Feliks reached for the mug, first tracing the impression of the dog pattern with the tips of his fingers. The kitchen was nice. It was bigger than the one in the Cottage but it reminded him of what it was like to sit down at breakfast with the other children - not counting the fact that they took turns making meals for the house as part of their squib tutelage. He drank the cocoa. Just a little sip and then a long, hungry swallow… and another…

The man called Johann was talking about aubergines and lemon curd, so Feliks put down his mug. He’d finished it all at once in spite of how hot the drink had been. “Yes, please.”

Everything smelled delicious. He would rather think about food than about his father.

“Ten o'clock.” Feliks answered studiously, remembering the time from the drawing room clock when he arrived last night. “Sister Larisa brought me. We rode a train from Moscow to London. Then she… what is the word in English? Apparated? In the forest.”

He fidgeted in his seat while he spoke, giving in to the temptation to poke at the butter dish that was dancing past him with the jars of honey and jams. It clattered to the surface, affronted, and he giggled.

The Sisters never let their kitchen things do anything magical. Feliks reached for the jam and, once it was in his grip, examined it to see if it was strawberry or raspberry. Raspberry. He picked up a spoon.

“Then she left.” Feliks dug out a gooey globule of red and stuck into his mouth, finally looking up at the dark-haired wizard with obvious curiosity. He let the sour-sweet taste linger on his tongue. “You live here with my papa…?”

“I do,” Johann replied, his brows lowering in mild disapproval at Feliks’ spooning of the jam. “Normally we spread jam on toast or bread.” He corrected his young charge, “here.” His wand bobbed down and up and the toast from the fire shot over the young wizard’s curls and piled on a waiting plate. “Use a knife…?” Another subtle gesture with the wand nudged the relevant cutlery towards Feliks. He shook his head in a good natured way, and added “eggs are nearly ready.”

A minute later he joined Feliks at the table, sat opposite, the army of breakfast materials between them on the table. Two eggs had found their home on the plate in front of Feliks, and another onto the one before Johann. Given the speed the toast was disappearing, more of it had been summoned to the fire.

“My name is Johann Storm,” he introduced himself properly to Feliks, “and I love your … papa… very much.” It felt odd to call Balfour that, rather than uncle or cousin. “He is surprised to see you. Your mother…” Johann frowned and shook his head, deciding not to continue his sentence, to tell Feliks that she’d neglected to mention his existence. “Well, it’s all just a bit of a surprise. We will have some breakfast, and then see what we need to do.” He gave Feliks a smile, though it was a bit past genuine now, trying to hide worry.

“Have you been to Britain before? To England, or … Scotland?”

Feliks lowered his spoon, carefully adjusting to Johann’s suggestions as they settled down to eat. He messily scrapped some jam on the toast and bit into it…. tasty but not as tasty as the jam by itself. Still, he continued in this way and started shredding bits of bread to eat with the eggs. Johann Storm. That was the kind of name you read in fairy tales! Feliks liked it immediately.

He used a fork to break the runny yolks, watching the deep yellow slowly bleed out.

“No,” he pushed his food around the plate for a moment before shoving lots into his mouth. “We don’fp…” a hasty swallow, “We don’t leave the kottedzh. Not until we are grown. I can only leave because I am not a squib.”

It wasn’t hard to see that the grown-ups were worried about something. Feliks was also worried. He didn’t expect to come live with two wizards in a big house full of creatures; the other children described their families differently. And nobody ever mentioned jellyfish on their ceilings.

“Are you going to send me back?” he asked, rushing the words, because now he wasn’t as hungry as he’d been in the drawing room and he kept thinking that his father would come back to send him away.

Footsteps in the corridor outside the kitchen caused Feliks to look up, alert.

Balfour burned through his first cigarette quickly, watching the three dogs go about their morning business. He lit another and stared out across the grey estate like a man in a dream. The cold did not disturb him.

A son. A son, by Ira Almasy. This was a nightmare, not a dream. What kind of fellow was he that he went around having children without knowing it? What kind of woman was she, to keep a child away from its birthright, and a father from his own flesh? He didn’t want to believe this was genuine but Balfour had to consider the possibility that the boy sitting down to breakfast this very moment might actually be the real deal. The thought nauseated him.

Not Feliks, of course. Poor thing looked like a frightened bowtruckle . Bal couldn’t help feeling guilty about his reaction in the drawing room. It was a lot to take in.

The second cigarette burned down to the bud and he let it drop, careful not to step on it with his barefeet. Whiskey and the two huskies came up to him - whining at having been out a bit too long with the drizzle coming down. He rubbed their eager heads distractedly and turned to go back inside. This wasn't just nightmarish, it was ridiculous.

How dare she. Eleven years. Eleven years, he’d seen her and slept with her and spoken to her and dined with her, eleven fucking years, and not once had she slipped up. Not even hinted, joked, implied. It was like she’d flung the boy into a godsforsaken hole for eleven years and forgotten about him, and Balfour was suddenly infuriated by the fact that she was dead.

It robbed him of his right to strangle her to death.

Before he knew it, he was at the archway that led into the kitchen. Ivoire and Sangre ran ahead to bother at legs under the table while Whiskey, sensing the imminent emotional climate, cowered closer to Johann whose back faced the arch.

Feliks was staring at Balfour with a quiet, agitated expression. There was yolk all over his mouth and crumbs on his sweater. The smell of home and tea. Something magical hissed in the air and, not for the first or last time in this manor, the plates on the shelves cracked!.

And right before his eyes, he saw Feliks’ hair turn almost black. The boy reached across the table to grab Johann’s hand anxiously, legs drawn up onto the chair in surprise.

“Sorry, that wasn’t-” Balfour stepped forward cautiously, “- that wasn’t for you, Feliks. I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere, it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

How could he answer that question? Because if he was Balfour’s flesh and blood, the answer would be no, but if he was not, then they would have to try and find out who he did belong to. Someone could be missing their son for the sake of Ira’s terrible decisions about children. Honestly, it wasn’t so much of a surprise that she’d be such an awful mother. Johann had always thought if she had children she’d have drowned them at birth if they got that far.

He was inwardly relieved not to have to answer as Balfour’s footsteps interrupted the conversation, but at the same moment, the worry pit in his stomach seemed to deepen, his ears trying to read Balfour’s mood from his footsteps alone. The dogs’ claws skittered across the flagstone floor of the kitchen as they ran in ahead of their master.

The plates on the shelves around them cracked in near unison. Johann sat suddenly straight, cutlery clattering to his breakfast. His shoulders dropped with disappointment at his lover, and he was about to turn when a sticky hand grasped at his right hand. He looked up at Feliks in surprise, and double-took again at his hair. Was this genuine fright or put on for show?

Without letting to, Johann turned to look up and round at Balfour, blinking in quick succession. The other wizard’s face was relaxing, like he had been frowning deeply, as he tried to explain to Feliks.

“No, he’s not.” Johann confirmed, glancing back to the younger wizard. He gave the sticky hand a reassuring squeeze, much as he had to Balfour not more than fifteen minutes before. “And the crockery will mend. Again.” He looked back to Balfour knowingly. “Come, come sit.” He extended his left arm to him to sit beside.

“We were just having eggs, and,” Johann glanced at the open jam jar to confirm the one he had caught Feliks spooning out of, “raspberry jam. Have some tea.” The teapot and mugs hadn’t given Balfour a chance to refuse, pouring out with a bubble of water. The sugar bowl bobbing towards the wizard suggestively as Johann’s left hand unobtrusively rubbed reassuringly at Balfour’s tense back.

“Did you want some more cocoa, Feliks, or some tea instead?” Johann asked, delaying the inevitable, but doing what he imagined his mother might do in this situation. Looking after people. Tea was exactly what people needed in shock.

“Been here all night, haven’t you? All the way on the train from Moscow before that. Quite the adventure for a young man who’s never been away from the cottage.” He glanced to Feliks, “I think that’s the English, by the way - kottedzh.” He gave the younger man a wink and withdrew his hand so he could attend to the toast which was burning behind. No better than Grizelda, in the circumstances.

“Did you want some eggs too, my love?” Johann asked, given they’d wolfed down what he’d cooked so far. “I’ll put some on, maybe let you explain where he is…?” He gave Balfour a prompt, getting to his feet. Before he stepped away he left a gentle kiss on Balfour’s cheek, as much for reassurance to his love as demonstration to Feliks of it.

Balfour helped himself to several spoons of sugar, desperate for something to do with his hands while Johann admirably attempted to juggle his attention between unstable points. A sense of equilibrium had returned to their surroundings, kitchen cutlery jumping noisily to life and the dogs pestering them for scraps off the table.

            “Tea, please.” Feliks’ voice came out lower and softer than before. His dark eyes followed Johann anxiously, lingering on the familiar affection that warmed Balfour’s cheek. Some of the wariness between them dissipated.

He tapped the teapot, giving it a nudge to decant another cup of the brew for their young guest. Feliks seemed torn between watching the two men and eating a haphazard plate of breakfast foods.

“I’ll have some eggs, aye.” Bal sipped his tea thoughtfully, absorbing everything that his lover was trying to convey in a casual fashion. It seemed remarkable that the poor thing had been here all evening without them realising it!  But no less remarkable than the sum of his odd tale, if it was true, from conception to belated arrival. A long journey indeed.

Balfour cleared his throat and tried to set himself to the task at hand. It was difficult. What did they teach these Almasy squibs? Did the bairn have any notion of geography, wizarding families?

“I take it you believe that I’m your father…” he began, giving Feliks a chance to offer a serious nod in return.
            “Balfour Spectre,” the boy spoke his name like he was both eager and terrified to say it.

“Yes. I am the head of an old clan - that is, an old Scottish family. This is our ancestral home as well as my personal residence.” Balfour lifted his gaze to the ceiling, indicating the roof under which they now warmed themselves. “We aren’t very far from the city of Edinburgh, if you know where that is.”

Another serious nod. Small hands clasping the sides of a mug. Balfour mirrored this, encouraged by the listening silence and the background sounds of eggs sizzling in a cast-iron pan. Whiskey nudging affectionately at his leg.

“If you really are my… my son, then this is also your home. And either way you’re more than welcome to this table right now.” Gods, didn’t that sound bizarre to say out loud? My son.

“Do you know who your mother is?” he asked at last, addressing an elephant that only he and Johann could quite see. “Have you ever met her?”

Feliks did not trust himself to talk, at first.

He ignored his food, even though he was still a little hungry, and tried to drink his tea. It was bitter. The sugar bowl wiggled a bit in his direction so he followed his father’s example and added three teaspoons with quick aplomb. That was to say, if Balfour Spectre was his papa.

The Sisters told him so, and Feliks believed them. But he had read enough books to know that nobody can be right about everything all of the time. Maybe it was a ploy to get rid of him.

“They say my mother is called Ira.” Feliks forced himself to answer, voice trembling with uncertainty under the wizard’s observant gaze. “I never…” he shook his head and looked down at the table with a swallow. “She never came to visit. Sometimes, the families, they visit.”

The lucky children at the Cottage got to see their parents, their brothers and sisters. Feliks had envied them. He looked into his tea, at his reflection in the dark surface.

“They say she wasn’t good, my mama.” He peered up at Balfour and then glanced over his shoulder to see if Johann was still listening - that made him feel safe. Feliks wanted to tell them everything he could think of about his mother but he didn’t know anything at all.  “Um. They say she left me these clothes. And my shoes.”

Johann took care to give them space, but be close enough to listen and support as he broke more eggs, and the toast repiled on the table within arm’s reach of the other two. He beat eggs, milk with salt and pepper in a bowl as quietly as he could manage while the dogs milled back and forth between them. Johann chose to ignore their requests to be fed in the short term. He had learned that they should always eat after their masters to help keep the pecking order in the pack, and right now he was also rather distracted with the incredibly important conversation at the table.

“They say she wasn’t good, my mama.” Johann’s expression had darkened at the stove but he did his best to straighten his expression as his observant eyes caught the twist of the younger man’s shoulders.

The thought of Ira and Balfour had always sickened him. Entering into a relationship with Balfour had introduced Johann to an entirely new side of life and love which had been rather disorienting. To fall in love with someone for the very first time was exhilarating and often overwhelming. But also know that they had shown affection and shared themselves with others before, others who could cause such horror, chilled Johann. If the two of them were not what seers might describe as soulmates, Ira might have torn them apart for her own pleasure.

Her death had been like sun breaking through winter clouds, and now a chill wind had returned.

“... These clothes…”

“And very fine they are too.” Johann reassured Feliks, lightening his tone and nudging the scrambled eggs in the pan to check their readiness. He glanced to Balfour, read the discomfort in the lines and drew breath.

“We knew your mother,” he informed Feliks. “And yet we hardly knew her at all.”

He wanted to solve this for Balfour, to make everything right. They wanted family, and those conversations were full of joy. This was not how it was meant to begin, but like all the tests of their faith so far, they would weather it. Together. He scraped the eggs from the pan and brought them to the table, reclaiming his seat beside Balfour, laying a cool hand on his lover’s leg.

Was it beastly of him to want to burn everything left behind by Ira Almasy? Everything but the child. Balfour was starting to realise that the creature sat across the kitchen table was putting a monumental effort into maintaining composure - he clearly wanted them to like him. And why wouldn’t he? In Ira’s his shoes, believing that this was his new family? His only family.

“Your mother was a complex witch.” Balfour glanced up at Johann, who was returning with a plate of scrambled eggs still steaming. “I won’t lie to you, she did terrible things to innocent people.”

He reached for his fork, digging into his breakfast whilst composing his thoughts. They had to be careful with how they approached this; there was information about Ira only he and his lover knew, and that someone as young as Feliks shouldn’t have to deal with. So much of this hung on the fact that they simply didn’t know for certain whether the boy was a Spectre.

“I promise,” he told Feliks in a quiet voice, “we are going to get this sorted out, alright? Eat your food. Don’t worry.” Bal took a wolfish bite of eggs and then reached for Johann’s hand, on his leg. “Darling do you think you could….?”

Apprehensively, he turned his gaze to the other wizard. “Whatever it is you need from the office. And if you still have the paper from May, that too.”

It took a good twenty minutes to return to the kitchen, and Johann was anxious that every second of it had probably felt like a lifetime to both who waited for him. He had left in a dressing gown, leaving an empty plate and a kiss upon Balfour’s cheek. He’d returned rather more respectably dressed given where he’d been. Yesterday’s shadow was only more clear against his pale face for the trip. There was no more stalling for tea and eggs, no more pretending reality wasn’t happening.

Half a dozen colleagues had greeted him on his journey through the Monday morning Ministry, and it had been disorientating both for the hangover and to wave off their well wishes for Knox and Carr, their queries about why he was late in, then their confusion why he was visiting on a day off. He had been about to sign the necessary kit away with Hamilton’s name again to avoid questions, but given the gravity of the situation back in Edinburgh, he’d signed his own. There was enough deception one could stomach on a morning.

Johann set the walnut case down on the end of the kitchen table, and laid a oversized manilla envelope beside it. He felt a little sick for glancing at her photo to be sure he had the right copy of The Prophet inside.

He looked from Feliks to Balfour and gave a nervous smile. He gestured to the chairs at the end of the table either side of him, electing not to take a seat himself.
“Will you join me?” He asked gently, and waited, fingertips resting on the grain of the table.

“This,” he explained, with the care of a teacher introducing a live specimen, “is relation elixir.” He unlatched the lid and began to set out three shallow bowls, an envelope and a stoppered brown bottle. A parchment roll of instructions was the only other item left inside the box with the Ministry’s brand etched into the wood, but the linguist left it inside. Regrettably, he’d become more accustomed to using this potion than many of his colleagues. He only hoped, looking to Balfour, that he’d react better than cousin Ignan. At least Feliks wasn’t facing this alone.

“It will confirm if there is a relation between you both,” Johann explained, reaching for the brown bottle to pour three small measures of pale cloudy potion into the bowls set out in a neat row between them. His hands were steadier than he expected them to be, already calculating possible outcomes and reactions. Which direction he might have to throw a hex if all went sour, and Feliks was not quite the innocent child he portrayed over mouthfuls of egg and spoonfuls of raspberry jam. No encores, he’d told her.

“I need a drop of blood from you both and a specific piece of parchment. It’s just a prick, I promise.” He gave Feliks a reassuring look, setting down the bottle which reeked of lakewater and aniseed. “We will drop one from you into each,” he continued, meeting the younger man’s gaze, and then “one from you into two of them,” he told Balfour. “The third I’ll add my own, as a control that should show no result by turning black.” Johann shuffled his balance. “If you’re any relation, it will turn another colour, and if orange, then it confirms what Feliks has been told, that you are direct relations, father and son.”

He inhaled, and adjusted his wand in his right hand, nerves beginning to jangle. “You both understand?” He asked them, prepared to explain in as best Russian as he could if not, “Alright, Feliks. May I have your hand?” He extended his cold left hand, palm uppermost.

Feliks, who was used to doing as he was told, continued with his breakfast. He did not want Johann to leave him all alone with Balfour Spectre… but he wasn’t truly alone: there were three dogs, at least, and also the three cats who dawdled into the kitchen as soon as the dark haired wizard had left. Feliks watched them while he busily chewed on alternating bites of jammy toast and egg.

They ate in silence. His papa finished first and poured more tea for them both. After Feliks swallowed down the last of his food, he began to clear the plates.

“You don’t have to do that.” Balfour placed a hand over his just as he reached to put away the jam jars, and the young wizard immediately pulled back, jolted by the touch. “I’ll do it. That’s what magic is for, don’t you know?”

Was it? The Sisters never used their magic very much, for the benefit of his peers at the Cottage.


By the time Johann came back, the long table was relieved of its burdens and Feliks was helping feed the animals by shaking chunks of tuna out of an oily can. The cats swarmed around his legs. They were so noisy! He didn’t know cats could be so noisy: they seemed very elegant, in books.

Johann looked serious, dressed as he was. Feliks left the cats in their corner and padded over to the table with a solemn face. His father, on the other side of the table, did the same. They both sat in unison and without looking away from the case that held all their answers.

            “You both understand?”

Yes. He hesitated for a second, mumbling the rules to himself to be sure, and then stretched his hand to the one being offered. Johann was cold. Feliks squeezed his eyes shut - not that he was afraid of being pricked. He was only afraid of what would happen if he wasn’t a Spectre.

Balfour was more than a little amused by their wee guest. He had godsawful taste in food - who in Odin’s name ate raspberry jam with their eggs? - and stared at the pets like he’d never seen so many in one place before. Maybe he hadn’t. The more one thought about this Cottage place, the more worried one became. Couldn't possibly be humane to throw all your Squibs in one spot and ignore them all your life; your own bloody family.

It seemed ages before Johann returned and yet it couldn’t have been any more than a half hour. The cosy kitchen was transformed into a more sombre place, as a result of seeing his partner dressed for work and accompanied by professional articles.

With the Fates and the dogs fed, they wouldn’t be disturbed. Balfour nodded his affirmation to the procedure behind the relation elixir - neither he nor the bairn able to speak.

The rest of their respective lives were to be decided in the next few moments. After Feliks had nervously allowed Johann to squeeze a few drops of blood from his finger, it was Balfour’s turn. He used his wand to prick his own digit and then followed suit.

That was that. The Scotsman sucked his ring finger gingerly, not realising that Feliks was doing the same with his own miniature wound. “Let’s do this,” he intoned and met Johann in the eye.

Johann nodded, dropping one of his own in the third bowl from a slender fingertip. He waved his wand with precision, warming the bowls gently, before setting it down on the table before him. Both hands free, he reached for the little envelope, squeezing it open. Johann counted to twenty under his breath, bright blue eyes darting between the two of them, measuring their reaction. Was it his imagination, or had Feliks begun to sport more prominent cheek bones than when he had left?

“... twenty.” Johann uttered more audibly, dragging his eyes from studying Feliks in mild alarm. He neatly dropped a tiny slip of paper into each bowl from the envelope before dropping it back to the table, closed. Three curly heads drew inwards to better observe the results of the gently spinning parchment. Slowly each piece began to absorb and sink into the cloudy and bloody potion. The first two were lightening, and the third was darkening. Johann’s heart began to thump, and his hands went out to grip a shoulder belonging to each of the other two, without consciously realising what he was doing, or that his wand was instinctively back in his hand.

Orange, orange, black.