It was a late summer evening and the sun had just dipped below the horizon, taking with it the remaining light of day and leaving the city below in nothing more than the faint flicker of the streetlamps that scattered the streets. Rows and rows of brick houses stood on either side of these streets, and in their doorways stood people, dawdling about as though there was no reason to be anywhere but here. Others were walking in either direction at an equally unhurried pace – it was still warm out, even at this hour, and the holidays had not yet ended. Children were only just starting to return from their playgrounds and adults were only just starting to think about going inside.
Well, most of them.
There was one adult who hadn’t all the time in the world, and who had very different things on his mind than the weather or the holidays. And that wasn’t the only thing separating him from the rest, either; he was wearing swirling, azure robes and high-heeled boots that pounded against the stone with every step he took. His hair easily reached his elbows and was tied back with an equally azure ribbon that looked strangely like a snake, the way it curled around his dark locks and almost seemed to be alive. In his hands he held a long, wooden stick and a tall, pointed hat, and his face was etched with determination. Jaw clenched and eyes fixed ahead, he did not seem to care whether he walked straight into passers-by; he did not apologise nor recoil, though he did grit his teeth every time he brushed against them, as though they were something nasty and unavoidable.
They were not. Unavoidable, that was; on any other night, he would have avoided them. He would have recoiled, hexed them, cursed them into oblivion, blasted them from his path. He would have shown them their rightful place: begging for mercy at his feet, unfit to wipe the slime off his boots, filthy Muggles as they were …
But not tonight. Tonight, he let them shout after him. Tonight, he let them scoff and call him names. Yes, tonight, he swallowed his rage and disgust, dodged their absurd little metal contraptions (‘cars’ they called them, as if those things had the right to be called as such) and kept moving without as much as a sneer.
He just hadn’t the time to deal with them.
There was an easy fix, of course, for that lack of time, and had his mind been clearer – that is to say, had it not been drowning in visions of what might be happening back home – he would have taken it. He would have Apparated, no doubt about that. It would have spared him the grime and the grease and the feel of Muggle bodies pressing up against him. It would have brought him home in an instant. But with his emotions high and his focus shattered, he couldn’t risk it. He could not risk splinching himself just to save a few minutes. He could not afford such mistakes.
Not now. Not when the stakes were so high.
His only option was to keep moving as fast as he could. And thus he ran, through the winding alleys and the dimly-lit streets, past those flickering streetlamps and shuttered shops … through a Muggle park and down another street … barely even noticing the ache in his legs, the burn in his lungs, or the stitch in his side … all he could think about was home, and that he had been too slow, that he had taken too long, that he would be too late …
He only stopped running when he reached his destination, and even then he only waited long enough to catch one gasping breath before forcing the gate open and mounting the steps that led to the front door, which, too, flew open at the touch of his wand. He stepped inside, moving down the hall in a few swift strides.
He was already halfway up the stairs when his brain caught up with the current situation and replaced the rustling sounds of outside with a soft crying that grew louder with every step. The sound pierced his lungs and twisted his heart with guilt, and his legs took him up the remainder of the stairs three at a time, his robes tangling under his feet.
He hit the uppermost stair hard, landing face-first. He let go of his wand and hat and caught the bannister, pulling himself up again. He barely allowed himself time to recover, and didn’t even think about going back down for his belongings; he hastened up and opened the door to the nursery room.
‘DADDY!’
Small arms wrapped tightly around his shins, tiny arms and hands that held him close. When he looked down he could only see a mop of wild black hair. And despite everything, despite himself, he smiled. And knelt.
The toddler squealed in delight, flinging his arms around his neck, grabbing fistfuls of his robes.
‘Up! Up! Up!’
He gladly obeyed, lifting the boy easily, settling him against his shoulder, one arm wrapped firmly around his back, the other rubbing circles across it.
And for a moment, just a tiny moment, he let himself forget where he had come from and why he was here. He let the world disappear. With it disappeared the half-panicked, guilty state he had been in. For that brief moment he let himself be one with his son, he felt warm. Happy.
But this didn’t last long. It couldn’t; the crying hadn’t stopped. It still tore right through him, tugging at his heartstrings. And he could not hide from it any longer.
He looked up. The nursery was dimly lit, the curtains closed; what little light there was came from the fire in the hearth. A rocking chair faced it, creaking softly as it moved back and forth.
The warmth in his chest left him quite suddenly, and he grew cold again, guilt swallowing him; in the rocking chair sat the only woman in the world he had ever truly loved. She was his cousin, yes, his wife; but she was so much more than that. She was the one who knew him more intimately than anyone else. She was the one who knew his deepest, darkest secrets. The one who had never asked for anything and yet done everything for him. Who had borne his child – no, his children; she had done it again. She was cradling the source of the crying: a bright purple bundle that writhed and wailed in her arms. She was obviously exhausted, but carried even this with the cold grace he had always admired, and managed to look stronger despite it. Stronger and more beautiful.
And she was watching him.
‘Walburga, dearest …’
She didn’t need to speak; his words faltered.
‘I’m sorry,’ he managed.
She looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head. ‘Don’t be.’
‘I should have been here. I came as soon as I heard, but –’
‘You’re only half an hour late.’
‘Only’ half an hour …
Still holding his firstborn, he stepped closer.
Walburga had stopped rocking the chair, and the bundle in Walburga’s arms only squirmed and wailed harder than before, with little clenched fists, and legs that kicked against the tightly-wrapped blankets.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Well, the lungs certainly are,’ she said, to which the infant shrieked with renewed vigour, as if proving her point. ‘And I count two eyes, ten fingers, and ten little toes …’
‘Are you all right?’
She didn’t answer.
She was sweating and trembling and started rocking the chair again, but the child in her arms kept crying.
The child in his arms tugged playfully at the ribbon in his hair.
The fire cracked.
The rocking chair creaked.
And Orion stood, useless, feeling guilt and failure press hard against his ribs.
Because she’d done it all without him. Again.
‘You should be in bed,’ he said gently, trying his best to do something to better her situation. ‘You need to rest –’
‘Rest?’ She arched an eyebrow, but even that took visible effort. ‘So I should rest, should I? And let the house fall to bits whilst you go running off to – to –’
She stopped herself. He lowered his head.
‘I was with him,’ he admitted.
‘I know,’ she said.
There was no anger in her voice, nor spite. Just weariness and resignation. And somehow, that was worse.
‘I just couldn’t rest whilst you were gone. The boys needed me,’ she continued, adjusting the swaddling blanket as the baby wailed on. ‘This one’s been making that very clear for the past fifteen minutes or so.’
It let out a furious screech in agreement, but Orion barely noticed. His mind had stopped when she’d said the word boys.
Plural.
‘You don’t mean … ?’
‘I do,’ she said, a hint of pride shining through. ‘It’s a boy. We’ve got a son.’
‘Two sons,’ he corrected her, relief and gratitude washing over him at once.
‘Two sons,’ she agreed in a small whisper.
He closed the gap between them and planted a kiss on her sweaty forehead. ‘You did well,’ he murmured against her skin.
‘I usually do,’ she said, and she smiled.
He smiled back, and something almost like silence settled between them. It was a silence in which the newborn kept crying, but Orion didn’t mind the sound quite so much any more; it no longer brought him feelings of guilt or shame, but those of pride and hope, because, in that moment, bound by blood and duty and the name they’d preserved, they were a family.
And nothing could break them apart.