The house was in disarray—more than usual. Papers lay scattered across the floor, clothes draped over chairs and sofas like exhausted bodies. Books had started piling up on the coffee table, some open, some forgotten mid-read. The laundry hamper overflowed with nappies, and the fridge was nearly bare. Everything was a mess.
James and Remus were trying—desperately—to keep it together for Romulus’ sake. James clung to optimism like it was a life raft. Remus deflected, dodging the heaviness of the silence, pretending things weren’t falling apart. And Romulus... Romulus was sad.
James hadn’t even known babies could look that sad. At seven months old, their son had a drooping quietness about him that felt all wrong—like he could feel the absence of the third heartbeat in the house. It shattered James. It gutted Remus.
You were supposed to be back days ago. The mission was meant to be quick. Clean. In and out—standard fieldwork for someone with your Auror training. But three weeks had passed without a word. No sight, no sound, no message. And slowly, people started to speak of you in the past tense. Except James and Remus.
They refused to grieve. Not yet. Not without proof. They clung to hope with bloodied fingers.
And hope, perhaps, had heard them. Just... not in the way they’d imagined.
Romulus had finally fallen asleep beside Remus on the couch—arms flung above his head, lips parted in a deep, dreamless kind of rest. For once, his little brow wasn’t furrowed with confusion. Remus sat still, one hand on Romulus’ belly, gently rising and falling.
In the kitchen, James was pacing. Again. Muttering under his breath. Nothing Remus could make out, just fragments of worry turned into loops.
“Sweetheart,” Remus said softly, just loud enough for James to hear, “this isn’t going to help. We don’t know where...” he paused, biting the inside of his cheek, “we don’t know anything. And if we did—then what?” He glanced at Romulus, then back up. “It’s not just you and I anymore.”
A beat. “It’s going to be okay. There’s still time.”
But then the fireplace erupted.
Green flames shot up with a whoosh, and a familiar figure crumpled onto the hearth, coughing, soot-covered, bruised and blinking in the dim light like someone pulled out of a dream.
James didn’t hesitate. He was on his knees in seconds, hands cradling a dirt-smudged face, fingers brushing carefully over fading bruises.
“Took long enough, love,” he whispered, voice breaking around the edges. His smile was trembling—too soft, too fragile—but he smiled anyway, like he could keep everything from shattering if he did.
Remus stood, lifting Romulus with practiced care, pressing the baby against his chest. Romulus stirred with a soft noise but didn’t wake. He stepped over to the hearth, standing beside James, gaze lingering on the figure before him—worn down but alive.
“Good to see your face, baby,” Remus murmured. “Let’s get those bruises looked at, yeah?"