Natasha couldn't recall if she'd been dreaming when she woke up—turning over to look at her clock, she saw that it was quarter to three. Yawning, she was out of bed inm a second, realizing that it had been Harry who had woken her up. She pushed a few loose strands of hair out of her eyes as she left her bedroom and made her way to Harry's nursery. He'd been with them for almost two months now, and she was almost surprised at how little he'd woken her up. She recalled her conversation with Beth when she and Clint had gone shopping for supplies.

"My first-born kept me awake all the time," the woman said cheerily. "Always needing diaper changes, always hungry. I still have sleep-debt!" Natasha couldn't help but frown, but Clint was beside her and shot her a grin. She stared back at him—you're helping me with this, her eyes ordered. If I'm losing sleep, you are too. "But then my second one was a complete angel," Beth continued, oblivious to the exchange. She shrugged. "I don't know what was different, but even as infants, they were immediately opposites."

Harry was more like Beth's angel, to Natasha's relief. Entering the nursery she blinked twice.

"Clint?" she inquired. He turned around at his name, and she could see that he was holding Harry. Lifting one hand away from Harry, he put a finger to his lips; shush, he's falling back to sleep. Natasha stood there quietly as Clint held Harry and hummed a little tune. Natasha didn't think she'd ever heard it before, and it changed rhythm often, but Harry was soon asleep. Clint gently put him into the cradle, careful not to wake him. Natasha couldn't help but feel a slight stab of jealousy—how could Clint figure this out so quickly?

After a few moments, Clint turned to her. "Sorry I let him wake you," he whispered. She walked over and looked down at Harry.

"What were you humming?"

"Uh," he shrugged. "Nothing really. Random sounds that just sorta popped in my head. But if Harry likes it, then that's good enough."

"Hm," Natasha acknowledged. Looking over to Clint, she raised an eyebrow. "You were here all night. There's no way you could have heard him from your floor and gotten here before me."

Clint shifted uncomfortably, and though it was dark, Natasha could see him turn a little pink. "Yeah," he admitted. "It's not just me though. We've all been taking turns—I stay here on Mondays, Steve on Tuesdays, Bruce on Wednesdays, Tony on Thursdays, and Thor on Fridays. But the weekends are all yours," he assured her.

She smiled and walked out, Clint following. "Thanks, I appreciate it. Really." Her smile turned teasing. "You know Stark probably recorded that, right? He's going to be joking about your humming forever."

Clint gave a quiet laugh as he plopped down on the couch (which Natasha had insisted she wouldn't need, along with the giant TV Tony insisted on putting on every floor). "As if I haven't got anything on him—genius billionaire playboy philanthropist in a weaponized suit, but he turns into packet of cotton candy around Harry. If he decides to start cracking jokes about my humming, I assure you that it's mutually assured destruction."

Natasha smiled and sat down next to Clint, closing her eyes as she remembered that it was three in the morning and she was tired. Against her will she found herself leaning onto Clint. He's not a pillow, she scolded herself. But before she lifted her head up, Clint put his arms around her, and they were so warm. She felt him lean back into the couch pulling her with him.

"I should get a blanket," Natasha murmured.

"Are you cold?" Clint asked.

Natasha shifted. "No," she admitted. "This is just much closer than I ever thought I'd be with you." Everything was silent for a couple minutes and Natasha could feel the tendrils of sleep taking her again—maybe she'd even have a dream this time.

"'Tasha?" came Clint's quiet voice. She gave a small sound of acknowledgement. "Do you—do you remember Budapest?"

What a strange question. "'Course I remember…"

If Tony had been watching, then of course he wouldn't dare tell anyone.

For two months, Harry had been missing. Two. Bloody. Months. It was simply maddening. Ever since the Order had discovered his disappearance, they'd been searching for the boy. And even though Dumbledore refused to give up hope, everyone was truly on edge. But if ever one would falter, then another would quickly reassure them.

Mad-Eye Moody would quickly tell people that two months isn't enough time to give up. Wizards are declared dead after a year of disappearance, he'd say. I've found plenty of disappeared wizards after months and months, he'd say. There's no reason to assume he's dead, he'd say. Two months is no time at all; we'll find him. And if, internally, he'd already declared the boy dead, already mourned him, what did it matter?

Just keep looking, Elphias would say. The wizarding world it large—we just haven't searched the right community yet. Perhaps he isn't in Britain; maybe he's in France, or Bulgaria, or America. Just keep looking, we'll find the boy, and then we'll all have a good laugh about how we looked in the wrong place. Just keep looking.

And if Mundungus Fletcher had lost some of his profit to keep looking, then nobody would dare give up, because how could they give up before the selfish, cowardly, criminal did? What would that make them? And if it was his glares that made Sturgis Podmore continue a hopeless search, who cared as long as they continued wasting their days?

And who cared if Snape had taken to glaring at everyone indiscriminately? He already hated everyone; everyone knew that. Who cared if he put everyone in detention? He already liked docking points and giving out detentions; who cared if he began giving detentions to entire classes at a time? Who cared if he once declared that Dumbledore was a useless, overrated old fool? After all, he'd done so right in front of the old man, and he had accepted it silently.

And nobody questioned it when Dumbledore went and repaired the Potter's house to its full glory. Restored to a perfect imitation of what it was like on Halloween. Nobody questioned when he altered his will—left virtually everything to Harry, Minerva confirmed. Nobody questioned anything he did or said—even if that was what Dumbledore really needed.

And on some days Remus really, really, wanted to blow up their bloody headquarters. Because they were all bloody mental. Between the ones that got frustrated and were about to give up, and the ones that gave hollow speeches, and the ones that just…

Remus didn't know really. He just knew that he couldn't give up…he wouldn't accept that Harry was dead until he found…something.

But some days it was so tempting to give up. Some days it was bright, and hopeful and Remus was sure this was the day. Usually those days were immediately followed by days that Remus wanted to blow the headquarters up, or go back and blow up the Dursleys, or something. And if he was thrown into Azkaban, then that's just brilliant, cause he really has a few words to say to Sirius for starting this mess.

Severus sees these days coming from a mile away, and has a calming drought ready. A highly potent one, he slips a drop in before Remus is awake enough to think about it. And then the two rivals spend the day glaring at each other, and eventually the insults and glares are a formality. Because they can agree on a few things.

The Dursleys are terrible people, and it would be best for everyone if Snape and Lupin are never allowed near them.

Dumbledore is an idiot who's foolery has lost the last Potter.

They need to find him themselves, because nobody else is really looking.

They will never give up.

Uh...sorry about the wait...? Please don't kill me!

I've been doing well in college, I'm happy to say! Better than in hight school. I hope you liked this chapter. I know it's sort of filler. Reviews are always appreciated.