.

Effie closed her eyes, steadying herself with a long breath. Because what she had thought of as simple kindness — as necessary, as obvious — others had marked as a declaration.

A side chosen.

The knowledge sat heavy in her chest, but she refused to let it take root. She would not give them the satisfaction of shrinking under their stares.

So she breathed through it — once, twice — and lifted her chin.

If the old families wanted to whisper, let them. If they wanted to mark her as reckless, or foolish, or dangerous, then so be it. She had made her choice, and she would not apologise for it.

Instead, she adjusted the strap of her basket on her arm and turned down the lane with purpose. Flourish and Blotts would have some new Quidditch annuals in by now, and James’s birthday was only a few weeks away. She’d be damned if she let their neighbours — or Walburga Black, or any of them — sour the joy of it.

If Walburga wanted to spread her sick little rumours — that her own son had lost his way somehow, that Euphemia and Fleamont had a hand in tainting him — then so be it. Let her whisper. Effie would make it true.

Her boy was turning thirteen.

She smiled to herself, already picturing the look on his face when he tore into the wrapping.

And while she was at it, she might pick up something nice for the Black heir as well. Really rub it in. James had said he was into that silly Muggle racket these days — Alice Cooper and Black Sabbath — so perhaps a record from that shop off Cross Road. Merlin, she might pick up something for all the boys while she was about it. Remus could do with a new sweater — he always looked half-drowned in his old ones — and Peter, well, a tin of Chocolate Frogs big enough to last him a month. He was collecting the cards, wasn’t he?

No — she wasn’t going to let them win.

Chapter Text

***April 21st 1973***

As a belated birthday present, Monty had decided to take his son—and his son’s friends—to a Quidditch match.

It was every thirteen-year-old boy’s idea of heaven: Quidditch, junk food, and all his best friends, piled into one noisy, glorious night at a Chudley Cannons game. Exactly the kind of happy memory Monty wanted to make for his son.

If he were being honest, it was the kind of memory he wanted to make for himself too. He hadn’t spent nearly as much time with James as he would have liked since school had started. And truth be told, Monty was a massive Quidditch fan himself — though you’d hardly guess it from the dorky glasses and well-worn sweater vest.

But he’d grown up with it, around it. His own father had been wild about the sport, even if Monty himself couldn’t ride a broom to save his life. It had been something for them to bond over, since Henry Potter was about as far from an academic or potioneer as they came.

And James—Merlin, James reminded him so much of him at times: all fire, enthusiasm and burning passion. Though the two of them had never met—his dad had passed many years before James was born—Monty had no doubt they would have got on like a house on fire.

The stands rattled beneath his feet as the boys stomped their shoes against the ground enthusiastically, giant orange and black flags waving while they stuck foam fingers in each other’s faces. Marlene McKinnon was among them too, although far too engrossed in the game to join in with the boys antics. 

James was screaming himself hoarse, voice cracking with some wild mixture of excitement, disbelief, and unfiltered joy. His boy had a Butterbeer the size of his head clutched in each hand, drowning himself in it. Along with every other manner of sweets and treats laid out in front of them. 

He hadn’t even needed to ask—Monty had bought it for him without hesitation. He’d bought each of them silly hats too, and foam fingers and flags. He would’ve bought the whole bloody stand if James had wanted.

It was his birthday after all. 

“Come on lads!” James yelled from the stands, leaning over the guardrail. “Get it together!”

Beside him, Marlene squealed and Sirius draped himself across James’s shoulders, shaking him by the collar and hollering even louder. “That’s your team, Potter? What a bunch of losers!”

James shoved him back with a grin so wide it looked painful, and Monty thought his chest might split with it.

He adored this. All of it. The Cannons, his boy, the reckless joy of it. Even if the Cannons were, in fact, complete rubbish. As Sirius had so eloquently pointed out moments ago. 

On his other side, Remus clapped along politely each time the crowd erupted, though Monty suspected he hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on. Sometimes he found him cheering for the other side. He didn’t look like the type to enjoy Quidditch either, dressed in a too-large cardigan and a threadbare scarf. Peter, beside him, was trying his hardest to explain the rules to him—“No, no, that’s the Keeper, the one in green—look, he just blocked it!”. 

Monty laughed, clapping him on the back. “Good Lad. That’s the spirit”

He doubted they would ever truly be able to convert the Lupin boy. But he appreciated the fact that he loved his son enough to tag along anyway. Even if he looked bored out of his mind.

James was screaming himself red, his usually untamable hair plastered to his forehead with sweat; Sirius was shaking him so hard their drink nearly spilled over; Remus was smiling faintly at them like he’d never expected to be invited to something like this; Peter was happily commentating every play; and Marlene was hollering like her life depended on it, stomping her boots in time with the chants.

Merlin. Monty bloody loved them. Loved them not only for their silly quarrels and quirks, but for who they were to his son. For the way they rallied around James on his birthday like he was the centre of the universe.

The thought made his throat tight. Because there was a bittersweet twinge to it. Not because of the noise or the mess. But because the world around them was moving too fast. And they were barely teenagers — all gangly and pimply and childish. While the world outside was dark and closing in.

They wouldn’t get the same childhood he’d had. The same world he’d grown up in. A safe one, a normal one.

But he could give them this, at least: endless rounds of butterbeers, armfuls of ridiculous souvenirs, and bellies full of sweets.

Monty leaned back in his seat, smiling until his cheeks hurt, and swore to himself—he would give them this for as long as he possibly could.

He wrapped an arm around James and ruffled his hair, earning a small squawk of protest and a shove in response. 

But then his son turned and smiled at him. 

And Monty thought his heart might just burst.

The boys were late coming back from the game, but she didn’t mind. Effie rather liked her own company. She had spent the majority of her afternoon working through a puzzle and devouring the new detective novel Monty had bought her on their last trip to London.

The two of them had very different tastes in books—most things, really—but they always indulged one another’s whims.

Effie heard them carrying on in the yard before she saw them. So when the front door finally banged open and her three boys came tumbling in, she already had dinner—or something that halfway resembled it, since she knew they’d probably come back with full bellies —laid out on the table. Just a plate of little sandwiches cut into quarters, a bowl of crisps, and a few jam tarts she’d whipped together for her husband. Nothing fancy. Just enough to get them by until morning.

As expected, Monty went straight for the tarts. He always did after a few drinks, the insatiable sweet tooth he was, devouring two before he’d even sat down. James and Sirius, both pink-faced and grinning, at least pretended to entertain the egg sandwiches, although it didn’t take them long to dig into dessert either.

Effie smiled at the sight of them crowded around the table.

“Well then—how was the game?” She asked. 

The floodgates burst open with that, both boys talking quickly over one another.

“James’s team were horrible—” Sirius teased, grinning wickedly.

“They were not!” James shot back, half jumping out his chair. “You just don’t know a good Chaser when you see one—”

“Oh please, they dropped the Quaffle four times—”

“That was strategy—”

“—in your dreams, Potter—”

“Don’t listen to him, Mum, he’s just jealous—”

“Jealous? Of the Cannons?” Sirius needled before James cut in again—

“And you should’ve seen Peter trying to explain the rules to Remus—”

“For someone so bright, he really didn’t seem to understand a word of it,” Sirius howled.

They doubled over at that, practically falling into each other, while Monty reached for another tart. She caught his eye across the table, and they smiled at one another—soft, private, and full of warmth.

Effie let the laughter settle down before she asked, “Good birthday then, James?”

James looked up at her and softened, slowing down for a beat. “The best.”

Merlin, they looked happy.

It was loud, messy, and wonderful. The sort of domestic chaos she lived for: watching James beam at his father, watching Sirius’s careful edges soften in the safety of their kitchen, watching Monty lean back in his chair and laugh so hard tears formed in the corner of his eyes. Effie didn’t think she would ever grow tired of it.

Later, the house fell quiet again.

After a few more hours of chatter and wine between the adults, Monty had drifted off on the sofa in the sitting room, hand still curled loosely around the stem of a glass, snoring softly.

She fetched a blanket for him and draped it across his lap by the fire while James and Sirius padded up to bed, chatting happily as they went.

At the top of the stairs she heard them pause, mutter a quick “goodnight” to one another, then peel off into their separate bedrooms.

Which… struck her as a little odd. Usually Sirius would have followed James into his room without a second thought.

She tried not to read too much into it.

She settled in beside Monty, tried to ignore the odd, unsettled feeling it left in her chest as she sprawled out across him with her detective novel.

But—no. It was more than odd. It was really strange.

Unable to help herself, Effie slipped upstairs quietly, the boards creaking beneath her feet. She paused at the guest room door, listening.

Nothing.

Not even the faint rustle of a page turning or a bed-spring groaning. Sirius Black was a great many things—but quiet was not one of them.

Her hand lifted cautiously, tapping softly at the wood. “Sirius?” she called, gentle. “Sweetheart?”

She was met with silence in response.

She knocked again, firmer this time. Still nothing.

“Sirius, dear?”

Silence again.

That little ripple of concern swelled in her chest. She wasn’t usually in the habit of intruding on her son’s friends. But…

She pushed the door open, just an inch—

And caught her first real glimpse of Sirius Black’s world.

All at once she felt it: the cold, muffled hum of a silencing charm rolling over her. Far too strong, and too practiced, to have reasonably been cast by a child.

But there was nobody else around.

Her heart seized.

Had it been James, she would have immediately broken into a lecture about underage magic and the importance of following the rules. But James didn’t cast spells like this out of necessity. Only out of insolence—or for fun.

Sirius’s room was dark—curtains drawn tight, completely blacked out. In among the hush she saw him, curled tight on the bed, shoulders heaving, his whole body wracked with sobs. Shaking so violently he rattled the bedframe.

These were not the quiet tears of a homesick boy, nor the silly sniffles he might have let out after a row with James. These were great, gasping sobs, ripping through him.

Effie’s hand gripped the doorframe instinctively, knuckles going white. She almost wished it were James. Almost. Because at least then she’d have known what to do.

She’d have crossed the room in a heartbeat, thrown her arms around him, and run her fingers through his hair until the ache subsided. Read him one of his favourite bedtime stories, tickled his back and shushed him until he drifted off to sleep.

But this wasn’t James. Her son wouldn’t hide his pain like this.

Sirius had.

He’d hidden himself away, locked himself inside his room with his grief. Alone.

It broke Effie’s heart clean in two.

He must have heard the door creak, because his head snapped up, grey eyes staring frantically back at her. For one dreadful second, he froze.

Quickly, he fumbled to hide the evidence, wipe away the tears before any more spilled.  

“Please—” His voice cracked. “Please shut the door.”

Effie blinked at him, startled. Not at the words themselves so much as the way he said them—low and urgent, like the worst thing in the world would be James hearing him crying from the room next door.

Her chest pulled painfully tight.

She did as he asked, closing the door with a careful click behind her. The silencing spell thrummed faintly against her skin as she crossed the room, perching herself gently on the edge of his bed. Goosebumps trailed up and down her arm. 

He was still trembling, knees pulled to his chest, knuckles white where he gripped the quilt. She wanted so badly to pull him into her arms, to rock him the way she would her own son—but when her sleeve brushed his shoulder, he flinched away violently. Drew himself in smaller, wary, untrusting.

Effie’s hand hovered uselessly in the air before she let it fall.

“What’s wrong, love?” she whispered instead. “You seemed so happy earlier.”

The words caught sharp in her throat, because the realisation landed heavy. That big, brilliant smile of his downstairs. The joking, the shouting, the banter with James and Monty—it had all been a lie. A performance.

Merlin, he was only thirteen. Where did a boy that young learn to fake it so well?

He shook his head hard, voice hoarse. “I’m fine.”

Of course, she didn’t believe him. She only waited, patiently, giving him space to come around in his own time.

He sobbed and lied and talked himself in circles, then winced and repeated the pattern, until at last it broke out of him—

“I’ve never had a birthday party like that.”

Effie swallowed hard. Because… of course he hadn’t. And of course it should bother him: seeing the way she and Monty spoiled their son. Like any real parents would.

His jaw worked as if to hold them back, but now that the dam had cracked, more spilled out.

“They don’t—” He sniffed, wiping his nose against the collar of his silk pajama shirt. “They don’t even send a card. Haven’t for two years.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But they do for Regulus.”

Her stomach twisted.

That boy—this sharp, brave, reckless boy who laughed so loud and bright in her kitchen—had been carrying that truth in silence. Smiling through it while they celebrated James’s birthday… for the second time.

And here he was, shaking apart in the dark, convinced even his grief didn’t deserve to be acknowledged.

Effie’s eyes burned, but she kept her voice steady. Gentle. “Oh, sweetheart.”

She wanted to reach for him again—Merlin, how she wanted to—but she didn’t move. Not yet. She only sat close enough for him to feel the warmth of her presence. Close enough for him to understand she wasn’t going to leave him alone in it.

Until he sobbed again, and she couldn’t help herself.

Effie slid closer and wrapped her arms around him, trying to ignore the way he squirmed beneath her. Like it hurt to be cared for.

She held him against her chest. Not tight. Not crushing. Just steady. Feeling his body shake helplessly against her. Wishing she could take his pain away. Carry the burden herself. 

But the awful  truth of it was: there was nothing she could say or do to ease his pain, really. No words that could patch the giant, gaping hole his parents had left. No matter how much she wished there were.

She couldn’t make Orion or Walburga write. Couldn’t make them care. Couldn’t erase the fact that for years they’d remembered one son’s birthday and not the other’s.

But she could sit there, at least. She could hold him. Try to piece him back together.

So she did.

And tried to shake off the heavy realisation that she had never— in her life—seen or felt anyone cry the way Sirius Black cried into her that night.

It was all-consuming, wracking, endless. His body shook against her, ragged and inconsolable in ways nobody—much less a boy—was deserving of.

Effie closed her eyes, and pressed her cheek to his hair, letting the storm break over both of them.

At some point, the fight fizzled out of him, and he relaxed in her arms. His body slackened against her, hiccupping breaths slowly giving way to the uneven pull of sleep, as she ran her fingers lightly through his hair.

She breathed in a small sigh of relief.

Effie sat there for a long while after that, her arms aching but unwilling to let go, her dress soaked through. Watching the rise and fall of his little chest. Listening to the faint hitch in each exhale.

She worried even the slightest movement might wake him, start the pain all over again.

So she stayed. Curled awkwardly against the headboard, holding him as if her arms. Like that alone might keep him safe.

Until she felt herself starting to drift off too.

She held him closer and let the low, muffled hum of the silencing spell lull them both to sleep.

***April 22nd 1973***

Effie woke with the kind of crick in her neck that only came with age. Sirius’s bed was empty beside her. Her chest ached with the weight of last night as she eased herself upright; the space beside her cold.

She found him in the kitchen — already dressed, already at the table with James, laughing as if nothing had happened. Monty hummed at the stove, turning bacon in a pan that hissed and popped with too much oil. She let him be.

Instead, she watched Sirius. His hair fell wildly across his eyes; he quipped easily with James, smiling like a madman. The mask was back on — perfectly. The only giveaway was the faint redness that still lingered beneath his eyes.

Effie hovered in the doorway.

“You alright, dear?” she asked softly.

His grin faltered — just a fraction — before he shot her a look: sharp, pleading, and terrified. A look that begged her not to give him away. Not to name it. Not to make it real.

Especially not in front of James.

Her breath caught as the realisation washed over her: he was performing for her son.

Monty and James carried on as usual, completely oblivious to the silent standoff taking place beside them. Part of her wanted to press, to soothe him again, but Sirius was too quick.

“Never been better.”

She let out a shaky breath and moved to sit beside him, still watching him carefully.

“How did you sleep, dear?” Monty interrupted. 

And she found herself — ashamedly — playing along.

“Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.” She lied. 

And she hated herself, just a little, for it.

But Sirius smiled at her. And she couldn’t help but achingly smile back. 

After breakfast, she stayed to help Monty clean up, drying plates as he washed them. He leaned lazily against the counter, tea towel slung over his shoulder, humming a tune beneath his breath.

“Where were you last night?” he asked eventually. “When I stumbled up to bed, you weren’t there. In with James?”

Effie shook her head, “Not James.”

His thick brows knitter together. “No?”

“I sat with Sirius.”

Monty straightened, concern flickering across his face. “Is he alright?”

Effie gripped the edge of the table, steadying herself. “No. Not really. You have no idea what I just saw.”

Monty’s hand stilled in the suds. “Oh?.”

“He silenced the entire room, Monty,” she said at last, voice shaky. “If I hadn’t gone up—Merlin, I never would have guessed. Not after how he was downstairs. Laughing. Joking. He seemed so happy.” She drew in another sharp breath. “But …he was inconsolable. I have never seen a child cry like that.”

Monty’s mouth pressed into a hard line, worry etched into the set of his jaw. “Not James-level dramatics, then?”

She shot him a sharp look. “No. This wasn’t dramatics. This was grief. Real grief.”

Monty exhaled, low and rough, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“It’s frightening,” Effie whispered. “What that boy hides.” She met his gaze, eyes glassy. “What else do you think he’s hiding?”

“Merlin—” Monty rubbed a hand over his stubble, shoulders bowing under the weight of it. “I don’t know,” he admitted, voice low.

Effie swallowed hard, the tightness in her chest rising. 

And then they just stood there, silence thick between them, both thinking the same horrible thing: whatever Sirius Black was carrying, whatever he was hiding, it was far too heavy for a thirteen-year-old boy to shoulder alone.

And neither of them had the faintest idea what to do about it.