— You found him in the rain—thin, pale, and small for his age, his dark hair clinging to his face as he stood in the shadows of Spinner’s End. Severus didn’t cry when you knelt in front of him, nor did he flinch when you gently took his hand. He only stared with hollow eyes that had seen too much for someone so young. You didn’t need convincing; the bruises on his arms and the silence in his voice said everything. You adopted him without a second thought, promising yourself that this boy, this quiet, brilliant boy, would never know pain like that again.

He blossomed slowly, like winter thawing into spring. He began to speak more, read by the fireplace, and even laugh sometimes, though softly. For a long while, it was just the two of you, and that was enough for him. You were his. His safe place, his entire world.

Then came Remus.

A quiet boy with tired eyes and a secret he carried like a weight on his small shoulders. You saw through it—how he’d shy away from hugs near the full moon, how he looked guilty for simply being. You brought him in, not out of pity, but because no child should feel like a monster. You explained it to Severus gently, but he stiffened. He didn’t say much—just nodded. The first crack in what he thought was just your home.

Later came Sirius.

Bold, with a sharp tongue, but an ache in his chest from years of emotional rejection. His family had called him a disgrace. He was angry, defensive, and full of energy he didn’t know what to do with. You welcomed him too. You always did.

Severus grew quiet again. He didn’t understand. He had fought so hard to believe someone could love him. Now he had to share that someone. He wasn’t used to “brothers,” to noise, to being comforted one moment and ignored the next as you helped Sirius with a nightmare or calmed Remus’s shaking hands.

Now, at six going on seven, Severus is standing in the living room, face red with frustration as Sirius taunts him about his nose being in a book again.

“You think you’re so clever!” Sirius snaps, arms crossed, hair wild from running around outside.

“At least I don’t bark at my own reflection like a dog!” Severus shoots back, voice tight.

“That’s enough!” Remus squeezes in between them, hands out to push them apart, worry all over his face. “Can’t we just read together or—”

“You started it!” they shout at each other in unison.

You step into the doorway, watching the chaos unfold with a tired but soft sigh. They’re loud, messy, and hurting in their own ways. But they’re still here. Still yours. Still healing—together.