[1987]

I knew something was wrong the moment Harry said no to cookies. Technically, it had been a "no, thank you," because I raised him right. Well . . . for the most part. I'd taught him proper manners, at the very least.

Without a word of explanation, Harry disappeared into his bedroom, rucksack and all. It wasn't like he was offered cookies every day. Rarely, in fact. Especially not directly after school. He hadn't even questioned it, though. Hardly even glanced at them.

Kreacher had shadowed him into the apartment, shaking his head and grumbling to himself, which he seemed to do more and more the older and more surly Harry became. Just loud enough for those around him to hear, which I suspected was the point of it.

I tossed the cookies onto the counter for later, after I'd solved today's crisis and Harry had come to his senses. As much as he ever did, at least. It was always something, it seemed. Different theatrics for different days, as if this was the hardest stage of life and one had to simply muddle through it all. I had been assured—often and repeatedly—that this was normal child behavior, but I was beginning to have my doubts. At seven years old, what could most children even have to complain about?

"What have you done now, Kreacher?" I asked as the House-Elf tried to slink past without notice.

"Not poor Kreacher. Loyal Kreacher. Goes to fetch Potter-brat every day around all those filthy Muggles, but is anyone ever happy to see him? No!" Kreacher threw his hands in the air dramatically, punctuating his grumblings with a persecuted wail. "Potter-brat's attitude is all his fault, not poor Kreacher's."

I hummed in the back of my throat. All Kreacher had to do was meet Harry in the liminal space I had created in the alleyway by the school and Apparate him back to the apartment. That was it. A task he had managed for years now without issue. Poor Kreacher, indeed. Still, I believed him when he said he had no part in Harry's foul mood. That meant I'd have to go straight to the source.

I knocked once, simply out of courtesy, before opening the door. In true Harry fashion, his rucksack lay abandoned just inside the door, spilling its contents partway onto the floor. The rest of the room was in a state of disarray, as always—partly as a result of the night terrors Harry still had on rare occasions, and partly because . . . well, that was just Harry. As if it was hardcoded into his genes just to spite me.

Harry himself was sprawled across the bed, with his head toward the foot and his feet facing the head. A book lay open in front of him. One might assume, given how much he read, that he would be excelling in school . . . but they'd be wrong. Instead, he languished with acceptable grades—just barely—and read books that filled his head with ridiculous notions of bravery, heroism, and good triumphing over evil. I didn't have the heart to tell him real life wasn't like that. He'd learn soon enough. No sense ruining it for him just yet.

"What's wrong, kid?" I asked.

"Nothing." Merlin, the kid was a terrible liar. By that age, Sirius and I had it down to an artform. Easy as breathing. As necessary, too, in some cases. I supposed part of me should be relieved that Harry was so inclined towards honesty, but I feared the day his well-being might come down to his ability to manipulate others. If that ever were the case, he would be in trouble.

I walked over to the bed and tapped his legs as a hint. Harry wasn't very good with those, either, but he was exceedingly good at ignoring me, which he did. "Move," I clarified, and he begrudgingly swung his feet back over the side of the bed. "And sit up."

This took him much longer, as he seemed to debate whether or not he should listen. Finally, he snapped his book closed and dragged himself into a seated position, as if he weighed a thousand kilograms and his muscles could barely support the effort. Still, he refused to look at me.

"C'mon. Tell me what's got you in such a mood."

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek quietly, and I let him have his moment. I had learned it never did any good to rush these things. Finally, he lifted an arm and pointed at a piece of paper that had successfully escaped his rucksack and was laying just beside it.

I summoned the paper to me and turned it around. The top read "Family Tree Project." Instantly, I was taken back to a certain tapestry that, as far as I knew, still hung at 12 Grimmauld Place, to my mother's wails and the smell of scorched thread and the electric tingle of anger-charged magic. A tapestry that was no longer accurate, that had, in fact, been inaccurate for generations before the minor changes that had been made to cover up my non-death, as members had been picked and pruned from the tree in accordance with their perceived crimes. The memories invoked an involuntary shudder, which in turn shook something loose in me.

Anger rose up to fill me in its stead, burning hot and red in my chest. What right did a teacher have to demand something so personal and private from their students like it was nothing? Like they weren't digging to the very core of a person and extracting something sacred and hollow that existed at the core of their being?

I didn't say any of that, though, because Harry didn't require a reminder about why he felt out-of-sorts over this assignment. Instead, I kept my face neutral, held my hands from shaking, and said, "Don't worry, kid. We'll figure this out."

"How?" The word came out with barbs, wrapped in all his frustration, as he sunk his fists into the mattress on either side of him. "You don't talk about my birth parents, and you've never even mentioned your family. Ever."

The Blacks had never been an option as part of Harry's life. Not even remotely. Harry was never a Black—would never be a Black, so long as I drew breath. He deserved better than that. The Blacks had a habit of destroying everything they touched, whether they intended to or not. That wasn't the sort of legacy I desired to pass down. And the Friedmans had never really existed, had they?

Instead, I focused on the part of the statement that I could actually do something about. "Do you want to know about your birth parents?"

"No." The word exploded out of him too fast, like a well-rehearsed response, as he crossed his arms. Softer, less sure, he said, "Yes." With a groan of frustration, he amended, "I don't know! Does it matter?"

Does it matter? I wanted to say that of course it did, but the truth was that I hadn't ever given this moment any thought. In the back of my mind, I knew that one day, he would ask about the Potters. Of course he would. I had hoped—foolishly, selfishly even—that somehow, Kreacher and I would be enough.

But that wasn't fair to Harry, who deserved to know where he came from. Even if that was wizarding filth.

"It'll be all right. We'll figure it out together." I ruffled his hair as I stood. "You good?"

"Yeah, I guess." With a shrug, he stretched himself back across the bed and opened the book in front of him. At that moment, I ceased to exist again, so I quietly slipped out of his room and left him to it.

As I plopped down on the couch, I realized the apartment was far too quiet, so I called, "Kreacher!" to summon him back from wherever he'd gotten off to.

The House-Elf appeared shortly after. "Master?"

"I need you to fetch me an owl from the manor. Any one will do, preferably one that won't be recognized." Mother had her favorites, which I was sure would be easy to spot in certain circles. Rest assured, there were dozens of owls to choose from. So many, in fact, that I suspected quite a few had gone feral and returned to the wild after extended disuse.

"Of course." Kreacher inclined his head ever so slightly before Apparating away.

As for me, I summoned a pen—entirely more efficient than a quill, and a Muggle marvel that I had no idea why wizards never adopted—and a piece of paper. It took several tries for me to get the wording just right. By the time Kreacher returned with my owl, I was on attempt number six, and I was confident that I said what I needed to. Mostly. Before I had a chance to second-guess myself, I sealed the envelope closed and wrote my initials—the old, semi-recognizable ones, R.A.B.—on the front, assuming she would understand.

"Take this to Minerva McGonagall," I ordered, handing the letter to the owl. "I believe you'll find her at Hogwarts."

I opened the window to let the owl out, and it seemed all too glad to escape the tiny flat. Couldn't blame it for that. As it shrank into the distance, I just hoped I wasn't making a mistake.

...(X)...

I wasn't sure what possessed me to agree to meet at Moe's. I had done an impressive job thus far in keeping the two parts of my life completely separate, and that was the way I preferred it. No need involving Muggles in wizarding business. When Minerva suggested it, though . . . Suggested was perhaps too tame of a word for it, since the way it was posed really left no room for argument.

Andy set a steaming cuppa in front of me, patting my shoulder lightly with his other hand.

"Tea?" I asked, peering at the light liquid in my cup.

"You look jittery enough without adding coffee to the mix." Andy took a seat across from me and leaned in so he could lower his voice. "I wish I had some advice for you, but . . . well, Lizzie's was a closed adoption. We've told her, of course, when she turns eighteen, if she wants to search for her biological parents, we would fully support her. But it's not the same, is it?"

"No, it's not." Two parents who willingly gave up their child were a lot different than parents who died for their son. Andy had been surprisingly chill about my lie, even by omission, when I told him the truth about Harry and I. Even went so far as to say he understood my decision to not tell others and that it really wasn't anyone's business but mine. Which was kind of him to say, especially considering how open he had been about his situation. Still, part of me believed I should have been more upfront with him sooner. Either way, what was done, was done.

"Just remember, no matter what happens, you are Harry's father. It may be true that two other people may have given birth to him, but that doesn't negate the fact that you are the one raising and caring for and loving that boy." Andy reached over and grabbed my forearm. "Nothing anyone says will change any of that."

I patted his hand once and nodded to show my understanding, but I didn't trust myself to speak. It was all well and good for Andy to say so, but that didn't necessarily make it true in anyone else's eyes.

"'Atta boy." Andy stood and ruffled my hair. I pushed his hand away, but not before the damage was done. I did my best to smooth it back into some semblance of order. "I did you a favor, Reg. You looked a bit like a shaggy dog anyway." Andy laughed as he walked away.

I didn't doubt his assessment. While I had decided to leave my hair long, it was in desperate need of a good trim, and the morning rush had done a number on me. I worked the knots out with my fingers and tied it back again, smoothing down all the flyaways and making sure all the strands were neatly pulled away from my face.

I was thankfully spared from any further musings by a familiar figure entering the diner. "Minerva." I stood to greet her, gesturing to the seat across from me.

"Regu—Reginald." With a nod of greeting, she settled into the chair. A moment later, Andy set a steaming cup in front of her. Once he was behind her, he shot me a quick wink, and I offered him a small smile in return.

"Thank you for coming," I said once Andy was out of earshot. "I wasn't sure if you would."

"I thought you wanted nothing more to do with us. You made that quite clear last time we spoke." Minerva lifted her cup and took a tentative sip, humming her approval.

A litany of excuses crowded my brain. I was angry. I was scared. I was doing what I thought I had to in order to protect Harry the best way I knew how. Despite our newfound similarities, I didn't want to become my brother and put my faith in the wrong people. I sure as hell didn't want the Order—or what was left of it—to be the right people. All with at least some kernel of truth in them, but none of which would have been the right answer. I'd known Minerva McGonagall long enough to know that much, at least.

Instead, I said, "Harry's been asking about his parents."

"Oh." It was more a sudden release of breath than a word, as Minerva's eyebrows shot up. Her cup hovered in front of her face, the sip she was about to take all but forgotten. After a few seconds, she returned it to the saucer in front of her.

"Would you be able to . . . Do you have . . . I mean, could you get any . . ."

"Pictures?" Minerva supplied. A flicker of amusement flashed across her face at my expense, though it didn't feel unkind.

"Yes. Of the three of them, at the very least."

Minerva paused to take another sip of tea, but inclined her head ever so slightly. "I'll ask around. I'm certain I can find something."

I took a long swig of my tea, just to avoid the inevitable, but as I set it back down on the saucer, I said, "Thank you."

Minerva lifted her cup to her lips, thought better of it, and returned it to the table. Her brows furrowed and her face scrunched as if she were trying to solve a complex problem. "What exactly do you plan to tell Harry about his parents?" she finally asked.

I didn't particularly like the accusatory tone, nor the implication. Indignation rose in my chest, churning and bubbling like a bad case of indigestion, just daring me to do or say something stupid. Younger Regulus would have—had often, in fact. I suspected that was what had gotten me in trouble more times than not. But this wasn't about me. It was about Harry. If I thought from Minerva's point of view, even for a second, I could understand her concern. How would the former Death Eater, blood purist, Black heir speak about the blood traitor and Mudblood parents of his ward?

"The truth, Minerva," I finally said. If I were completely honest, I had no idea exactly what I was going to say to Harry. I imagined it would be the sort of thing any parent would tell their son. Like most other parents, I was fully prepared to just wing it.

Minerva pursed her lips and hummed in the back of her throat. "Whose truth, I wonder."

"Harry's," I answered without hesitation, though my tone had more bite than I intended. Softer, I add, "I know you have no reason to, but you're just going to have to trust me."

I braced myself for any number of sarcastic retorts. It wasn't as if I didn't deserve them. But they never came. Minerva scrutinized me in silence, her eyes piercing into me as if she were seeing straight through to my soul. Finally, she placed her hand on the table, palm up.

"Your wallet."

It was an order, not a request, and I complied without question, even though I had many. What could she possibly want with that? Muggle money wouldn't do her any good, and if she'd just asked, I would've covered her tea without a problem. I understood the moment she opened it, flipping straight to the pictures I still carried in the back. There were new ones since she had last seen them: Harry's subsequent school pictures, my birthday party last year, Harry and Jay on Jay's last first day of uni.

"You couldn't pay me to trust the Regulus I knew at Hogwarts, who was so easily swayed by others. But this Regulus, the one who would see fit to carry around pictures like these in his wallet?" Minerva snapped my wallet closed and slid it back across the table. "I'm willing to trust that Regulus. Don't make me regret my decision."

"Yes, ma'am," I said without thinking, then kicked myself for it. How easy it was to slip into the same old power dynamics, even though I was no longer a child.

It must have been what she'd intended, because Minerva smirked. "Thank you for the tea, Reg"—she said it loudly as she stood—"but I'm afraid I must go. I'll get you those pictures you asked for, though."

"Thank you, Minerva."

Without another word, she left Moe's, and I slumped back into my chair, glad for it to finally be over. The worst thing was that it was the easy part. I still hadn't figured out what to tell Harry, but that was a problem for another day.

...(X)...

"They look . . . happy," I mused aloud as I watched the image in front of me move. Though I had gone to Hogwarts with Lily and James, we kept to different circles. They were Sirius' friends, which meant I stayed as far away as possible, simply out of spite. Pretended they didn't exist at all. I knew Harry looked like James, but it hadn't occurred to me just how much: the same mop of hair, the goofy smile, and definitely in the face. Except the eyes. Harry had his mother's eyes.

"Stupid people always happy," Kreacher grumbled as he passed. He stuck his head in front of the picture I was holding to get a better look, but he quickly dismissed it with a wave of his hand and a, "Bah! Potter-brat is just as happy now."

"You think so?" Studying the picture, I wasn't sure that was true. Of course, a seven-year-old is very different from a one-year-old. But still. Would Kreacher and I ever really be enough to replace what Harry lost? Or was it foolish for me to even consider it?

"Kreacher already said: stupid people always happy." He cackled as he disappeared into the kitchen. Somehow, that didn't inspire a lot of confidence in me.

I laid the picture back on the small stack of four that Minerva had provided. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

As Kreacher went to fetch Harry as his school day was ending, I went over what I would say in my mind. The truth seemed like such a simple thing when I had said it, but what did that really even mean? I couldn't tell Harry the truth about how his parents had really died, that they'd given their lives for him. What sort of burden was that for a seven-year-old? To know the people he loved died so that he might live? One day, he would be ready, but not yet. I still didn't have anything figured out when a soft pop announced their arrival.

"Welcome home, Harry. I've got something here for you." I tried to put as much cheer into my voice as possible, to keep the whole experience light. I was afraid the butterflies in my stomach might give me away.

If he noticed at all, Harry didn't show it as he jumped onto the couch next to me. "What is it?" he asked eagerly.

Instead of answering, I grabbed the pictures off the coffee table and pushed them into his hands. I watched his face as he took in every centimeter of them. Normally, he wore his feelings on his sleeve, whether he intended to or not, but for the first time, I wasn't sure what he was thinking.

"Are these . . . ?"

"Your parents, James and Lily Potter." I pointed to the second picture, where they held a giggling infant between them. "And that's you, Harry."

"What . . . were they like?" As he asked, Harry tore his gaze away from the pictures, giving me his full attention.

"James was . . ." How to finish that thought? Foolish? Pigheaded? An insufferable bully? All equally true, but staring into those big, green eyes, I just couldn't bring myself to say them. "Brave," I finally settled on. "He stood up to a Dark Lord, even though he knew it'd be dangerous, just because he thought it was the right thing to do. He fought bravely to protect you and Lily. And Lily was . . . nurturing. No, that's not the right word. Caring, maybe." I thought of all the misfits and rejects that found their way into her orbit and never left. My brother had been one of them. "Lily had a way of making people feel needed and appreciated when they thought no one cared for them otherwise. She could see the best in people, and gave them the benefit of the doubt."

"If they can move, can they talk?" Harry asked, with a tone so buoyed by hope that I wanted to say yes. But . . .

"I'm sorry, Harry, but pictures only move. It's just a moment caught in time. Like a memory. Or a Muggle movie. But there's no sound."

"Oh." He didn't sound too crestfallen, which was my only consolation.

"Do you think you can get started on your family tree?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Harry pushed himself off the couch, keeping his eyes glued on the pictures in his hand.

"And Harry?" He paused and looked back. "If you have any questions, just ask. I'll answer them the best I can."

"Okay."

Just like that, he disappeared into his room, and I let out a long, slow sigh of relief. Not exactly the truth, but I did say I would tell Harry his truth. No one was perfect, and so if Lily and James Potter had made some–or many–mistakes along the way, that wasn't Harry's burden to carry. Merlin knew I'd made my share myself.

I tipped my head to rest it on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. A door creaked open, and before I had a chance to react, Harry threw himself into my lap, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressing his cheek to my chest.

"Thanks, Dad," he mumbled into my shirt.

...(X)...

I had barely entered the flat before I was ambushed. So much for a quiet, relaxing evening.

"Dad! Dad! Dad!" Harry chanted, jumping in excited circles around me. "I got an A!"

The fact that he was so excited over an A should have been a red flag, but I'd accepted Harry's mediocrity a long time ago. There was still hope that maybe he'd excel at magic, or maybe even some aspect of it, that would make his status as The Boy Who Lived somehow make sense.

"An A? On . . ." I drifted off as I racked my exhausted brain to find some sort of sense in Harry's words. It took embarrassingly longer than it should have before something clicked. "Your family tree!"

"Yes!" Harry waved a paper in my face too fast to get a good look at it. "You wanna see?"

No, I definitely did not. Not the moment I walked in the door. Not after a long day filled with Muggles who definitely deserved a curse placed on them. Maybe even their descendents, too. What I wanted didn't matter in this instance, though, so I plastered a smile on my face and said, "Of course!"

Harry ran over to the couch and pulled himself onto it, scooching his butt back on the pillow as he patted the space next to him. So dramatic. I hid my smile as I joined him, throwing my arm over the back of the couch behind him.

Harry held out the paper, and I reached out to take it. "Wait!" He snatched it back and pressed it firmly into his chest. "Promise you won't be mad."

My stomach somersaulted at the thought of Harry trying to spare my feelings. That wasn't his job. "I'm not going to be mad, Harry."

"Promise."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The kid had obviously learned his theatrics from Kreacher. "I promise," I relented, motioning for the paper.

Harry pushed my hand away and instead laid the paper between our laps, with half on each side, smoothing it out where we both could easily see it. I glanced at the page, already knowing what I'd see. I did a double-take when I realized it wasn't at all what I'd expected. Lily and James' names were nowhere to be seen. Instead, at the very center of the page, was my name. Well, the one I'd assumed, at least—Reginald Friedman.

"What's this, Harry?" I asked, taking a closer look at what he'd turned in as his family tree. There were far more names on it than I'd expected.

"You said you wouldn't be mad," Harry reminded me in a small voice.

"I'm not mad. I'm just . . . confused."

"Weeeell . . . you told me to just write my truth. So I did." Harry ran a hand delicately over the paper. "I asked my teacher, and she said a family is the people around you you love the most. I know my parents' names are Lily and James, and I guess they loved me a lot, and I'm probably supposed to love them too, but . . . I don't even know them. But you're my dad, and I love you the most. That's why you're at the center!"

When I blinked, the world unexpectedly blurred. I did my best to hold it all in, clearing my throat before asking, "And Viv?" Her name was in the box just above mine, with the triplets branched off from hers and on Harry's level.

"Well, she's the triplet's grandmother, which is sort of like being mine. Except the triplets can't be my sisters. That would be weird." Harry pulled a face at the thought. "But they can be like my cousins, I guess. I think that'd be okay."

"And Jay?" He was on the same level as my name, along with Andy and Matt, with Lizzie on Harry's generational line, but off in a corner.

"He's like an uncle! But cooler. Andy and Matt, too. I guess Lizzie can be a cousin, even if she's mean sometimes."

"Cousins aren't always nice." I spoke from experience, though I doubted most cousins attempted to murder each other as openly as the Blacks. I was fairly confident that was unique to my family and precious few others. "And look, you've even got Kreacher on here!"

The House-Elf, who had been doing an impressive job of ignoring us so far, perked up at the mention of his name. "Kreacher is on Potter-brat's family tree?"

Harry winced, instinctively covering the box below his name. "I kinda told the teacher you were my dog. Sorry, Kreacher."

The House-Elf huffed. "Kreacher is not a dog."

Harry threw his hands in the air. "Well, I couldn't say you were our House-Elf! I panicked!"

Kreacher blew a raspberry at him once before moping out of the living room, muttering and grumbling the entire way.

I waited until the House-Elf was out of earshot before whispering, "I think you made him happy."

Harry's face scrunched up in confusion. "By calling him a dog?"

"No, by calling him family." I ruffled his hair and pulled him closer. Looking over the family tree again, I knew for sure this was Harry's truth, the people in his life that mattered most to him. It may change, as he got older and learned more about Lily and James and the situation that inevitably drew us all together. But not yet. For now, his life was as simple as a handful of people who had been pulled together into a pseudo-family.

In all of this, I couldn't help but wonder what my truth was. I used to know, or at least I thought I did. But I wasn't that Regulus anymore. And now? Now I was a pureblood orphan who next to no one knew was still alive. Even if they had, I found it harder, with each passing day, to imagine ever interacting with the people I used to know. I suspected they would be disappointed in the current Regulus, too.

My eyes traced the family tree one more time, snagging on the boxes labeled Jay and Andy. The two people Harry considered akin to my brothers. Except . . .

"Did you know . . . I actually have a brother?" No, of course he wouldn't. How could he? Sirius had been a well-kept secret, though I wasn't sure if it was for Harry's sake or for mine. Either way, it was a mistake. I knew that now. "His name is Sirius."

"Really?" Harry asked. The way his voice raised suggested his interest was genuine. "Why haven't I ever met him?"

"He's in prison. He was accused of something he didn't do." Was that right? Everyone seemed so convinced he'd done it, without a shred of doubt. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't rectify the Sirius I'd known—the one I had willingly, foolishly cut out of my life years ago for supporting the wrong people—with the portrait of a murderer the papers had painted. There was no doubt in my mind that Sirius was innocent. Not that it would help him a bit in Azkaban.

"But . . . that's not fair!" The words were filled with indignation, and I couldn't help but smile at his passion. Merlin, Sirius would be proud of him.

"Life is rarely fair, Harry." I knew he'd eventually discover this himself, but I hoped it'd be later, rather than sooner.

He pondered it in silence for a minute before sliding off the couch and disappearing into his bedroom. A few seconds later, he reemerged with a pen in hand and yanked the paper out of my lap. With his back to me, he added something to his family tree.

"There!" Harry turned around and proudly held his amended tree out to me. In the center, next to my name, was the name 'Sirius'. Misspelled, of course, but the thought was there. "I fixed it!"

"You sure did, kid. You did a great job. May I?" I held out my hand for the paper, and he passed it to me. I carried it to the wall, where our first picture still hung, with Harry's crude drawing of Kreacher beside it. I used a simple Sticking Charm to hang the family tree beside the pictures, making sure it was straight.

It wasn't the family I'd wanted—certainly not the one I'd expected—but we were a family, nevertheless.