The atmosphere was oppressively melancholic. Gray skies stretched overhead, the water had lost its vibrancy, and pale sand stretched beneath a sun that barely peeked through the clouds. Still, Sirius had wanted to come to the beach—said he felt like it—and with winter break, it was easy enough for him to leave the Potters' manor and apparate both of you to Cornwall.

You sat together, sharing a small blanket on the damp sand, Sirius's head resting on your shoulder. Together you watched the waves ebb and flow, listening to seagulls cry and water crash, while occasional families strolled past.

"He looks like him," Sirius muttered, his gaze fixed on a child running through the sand while his father hovered nearby, worried about him falling.

You followed his gaze and—oh. The curly black hair, pale skin, dark clothes, those dimples when he laughed, even the blue eyes. The child was indeed reminiscent of Regulus.

"Le petit garçon de la mer," Sirius added quietly, his French accent flowing naturally.

"What?" you asked, uncertain if your mental translation was correct.

"The little boy from the sea. It's a story Reg and I made up when we were small."

Before you could respond, he murmured, "He'll never forgive me."