What an absolute tip. If Rafe didn’t know any better, he’d say that the occupant of this flat had been dragged up in a hovel living with a bunch of hags who didn’t know how to clean themselves. But nope, the occupant had been brought up by him and his clean and tidy wife. The occupant had been forced to tidy his room regularly and wandlessly throughout his upbringing. But the occupant was Figaro Sellaphix and he was as scruffier than the current state of Rafe’s beard.

Fig’s wards had been as poor as the tidiness of his flat and Rafe had broken in almost instantaneously. To see what? A Figaro styled explosion contained within 4 walls. 4 walls that were really close together and felt closer because the floor was littered with junk and dirty clothes. It was little more than a bedsit. Probably only a tad smaller than what Rafe and Zelda had first had in Manchester all those years ago. The untidiness, surprisingly, set Rafe at ease. Figaro couldn’t have changed that much in the past few years. Or so he hoped.

By the time there was the sound of movement outside, Rafe had already tidied and cleaned the small room that his son now called home. Rafe had considered they might drink some tea, but figured they would both need something far stronger than tea today. Odd, he’d never had a drink with his son. The bottle of firewhiskey that he’d brought with him from home would be the first.

Rafe had been sat awkwardly in a chair out on the teeny tiny balcony overlooking the street below. As soon as he’d stopped tidying, he wanted fresh air. Being stuck in small spaces was going to be something to get used to after years sharing a prison cell. At the sound of the door, however, Rafe rose, clasping his hands together as he stepped back inside.

Any words that had been on his lips, any silly quip or joke died when he saw Figaro. He was taller and had filled out. His hair still had that scruffy look that took after his dad. He’d become a handsome young man. A young man. An adult man. His adult son.

“I ah…” Nope, he had nothing. Nothing but a couple of tears that had appeared in his eyes. Zelda would say he’d gone soft. So very soft. Rafe closed the distance between him and Fig, bringing the kid in for a tight hug.

Work done, Figaro had travelled from Diagon to his East London neighborhood by broomstick. The season was getting late and the sun went down early - no need for special concealing charms. He rode the ramshackle lift up to the top floor and the very old boards creaked as he strode down the hall to his door at the end.

Figaro was thinking about Hannah. He was thinking he needed to owl her. He was thinking he needed to not totally botch that and so needed to get some advice. This is what kept his mind occupied as he locked his door, dumped his wand and other shit on the counter top, leaned up his broom, and what distracted him from having seen his lights on or immediately notice he didn't have to step over his six pairs of shoes.

He heard a voice and looked up. Figaro almost startled. Standing in his house was a tall man, salt and pepper hair, rough beard. Who was skinnier than he should have been. He froze, his face stuck in breath-bated shock, as the man approached and wrapped him in a hug.

Figaro just stood there, his arms held awkwardly away from his body. It was his dad. His dad was here. His dad was out? His mind was flooded with questions, and an overwhelming feeling he couldn't identify.

Upon release, Figaro stepped away and sank to the floor at the foot of his bed. He covered his face, and he was crying. He wanted to scream. What else do you do with this feeling? Where do you put it?

"Shit, Dad!" he scratched out.

His head was swimming. Figaro hadn't seen more than a photo of Rafe Sellaphix for three years. He'd been in fifth year when he'd seen him last. He looked different. He looked the same. He was in his flat.

Watching his son sinking down to the floor and crying nearly broke Rafe’s heart. His Figaro had needed a dad for the past three years, and Rafe had instead gotten himself arrested and sent to prison. He’d spent almost a lifetime thinking he was invincible, he could do and sell as he wished. Now that was to the detriment of his boys and his wife. Zelda may have acted fine and tried to make him believe that she was handling it all well, but she’d struggled. It was at least a half blessing that Rafe didn’t have to hammer away at Fig’s emotional barriers too. But then, Fig had always been a lot more like Rafe. They wore their hearts on their sleeves, these Sellaphix boys.

“Oh kiddo…” Rafe considered sinking himself down against the wall opposite Fig. The hug may not have gone down so well and he didn’t want to invade his personal space anymore. But, he chose to ignore that ridiculousness and sank down right next to Figaro, leaning back against the bedframe. Sod personal space, he was back with his son.
Perhaps he should start explaining.

“Early release.” The wizard shrugged from his position on the floor. “Good behaviour. We didn’t want to tell you before in case it didn’t happen. I’m sorry, kiddo. I’m so sorry.”

Figaro was quiet for a moment, trying to steady his breathing, letting the shock fade away, letting the tears do their thing. He felt his dad sit down beside him. The familiarity flooded back. The context was wrong; Figaro was bigger, Rafe was smaller, this wasn't their house. And they were both salty wrecks.

Figaro scoffed into his hands. "Good behavior, you? That's funny."

As he sat up, Figaro pulled up the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face. Then, he leaned over just a little, so he was shoulder on shoulder with his dad. He had a thousand questions.

"I thought it was five to seven. It's only been three. Good behavior? What did you, like, cure the warden's nephew's dragonpox?" Figaro laughed quietly.

"I mean, whatever, right? Who cares? You're out. Wait, does mum know? You have to -"

For a moment Figaro looked really worried, but he quickly realized that there was no possible way Zelda wasn't all over this and he sighed back into the bedframe.

"But really, why'd they let you out?"

"Good behavior, you? That's funny."

Rafe couldn’t help a smile despite the threat of tears. “Cheeky bugger.” He muttered, loving that Fig had already made a joke at his Dad’s expense. Maybe reconciling wouldn’t be that difficult with this son. Zelda had always pointed out how similar the pair were. They brushed things off and carried on like no disasters had happened. Frank would be different. Frank would be too different.

Fig’s mind began to whir with questions and Rafe let his mouth follow, he’d answer when the kid stopped, just like he’d always done.

But the comment about Zelda was too good to ignore.
“Crap! Your mum!” His eyes widened as he turned to face his son, a look of shock and fear creasing his expression. “I knew I forgot something! I’m a dead man, son!” And he would be a dead man if he’d not already paid his wife a visit. She could be rather intimidating!

“Mum knows. She blubbed. Who knew she had a stock of tears in reserve? I thought I always did the blubbing for the pair of us.” And now Rafe was talking too much and not answering Figaro’s real question; because Rafe had a habit of doing that, conveniently ignoring questions that he didn’t fancy answering. “She even made me breakfast. Not sure who’s wife I came home to.”

Figaro was fooled by Rafe's doomed pantomime, just for second. He was exactly the same. Figaro knew that could actually be true; Azkaban changed people. But this moment right now, it was the same. As Rafe carried on, Figaro chuckled and shook his head.

Yes. This was a truth known. If his dad had ever done anything behind his mum's back, there'd be blood in the streets. Comforting, really.

"You sure you were at the right house?" Figaro thought then about how his mum had changed since his dad had gone. Just the time passing but also the Pentral. Then he thought about how he'd made things harder on Zelda, by not keeping in better touch with Frank, by not being around enough to notice she was sick, not visiting in the hospital enough.

There wasn't anyone who was going to hold Fig to account for that. Kurby had, a bit. But it wasn't his job.

"I should tell you," he began, no longer laughing and just looking at his hands. "I'm sorry I didn't write more. At first I was angry and scared, and later I just didn't know what to say. Just updates on school and that."

He shrugged. When he did write, that's what they'd be. They didn't seem interesting.

"Shouldn't done it anyway. Sorry."

Figaro was apologising and Rafe frowned at his son, gritting his teeth.

“You’ve got nothing to apologise for, Fig.” A long arm was wrapped around Fig’s shoulders and he squeezed. “It’s not like I was on holiday and sending you postcards back.” Nope, a postcard from Azkaban would be pretty damned grim. In truth, Rafe would have liked more letters, but not just from Figaro. Fig could have written more, but so could Zelda and Frank and his brother, Bors. They all could have written but they had lives to continue living while his stood still, nothing progressing around him for three years.

“I could have written more, too.” But likewise, Rafe had had nothing to write about. He’d wanted to know what was going on in the world. No one wanted to hear what Azkaban had been like. He had, however, been tempted to share a gruesome poem or two. There’d be time for that, though.

Shuffling for better access, Rafe pulled his wand from his jean pocket and gave it a wave and a cast of Accio. The firewhiskey from the countertop began to dance down to them and Rafe grabbed it with his spare right hand. “Glasses?”

It felt terrible that anything he'd done would have hurt his dad. Same with his mum. Growing up meant seeing all the ways your parents were people and all the ways they could be hurt, too. But his dad had hugged off the apology and moved on. Fig tried to as well.

Rafe started enchanting bottles and Figaro finally noticed. "You cleaned!?"

He got to his feet and had a quick look around. His dishes were on shelves, his clothes were all missing, books stacked, trash in the bin. That explained why the bed was made. If he'd seen the flat before he'd seen his dad, he might have assumed he'd been robbed. He went over to the kitchen corner and found a pair of old Sellaphix jars that he used as cups and brought them over.

"Please tell me that's not gin," he asked as he dragged his small round table over, then popped out onto the balcony to get his one chair - a plastic one you'd find stacked by a garden shed.

All his mum ever had was gin. Or ouzo. It's like she chose nasty liqueur on purpose to keep his teenage paws off it. Honestly, he still felt a bit illicit seeing as how he wasn't allowed alcohol last he'd seen his dad.

“Oh, you understand the word then!” Just not the process of cleaning, it seemed. Rafe tried to follow suit but wasn’t quite as sprightly as his son when it came to getting up off the floor. Old bones and muscles that hadn’t been exercises enough in past years. Nevertheless, he stood and he, too, surveyed the room while Fig grabbed the chair from his teeny tiny balcony.

“Not gin. Only old women and your mum drink gin.” And Rafe occasionally. But then, he currently didn’t drink. A drop of alcohol hadn’t passed those lips since his arrest. Perhaps he’d be drunk before he even made it to the third shot? Would Zelda come and fetch him if he was too drunk to apparate back home? That broom by the door might come in handy…

The bottle was uncorked and two jars poured.

“I like the place.” Father lied to son. It was terrible, but everyone started out terrible. “It’s like I blinked and you became an adult.” That was basically true. Rafe couldn’t stop staring and smiling. He couldn’t quite believe how old he was, that he had a job, a home of his own.

Rafe took his glass jar and toasted to his son. “First drink with my son. You going to carry me home, lad?”

"In my own house ..." Figaro grumbled good-naturedly as Rafe ribbed him on his home-making. Seemed that parents just couldn't restrain themselves, that even a single sock unpaired on the floor caused them an itch.

Figaro took the bed, leaving the chair for his dad. If Figaro had learned anything about his 'authentic, former muggle chemical plant, east London, 'urban loft', it was that it was divisive. People either loved it or hated; either envied him for its simplicity or pitied him.  But Fig loved it. He liked that it was his, he liked this part of the city, he liked that it was small. And it had a balcony. And not a few days ago, a dozen of his friends had crammed themselves in before spending a wild night out.

He'd been hungover, he'd met a witch. And that had been just the last week. A blink. There were more than a few of those...

But yea, a drink with his dad. Figaro pushed the sad thought away and smiled.

"Sure, why not," he said.

Down the hatch and his throat was burning and his eyes were watering. Firewhiskey didn't taste like cherries.

They were a couple of drinks in and Rafe was certainly starting to feel the effects. He had no tolerance anymore so it was like being a teenager again. Apart from the fact that he was a year off fifty and drinking with his nineteen-year-old son. They were laughing as they reminisced over the time Rafe had spiked Fig’s tea with the potion that disintegrated his eyebrows.

“Almost backfired on me too!” The wizard said as he refilled their jars. “Your mum walked in and thought I’d made the tea for her.” He pulled a face, still remembering the panic as he tried to stop her drinking it. “Pranking you is one thing, but your mum is another!” She’d have killed him. No one looked good without eyebrows, especially an angry wife.

“Me and Frank drawing them on when you were asleep…” He was chuckling, happy. “Frank was a little heavy handed with the ink, wasn’t he? I thought you mum was going to have my guts for breakfast.” Too many pranks, too little work apparently.

"I looked deeply skeptical all day!" Figaro said and cocked one eyebrow hard. Frank had done his side too low, and his father's a more graceful natural arch.

"And then stunned until they grew back."

At the time, he'd been pissed right off, but knowing it had almost been his mum who'd been magically startled? That was too good.

He picked up his glass again and stepped up and over the bed towards a set of shelves by the balcony, filtered through a stack of magazines and, "shit, where is it."

Figaro bumped into his cauldron (who had moved it there?) and started rooting through his chest which still had junk from school in it. He'd never cleaned it out, just piled more into it.

"Here," he emerged from his digging with a folded and stained piece of paper. He put it on the table in front of Rafe and smoothed it out.

It was his smoke bomb recipe.[1] He'd originally gotten it from Weasley's but had modified it heavily during his fifth year. It wasn't really something you let your parents know about but his dad had been to prison, he was nineteen, they'd been celebrating their mischief - statute of limitations had to be up.

1.	Figaro's Smoke Bombs

To Rafe’s surprise, Figaro got up and started searching the room for something. Rafe watched with a sceptical expression as his son rifled through what could only be described as a chest of junk drawers. Fig was one of those people that tidied up by shoving everything away out of sight. He’d tried that at home countless times, only for Rafe or Zelda to open his closet (of Frank’s if fig was feeling extra cheeky) and almost end up buried alive.

Now, it could have been some family photograph that he was searching for, or a silly souvenir. Or more booze. Rafe was, therefore, amused when Figaro placed a recipe for smoke bombs was placed in front of him. Amusement was evidenced by the uplift in the corners of his lips and eyebrows.

“Not bad, kiddo.” After a gulp of firewhiskey, he sat back, reading over the list and instructions. This was what Figaro had spent his time working on instead of his NEWTs, clearly. He did, at any rate, have a mind for potions, even if his grades didn’t demonstrate such.

“Skunkvine can only give so much of an odour. I’d suggest a touch of essence of dragon fart. Just a drop or two and you’re extending the area of cloud covering as well as longevity.” Was he seriously giving his son advice on how to improve his smoke bombs?
“I mean…that’s naughty, making smoke bombs.” He tried his disapproving father face but it wasn’t working after the firewhiskey. “I never did such a thing. No clue whose son you are. Nope. Clueless.”

Fig stood back and sipped loudly from his glass while Rafe looked over his opus. He was actually quite proud of it; thought his dad would appreciate it, at least just for a laugh.  Figaro was pleasantly surprised when Rafe seemed actually interested. They weren't exactly seeing eye to eye last they'd really spoken.

Figaro found a pencil and scratched out the modification.

"Dragon ... farts .... two drops ... essence ... of ..."

It was an ingredient he'd have had trouble getting a hold of at Hogwarts. Now, he'd have better luck. Family connections, you know.

"Naughty?" Figaro echoed with a laugh. "Really, you're - "

Oh, Rafe was --. Fig caught on and flicked the pencil into the air. He fell back onto the bed, his head swimmy with afternoon drinks. He was remembering how, his dad's dry way of joking often at his own expense. He'd always fallen for it.

Fig balanced his glass on his chest. The whiskey jumped when he suddenly snorted again.

"Bollocks, I'm trying to think of anything I could possibly do that would get me in as much trouble as you," he said.

Rafe might have briefly considered how long it would take for Figaro and Frank to give him the ‘it’s not as bad as you’ve done’ speech. For a fairly strict parent, it was going to be tricky to maintain his expectations when he’d broken the law repeatedly for decades, been arrested, and spent years in Azkaban. The boys could quite rightly point out that whatever they did wasn’t as bad as their dad. And what was Rafe to become? One of those parents that continuously recited ‘Do as I say, not as I do’? He didn’t want to be that parent. He didn’t want those discussions in the first place.

After a large gulp of firewhiskey, the wizard placed his glass back down on the small table and crossed his arms.
“Your little visit to the Ministry for Magic wasn’t enough?” He wasn’t going to bring it up. Pity Fig had made him. “Mum told me you flaked. Like a sausage roll shedding pastry all over the place, bitty, crumbling and falling apart.” Bushy eyebrows were raised but he was very conscious of Fig lying back on the bed, able to avoid eye contact.

“Who knows, Fig. Maybe the cell you slept in was the same as mine. The Sellaphix family cell reserved for when you try to get in as much trouble as me. At least it would be safe from Mum. She would kill you.”