Dora's singing had always comforted James through his worst times sleeping. He could remember countless nights of her hugging him, holding him, singing and sipping tea together - or, at least, he used to be able to remember those times. Now, he lay in bed, her arms cradling his head as she sang, and he had to push the memories of Voldemort's face - pale, with red eyes - cutting in the place where Dora's ought to be.

James winced as Voldemort's cackle echoed through his brain like thunder in dark electrical clouds. He shivered, even as she brushed the hair from his forehead softly. He fought to push Voldemort's low voice away - hanging onto his mum as she sang quietly to him instead.

"...Baby mine, don't you cry... Baby mine, dry your eyes... Rest your head close to my heart, never to part, baby of mine... Little one when you play, don't mind what you say, let those eyes sparkle and shine... never a tear, baby of mine..."

"Mum?" he asked, voice raw from the sickness.

"What, my Jamesy?" she asked soothingly.

James's eyes stayed closed. "It isn't the Dragon Pox I've got... is it?"

Dora went quiet, the sound of her singing stopped and her fingers stilled against his forehead. 

"Mum?" James asked, opening his eyes to look up at her, half expecting Mopsus had frozen time. But Dora was staring down at him, her eyes soppy with tears, her lips twisted into a frown. "Oh honey," she whispered, "No... No it isn't the Pox."

"How'd'y'know?" he asked.

"You have the flu, honey," she whispered, "Maybe a touch of strep throat. Not dragon pox."

"But how'd'y'know?"

She said, "You're not smoking, honey, it starts as smoke as the flint begins to build. The fever comes after the smoke, James." 

"P-Promise?" he croaked.

"With all of my heart," Dora nodded. "And you'd feel it all in your chest, but you seem to be struggling most from a head ache?"

James nodded.

"Well see, darling, then you can be certain it isn't the Pox." Dora's voice was so soft and so gentle, he let himself fall into the certainty she held in her voice. 

He closed his eyes a moment.

"You are well," she whispered, "And we'll have this flu knocked out of you soon enough and you'll be back to being one hundred percent, tip-top shape."

James opened his eyes again. "Mum?"

"Yes, Jamesy?"

"When you and dad were - were trying to have a kid and - before me - when you were - having trouble," James hated how much it hurt to say the words - both because of his throat being raw and because of his heart being raw, "Why - why was it hard to - to have a kid? What was the - the problem?" 

Dora flushed, "I don't know, sweetheart. It wasn't meant to be until we had you, I suppose." She brushed hair from his forehead.

"Lily and I went and got checked mum," he whispered heavily, struggling to keep his eyes open, "They said I'm inadequate. I'm not -" James paused, suddenly realizing he didn't really want to discuss details with his mum about this topic. He paused, then amended, "They said it's not likely to happen, mum."

Dora considered this for a moment, a frown turning her mouth. "Not likely and impossible are two very different things... yes?"

"Yeah," he answered.

She shrugged, "Then have faith and you'll have your own miracle, just like we had ours."

James stared up at her. The assurance with which she'd answered him... the certainty in her eyes... "Thanks mum."

Dora kissed his forehead. "This is what mums are for, sweetheart."

James closed his eyes again, sighing, feeling some of the weight that had been on him leaving, and she cradled his head, brushing his hair back with her fingers, smiling at him. Then she whispered, very softly, "Once, you were so tiny that I held the whole of you just the way I'm holding just your head now. I remember how small you felt."

"I'm still small on the inside, mum," he murmured.

Remus was reading in bed when Sirius arrived back to the flat in East London, climbed up onto the bed beside him, and curled into his husband's side, pressing his face into Remus's shoulder, wrapping his body around Remus's. Remus kept reading, absently sliding his arm around Sirius's body and settling in, turning the page as Sirius nuzzled against Remus's chest. 

"Mmm Moony," Sirius murmured into Remus's pyjama top, which was flannel despite the warmth of summer air coming through the window. "You feel like what French Toast tastes like."

Remus paused reading at this, lowering the book to his lap and thinking about the words Sirius had just said. He glanced at Remus. "What?"

"You know what I mean."

"I do?"

"Yeah. You know when you have french toast how it's just so warm and comfy and comforting?" Sirius's foot slid between Remus's legs, running along his shin and calf through the flannel pyjama bottoms. "That's what you feel like."

"Thanks, I think," Remus said with a chuckle.

Sirius hummed happily and closed his eyes. "I love you with all of my heart, Moony."

"I love you, too, Sirius."

Sirius closed his eyes and Remus smiled and lifted his book back up, re-emerging himself in the text. He paused again, lowering the book a second time. "Sirius?"

"Mmm?"

"There's an arts show at the school next week. They're showcasing work done all last year, and my friend Stewie has some pieces that are gonna be in the show. Lula invited me to go and see the stuff he's done - there's apparently some really amazing pieces of his that are going to be showcased, and to maybe get a bite to eat afterward. What do you think?"

"About what?"

"About if we both went together?"

"Alright, sure," Sirius murmured, and he snuggled all the more into Remus's chest. "Are any of your pieces going to be showed off?"

"No, I haven't done anything worth displaying yet," Remus answered, "I've only been in the class for three weeks."

"What are they scared your art will make the other kids ashamed they aren't as good as you are?" Sirius asked.

Remus shook his head, "No, certainly not, my stuff is mediocre compared to some of the other amazing work that's being made there. Like Stewie's fantasty unrealism as he calls it, gosh it's so amazing, Sirius, you'll really love it."

"Not -- not as much as -- as I love even your stick figures," Sirius answered Remus, words broken apart by a wide yawn.

Remus laughed, "Well, you're horribly biased."

"I am sleeping with the artist," Sirius murmured.

Remus shook his head and kissed the top of Sirius's forehead.

Sirius was quiet a moment, and Remus lifted his textbook again. 

Sirius's one eye popped open, looking up at Remus. "How interested in that textbook are you, by the by?"

Remus looked down at Sirius - a grin was breaking over his husband's face, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Remus tossed the book aside. "Not very," he answered and Sirius's grinned widened as he rolled over, fully awake, and straggled Remus so that he was kneeling, one leg on either side of his abdomen. Remus said, "You are far more interesting than art history."

"I think so too," Sirius said, and he started unbuttoning Remus's flannel pyjama top. "But then again, I think most things are more interesting than art history, so there's that."

Remus chuckled as Sirius bent forward and pressed a deep kiss against Remus's mouth.

"Turns out, Moonpie, you're better than French Toast," Sirius said.

"I wish we knew what work Regulus did against the Dark Lord - that would be an excellent starting place, I'll bet." Oni Lamm was sitting on the floor across from Peter Pettigrew in his bedroom in the flat in East London. He'd cast a silencing charm on the door so that Sirius and Remus wouldn't over hear them and further os that he and Oni could not over hear Remus and Sirius who, last he'd been able to over hear of them, were not exactly being very quiet.

Peter nodded, "I suppose, but I don't know where we'd even start to look for something like that." He paused, looking around the room, "There wasn't much here when he -- I mean, when I took over the room and all."

"He had a journal on the nightstand," Oni said, "In the hospital, I mean. When I was there. I remember seeing his journal."

"He did?" Peter didn't remember anything about the short time he'd seen Regulus there.

"Yes, he did," Oni nodded, "So whoever has his personal effects - they would have his journal."

"Well it's probably Sirius, then," Peter said, "It's probably here in the flat somewhere." He thought for a moment, "Perhaps the bookshelf in the living room?"

"I thought of that," Oni said. "I peeked over there last night when I snuck out of here. They're all boring text books and novels and stuff."

"Maybe he has it in his room," Peter said. "There's a picture in there that Remus drew of Regulus, a portrait that Sirius thinks can talk so maybe he has all the things together and --"

"Wait. Did you just say there's a portrait of Regulus that can talk?"

"Yeah, but it's not very fluent yet. He's only said a couple things, I guess. Sirius said it sneezed or it blessed him when he sneezed or something like that, I don't reckon it's said much else or Sirius would be on and on about it." Peter shrugged. 

"But if we could get that portrait and get it to talk... We could teach it to talk... then it could tell us what Regulus was doing against the Dark Lord all this time since December, couldn't it?"

"Does it work like that?"

"I think so," Oni said, though she really wasn't sure. "Do you reckon you could nick it?"

"Nick the portrait? From Sirius?" Peter stammered, "Nick the portrait of his dead brother from him?"

"It's for the good of everyone that we do, Peter," Oni pressed, "We could save the wizarding world with the information that he gives out besides all that." 

Peter shifted uncomfortably. "But isn't that sort of like stealing?"

"It's exactly like stealing," Oni said, "But like I said, it's for the greater good, and what's Sirius doing with it really? He didn't even really like Regulus, did he? Always treated him so awful. Maybe the portrait hasn't talked to Sirius because Regulus didn't trust Sirius."

Peter hadn't thought of that. "Well," he said slowly, "I suppose. But I'm not going to get it right now - they're in the middle of ... things. I'll get it tomorrow and we cam have a look at it tomorrow night, alright?"

Oni nodded. "And see if you can spot the journal, too," she said. "I think we'll find out a lot more about You Know Who and Grindelwald if we look there."

They talked a bit longer, exchanging things they'd found out about Grindelwald since they'd last met up and talked - though neither had found much else that they hadn't already known, and Peter felt frustrated and nervous as he let Oni out the door for the night. It was quiet in Remus and Sirius's room, the lights all out, and Oni paused on the steps outside under the moonlight to remind Peter to try at getting he portrait as soon as possible. He'd nodded and watched her sprint away down the alley toward the road, headed home.

He lay in bed shortly after, staring at the ceiling and told himself again and again - stealing the portrait wasn't right, but it was necessary, and it really was for the greater good.