"I didn't mean - Shit ... " Figaro's mood plummeted and he wiped his face with his hand.

His dad had been out of prison for hours and Zelda had already told him? Damn, she was cold. Yea, Figaro had really preferred not thinking about how his father had kept his mouth shut and for his trouble had earned a prison sentence, preferred not comparing his own shameful performance. And he hadn't even done anything.

Figaro changed a glance over at Rafe. He didn't look angry. Just tired. But maybe that was how he looked now. He wasn't sure what to say. He tapped a finger on the glass, ran his hand through his hair and looked up at the cracked ceiling.

"I confessed to the head of the department in the bathroom," he said finally. Fauna had taken him for a break and Solomon Carstairs had, with a charming smile, asked him if he'd done it. He'd stammered out a yes; he quickly corrected, but still. Fig hadn't told Zelda or Talisha, yet. And it turned out Carstairs hadn't either.

He had to agree with his dad's sentiment: spending the night in a cell and embarrassing himself in front of every Auror alive was preferable to disappointing his mum and dad.

Well that hadn’t come up when Zelda had told him. Rafe’s eyebrows rose but he showed no other shock or anger. Instead of beating down on his son for his idiocy, the wizard took another swig of whiskey and let it further fill him with a fuzzy warmth that he’d missed. The morning would be full of regrets if he had much more on an empty stomach and no tolerance.

“Well that surely tops the list of dopey shit that you’ve done.” Father and son alike! With a huff, Rafe kicked off his shoes and lifted his legs up, propping his feet up on the end of the bed. There was a hole in one black sock, revealing the tip of his big toe. It was with a fondness that Rafe looked at his son, not anger at his stupidity. They’d been close before he’d been arrested. Closer than Rafe and Frank had ever been. These two were similar, even if Figaro was a bloody blabbermouth.

“How the heck did you confess to a crime you didn’t commit? Bloody hell, Fig, this is why no one tells you a secret.” Then Figaro’s father did something somewhat unexpected. He started to laugh.

Figaro laughed too, the sudden breath jostling the glass on his stomach. Some spilled, and he swore as he sat up to try and mitigate the damage. The effort was half-hearted and less-than-half effective, but he'd spilled worse in his bed.

"It was reflex!" he said in his defense. With an empty glass, Figaro got up from the bed and slid open the balcony door a crack, letting in a bit of fresh air from the early winter evening.

"I know, it's terrible. I mean, I managed to say way too much and absolutely nothing useful at the same time. "

Over by the kitchenette (such that it was) he rummaged around and found crisps, half-a-thing of cottage cheese, and a jar of green olives and pickled garlic. He set them on the small table along with a plate and two mis-matched forks. Figaro helped himself to cottage cheese straight from the container.

He was feeling the drink, so the words came more easily than he might have wanted.

"You and mum. Shit. Where the hell did I come from?" he laughed with a shrug, and shoveled in a mouthful of cheese. "You and her, steely-eyed, never flinching. People trust you. You just handle it. And then there's me. I know who I am; I've got a big mouth, I'm impulsive, I push too far. I mean, poor mum. She told me a thousand times and one things goes wrong and I just ..."

Figaro shrugged, a fated smile on his face. He could only marvel at the absurdity of it; the reality check of his dad being back, and the context of it all. He loved his parents and they loved him, but something just didn't fit.

Figaro’s assortment of food offerings definitely didn’t wet Rafe’s palette. He rather considered the crap he’d eaten at Azkaban to be better than green olives and pickled garlic. What had Zelda fed him these past few years? Or were the Daily Prophet even paying him? Rafe said nothing, but he did take a handful of crisps to appease his kid. Zelda had adequately fed him a few hours ago and Rafe rather imagined from her reaction to his lack of paunch, that she’d be trying to feed him back up again.

“We’ve had practice, Fig.” Rafe shook his head at his son before taking another swig of booze. “Mum’s always been a stalwart. She’s formidable. Even I’m scared to cross her.” He rose an eyebrow, smirking. “And I’m a lot older than you, kiddo. Your mum keeps me in line and I’ve learned to handle stuff.”

With a frown, Rafe dropped his feet down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watched Fig carefully.
“I was shitting myself when they arrested me, lad. Not all steely eyed, and a lot of flinching. I’ve learned to hide it. Hopefully you won’t have to.”

Figaro had another bite of cheese and shrugged. Zelda had kept the boys well insulated from everything that  had happened back then, for better or for worse. Frank blamed her, Figaro reckoned, but Fig understood better. He'd tried to imagine what things had been like for his dad, but he'd sort of put his thumbs in his ears and tried to get on with it, thanks to friends and the frantic distraction of remote Hogwarts.

He scraped around the plastic container with the fork, not sure what to say to that other than, "fair enough."

"Well," Figaro said after a pause, "glad you're back, anyhow. Can all get on with it now."

Everything had been on hold. The shop, mum's life, everything. Now the waiting was over and they could be a proper family again.

"Going to pop in on Francis as well?"

“Yup.” Rafe replied with a nod. “At the weekend, I think. He doesn’t know, either. We didn’t want either of you getting your hopes up.” Frank was the son whom Rafe was the most nervous about seeing again. Fig had always been easy. Like his father, Fig was laid back and let most things wash over him. There’d been the initial shock and it might take some time to fully reacquaint themselves, but Rafe had always understood his eldest son. Frank was a different story and now Zelda had thrown a curveball at him telling him how she thought Frank was gay but he couldn’t say anything. That wasn’t fair.

The wizard briefly wondered if Figaro thought so, but that thought was quickly brushed aside when he remembered that his oldest son was often extraordinarily oblivious.

“So, Kiddo…” Rafe sat back once more in the chair and put his feet up on the foot of the bed. For Christmas Zelda and him would need to buy the kid an armchair or something for when he came around. This set up was a poor show. “Tell me about your job. And your life! Anyone special?”

Figaro might have thought to warn Rafe that wee Frankie might not be the most amenable to a surprise of the paternal nature, but eh, best let Zelda handle the whole thing. Something in his dad's voice was indication enough that Rafe was nervous about it. Best stay out of it. The topic of the youngest Sellaphix passed quickly and they were back on to catching up.

Figaro sat back down on the bed and refreshed his drink. He held up the bottle in offering to Rafe. His dad was a whole bear, but he'd also been dry for three years. Fig might get in trouble sending his pop back to mum sopping.

He laughed to himself as he organized the answers to very typical family-catch-up questioning.

"Uh, billywig-sting-absurdist-tragicomedy..." he said, holding up a thumb to count 'one'. "Cup noodles and insomnia." Index finger 'two'.

"And none of your business."  Three. Following his curt summary, Figaro dutifully elaborated.

"But no, mum tell you I'm at the Daily Prophet? It's absolutely mad. Didn't think I'd be as keen to get ordered around as much as goes on there, but I love it. The Editor is properly psychotic and the hours are endless and the pay is shit, but it's amazing. Something's always happening. Been there since June? Professor McGonagall wrote me a recommendation and that."

He nodded along, the booze warming his insides. Rafe had always wanted him to carry on at the shop and it had been a point of conflict for them all his years at Hogwarts. He quickly added, "and I'm at the shop some weekends. Give mum a break. Frank's better at it, though."