The sun sets over the horizon, painting the sky a dirty pink hue, exactly the same as the wallpaper in our sodding living room, the one you still insist on calling cosy. I stand by the window, clutching a cold mug of tea between my fingers, and watch you dig in the soil, cursing at the flowerbed so furiously. Your round belly can no longer be hidden, even under Regulus' baggy jumper—the bastard's ghost would probably laugh. But when you sleep, you press your back against me. For me, that's more important.

The dog, a red-furred lump with the eyes of a sacrificial lamb, pokes his nose into my knee, demanding attention. I used to hate silence. Now it's everywhere: in the creaking of the floorboards, in the whisper of the wind outside the window, when you're at the ironing board again, pressing that embroidered napkin from the Toujours Pur house that we, ironically, use as a trivet under a saucepan. You never talk about him. And neither do I. We pretend that we accidentally ended up here, this piss-poor excuse for a house, which I'm still trying to make look half-decent.

Sometimes I feel like you can see his features in my profile—which is obviously logical; we are brothers, after all, even though I tried to deny it for decades. You get angry when I joke about my past as a womaniser. Meanwhile, I was putting up that bloody wallpaper in the nursery. All by myself, you know? Forty bleeding tries—and I still bollocksed the corner to get the princess and unicorn patterns to line up at the joints. Pink. Oh, Merlin. But you said she would love it, and I swore to myself that my daughter would have everything I never had. Even if it meant picking dried glue off my fingers for the hundredth time.

I made the crib; yes, the Muggles were right: a screwdriver and patience can work wonders. And the chest of drawers… that oak-pink monstrosity with the carved handles (I got it at a sale from an old witch who nearly made me puke because she stank of liquorice). She said it had "survived two wars and one husband." Perfect for us, eh? I imagined she would store her dresses in it, not the prim rags Regulus and I had as children, but something bright, silly, frilly.

A shadow moves near the fence—you throw down the shovel and start poking your finger at an invisible enemy, probably a mole. The dog howls in unison. I cover my face with my palm, hiding my smile. But fear creeps in, as always, on the other side of laughter. What if I fail? What if he comes back? What if my daughter— No. I won't let him. Her first steps will be on this fucking lawn, not on the icy parquet of the family mansion. And let my entire damn family turn over in their graves.

Steam from the kitchen fogs up the window. Goulash. The recipe is from the book Molly forced on me during my last visit—she still suspects that I feed you boiled celery (which happened on the first day; I'm still ashamed of it).

"Hey, fighting harpy!" I shout, leaning against the doorframe. You turn around, your whole appearance screaming I'll finish you off but it's a lie. I saw you crying over baby socks yesterday.

You mumble something about bloody idiots, but you're already wiping your hands on your jeans. The dog happily runs to the porch, sweeping away an old watering can along the way.

I do not move, giving myself another second. One more second to remember this moment: your dishevelled hair, the soil on your cheek, the stubborn fire in your eyes—what's left of my freedom. All that I want to keep. For her.

"Come on," I say, softer, as you come closer. "My goulash won't eat itself."

You walk past, deliberately bumping into me with your shoulder, but your fingers catch on my sleeve for a moment.

I love you. It sounds in my head, while you curse at the burnt bottom of the pan.

I really love you. Both of you.

We have broken so many rules. We are you, me, and that tiny girl who kicks your insides every time I say Dada. Yes, I practise because my daughter will not hear that word for the first time from some ghost of the past. Even if it's my brother.

My daughter. Ours.