Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars …”

Jack Kerouac, On the Road

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They chose the dueling court in the basement of Grimmauld Place for Owen’s first transformation. It’s dank, reinforced concrete, sheltered from the rest of the house with a veritable forest of wards and shields, and it’s roomy enough that the four of them can move freely without feeling confined.

It’s the first time since Wormtail’s betrayal that there have been four of them together at a full moon. It feels strange and raw, nearly as much as a punch to the gut as the first full moon where there’d only been the three of them. Remus sees the thought haunting James’s face as they tear through the hallways of Grimmauld. He wishes he could say something, but he’s too distracted by the familiar shaking spreading up his limbs, little pinpricks of flame turning his body into a gruesome marionette of himself, and by the sight of his son, red and purple and deathly pale, seizing and flailing in a paroxysm of pain as he bounces in Sirius’s arms.

They waste no time in getting there and barricading the door shut. As James raises additional wards, Sirius paces the edge of the court with Owen in his arms, murmuring comfort to the twisting, writhing boy. But it’s no use; Owen lets out a scream, his muscles bunching tight as he bucks in Sirius’s grasp. Sirius looks around, agonized, and tightens his grip, one large hand pressing firm to the back of Owen’s head as he secures him against his shoulder and holds him with a kind of fierceness, as though he can will himself to absorb his pain. He knows he has to put him down, but he can’t stand the idea of leaving him alone.

“Put him here,” Remus gasps, settling himself against the far wall. “Next to me.”

Sirius complies at once, relief stark on his face. Owen slumps into a ball beside Moony, boneless, trembling so hard his body is vibrating. His forehead is soaked in sweat. Remus gently strips him of his shirt, folding it with his own trembling hands and setting it to the side. Carefully, he settles his hand where the skin burns hottest around the bite on his spine. The bones grind under his palm, convulsing, even as his body pulsates in seemingly the other direction, everything twisting and breaking and changing, and Remus wants to scream.

Owen whimpers, then releases one, ear-splitting scream. It sounds divorced from the body that made it; something so small can’t possibly hold that much pain.

Prongs drops into a crouch a few yards away, Sirius standing at his back with his head buried in his hands. They’re both pale as parchment.

“How long?” Prongs asks, watching Owen from veiled, hazel eyes in his Auror’s face.

Remus shakes his head. “There’s no way to know. If he resists—” he pauses as his own wave of convulsions finally asserts itself, thundering through him with the force of a stampeding hippogriff, then takes another moment to rediscover his breath. “—it could mean hours. But if his wolf is as strong as I think it is ….”

James’s eyes flash in understanding. He won’t be able to fight it. “Minutes?”

“Yes.” Remus tries not to think of his own first transformation and how hard he fought it. It’s his last conscious thought, before his own wolf grips him, sinking teeth into his throat and forcing him under. “It’s happening,” he manages to gasp. “Turn, now.”

He doesn’t get to see if Prongs and Padfoot comply; his wolf is furious tonight, keening, and it demands all his attention in recompense for blood.

***

In the end, it takes Owen ninety minutes to transform.

The three of them wait, curled around him in a puppy pile. They can offer no words of comfort in these forms, but they can still speak in their own animalistic language, of heat and tongue and whines. Prongs licks worriedly between his fevered brows, and Padfoot folds his length across his tiny torso, offering him his heat and soft, downy fur. Moony curls behind him in an instinctive, lupine motion, resting his muzzle upon his small, sweat soaked head, rubbing his jaw back and forth as he croons comfort.

Pack, his blood and bone and marrow sing, and for once he doesn’t revile it. This is his pup, and there is nowhere he will be except beside him for this terrible night.

When it finally happens, it is just as sickening and terrifying as Moony remembers. Bones splinter and crack, then reform in a cruel caricature of a human boy, long and wrong. Skin rips and peels, and fur rushes to fill the gaps, lacing tight over exposed sinew. His face lengthens as his teeth reform, growing pointed, and Owen screams. It’s a sound all three of them will carry with them forever—the agony in it is so profound, it leaves a scar to hear it.

And then there is a small, furious wolf wriggling and growling between them, with fur black as night and great, yellow eyes, and they have an entirely new set of problems.

Owen is an unruly, willful child. He’s a nightmare of a wolf. As Remus suspected, his wolf is strong. In his disoriented, freshly formed state, he doesn’t wish for comfort or pack or even solitude. He is angry, like a lone wolf avenging its littermates, and there is a devastation to the way he chuffs and the ravaged way he howls that warns them away. Remus suspects he might be the personification of all the things Owen has lost since his bite. It’s a bitter irony that the wolf—responsible for taking him from his family, friends, and world—has kept the score, kept watch over every agony, stewed on it, been born into it, and now all he wants is blood.

He snarls at them, biting and snapping, circling the court with jagged, graceful steps; he’s impossible to calm down no matter how they approach him and despite his much smaller size. He’s aided, too, by their reluctance to hurt him. It takes all three of them more than an hour to accept he will not be joining them willingly, and the most of another to herd him toward his own side of the court where he at least won’t be agitated by their presence. Moony is forced to pin him more than once, his own, superior jaws and incisors slavering mere inches from his throat, human heart pricking all the while as Owen yelps and whines but refuses to cower, because even as a wolf, he is terribly brave. Just as quickly as Moony releases him, he’s leaping up to stalk the room again, growling and snapping and scratching as he circles, and the cycle repeats. He’s terrified, and furious, and he’s mourning his lost pack in the most vicious of ways, and the hours pass in long, unending moments, until Moony is living from heartbeat to heartbeat. It would have been easier, he thinks, if he didn’t have his consciousness for this. He acts as a beast, by instinct and nature, yet endures it all as a human, and the disconnect between the two is enough to make him feel dizzy.

And at dawn, when they’re all exhausted to the point of collapsing, Owen is a trembling ball of boy again, pale and exhausted, fingers shaking where they trace the curved scar on his lower spine.

“Owen,” Remus croaks, trying to push himself up onto aching hands. His elbows tremble and give, and he barely catches himself from smashing onto the floor. His entire body feels like a bruise, and all he wants to do is sleep and forget, but he knows that look on his face, knows it because he feels it on his own, and it belongs nowhere on his child. “You’re all right. Hey. It’s all right.”

He’s distantly aware of James rummaging through his overnight bag; with frightening efficiency, he produces two wizards’ robes, one child-sized, and steps quickly forward to drape them over them both. Moony feels a rush of gratitude for Prongs, who never seems to break, and Lily, who always thinks of everything.  He shrugs his on, painfully slow, shoulders screaming with each stunted movement. Owen doesn’t notice. He’s fixated on the scar.

“Owen,” he rasps again, and it’s more of a command, a vestige of the theatre they’d performed when they left their human skins behind. Owen flinches, curling inward on himself.

“He made me like him,” he whispers, horrified. “He made me a monster, too.”

Then he is sobbing, each one a shockwave that tears something vital away, and Remus can only watch him in agony, too exhausted to so much as crawl toward him as the weight of his own transformation comes crashing down.

And then Sirius is there, making soft, hushing noises, crooning low and warm as he gathers Owen up like a bundle of firewood and arranges him in his lap. Owen turns into his neck, seeking warmth or comfort or maybe absolution, and Sirius wraps him up tight.

“It’s all right, pup,” he murmurs. There are jarringly dark circles beneath his eyes as though someone smeared bruises there, but his eyes, clear and gray, find Remus’s and hold them. Rest, he orders. I have this.

Owen is sobbing out a litany, his words tripping together as his body shakes, but monster is the constant refrain, and something in Remus breaks. He never wants to hear his son call himself that word again.

“You’re not a monster, O,” Sirius says after a while, when the sobs disintegrate into painful hiccups. He nudges Owen’s face out from under his chin, greeting him with a warm, hopelessly fond smile. Tenderly, he strokes his downy head. Sirius shouldn’t be a gentle person, Remus knows; his childhood aimed to strip that from him. But much like his Animagus, there is an unconditional love in him that no amount of cruelty can varnish, and Owen sucks up that love like Remus himself does, staring at him as though he’s a mirage in the desert.

“I am,” Owen whispers.

“Is that so?” Sirius asks, still with that addictive kindness. “Then do you think Remus is a monster?”

Remus tenses reflexively as their son’s gaze sweeps over him. “No,” He retorts, and something in Remus sags with relief as much at his answer as it does at his show of fire. He looks too much like a specter, a husk of the boy he was.

“But it’s different,” he continues. “I was so … angry.” He shudders, hunching in on himself and hiding in the fall of Sirius’s hair, the words emerging in a wild, hoarse burst. “I wanted to kill you, I wanted to … to hurt you—”

“Owen,” Sirius says, “pup. Look at me.” Owen resists, then lifts his head miserably. Sirius gives him a winning grin. “Do I look dead to you?”

“No,” Owen says faintly.

“How about Prongs over there?” He points, and Prongs waves cheekily, before executing an alarmingly perfect cartwheel. “Is he dead?”

“No,” Owen says again, a little bit of his old annoyance creeping back into his voice. “But I tried to—”

Sirius unleashes a bark of laughter that echoes through the court. “Do you know how many wizards have tried to kill me?” He demands, wiping away feigned tears of amusement. He pinches Owen’s skinny arm between his thumb and forefinger, still chuckling. “You’ll have to eat your vegetables if you even want a chance.”

“Can you be serious—” Owen demands, before realizing his mistake.

Sirius positively writhes with glee. “I have always been Sirius,” he says at once, because he’s a dad, now, and he can make dad jokes.

Owen groans grumpily, but his shoulders are lowering as he relaxes into his chest, and Padfoot presses a kiss, feather soft, to the crown of his head. “That’s not the point.”

“Then tell me your point,” Sirius advises, shifting his hold on him to be more secure as he stands in one fluid movement, “after you’ve had a good rest. Things usually feel a bit better after a good sleep.”

And then Prongs is gently helping Remus up, large palms warm and sure as he takes his weight in the familiar way he has since they were fifteen and first limped home under his invisibility cloak from the Shrieking Shack, except this time feels much more momentous: he’s leading him to his husband and son. When they’re in reach, Sirius doesn’t say a word, only stretches out one hand, that warm smile on his face that Remus has fallen into since he was thirteen. Remus takes it, trembling, and allows himself to be wrapped into his embrace, his nose burrowing into the hollow of Sirius’s throat where his scent emanates and floods his nostrils: dark chocolate and smoke and home and safe.

Owen makes a small, mutinous mewl at being jostled, the noise more wolf than boy, then yawns. Prongs snorts.

Every receptor in Remus’s brain lights up in that moment. Pack, his brain sends. I know, he thinks back.

“My stubborn boys,” Sirius says, and the word catches. “Let me be strong for you, for a little while. You can solve all the world’s problems tomorrow.”

And with Prongs leading the way, they leave the court behind.

***

Owen sleeps but stays quiet and withdrawn. He shows no interest in dangerous things, doesn’t ask Kreacher to break any laws, and doesn’t ask to see Ivy once. It’s such a marked change from the boy he’d been, and it makes Remus deeply anxious. He knows exactly what’s running through his head.

He has no interest in seeing the Potters, or even Sirius and Remus. When Prongs visits after work, he hides in his room, complaining of a headache they all pretend is real. He sits, alone, in hidden spots in the house, and barely says a word at dinner. They let it go on for a week, before they decide to address it.

They track him down to the attic. He’s sitting curled on the dusty floor under the sloped roof, watching the raindrops slide down the skylight.

“There’s a particular girl downstairs, you know,” Remus drawls as he stoops through the attic doorway. “Looking for you.”

Owen tenses, sitting up a little too quickly in a bid to seem as though he’s not been crying. “Who?”

“Who, he says,” Sirius repeats teasingly as he takes sentry in the entryway, arms crossed, and one leg propped up behind him to lean against the weathered doorframe. “As if he’s a regular ladies’ man.” Owen sticks out his tongue in disgust at the label, and Sirius grins. “It’s Ivy, you muppet. She’s downstairs tormenting Kreacher right now, bless her. She wants him to agree to call himself Thumper. Prongs says he doesn’t have the faintest, but he says Lily let her watch something about a deer this weekend when they went to visit her Aunt Petunia, and she’s been hysterical ever since, hugging and crying on both of them and making Prongs promise he won’t get shot by a hunter in his Animagus form.” He wrinkles his nose. “She’s talking a lot about some girl named Alice, too, who James says got stuck in a mirror dimension. Some shoddy charms work, that. Alice Longbottom would never. But Ivy doesn’t care about that. She wants a rabbit and a tea party, and she also wants them to charm her hair blonde, and she’s been having a right fit about them saying no to all the above. And now, she’s going to find loads of cursed treasure without you in the east wing once she gets around to lurking, and she’ll just stuff it all in a pillowcase and drag it back to her lair at Prongs’s house like the thieving gremlin she is—”

“I can’t see her,” Owen bursts out, and Sirius gives Remus a triumphant look. (“I can annoy him,” he’d said confidently on the landing, “into telling us what’s bothering him.” Remus had stared. “Padfoot, that’s a stupid fucking plan.”)

Sirius wriggles his fingers at him, eyebrows raised meaningfully. Remus sighs and surreptitiously presses five galleons into his extended palm.

“You’re not dangerous to her at this time of month,” Remus says, focusing back on Owen, who looks pale and shaken. He’s wrapped his arms around his knees, hunching in on himself, and his heart aches to see their bold, wild child diminishing himself.

You do the same, a nasty voice whispers in his ear, but he pushes it away.

“I can’t,” Owen says, that stubborn chin jutting upward, and Sirius groans under his breath. The battle has begun.

“Do you think I’m dangerous around Ivy?” Remus asks patiently. He walks closer, pretending to inspect the shelves and miscellaneous storage—and, yes, that’s an actual glass box of severed fucking hands, he really did marry into the most delightful family— as he waits for him to answer. Getting Owen to talk follows similar rules to hunting big game. Stalk and wait.

“Of course not,” Owen says at once, with a belligerent shake of his head. “But it’s different. She—”

His lips press tight, suddenly mute, and Remus feels an awful understanding. Behind him, Sirius draws in a tight breath.

“She knows,” Remus provides, looking at him steadily, and Owen flinches. “She knew before, too, darling. You told her, remember?”

“I didn’t know before—” he bursts out, then stops. He takes a deep breath, and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Owen?” Remus prods gently, but he hunches over tighter and shakes his head vehemently, refusing to lift his face.

“You know what I thought when I first saw you?” Sirius asks unexpectedly from the doorway.

Owen tenses, then lifts one eye warily, watching him approach.

“Well, the first thing I thought,” Padfoot amends with a grin, “was that this lad’s a bit mad in the head.” Owen scowls at him, but Padfoot winks and taps his own temple. “It’s a compliment. I was impressed by your lunacy. You have to be a mad lad to fit in with us, pup. You know that, by now. But the second thing ….”

“What?” Owen asks stiffly, interested despite himself.

Sirius crouches over him, clear gray eyes fixed on his son. “I thought, that’s the bravest boy I’ve ever seen,” he says, and his voice is thick with admiration. He lifts one big hand and tenderly pulls a cobweb from his curls. “You survived something most fully grown, trained wizards wouldn’t survive. You were hurt, and scared, and alone, and you looked us right in the eye and told us to piss straight off, thanks but no thanks.” He huffed a laugh. “You wouldn’t even tell us your name.”

Owen looks surprised, his mouth hanging slightly open as his eyes stay on Sirius. Telegraphing his movements, Sirius reaches out and smooths down his jaw, before his fingers settle on his chin. He presses gently, lifting it up.

“No condition,” he says in a low rumble, “can ever make you bow your head. And no disease can ever rob you of your words. You are John Richardson’s son—” And Owen’s eyes well with tears as Sirius’s voice catches for one, hesitant heartbeat, “—and you are my son, and you don’t kneel for anybody. Nothing in this world can take your courage, except yourself.”

Owen swallows, but something lights behind his eyes. Remus settles silently on his other side, lending him his quiet presence.

“Owen,” Sirius says soberly, “use your words and that bravery, and tell us what’s wrong. We can’t help you if you don’t.”

A tremor runs through him, and his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t lower his head. “She knows what I am,” he whispers. “She knows I’m a monster.”

“You’re not a monster,” Remus says, sharper than he means to, but doesn’t he call himself the exact same thing, in the darkness of his head?

But Owen doesn’t seem to hear him. “I thought it was cool,” he says quietly, “like a superpower. Like the Hulk or Spiderman. I got bit by a wolf, and I get to turn into one.” He shudders, and tears slip down his temple. “But it’s bad, and I hate it.”

“I know,” Sirius says softly, “I know you hate it, but it’s not all bad. Once you can drink the Wolfsbane, it will be better.”

“I’m not normal,” Owen breathes. “I see too much, and it makes my eyes feel scratchy.” He rubs at them in aggravation. “Everything smells funny. Everything’s loud.” He shakes his head in frustration. “I could hear you, when you came up the stairs, and Sirius tripped over the umbrella stand and swore. I can hear Kreacher and Ivy in the kitchen, now.”

Sirius glances briefly across his head to Remus, a querying look in his expression.

“That can happen after your first transformation,” Remus tells him, remembering their son likes things to be explained to him as though he’s an adult. He marshals his thoughts, trying to find small words he’d know to explain something so intangible. “It’s as though your wolf was asleep, before. But it woke up the first time you transformed, and your senses—” he taps on his ears, nose, and eyelids gently, “got stronger with your wolf.”

“Did it happen to you?” Owen asks hopefully, and Remus hesitates.

“Not as much, pup,” he says gently, because he doesn’t want to lie to him. “My senses are better than most, and definitely my hearing; that’s why Padfoot and Prongs always used me as their lookout when they planned pranks. But my bond with my wolf isn’t as strong as yours.”

Remus had theorized that this could happen, although he’d hoped it wouldn’t. Owen is showing a much stronger inner sense of his wolf than Remus ever has, and he suspects it’s because of how his wolf came about. His life had been in mortal danger, and his magic had reacted instinctively to save him. It’s not uncommon; almost every werewolf bite happens when the recipient is in mortal danger. The deciding factor was the strength of his accidental magic, and the power inherent in Owen. It had exploded outward to save him.

But in doing so, his magic had also aided the wolf inside him, newly formed and moldable. Much like steel sharpening steel, Owen’s immense will had lent itself to his wolf, infusing its spirit with his own indomitable drive to survive in that moment.

It wasn’t entirely uncommon. Some werewolves, Remus knew, struggled with their wolves, finding them much more awake in their daily lives, their instincts sharper and much more difficult to control. Remus has spent his entire life cowing and kicking and abusing his wolf. It is a painful thing to realize, that the beast inside him had nearly been broken by his own actions, and perhaps would have become a starved, cowering thing if he hadn’t met Prongs and Padfoot and found another way. But he can’t entirely regret it or show that part of him the sympathy he knows it deserves. It was the only way he knew how to accept his condition.

He will burn their world to ash before he sees his son do the same.

It’s funny, he thinks, the things that you’ll allow yourself to endure, but never someone you love.

“Is that why you’ve been hiding in the attic?” Sirius asks. “Because it’s too loud?”

“Kind of,” Owen says, although he still looks unhappy with Remus’s answer. “There’s too much noise, but the noise isn’t just in my ears.” He shakes his head, frustrated at his inability to explain. “I want it gone.”

He looks at Remus suddenly, nostrils flaring in a distinctly lupine manner. “You smell sad,” he accuses.

“I’m not sad,” Remus murmurs, brushing a hand through his cowlicks. “Not about you, pup. I’m just remembering.”

 “I’ll never be normal,” Owen whispers, and he looks panicked, as though he wishes he could claw out of his own skin. “Who would want to be friends with me?”

And Remus’s heart twists painfully.

“I made friends,” he says quietly, waiting for him to meet his eyes again. “You know them well. They have seen me at my worst, and they have not gone anywhere despite it.” He squeezes his shoulder. “You are infinitely lovable, Owen Richardson, and you have a good heart. Anyone would be lucky to be your friend.”

“But they’ll know—” he argues weakly.

“They won’t know,” Sirius jumps in, a vow in his eyes and a muscle ticking in his jaw. “No one will, unless you tell them. That’s why we did what we did, at the hospital.” Owen still looks doubtful, and Sirius lowers his head to meet his gaze. “I promise you, Owen, no one will know you’re a werewolf unless you let them.”

“But Ivy knows,” he whispers, looking horrified. “And you said wizards don’t like werewolves.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “She doesn’t count. Ivy’s a Potter. They’re all mad in the head, and they tell no tales. Does James seem like he has a problem with werewolves to you?”

“No,” Owen says, looking a bit more convinced but as though he didn’t trust it. “But what if—”

“Anything that begins with what if, pup,” Sirius tells him, “Is worrying. We have enough madness in our bloodline without adding that. Ivy doesn’t care you’re a wolf. She cares she can’t tell you about this bloke named Bambi.” He straightens his leg, then prods Owen with his elbow when he slumps in relief. “What else?”

Owen bites his lip, then blurts out, “It wasn’t me.”

“What wasn’t you, darling?” Remus asks mildly.

“It wasn’t me who did the magic,” he says. “Who … wanted to live.” He swallows. “It was the wolf. My wolf.”

Remus looks at him, feeling a surge of empathy he has never, ever been willing to show himself. But for his son, he finds it.

“Owen,” he says gently, “your wolf is you.” He flinches, but Moony takes hold of the back of his neck in a gentle grip, forcing him to meet his eyes. “It’s your instinct, and your will, and your strength. It’s your drive to survive, and it’s a part of your soul. I told you that you have the strongest wolf I’ve ever seen. That’s not because of your bite, it’s because of who you are. Your wolf was always you.”

“I can’t go back,” he says quietly, looking up at them. “Can I?” He closes his eyes, but it doesn’t hide the tear that escapes to drip toward his temple. “I thought I could. To Mum, and Dad, and … Dylan.” He chokes on his little brother’s name. “I thought you were all being stupid. But ….” He trails off.

“No, pup,” Sirius says softly, rubbing the tear away with his thumb. “You can’t.”

Owen nods once, then gives a telltale quiver. “So, I’m alone?” he asks in a heartbreaking whisper.

Remus grips his shoulder. “You will never be alone,” he tells him fiercely. “You have us.”

Owen sucks in a breath as though struck, wide eyes locked on Remus. Then he breaks, burying his head into his chest. His shoulders tremble violently with the weight of his sobs, shaking Remus’s grip on him. But he is brave, this boy of theirs, and his wolf is strong; he never makes a sound.

After a long while, he pulls back and looks between them, hesitating. “And I can stay here?” He rasps. “You still want me?”

Remus smooths his hair back from his forehead. “I don’t think Sirius would let you leave,” he says drily.

“I wouldn’t,” Sirius says cheerily. “I’d duel Prongs for you.”

Owen gives a small, damp chuckle, but clings tighter to him, and Remus grows more sober. He’s getting the hang of knowing when he needs levity, and when he needs reassurance. It’s an instinct thing, Prongs had said vaguely, waving his hand in a dismissive motion when Remus had begged him for parenting advice. Ivy was a shameless goblin, but she was also good and kind, so Prongs had some idea what he was doing, even if he couldn’t vocalize it. You just feel your way through it.

He’d wanted to throttle him at the time, but he understood now what he meant, better and better every day.

“You can stay here,” he tells him seriously, “for the rest of your life.” He steels himself with his own Gryffindor courage, and puts his heart on the line, knowing it could very easily be smashed. “You may not care for us very much, but we consider you our son. What’s ours is yours, if you want it. I know you’ve lost a great deal.”

Owen sniffles. Remus reaches out to drop an arm around his shoulders and tuck him into his side, and Sirius shifts closer so his knee presses against Owen’s shins, shielding him.

“But we will keep our promise to you in the hospital,” Remus tells him. “You are our son, and we love you, whether you care for us or not.”

“I do,” Owen says abruptly, “care for you.”

Remus freezes, blood rushing to his head. Sirius makes a noise like a bird getting stepped on, but he doesn’t spare him a glance. His heart has swollen to twice its usual size, and he should probably run downstairs and call for Lily because he’s certain he’s about to drop dead, but he can’t wipe the stupid smile off his face.

“That’s very nice to hear,” he says honestly, incapable of playing this cool like he probably should.

“Yeah,” Sirius chokes out. “It’s … yeah.”

Owen smiles, too, hesitant but hopeful. “And you’ll adopt me?” He asks, looking focused. At Remus’s nod, his brow furrows. “How do wizard adoptions work?”

Sirius shifts over, taking over. “We do a ritual,” he explains, “to blood adopt you. After that, you’ll legally be our son, by blood and magic. The same way Ivy is Prongs and Lily’s daughter.” Owen looks excited, and Sirius warns, “But it will change your appearance, and your last name will be changed in the Hogwarts book and government records.”

“My appearance?” Owen repeats, looking wary.

“Your face, pup,” Sirius says gently, tapping his nose, and Remus’s chest gives a painful throb at the way Owen’s expression twists. “You’ll look more like us, and your name will officially be Owen Black.”

Owen says nothing for a long moment, not looking at either of them. Sirius doesn’t look as torn up as Remus currently feels, but he knows he’s feeling just as terrible. They both know how much his last name and his parents mean to him.

“Orion,” he says suddenly, and he doesn’t sound as bitter as he usually does. He lifts his chin and looks at Sirius. Brave, Remus thinks. “Blacks have star names, don’t they?”

Sirius blinks. “They do,” he says, before adding, “But you’ll still be you, Owen. We don’t love you for being Orion Black. We love you because you’re Owen Richardson, and you’re the maddest, bravest, future-insurrectionist-and-possible-arsonist we know. And you won’t stop being mental and brave and loved because your name is Orion.”

Owen’s eyes well, and he rubs roughly at his face. They both pretend not to notice, studying the cobwebs while they wait for him to recover.

Finally, he nods firmly to himself, then sits up straight. “How soon can we do it?”

“There’s no rush,” Remus says at once, a little alarmed. “We can—”

“I want to do it today,” Owen interrupts, and there’s steel in his eyes. “Can we?”

He glances at Sirius, who looks surprised, but nods. “We could,” he says hesitantly, studiously avoiding Remus’s pointed glare.

“Good,” Owen says, starting to stand. “Let’s go. Now.”

“Owen,” Remus tries again, “We won’t get rid of you. There’s no chance of that ever happening. You don’t need to worry. You don’t need to go through with this today.”

 “It’s not that,” Owen says, looking a little insulted, and Remus is too relieved by the return of his belief that he’s unconditionally loved to feel annoyed at the way he’s staring at him as though he’s daft. “It’s—”

He struggles for a moment, then catches Sirius’s eye. Use your words, he told him. We can’t help you if you don’t.

He lifts his stubborn chin and he’s forty pounds of spitfire bearing down on them. “But I want a family. I don’t want to be alone.” His eyes flash. “And you promised you’d be mine, so be it.”

***

It is, perhaps, the most rushed blood adoption ceremony in history, based on the whims of their dictatorial son. Kreacher makes a banner, but Remus can tell he’s fucking pissed at all of them, because he keeps muttering about floral arrangements and banquets.

Prongs, Lily, and Ivy arrive as soon as Sirius has time to nip through the fireplace and fetch them, because their joint social circle has been reduced by the war down to a grand total of six and they have nothing else to do on a Wednesday night. Ivy brings roller skates she got from her muggle cousin and wears a sparkly, silver dress in honor of the occasion. Owen—Orion, Remus reminds himself—is promptly shoved into an unused ballroom with Ivy and the skates where they’re ordered to entertain themselves. Remus says a brief prayer they don’t burn it down.

The four adults then promptly lock themselves in the downstairs bathroom and have a fierce, muffled debate about who else they could possibly invite. It’s a sad reality they have few friends left.

Lily is insistent about inviting Neville, but Sirius and Remus team up to shoot her down; while they love Neville and have been dying to introduce him to Orion, they don’t entirely trust Augusta. The beauty of few people knowing about Owen before he becomes Orion is that fewer people may one day guess his origins, or his furry problem; blood adoption makes him a legal Black. Gossip works in their favor in this situation. He could be the product of Sirius’s youthful misadventures, or an intentionally hidden, surrogate-born child that Remus and Sirius chose to raise quietly due to their reticence after the war and reluctance to introduce him to the broader public. The more people who are aware it was a blood adoption and can rule those other options out means the more risk will exist of them perhaps connecting the dots and finding the trail back to the Muggleborn boy who died mysteriously in an explosion.

“It can’t just be us,” Lily insists, still looking put out. She loves her godson, and while Ivy has kept her promise not to inform Neville of Orion during their play dates this past month, Lily hates the idea of him being left out.

“Why not?” Prongs demands. “It’s always just us. Kreacher and Tilly can pretend to be guests and clap. Ivy will love stage directing them. It will give her purpose.”

“He’s becoming family,” Lily says, a familiar flush starting on her face. She’s seven months along, now, and her temper is formidably short. “Shouldn’t we mark it in a special way, not here’s pizza, go upstairs and don’t blow up anything?”

“They love pizza!” Prongs cries out. “That’s like, their dream day!”

Sirius straightens, looking grim. “I know who to invite.”

And he disappears for fifteen minutes without another word. When he returns, he refuses to say who exactly he invited, no matter how much they badger him. The three of them eventually grow irritated with his silence, and too distracted by all the things that need to get done. A blood ritual is tricky, and takes the proper warding, and potion, and fresh spring water surrounded by purified white stones arranged exactly right in the ritual room—

By the time the four of them have any time to breathe, they find themselves shoved unceremoniously into the formal parlor room by Kreacher, where the harpsichord is playing itself in a plaintive, ancient tune. Ivy and Orion are lying under the dining room table, legs kicking back and forth occasionally beneath the cloth of gold tablecloth Kreacher rustled up from storage. They’ve completely forgotten about the adults, playing an elaborate game where the air is toxic, and they must live underground to survive.

Remus feels like pizza would have been just fine, but he’s too afraid of Lily to say it. She envisions herself with dignified children, and he wants her to keep that dream.

Sirius sits near the Floo and waits.

Andromeda Tonks floats gracefully out of the Floo half an hour later. She straightens imperiously and stares down at her younger cousin, who’s sprawled insolently in a chair with his feet kicked up on the coffee table. Remus tenses for a moment at the sight of her; she looks unsettlingly like Bellatrix, apart from her wider, kinder eyes and the chestnut hair. The last time he saw that face, he thinks, James had just removed it from its body.

Andromeda is thankfully unaware of where his thoughts have gone, and all her attention is focused on glaring bloody murder into Sirius.

“Dromeda,” Sirius drawls, waving lazily. “No Dora or Ted?”

“You didn’t tell me,” Andromeda spits, “to bring Dora or Ted.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Of course, they’re welcome. I didn’t know you needed a formal invite. This isn’t a ball.”

A seething whisper floats through the open kitchen door, somehow overpowering the harpsichord. “Master is making jokes, but there should be being a ball, the Black Heir by blood adoption is always getting a ball—”

Remus subtly waves his wand. The door clicks shut. He will … do something nice for Kreacher, he decides. Just not tonight.

“I don’t need a formal invitation,” Andromeda replies waspishly, “but was it necessary to send me a Howler?”

Remus makes a noise of horror, gaping at his husband. Sirius just grins wolfishly, twirling his wand as though he’s a ringmaster in a circus. “Would you have come so quickly if I hadn’t?”

A muscle ticks in Andromeda’s jaw, and Remus can tell she’s dying to slap him upside the head but held back by her dignity from committing to it. She turns away pointedly and storms toward where James and Lily sit in the dining room, nibbling on cakes Tilly brought over with tea. They both stiffen perceptibly at her face, James’s knuckles going white on his teacup.

“James,” she greets smoothly, “Lily, dear, you’re positively glowing.”

Lily jumps a bit, visibly snapping out of her memory. “Thank you,” she says, with the start of a hesitant smile as she settles one hand on her stomach. “I feel as though I’m—”

“Anyways,” Andromeda says, steamrolling her as she twists back toward James with a beady glare. “Did either of you plan on informing me that I had a new nephew?”

Prongs blinks, then looks at Padfoot for cues. Sirius mimes something that might mean lie through your teeth but also might be a nervous tic. Prongs squints and mouths, what.

Andromeda clears her throats, loudly, and Lily kicks James in the shin.

“Um, no,” Prongs says, straightening. “I thought he was going to do it.”

Andromeda is too well-bred to stamp her foot, but she looks close. “You should know by now that he never does what he’s supposed to do.”

“Well, he did technically tell you,” Prongs says, his instinctive urge to back up Sirius in all things, no matter how ill-advised, kicking in at the worst time. “Tonight.”

“Via Howler,” Andromeda supplies, voice dripping with condescension. She pitches her voice low to mirror Sirius’s barking rasp. “Dromeda, drop by. Adopting my kid. It’s Sirius, by the way.” She straightens, outraged. “I mean, really?”

Prongs blinks again, then stares at Sirius as though he has five heads. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s … actually really bad.”

Sirius mimes the word for traitor, which involves acting out Julius Caesar’s assassination. Andromeda shoots a stinging hex at him, and Sirius leaps out of his chair with a diving roll to avoid it.

“Now,” Andromeda says a little breathlessly, smoothing down her mulberry robes as she turns back to an astonished Prongs and Lily, “I’d like to meet my nephew.”

“He doesn’t have his face yet,” Sirius says, an edge in his voice as he enters the dining room. Remus stiffens, turning to face him; Sirius’s eyes flash like a knife.

Andromeda flushes puce, her outrage palpable. “That is a terribly impolite way to put it,” she hisses. “And what does that matter?”

Sirius shrugs, crossing his arms, and Remus realizes he’s testing her. “Well, he looks all muggle and normal, now. Don’t know if that would offend your Black sensibilities, seeing a Muggleborn heir before he—”

He yelps as she finally lands a stinging hex, right on his hand.

“Sirius Black,” she intones, swelling to nearly twice her height, “Stop bloody talking.” She spins back to James, breathing fire. “Nephew. Now, Potter.”

James shoves a hand under the dining room table, hauling Orion out by his shirt, and holds him out like a loaf of bread. “Found him.”

Orion wriggles in his grasp like an enraged kitten, legs kicking. “Uncle Prongs!” He shouts. “You ruined the game. Now Ivy will be the warlord in the underground city—”

A gleeful cackle echoes up from under the table. Lily sighs and shoves her own hand under, fishing their daughter out. Ivy dangles in her hands, looking put-out.

Andromeda glances between them, a muscle ticking in her jaw.

“Minerva’s going to kill you,” she says, sounding impressed.

Remus winces. “Please don’t remind us.”

Orion tilts his head all the way back to stare at her, and frowns. “You look like Sirius.”

Andromeda looks deeply insulted by that, but all she says is, “That’s because I’m his cousin.” She stoops slightly to better peer at his face, and Orion blinks up at her owlishly, squinting suspiciously like Prongs does, and the imperious witch melts, just a tad.

“And I’m here to welcome you into our family,” she says softly, and Orion smiles. It’s blinding, and Remus suddenly has to turn to blink back tears, because he asked them for family, and Sirius delivered. True, it is the most notoriously insane family in the nation, but it is family, and Orion didn’t specify they had to get along or not be crazy.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, nearly shy, and Lily promptly bursts into tears.

“Sorry,” she gasps, “Hormones.” Before wiping her face on Ivy’s captured sleeve.

And it ends up, Remus thinks, being a really nice party, minus whatever Kreacher’s going through.

***

The blood adoption follows the dinner, as is tradition. There’s no formal ceremony for this: just Orion, Sirius, and Remus in the ritual room, and a goblet mixed with their blood and a bunch of other questionable ingredients waiting at its center.

Orion looks nervous. “Will it hurt?”

“Dunno,” Sirius says. “Never been blood adopted.” Remus kicks him. “Er. Not much, if it does at all. More like a pinch, I think. But you’re brave.”

Orion wrinkles his nose. “Will it taste bad?”

“Oh, definitely,” says Sirius, and Remus kicks him again.

Orion hesitates, then makes to enter the circle.

“Wait, pup,” Remus says softly, and he stops, looking baffled. “Let us look at you.”

His face clears in understanding, and he steps back before them. For a moment, the two of them drink in the lines of his face, which have grown so dear in the month they’ve had him: the powder blue eyes and ashy blonde cowlicks, the faint freckles on the ski slope nose, the stubborn chin and mulish set of his mouth. Sirius traces each feature, as though committing them to memory. For a moment, Remus feels torn between such deep love and such deep sadness, he doesn’t know which emotion is which. They have photos of him, of course, squirreled away somewhere only the three of them know, but it’s not the same.

“Okay,” he says finally, with one last sweep of his hand across those cowlicks. “You can go.”

Orion swallows, blinking hard, then steps to the goblet. Brave. He looks at it dubiously, then pinches his nose, and throws it back all at once.

For a moment, nothing happens, except for him dry heaving. Then his features ripple, as though a wave has swept across them, distorting the surface. It spreads down his body in a growing cadence. Remus feels a resonating wave answering in his own chest; he clutches it with a gasp, feeling the concentration of magic flowing outward from him and spooling in cresting undulations around their son. Sirius hisses in a breath beside him, hands knuckling on the ritual circle; the magic thickens, warping, until it suddenly snaps taut.

And Orion is suddenly straightening with a shriek of “it wasn’t a pinch, it was itchy!” As he bats at his body and calls them both bloody liars, and Remus is stunned into silence because—

He looks like them but also like himself.

He resembles Sirius as much as Ivy mirrors James (a fresh and fun new trauma, Remus thinks distractedly, for McGonagall). Black hair has replaced the ashy blonde, and its glossy curls are a dead match for Sirius’s own, but Remus realizes with a quaver of joy there is still a smattering of unruly cowlicks near the temples. His eyes are pewter, like Sirius’s, but a lovelier, softer color, closer to periwinkle. As though the powder blue had mixed with gray, tinging them to the color of a moody sky.

The ruinously stubborn chin is unchanged, although the rest of his features have sharpened, growing to be more of a match with theirs. He has Sirius’s high cheekbones and aristocratic nose, but the square jaw and soft mouth, Remus realizes with a twinge, is all his. His build, too, although young, resembles Remus’s; he’s grown an inch or two, and looks lankier.

“Do I look bad,” Orion blurts out, and Remus realizes they’ve been staring, silent with awe, for far too long.

“You look like us, pup,” Sirius says, nearly reverent. He doesn’t even bother wiping away the tears in his eyes.

“Is that … good?” Orion asks, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Good?” Sirius bellows, with a playful look of offense. “It’s great! We’re the two best-looking wizards you know—”

“Oi!” Prongs shouts from outside the ritual room, because it is definitely not soundproof. “He knows three bloody wizards!”

Sirius spins toward the door. “Prongs, you prat, do you have to ruin a lovely moment with your vanity—”

 While they bicker through the wall, Remus draws Orion forward out of the circle and yanks him into his arms. Orion returns the hug, hesitantly at first, then with intensity.

“Welcome to the family, pup,” Remus whispers, aware on some level he just willingly signed himself up for about fifteen more years of aneurysms.

He taps the stubborn chin gently, reminding him that he’s still him, and Orion smiles—

And they bring Orion John Black back into his living room to officially re-meet his family.