“What a sight that would be!” Rafe remarked, pushing himself up from the table. He clapped a hand on Figaro’s shoulder and squeezed. “I doubt mum’s reaction will be any better, Figgy.” Zelda’s ‘don’t talk to aurors’ mantra certainly stretched to keeping away from the press too. It was, no doubt, a grave concern to her that their son had suddenly joined that nosy clan of wixes.

Rafe grabbed his cup full of too sugary tea and half a tea logged gingerbread hippogriff, and moved around the table to pour it down the sink.
“How about you go have a rest? I’ll man the guard station, and you rest up. Not gonna lie, kiddo, you look rung out.” Besides, what else could Rafe say at the moment? Sure, he was softer than Zelda, and could give a great hug, but did Fig really want to be smothered by his dad’s affection then? He looked ready to collapse in a heap. “I’ll wake you for dinner, but be prepared, I spotted cabbage in the cooler. Just saying.” He turned and raised his eyebrows. They both knew what that meant. Best get the nose pegs ready.

Rafe made his son smile. Figaro always felt bad for anyone who crossed his mother, including himself. Aurors, reporters, werewolf safehouse invaders, bone-crackers. It did make him feel slightly better to be reminded, that his mother would sooner burn the house down than let anyone enter unbidden. And his dad hid it, but Rafe was rougher than he looked.

Though his thoughts were still dizzying as his mind reached and stretched to find some way that this made sense, to settle on what to feel, he realized a rest would be welcome. There wasn't any kind of spell, legal or otherwise, that gave a true night's sleep. It had now been forty-eight hours since he'd had good and pure shut-eye.

He got to standing more careful than he needed to.

"If it's cabbage soup, you won't need to wake me up," Figaro said. He got this flash of a memory from even before he was old enough for Hogwarts, of getting his favorite food when he was ill. He'd been in a terrible attack, people were dead, his mum was on a warpath, and he got his favorite supper. Life was strange.

Before he left the kitchen, he paused like he was supposed to say something. He sighed and scratched the back of his head. Then he looked at his dad and just shrugged. What was there to say. Thank you? Rafe'd never accept it, and it didn't seem like enough.

And with that, he wandered away to get some rest. Maybe he'd sleep for twelve hours.

Fin