regulus was swiftly reconciling with the notion that perhaps he was ill-suited for the role of a fatherly figure.

his systematic neglect by his own father and his palpable aversion to children, therefore, both reasoned to make his current predicament all the more pressing.

his estranged elder brother, sirius, had been consigned, unfairly so, to prison. while this development should have had little bearing on him–he and sirius did not stay in touch by any means–yet custody of sirius's daughter, wynstelle, dotingly referred to as winnie, had fallen into his hands.

winnie was the offspring of what regulus eventually surmised to be a fleeting liaison between sirius and a french maiden, yvonne couriez. he would have assumed that winnie would have fallen into the care of remus, but rowan had refused, citing under the pretense that he did not want to endanger the little girl with his illness.

bullshit.

knock, knock.

"wynstelle, do not touch the door." regulus muttered, having to up himself from where he had been slumped on the couch, the dark circles under his eyes in attribution to his late nights, and winnie's newfound mobility since she had learned to toddle at high speeds. "it is probably the mailman with the newspaper. i do not feel inclined to tip him tonight."

"no. bitch." winnie stated, and regulus internally cursed himself for allowing her to overhear a conversation he'd been having with evan over the phone line. she was four.

"wynstelle," his lamented chiding was cut short by the child prying the door open, at which he found himself facing, not the mailman, but you.

regulus's exhausted expression fluidly morphed into a scowl, as if a cow had taken a shit on the doormat of his family estate. his hand instantly shot up to the disgruntled mess his inky curls had deteriorated to as winnie clung to his leg, elated upon seeing you.

"in the name of–" he cut himself off, wrinkling his nose. no more cussing in front of the child. "what in the world do you want?"