Aelita Rozanov, to Ketterdam, is the Red Princess: a healer, a magician, and the one girl you canât lay a finger on â lest you lose your own. To the Crows, she is a friend, a confidante, and one of the best card players at the club. But to Kaz Brekker, she is Rosie: his healer, his magician, the girl he saved on impulse, and the one person he can't quite let go of.
This does not follow the books nor the show, and uses a lot of my own headcanons for the crows â it might not even make sense, but do I care? Not really.
i want to deny how similar they are because at the end of the day Darkling = killed people, and Caspian = didn't kill people
but like if you reaaaaallyyyyy get into it and see the Darkling from a neutral perspective of "he mostly did what he did to help Grisha" (even though I don't completely agree)
Disclaimer: This does not follow the books nor the show, and uses a lot of my own headcanons for the crows â it might not even make sense, but do I care? Not really.
Tags: @eternallybipanicking @strvngestark
Anyone else just really wanna hug Kaz? đđ
~~~
Chapter 10: Embers
~~~
The floorboards groan beneath me as I lean against the door to my small room above the Crow Club. The Barrel is never truly quiet, the dim murmur of voices and clinking glasses still drift up from below, but here it feels muted, like I've slipped into a pocket of air no one else can reach. I do have a room over at the Slat of course, but the view here is better, and the smell of the club reminds me of home.
I toe off my muddied boots, each thud against the floor, heavy with the weight of the night. My coat follows, blood-stiffened and too heavy on my shoulders, collapsing into a heap by the chair. I run both hands through my hair, tugging tear-stained strands loose from my face. I feel the grit of sweat and dust beneath my nails. My scalp aches beneath my touch, every part of me tired.
The bed is hardly more than a thin mattress stretched across a frame, but it's mine. I sink down onto it, body curling on instinct, like the weight pressing me down is stronger than gravity itself. My fingers drift under the pillow, a restless habit â sometimes for the comfort of cool fabric, sometimes for the hilt of a knife.
Instead, something small catches my skin. Not the cold, flat edge of a blade, but something thinner, lighter. The faint slide of links over my fingertips. I frown and pull it free into the lantern light.
It's a small necklace.
The chain pools in my hand, fine and uneven, one link bent almost flat, the charm a little dulled and scuffed from years in the dark. A rose. I stare at it for a long moment, as if I don't quite recognize what I'm holding, though my body remembers before my mind does.
I trace the worn charm with my thumb, the edges are softened with time. It's nothing valuable, not in the way most things in the Barrel are measured, but the sight of it makes something in my chest twist, sharp and tender.
Kaz had stolen it for me years ago. No grand gesture, no words of meaning, just a quiet press into my palm, as though it had always been mine and he was just returning it.
I hadn't thought of it in years, hadn't remembered I'd kept it close all this time, and now, holding it again, the memory comes creeping back, fragile and bright, unspooling in the dark.
I remember the night he gave it to me. We were both fourteen and the Barrel hadn't worn us down to stone yet, though it had already left its mark. The city felt endless back then, full of corners to duck into, roofs to climb, alleys to vanish in. That night we found shelter in a crumbling warehouse near the harbour, boards loose in the walls and the air thick with the smell of salt and rotting rope. It wasn't much, but it was ours for a while.
I was reenacting something from earlier that day, trying to make him laugh. Some brute had caught me lifting coin from his pocket, shouting at me with his fists swinging.
"You should've seen him!" I pitched my voice low and gruff, puffing out my chest in a terrible imitation. "Little rat, come back here!"
I swung an invisible bottle in the air, staggering across the uneven boards until I tripped over a coil of rope and went down in an exaggerated heap. The dust puffed around me as I groaned dramatically.
When I lifted my head, Kaz was watching. The shadows cut hard across his face, and for a moment, he looked like the boy everyone feared he was becoming. But then his mouth twitched â the barest, fleeting smile â and the illusion cracked.
"You're insufferable," he muttered, shaking his head, though the words didn't carry their usual bite.
I grinned, brushing the dust off of my palms. "And yet, you don't leave."
He huffed a sound that might've been a laugh, then jerked his chin toward the broken crate he'd claimed as a chair. "Sit down before you hurt yourself."
I slid onto it beside him, close enough that our shoulders brushed. Usually, that would have sent him retreating, jaw tight, eyes flinching away from contact. But this time, he stayed.
I swung my legs, the childish rhythm tapping against the wood. For once, I didn't feel like prey. For once, he didn't act like a boy made of walls and knives.
Then, without looking at me, he reached into his pocket, gesturing for me to hold my hand out. He dropped something into my palm. A thin chain with a small charm, dulled, but shaped into a rose.
"Why?" I whispered, running my thumb over its petals. It was obvious it had no value, we couldn't sell it for food or shelter. But he had stolen it nonetheless.
His jaw worked. "Better you have it than someone else."
I never knew if it reminded him of me, or if something deep inside him had chosen it without his knowing why. Did he even remember giving it to me now?
All I knew was that he'd given it to me. Kaz Brekker, who gave nothing freely, had given me a rose.
And I'd kept it ever since.
~~~
A knock breaks through the silence. Three raps, measured, deliberately, unmistakably him.
I sit there for a moment staring at the door, my pulse hammering in my ears, my cheeks still damp. I scrub at my face and shove the rose necklace back under my pillow.
When I open the door, Kaz is there. Dark coat, gloves, cane â every detail in its place, like the world hasn't been ripped raw today. His eyes scan over me once, sharp and assessing, before snapping back to that practiced neutrality.
"I need you ready by morning." He says, his voice steady as if nothing could ever shake him. There's no preamble, no explanation, just business.
But I'm already shaking. Not from fear â not entirely â but from the weight of everything pressing down. Wylan's blood still on my hands, Jesper's cracked voice, Matthias and Inej's quiet understanding, Nina's silence. And Kaz standing here like the world hasn't left fractures in us all.
I can't stop myself. The day's wounds, the fear, the endless ache â it all tips over. Before I know what I'm doing, I step forward and wrap my arms around him.
His entire body locks up, I can feel it instantly â the rigid snap of muscle and bone, the sharp catch of his breath. His cane bites against the floor as if it's the only thing keeping him upright. I press my face against the wool of his coat, and for one suspended heartbeat, it feels as if the whole Barrel has gone still.
He doesn't hug me back, I don't expect him to. Saints, he doesn't even breathe. But I hold on anyway. Because I need it â the anchor, the warmth, even if it's all one sided. Because if I let go now, I'll unravel completely.
I know what this costs him, the ghosts that claw at him when anyone gets close. And still, I cling tighter. Just for a moment longer.
Then, as quickly as he arrived, he steps back. "Morning." He says again, his voice clipped, final. His cane taps as he turns, walking away down the hall. But I can sense the falter in his step, the urgency to hide away.
I close the door slowly, pressing my forehead against the wood. My arms ache with the ghost of his presence, but I know better than to mistake his silence for acceptance. He didn't push me away, but he didn't stay either. My chest feels hollow with the weight of what I did.
I know what I stole from him in that moment â the control he guards so ruthlessly. Guilt draws low in my stomach. And yet, for me, that fleeting embrace was everything.
Kaz Brekker, who never let the world touch him, never let me touch him. And me â reckless enough to try.
had a rough afternoon and idk if i have the strength to write the next chapter without breaking down, if there isn't a chapter out tomorrow you know why đ€§
Disclaimer: This does not follow the books nor the show, and uses a lot of my own headcanons for the crows â it might not even make sense, but do I care? Not really.
Tags: @eternallybipanicking @strvngestark
~~~
Chapter 9: Anchors
~~~
The Crow Club feels wrong in its quiet. Not complete silence, but nothing to drown out the thoughts clawing at the back of my mind. Just the low hum of chatter scattered across near-empty tables, the clink of glasses and the rattle of dice, and the taste of liquor burning down my throat.
I hate the stuff â it's sharp and sour, like his breath when he leaned too close. But it burns, and the burn means silence. The burn means that maybe, for a breath, I can forget.
Snow crunches. Heavy boots. Mamma's hand pressed firm against my back, holding me still though she was shaking. I remember the smell â smoke, iron, fear...
My fingers tighten around the glass.
"Forbannet barn." Cursed child. His voice slurs in my head, as real as it had been then.
The drink burns hotter, my eyes sting and blur, but it doesn't wash the words away.
A gunshot splits the memory, sharp enough that I flinch in my seat. Just lanterns here. Just quiet. Just me. But I can't shake the echo, or the part of me that still believes it's my fault she's gone.
The chair beside me shifts. Matthias sits down without a word, his broad form swallowing the seat, his silence heavier than the glass in my hand. He doesn't look at me, doesn't pry, just signals for his own drink. Nina's tending the bar tonight, and without hesitation she sends a glass of water to us. No questions, no pause. She knows Matthias doesn't drink â his restraint is stronger than mine, steadier, like stone. I envy him more than I can admit.
For a long moment, we sit like that. Two shadows with nothing but the smoke and silence between us.
"You know.." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. I swirl what's left of my drink, watching the amber liquid lap the edges. "My father wasn't keen on Grisha either."
He takes a slow breath. "Neither was I." The words hang there, daring me to look at him. I don't.
He continues, his voice low, careful. "The DrĂŒskelle raised me to believe Grisha were abominations. Dangerous. Unnatural." He exhales, steady, but pained. "It wasn't easy to admit I'd been lied toâ In fact, the hardest thing wasn't fighting the lies I was taught. It was realising I wanted them to be true, because it was easier than admitting I'd been wrong."
I finally look at him then. His hands are clenched around his glass, knuckles white, but his eyes are far away. Not angry. Not defensive. Just honest.
"And Nina?" I ask quietly.
A flicker of something soft passes over his face â devotion, shame, awe, all tangled together. "She showed me what strength really is. What grace looks like. I'd burn every false belief, every prejudice I ever clung to before I lose her again."
Matthias' words linger, heavy as stone. They strike deeper than I want them to. A weight lodges in my chest, sharp and aching. He speaks of his own hatred, of how Nina cracked it open piece by piece until the good man could breathe again. And I think of Kaz.
Kaz, who never looked at me like I was less for what I am, but who hides himself behind armor I can't pierce. Kaz, whose hands curl on his cane rather than reach for another person's touch. Kaz, who carries more weight than any man should, who sharpens himself against the Barrel until the blade threatens to snap.
We all have our anchors. Jesper has Wylan. Matthias has Nina. Inej has her freedom â the promise that no one will chain her again. And I can't help but wonder if one day I'll be his. Because, if Nina could help Matthias unlearn a lifetime of hatred and see Grisha as human, who could teach Kaz to see himself that way?
Who, but me?
The thought is a bitter seed, and I swallow it down with another mouthful of liquor.
I don't let it show. I only nod, staring into the dregs of my drink, and let the silence swell between us again.
Then â slowly, deliberately â Matthias shifts his glass across the table until it rests beside mine. A wordless offering. A reminder that I'm not sitting here alone, even if I want to believe I am, that I always have been, that I always will be.
His hand brushes against my shoulder as he leans back, solid and steady, the weight of it grounding me more than the liquor ever could.
"Whatever he thought," Matthias says quietly, his Fjerdan accent strong, heavy, unshaken. "You are not your father."
I blink hard, fixing my eyes on the liquor-stained grain of the table. My throat feels too tight to answer.
The lanterns hum, the club breathes quietly around us, and as we both sip the last of our drinks, for the first time in hours, I don't feel like I'm about to shatter.
~~~
The hall outside of Kaz's office is dim, lantern light casting long shadows that sway with every draft from the Club below. My steps are slow, dragging. I just want my room, the dark and the quiet, the chance to shut it all out.
I don't expect the door to open. I certainly don't expect him to step out â coat hanging sharp from his shoulders, every inch of him composed as if the chaos of the day hadn't touched him, looking as though he'd walked straight out of some shadow. His eyes sweep over me once, sharp, precise, and I glance at the empty glass in my hand like it's betrayed me.
"Brekker." I mutter, half-nod, already moving to pass.
But he stops me with one word. "Rosie."
The sound of it â rare, clipped, his version of gentleness â freezes me. He studies me with that unnerving stillness of his, and I feel my skin prickle under it, heat scorching my face before I can speak. "It's just one."
"And yet I can smell it from here." His gaze lingers, hard enough to strip me down to the bone. "You hate the smell of liquor. Can't stand the drunks who stagger through these doors. You once left because a man spilled his drink too close to you." He steps closer. "I know what your father was, Aelita. Don't insult me by pretending this is nothing."
My throat tightens. The word 'Papa' claws at the back of my mind, the sour stench of home, shame, fists. I force it down. "It doesn't matter."
Kaz tilts his head, studying me as though he could dissect the lie. "It always matters. One becomes a habit. A habit becomes a weakness. Weaknesses get you killed in this city."
The words scrape something raw in me. I want to tell him he's wrong, that it was just one glass, that I don't need him watching over me like some self-appointed warden. But the truth tangles in my throat, burning hotter than the liquor. He's not wrong. And that hurts more than anything.
My hand trembles, and I grip the glass tighter, wishing it were something else â a blade, a shield, anything but this reminder. "You don't understand." His following silence makes me braver than I should be. "You can't."
His gaze sharpens. It's the look of a man who never touches, never softens â but I can almost feel the weight of it against my skin, as though he's standing inches nearer than he is. "I understand exactly what it means to cling to something that eats you alive."
I flinch. The truth in it lands heavier than the cane's strike as he turns, already retreating into his office. "One glass, Rosie. Don't let it become two."
The door is half-closed when I find my voice. "Why do you care?" The words are sharper than I intend, thrown like a blade to hide the shaking in my chest.
Kaz freezes. Just for a breath. His hand stills on the edge of the door, gloved fingers curling tighter around the wood. When he turns back to me, his eyes are darker than the shadows between us.
I shake my head, breath coming too fast. The day crashes into me all at once â Wylan's blood on my hands, Jesper's broken voice, Nina's tears as we fought to keep one of our own alive â and I snap before I can stop myself. "You act like it doesn't touch you," I hiss. My voice cracks, traitorous. "Like you're made of stone, like none of this gets under your skin. But I'm not you. I can't just lock it away. I can'tâ" The tears come hot, uninvited. I turn away, but it's too late. He's already seen.
His cane shifts, a single step echoing between us, closing the space but not enough to bridge it. Not ever enough. When he speaks again, his voice is low but cutting, each word honed to a blade. "Do you think I don't feel it? That I don't see the blood every time I close my eyes?" His tone is crueler than the truth beneath it, harsher than he means â I can hear it, but it doesn't soften the sting.
"Then say it," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Say that you care. For once."
The silence that follows is suffocating. His jaw locks tight, his eyes unreadable, the air between us hums with the weight of what he won't say. He steps closer â not close enough to touch, never that â but his shadow falls over mine, heavy, consuming.
"Aelita..." His voice falters, just once. A fracture in the armor. For a breath, it feels like he's on the edge of saying something more, something real. But then it's gone, sealed beneath the iron of his will. For a moment, I almost hate him. For the way he can carve me open without raising his voice, for the way concern sounds like a command. For the way that part of me wants to lean closer, to believe that underneath the cruelty there's something softer meant for me. But I know better. He'll never let himself be soft. Not with me. Not with anyone. "If you fall apart," he says instead, his voice steady again, "You'll take the rest of us with you. And I can't let that happen."
He doesn't know. He doesn't know what it is to swallow poison because you're desperate for numbness and reprieve from the echo of your own father's voice. But words die in my throat when his gaze softens, not in kindness â Kaz Brekker doesn't waste himself on kindness â but in a recognition that cuts deeper. "Wylan is alive because of you." His tone leaves no room for argument. "You held him together when there was nothing left to hold. You did what needed to be done."
The air leaves me in a stuttered breath. My hands tremble, not from liquor, but from the weight of his certainty.
Kaz takes another step, and now he's close enough that I can see the faintest tremor in the grip he has on his cane, the control he maintains at all costs. "Don't drown yourself to forget what you did right. That's the luxury of people who don't have blood on their hands." His words cut sharp, but his voice dips â almost human. "You don't have that luxury."
Silence settles, heavy as the chains I'd thought I'd left behind. I want to thank him, scream at him, beg him to let me fall apart just once. Instead, I nod, jaw tight, heart thundering.
When he turns again, retreating into his office, I let the silence swallow me whole. My hand shakes as I set the glass on the floor, drained, useless.
I'm not Kaz's anchor.
He's mine.
Steady, unyielding, unforgiving.
Not my past. Not my future. Not even the hope of returning to a normal life away from the fierce grip of the Barrel.
It's him.
Kaz Brekker will never be anyone's comfort.
But Saints, some part of me still wants him to be mine...
summary: Harry asks about his parents for the first time; you, Sirius, and Remus struggle to answer honestly without breaking his heart, leading to bittersweet comfort.
warnings: wolfstar + reader raising harry au, harry is seven in this, some slut shaming, crying, parental panic, light swearing, nostalgia, reader is referred to as mum, some sad talk, confusion, mentions of death and war, harry is an intelligent kid, fluff, domestic comfort, hurt/comfort.
There were many things flickering through Harryâs mind as he trudged alongside you, one small hand gripping the edge of the cart while you steered it steadily down the crowded aisles.Â
First was the sheer number of peopleâtoo many elbows and shopping bags brushing past, too many shoes squeaking on the tiled floor.Â
Second was the utterly baffling way you, his adoptive mother, had somehow managed to put five different jars of pasta sauce in the basket already.Â
He thought it was ridiculous, though he had long accepted that you had a peculiar fascination with pastaâdifferent shapes, different sauces, entire shelves in the pantry dedicated to nothing but noodles.
But it was the third thought, the heaviest one, that he could not quite shake. It clung to him more stubbornly than the noise of the store or your sauce obsession: the sight of other children walking hand-in-hand with their parents. Not just a parent, but a mum and a dad. A matching set.
Harry was no stupid kid. He knew that families like that were the ordinary ones, the kind you read about in picture books or saw in shop advertisements. He also knew he did not have that. What he had was you, and Remus, and Sirius. What he had was a mother figure and two fathers who were not his real parents, not in the way James and Lily were.Â
James and Lily were goneâhe knew that much. You had never lied to him about it, though you had spared him the darker details.Â
He knew his parents had been betrayed, that they had died when he was too young to remember, and that their faces now lived only in photographs. There was one in particular, framed on his nightstand, that he looked at often before bed: James with his untidy hair, Lily with her kind smile. They waved at him endlessly from behind the glass, never aging, never fading.
Still, there were gaps in his understanding, shadows in the story you had given him.Â
As for you, you had practiced this conversation a hundred different ways, waiting for the day when he would ask why things were the way they were.Â
You had rehearsed how to explain James and Lilyâs sacrifice, how to reassure him that he was loved, how to tell him gently about the strange shape of your family now.Â
What you had not prepared for was Harry halting abruptly in the middle of the cereal aisle, tugging sharply at your sleeve until you stopped, jars clinking in the cart.Â
His green eyes, so piercingly like his motherâs, stared up at you with stubborn determination, and his small voice rang louder than you expected in the hum of the store.
âWhy are my parents dead?â he asked. And then, with hardly a pause,âAnd why do you have two boyfriends instead of one?â
The words echoed down the aisle, bouncing off boxes of Cornflakes. A woman picking up porridge oats glanced over, eyebrows lifting, while a father two steps away froze, pretending suddenly to examine the price of cereal bars.Â
Heat surged to your face. Gosh, how you wishedâprayedâthat this child could have chosen any other time, any other place. But Harry Potter, with his inconvenient bravery, had never been one for timing.
For a moment, you simply froze, his words hanging between the shelves like a curse. Your throat went dry, and you forced your lips into something resembling a smile, though it felt painfully stiff.
âHarry, sweetheart,â you said gently, voice pitched low as though you could soften the edges of the question, âI think itâs better if we talk about this back at home, yeah?â
You glanced around, heart thrumming. Sure enough, the older woman at the far end of the aisle was staring openly, her brows drawn tight in disapproval, lips pursed in that unmistakable lookâthe one that said she had already filed you neatly into the category of disgrace.Â
Her eyes flicked from Harryâs small face to you, lingering with pointed judgment, and shame crawled hot up your neck.Â
She probably thought you were some kind of shameless woman parading two men around your house, corrupting a child with your choices.
But Harry, sweet and unrelenting, was not deterred by your attempt to postpone. His green eyes narrowed in thought, and his questions came sharper, cutting through your nerves.
âIf James and Lily are my real mum and dad, why do I call you mum too? Does that mean you replaced her? Andââ he hesitated, searching for the words, ââwhy do you sleep in the same bed with both Remus and Sirius? How come you have two boyfriends?â
Your breath hitched. Merlin help you.
The old womanâs gaze seemed to grow heavier, as if she were weighing every syllable he uttered. You gripped the trolley handle with white-knuckled hands and pushed forward with brisk determination.
âHarry,â you said firmly, though your voice trembled despite your best efforts, âweâll answer your questions. All of them, but not here. Right now we need to finish shopping, and then weâll go home.â
He frowned, clearly dissatisfied, but fell into step beside you, small legs hurrying to keep up with your suddenly fast pace.Â
The rest of the shopping blurred, your eyes darting nervously toward anyone who might be listening as Harry whispered yet more questions at your side.Â
You tried to hush him gently, offering half-answers meant to reassure but not reveal too much in the middle of a crowded store.
Yes, his mum and dad had loved him. Yes, you, Remus, and Sirius loved him too. No, nothing about him was wrong.
The cashier barely had time to scan the items before you thrust a few notes onto the counter, muttering a rushed thank you as you grabbed the bags. Your pulse was still quick, your face burning, your thoughts scattered.
By the time you ushered Harry out into the drizzle, your only goal was to get him homeâto the safety of walls that did not judge, to Remus and Sirius, to a place where you could finally, properly, explain.
***
You hadnât even set the bags down when you told Harry to go change his clothes once you arrived home. He barely looked at you as he trudged up the stairs, small shoulders weighed down with a seriousness far too heavy for seven years old.
The instant he vanished from view, your body seized, instinct overriding thought. You surged forward, barely aware of your own breath, and burst into the sitting room.
Sirius lay sprawled across the sofa, a blanket tangled around his legs, his chest rising and falling in the cadence of deep sleep. Without hesitation, you seized his shoulder and shook him hard, dragging him out of slumber.
His grey eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep, but one look at your face and all the fog burned away. âWhat is it? Whatâs wrong?â His voice was sharp, already coiled to act.
âRemus! Come here!â you called, your voice louder than you meant it to be.
Within seconds, Remus stepped in from the garden, still brushing dirt from his hands, brow already furrowed in worry.
The two of them converged at once. Sirius swung upright, clutching your wrists. âWhat happened, love? Was it Harry? Are you hurt?â
Remusâs voice was lower, steadier, but no less urgent. âDovey, look at me. Whatâs going on?â
Your throat closed. The whole aisle replayed itselfâthe tug at your arm, the cereal boxes lined up like silent judges, Harryâs wide-eyed questions, and that awful look from the woman down the row. Before you knew it, your chest hit Siriusâs and you collapsed into him, hands clutching his shirt as though youâd drown without something to anchor you.
âOh darlin', what happened?,â Sirius whispered fiercely, wrapping you tight against him. âTell me.â
âItâs notââ You gasped, pressing your face against his chest. âItâs not what you think. Heâs fine. Harryâs fine.â
Siriusâs grip loosened a fraction, though his heartbeat still thundered beneath your cheek. Remus, standing close now, rested a hand at the small of your back.
âThen what frightened you?â Remus asked, carefully.
You pulled back just enough to see both their faces, pale and worried. The words clawed their way out. âHeâsâheâs asking questions. About them. About Lily and James.â
The air seemed to still. Sirius blinked, processing, then frowned. âQuestions?â
âIn the bloody grocery store,â you hissed, voice breaking on the memory. âHe stopped dead and asked why his parents had to die. Why he has two dads and one mum when everyone else has a mum and dad. Why Iâm with both of you. And IâMerlin, I didnât know what to say. I froze. And there was this womanâshe heard everythingâand she looked at me like I was filth, like I was dragging him through someââ Your voice cracked. âShe probably thought I was some whore with two men and no shame.â
Siriusâs jaw flexed. âWho gives a fuck what some old hag thinks?! Let her choke on her tea biscuits.â
But your tears only spilled harder at that, your hands twisting in his shirt. âDonât you see? Itâs not just her. Thatâs what people think about us. Thatâs what Harry sees. He knows weâre not a proper familyââ
Remus stepped in closer, cupping your cheek with one soil-rough hand, forcing you gently to meet his gaze.
His voice was soft but unwavering. âLove, listen to me. Harry isnât asking because he feels something is wrong with us.â
Remusâs thumb brushed gently against your cheek, catching the damp streak left by a tear. His gaze lingered, steady, as if willing you to believe him. âHeâs asking because he knows something about his life is different, and he wants to understand it. Thatâs not rejection. Thatâs curiosity.â
You drew in a shaky breath, eyes flicking down to your hands, knotted together in your lap. Remus waited, patient as always.
âBut what if he thinks I replaced her?!â The fear tumbled out of you, raw and desperate. âWhat if he thinks I took her place, that I made myself his mother when I had no rightâwhen she should be the one here? He had Lily. He had James. And now he has me. What if he resents me for it?â
Sirius grabbed your face in both hands, tilting it toward him. His eyes shone, sharp and wild. âDonât you dare say you had no right. You were there. Youâve raised him. Youâve been the one sitting up when heâs sick, the one making him laugh when heâs down, the one making sure he grows up loved. Youâve given him what the Dark Lord tried to take. Donât erase yourself from his story.â
Your lip trembled. âBut Lilyââ
âLily would thank you,â Remus interrupted gently, firmly. His voice dropped to something rawer, older grief bleeding through. âSheâd thank you for keeping him alive. For making sure he didnât grow up bitter or alone. Sheâd thank you for giving him the chance to be a child.â
The tears spilled over now, hot and helpless. You pressed your face into Siriusâs chest again, muffling your voice. âHe deserves them. Not me. Not this.â
âHe deserves love,â Sirius said, pressing his lips against the crown of your head, his voice low but shaking. âAnd he has it. Thatâs what matters. Not how it looks to strangers.â
âBut what do I even tell him?â you whispered. âHe asked why you two sleep in my room. What am I supposed to say to that? That his mum is some sort ofââ
Remusâs tone softened, his hand firm on your jaw now. âOh, dovey. Stop tearing yourself apart. Youâre not dirty or wrong. Families come in different shapes. Ours happens to look like this. That doesnât make us less real."
Your breath hitched, and your eyes darted away, but he guided you gently back to face him. "What Harry needs is honesty, in pieces he can grasp. That we loved his parents. That we still do. That losing them broke us. That none of us chose this arrangementâit happened because war and grief left us all clinging to each other. "
Your eyes burned, but his hand never faltered, steady as if holding you together by touch alone.
"And that he, above all else, is loved in a way that will never end.â
Sirius kissed your temple again. âHe doesnât need the mechanics. He just needs to know weâre here. That we always will be. And that his mum and dad would have wanted him to be safe, to be surrounded by love.â
Just as Sirius opened his mouth to add something else, the creak of the stairs cut through the room. All three of you turned at once.
Harry padded down, small feet slapping softly against the wood, his pajamas slightly too big for him, sleeves hanging past his wrists. He paused at the bottom step, blinking at the sight of all three of you crowded close together, faces still etched with tension.
âWhereâs the dinner?â he asked, voice curious but faintly accusing. âI thought we went to the store to make pasta.â
The bags were still sitting untouched by the door.
You let out a long sigh and exchanged a look with Sirius. He twisted around in his chair, forcing a crooked smile. âWe are gonna make pasta, kiddo, donât worry. But⊠how about we have a little talk first, yeah?â
Harryâs nose scrunched slightly. âIs this about my questions at the grocery store? Did I bother you with them?â
The guilt hit you all over again like a tidal wave. âNo, sweetheartânever think that you bothered me.â Your voice cracked, and you swallowed it down quickly.
You moved toward him, crouching a little to meet his eyes. âYou didnât upset me. You didnât do anything wrong. I just⊠I just think those are really important questions, and they deserve to be talked about somewhere better than the middle of the cereal aisle. Somewhere like here, at home. Where itâs just us.â
Harryâs shoulders relaxed a little. âOh.â He glanced at the floor, then back at you. âThat makes sense. At home.â
You sat beside him, smoothing a hand over his messy hair, before glancing helplessly at Remus.
It was Remus who broke the silence. His voice was calm, careful, the tone of someone who had prepared lessons for nervous students more times than he could count. âHarry, can you tell us a little bit about how you feel? About what you asked earlier. And maybe what other questions you have.â
Harry fidgeted with the hem of his pajama top, chewing on his lip. âI donât know,â he admitted.
âIt just feels⊠different. At the store, all the kids had their mum and dad with them. And I know I have a mum tooââ he shot you a quick glance before continuing, ââbut I also have two dads. And sometimes people look at us funny. Like that lady in the cereal aisle. She looked at us like we were weird. So I was just⊠wondering why. Why my family isnât like theirs. Why my real mum and dad are gone.â
The words landed heavy in the room, like lead dropped into water. You felt your throat close, tears already threatening.
Sirius shifted beside Harry, bristling visibly, as though he could tear apart every stranger who had ever dared glance at you three the wrong way. But Remus lifted a hand, steadying, before Sirius could interrupt.
âThose are very big questions, Harry,â Remus said softly, leaning in a little. âAnd Iâm glad youâre asking them. Because you should never feel like you canât.â
Harry nodded, small and solemn. His gaze flicked back to you. âDid I make you cry? In the store?â
Your heart shattered. You pulled him into your arms immediately, pressing your lips to his messy hair. âSweetheart, you didnât upset me. You could never. Itâs just that⊠sometimes the questions you ask are so big that I need a moment to figure out the right way to answer them.â
Harry studied you, skeptical but quiet. His voice, when it came, wasnât small at all. âI just donât understand why people stare at us. I mean, I know most families donât look like ours. But why does it matter to them so much? Itâs not like weâre hurting anyone.â
Sirius leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. âIt shouldnât matter. But people notice differences. Theyâre used to seeing one mum and one dad. When they see you with us â a mum and two dads â it challenges what they think is normal. And people donât always handle that well.â
Harry frowned. âSo itâs not really about me. Itâs about them not being able to mind their own business.â
âExactly,â Sirius said, a flicker of pride in his voice. âYouâve got it.â
The silence stretched long after Harry sat down. You could see him working something over in his head, his fingers tugging absently at a loose thread on his pajama sleeve.
âWhat were they like?â
The question landed like a stone in your chest. For a moment, none of you moved. Sirius stared down at his hands, jaw tight. Remus drew in a sharp breath as if to answer, but then he glanced at you.
And suddenly every memory of Lily â her laughter, her quick temper, the way she used to braid your hair when you were both too tired to study â burned behind your eyes.
You swallowed hard and reached for Harryâs hand. âThey were⊠extraordinary, Harry. Your mum was the brightest, sharpest person I ever knew. She could cut someone down with a sentence if she wanted to â but she also had this way of making people feel seen. Really seen. She loved fiercely. And she was stubborn as hell.â You smiled faintly through the ache in your throat.
âShe was my best friend.â
Siriusâs voice was low when he added, âYour dad â James â he was a menace at school. Brilliant on a broom, arrogant as anything. But he grew into someone⊠fierce and loyal. He wouldâve done anything for the people he loved. And he adored you, Harry. Completely.â
Remusâs tone was softer still. âTogether, they balanced each other. Brave, funny, sometimes reckless â but always kind to the ones they love.â
Harryâs eyes flicked between the three of you, searching, almost hungry. He sat with that a long time, then asked the next question, quieter but sharper. âThen why you? Why not⊠Aunt Petunia? Iâve heard people say sheâs still alive.â
The words caught you off guard. You blinked at him, throat suddenly dry. âShe is,â you admitted carefully. âPetunia is â was â your mumâs sister. But she and Lily didnât have an easy relationship.â
Harry tilted his head. âWhat do you mean?â
You exhaled slowly, choosing each word. âThey loved each other in their own way, but Petunia⊠she struggled with how different Lily was. With magic. With the world your mum became part of. They grew apart. It wasnât that Lily didnât care for her, but⊠they werenât close. Not at the end.â
Siriusâs voice cut in, rougher now. âAnd when it came to deciding who would raise you, Harry â there wasnât a question. Your parents wanted you with people who understood their world. People who loved them, and would love you the same way. Thatâs why we promied to keep you safe.â
Harry looked down at his lap, thoughtful. âSo itâs not that she didnât want me. Itâs that⊠they didnât want me with her.â
The honesty of it made your chest ache, but you nodded, squeezing his hand tighter. âThey wanted you surrounded by magic, by stories of them, by people who would never let you forget where you came from. Thatâs why youâre here with us.â
Harry breathed out, a sound between a sigh and a hum. He didnât say anything right away, just leaned into your side.
Finally, almost reluctantly, he murmured, âI think Iâd like to know more stories about them.â
You bent and pressed a kiss into his hair, holding him close. âThen weâll tell you everything we remember. Every story weâve got.â
Sirius reached over, ruffling Harryâs hair with a soft, cracked laugh. âAnd trust me, there are more stories than youâll know what to do with. Your dad gave us plenty of material.â
âAnd your mum gave us all the wisdom we needed to survive it,â Remus added, his voice warm.
Harry yawned, as if the heaviness of the conversation had already begun to tire him out. âYeah. But can we still make pasta? I am a little hungry.â
This time, all three of you laughed, the tension melting just enough. Remus shook his head fondly. âYes, Harry. Weâll still make pasta.â
And as little Harry watched you and Sirius rise to their feet, bickering gently over who would chop vegetables and who would stir the sauce, he turned to find Remus still seated beside him.Â
His adoptive father was already watching him with a quiet, steady smile â the kind that seemed to understand more than words ever could. In Harryâs eyes, that smile held safety. In Remusâs gaze, he saw many pieces of Jamesâs mischief and Lilyâs fire mirrored back in the boy theyâd left behind.Â
And as Harry let his eyes wander between the three of you â the people he might have loved most in his small, complicated world â he realized that even without a mother and father in the way other children had, he had something whole.
He saw plenty of pieces of love, and plenty of what a family ought to be, in the four of you together.
Disclaimer: This does not follow the books nor the show, and uses a lot of my own headcanons for the crows â it might not even make sense, but do I care? Not really.
Tags: @eternallybipanicking @strvngestark
I really love Inej... I hope that is so obvious here, and if not I need to do better. She means so much to me... đ icl i teared up writing her part of this LMAO
Also, spoilers, but â Wesper my loves, you deserve all the happiness...
~~~
Chapter 8: Hearth
~~~
Nina's voice breaks the silence, soft but certain. "You're Ravkan?"
Jesper, still clutching Wylan, raises a different question: "You're religious?"
The silence that follows is louder than the alarm that still wails faintly over the hill. My stomach twists and my throat closes, the words I could say scattering like ash before they can reach my tongue.
I don't answer, but in the crowd of the Crows my eyes find Kaz.
He doesn't speak either, but I can feel his gaze like a weight. He files it away. He'll wait. He always waits.
~~~
"Come on," Kaz's voice breaks the silence. "We shouldn't stay here long." His cane clicks against the cobbles of the alley as he turns to leave.
"But what aboutâ" Jesper's voice cracks, his arms wrapping tighter around Wylan. "The whole point of this job was to take back the product Handel owed us. What's the point if we walk away empty handed? Was Wylan's blood spilled for nothing?" The worry on his face is still evident, sweat shining on his temples as his brow furrows, from which emotion I'm not sure.
"We have enough to last until the next shipment," Kaz doesn't turn back to face us. His tone is sharp, clipped, carrying no more warmth than the damp brick surrounding us. "We did enough damage. They'll understand our message."
No pause. No backward glance. He just keeps walking.
We remain frozen in his wake. The silence left behind tastes heavy and bitter, like iron and smoke. The usual weight Kaz leaves after a job.
Jesper exhales shakily, then let's Matthias ease Wylan from his arms. He needs rest and warmth, maybe a strong drink for the pain when he eventually wakes. Nina hovers close, her hands still trembling as if she can't quite let go of the heartbeat she just kept steady, and I can't blame her.
One by one, they follow Kaz. Their shadows vanish into the dark and then out into the streets of Ketterdam. Life resumes as normalâ
Our normal.
And suddenly, it's just me and Inej in the alley, the air thick with blood and the weight of near loss on our shoulders. The silence speaks louder than either of us ever had before.
Inej moves first. She doesn't speak right away, but I hear the leather of her knee pads scrape against the stones, the ruffle of fabric and clink of hidden blades as she moves closer.
"Ravka," She says softly, word more a question than a statement. "Where in Ravka?"
For a moment, I want to lie. To fold myself small like I did as a child and hide in the shadows as she does. To vanish behind walls of silence and secrecy. But her gentle gaze leaves no room for falsehood.
"A village, in the hills..." I say at last, the words catching in my throat. "Small. Poor. Not really worth remembering." And it's just enough truth to remain hidden.
Her brow furrows, but there's no pity in her face, only recognition. "Neither are the Suliâ worth remembering, if you listen to the Kerch. Yet here we are."
Something tight in my chest loosens, and I let out a sigh. A tear falls from the corner of my eye before I even register it forming. We're more alike than we could ever imagine, than we ever should have been...
She reaches out, tentative, her hand brushing my arm. Not quite a hug, but something close â a tether, thin but steady. "Faith keeps you alive when nothing else will." She whispers, and for a fleeting moment, I believe her.
I want to tell her I understand. That I know what it is to be stolen from your family, to wake each morning with a cage built around your life and identity, to live in fear of what the next sunrise may bring. But the words lodge in my throat like splinters. She doesn't know the extent of my past â and I don't dare give it a voice.
The closeness is quiet, almost fragile. A bond stitched from shared land, shared Saints, the shared ache of never truly belonging.
So I let the silence hold instead, and for once, it doesn't feel empty.
~~~
Back and forth, back and forth, Jesper paces outside of Wylan's room. Restless, he taps a rhythm against the pearl handles of his revolvers. He looks disheveled in a way that Jesper Fahey never allows himself to be. His sleeves shoved messily to his elbows, uneven and wrinkled, his shirt dotted with blood that isn't his â spinning too fast and unraveling at the seams.
He spots me and forces a crooked smile. "You nearly took my head off back there, you know?" His words are his usual shield, but his voice betrays him, trembling. They fall flat between us and the silence is louder than any usual retort. His eyes flicker back and forth from me to the door, like he's listening for every beat of the heart inside.
I don't answer. I can't. The weight of my gaze puts a pause in the whirlwind that is Jesper Fahey, afraid of stopping long enough to feel the weight of what he almost lost. And for a moment, he looks very young â not the sharpshooter, not the gambler. Just a boy moving way too fast.
My body moves before my mind. I step forward and pull him into a hug. He freezes, and then collapses, letting out a breath that sounds as if he'd been holding it since we left the storehouse. It shudders, desperate, clinging on tighter than he means to.
"He needs you calm." I whisper, and it's like Nina slows his heart rate long enough for him to think straight. Words he needed to hear. He nods against my shoulder.
"Saints help me," He lets out a breathy relief of a laugh. "I think I want to keep him forever."
I don't need to see his face to understand the weight of his confession, soft but certain, like he'd already made the decisions in his bones.
Forever.
The word sinks into me, and as he pulls away I watch him, the way his hands still tremble, the way his eyes soften with each sign of Wylan stirring inside his room.
Forever.
For once, Jesper Fahey has no punchline ready â just the quiet, unsteady truth.
And I think, Saints, if anyone deserves forever, it's these two.
Forever.
I try to ignore the way the word tugs at me, heavy, unsettling.
Because wasn't that what Kaz had done with me?
Kept me close year after year. Without asking, without reason, without promise. Never letting me go, but never letting me close enough either. I don't know if he'd ever let me go. Like a curse, Kaz brekker had pulled me out of my darkness and deep into his own.
Jesper wants forever and it terrifies him. I already have it and it terrifies me more.
Jesper finally loosens his grip, his laugh still unsteady and his eyes still wide with too many thoughts â but there's something new in his face now â determination.
His eyes meet mine and I nod. "Go."
He slips away through the door, and I'm left staring at the space he'd filled. The weight of forever coils tight in my chest. He wants it so badly.
The silence presses in until I can't stand it. My feet carry after him until I find them together â Jesper kneeling low, Wylan's complexion pale but he smiles through the weariness, his hand already caught tight in Jesper's.
The image of what forever should be.
I linger in the doorway for a moment before stepping closer.
Wylan's gaze shifts, finding me with startling clarity. The world narrows to those deep, determined eyes. He tries to lift his hand, it trembles halfway and I catch it, holding the fragile weight of his fingers in mine.
"I don't remember much, butâ you didn't let go." He whispers. His voice is raw, frayed at the edges, but steady enough to carve through me. My throat tightens. I squeeze his hand, as if that could anchor us both.
"No," I whisper. "I didn't. I never would."
His grip is weak, but the look he gives me carries more strength than any words. And for him, I could almost believe forever might be possible.
