Life after Hogwarts wasn’t supposed to look like this. You hadn’t pictured yourself tucked away in a forgotten cottage, hidden so far into the woods that you stopped hearing owls and started listening for footsteps. You hadn’t meant to get pregnant before graduation. And you certainly hadn’t imagined raising a child mostly alone—not because he didn’t care, but because duty called him elsewhere. Always.

The fire was low in the hearth, casting flickers across the walls as you sat curled up on the old couch, your son asleep in your arms. Three years old now—wild curls, skinned knees, full of questions and defiance. His breathing was soft against your collarbone, lips parted in dreamless sleep. The storm outside had grown loud, hard rain hammering the windows while thunder rolled like distant footsteps in the dark.

You should’ve moved—stirred the fire, checked the wards—but you stayed still, holding the boy close. Then the door creaked open.

You froze.

But your breath caught for a different reason the moment you saw the figure step inside—hooded, soaked from the storm, rain dripping from the hem of his cloak.

Regulus.

His eyes found yours almost instantly. The tension in his shoulders eased, if only slightly. He didn’t speak. He never rushed things. Instead, he stepped closer, water trailing behind him, and looked down at the sleeping boy. Something in his face cracked—barely—but you saw it. The fracture. The ache.

You didn’t speak either.

Not about how long it had been. Not about how you missed him. Not about how scared you were sometimes, waiting for an owl that never came. He reached out, almost touching the boy’s back, but stopped just short. “I can’t stay long,” he murmured.

You nodded. You’d expected as much. It was always like this. Moments stolen from a life that was never really allowed to be his.