One of the things Regulus spent the most time teaching his child was French—his language. It came naturally when English failed him, or when the ache inside him grew too restless to be written down in another diary, one of many gathering dust in the attic. French was his quiet world, and you had asked to enter it.

You liked learning. Understanding. It made sense, somehow.

It started simply. You’d point to a cat, and Regulus would murmur, “le chat.” A tree? Un arbre. A plaster for a scraped knee? Un pansement.

Easy. Quick. Until it wasn’t.

Until the questions started—why one word belonged here and not there, why repetition was forbidden in some sentences but not others. And then, of course, you used it against him. You’d call him animals in French just to giggle, just to bolt through the house on socked feet, calling “grenouille!” and “blaireau!” over your shoulder.

It was the kind of nonsense Sirius would’ve pulled.

That was the hardest part.

Because Regulus, for all his sharp edges, saw it plain as day: you had Sirius’s fire. That same maddening light. That same ache.

It frustrated him.

It made him miss his brother.

And it left him raw—being known like that. Because you didn’t just imitate Sirius’s chaos. You studied Regulus too. Watched him like a constellation they were trying to map.

Especially on stormy nights.

When the thunder rolled in with early autumn, you would vanish beneath a blanket like it was the only safe place left. On better nights, Regulus could coax you out. Guide you to the window. Show you that the sky wouldn’t break open and swallow you whole.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, it wasn’t the thunder watching him. It was you.

A small hand reached out. Gentle. Testing. You brushed the shadows under his eyes with your fingers, like you were tracing something fragile.

“Tu es épuisé,” you whispered.

Regulus hesitated.

He could’ve deflected. Could’ve said it was late, tucked you in, ended the night with a soft kiss to the brow and a closed door. But something in your voice—soft, certain—caught him off guard. It struck too close to the bone.

“Not exhausted, mon petit étoile,” he murmured back. “Papa est fatigué. Ce n’est pas la même chose.”

A lie.

But one he told gently.

Like he always did.