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fruitcoops · 7 months

Note

Opening your page always reminds me of Jules- and we haven't seen him in a while!! Can he come back in one of your fics soon ?

Jules <3 Always a legend, always beloved here. Character credit goes to @lumosinlove, Hattie belongs to me, and the cinnamon roll recipe is lifted directly from this video by Claire Saffitz on the NYT channel! Bon appetit!

“Hello MTV, and welcome to my crib.” Remus paused, then turned to Julian. “Do you understand that reference?”

“No.”

“That’s so depressing. Why are you so young?”

“Why are you so old?”

Remus wrinkled his nose and turned back to the camera. “Welcome to a new installment of Lion Pride’s baking series. I’m Remus Lupin, and I’m here today with my little brother to make everyone’s favorite breakfast food—”

“Pancakes.”

“—cinnamon rolls.” Remus frowned down at where his brother was kneeling on a stool and rocking gently back and forth. “You knew that. We practiced.”

Julian arched a brow at him. “My favorite breakfast food isn’t cinnamon rolls.”

“Not everything is about you.” A light poke to his forehead made Julian stick his tongue out. Remus stifled a smile. “You ready?”

“To eat a spoonful of icing? Duh.”

“We’ll get there eventually.” Remus pulled a large ceramic bowl from the collection of dishware to his left; the pattern was faded around the rim from years of use, but the bowl itself was shiny and clearly cared-for. “Alright,” he began. “I’m not a huge baker, but Jules and I grew up with Saturday cinnamon rolls, so this is a bit of a family recipe. Someone is probably going to type it up for you guys since my handwriting is iffy—”

“Literally unreadable,” Julian coughed.

“Shut up. The recipe will be somewhere on the Lion Pride website, or linked in the description below. In the meantime, we’re going to do a step-by-step demonstration for anyone who would like to try this at home. Milk?”

Julian passed the half-gallon over before looking to the camera. “This recipe is also going to be on our mom’s Instagram, if you look up ‘baking with Hope’. All one word, no caps.”

Remus snorted as he measured the milk into a pan waiting on the stovetop. “Nice. Love the shameless plug.”

“I made a bet with Dad that she’d have more followers than you by the end of the year.”

“Of course you did.” Remus shook his head, but it was more fond than anything. “We’re measuring a cup of milk into a pot on the stove, and then we’re going to warm it up until there are tiny bubbles on the sides.”

“That’s called a simmer, for anyone watching,” Julian informed the camera.

“It’s called bubbles, for the rest of us plebians.”

“What’s a plebian?”

“You.” Remus took a whisk from a small bowl on the side and stirred gently. “Timing for this step kind of depends on your stove, so just keep an eye out and make sure it doesn’t burn. We’re going to keep the milk at the small bubble stage—”

“Simmering.”

“—for….a minute? Ish?” He shrugged. “Until it steams. Then we’ll turn the heat off and measure out a third of a cup.”

Julian pushed his elbows onto the countertop, leaning over to watch. “You should tell the people we’re doing this at night.”

“What? Oh, yeah, this is an overnight thing. It’s currently…” Remus squinted to something off-screen. “Just before eight in the evening. We’re going to let the dough rest overnight, then finish in the morning.”

“We’re staying over for the P-L-A-Y-O-F-F’s,” Julian said. They reached down to knock on the cabinets in unison with near-identical grins.

“We deserve some cinnamon rolls.”

“Hell yeah.”

“Ew, don’t swear on camera.”

“That’s not swearing.”

Remus raised his eyebrows and gave a threatening shake of the whisk. “If you drop a swear word right now, I’m hitting you with this. That’s a promise.”

“You’re the one that taught me all the swear words!”

“So not true.” Remus stirred the milk once more, tapping the whisk gently on the side of the pot. “Dad is responsible for at least half. Okay, this has been bubbling for a little while, so I’m going to turn the heat off and pour about a third of a cup into the bowl over here. Then Jules is going to add some flour to the main pot and give it a stir.”

Julian took the whisk from him with unbridled glee and dumped the flour in; Remus held the pot handle for him while he mixed, still leaning on the countertop to adjust for height. “It’s getting thicker,” Julian noted with a glance at the camera. “It’s kinda like…paste? Or Nutella.”

Remus’ mouth twitched with a smile. “Nutella is a paste.”

“Nutella is a butter.”

“It’s literally hazelnut and chocolate paste.”

“Butter is just milk paste.”

“That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me,” Remus laughed. “God. Okay. Once your milk and flour looks thick like this, you’re going to add it to the big bowl with the other milk in it and add some cold water so your rolls aren’t messed up.”

“That was so scientific,” Julian said dryly.

“This is a lot of criticism from a kid that doesn’t even like cinnamon rolls.”

“I like them. They’re just not my favorite.”

“Then you’re lame, and I don’t want to hear it.” Remus clapped his hands on either side of the bowl and looked into the lens. “Wow, this is going to take forever. I’m not a baker. Bear with me. We’re adding three eggs to the bowl and whisking that, which I’m going to do because I don’t trust people under the age of twelve with raw egg.”

Julian narrowed his eyes. “I’m coming back here in three days and cracking very egg you own.”

Remus smiled. “Happy almost-birthday. Anyway, the bowl is mostly cool now, so we’re going to add all that flour in here—yep, thanks, bud—and then a half-packet of yeast so it gets fluffy.”

“Why isn’t Sirius doing this? He’s better at baking than you are.”

“Wow.”

“He is!”

“You’re not getting a single bite of this frosting.”

“Don’t hide from the truth.”

Remus shook his head at the camera. “This was supposed to be a cute family bonding video. I’m going to mix this now, because apparently I suck at any kind of baking more complicated than that.”

“I didn’t say that, I just asked why Sirius isn’t doing the stuff he likes doing.”

Remus turned the hand-mixer to a lower, quieter setting and rested his hip against the edge of the counter. “How often does Sirius voluntarily get in front of a camera?”

Julian inhaled, then faltered with a grimace. “Hmm. Yeah. Never mind. He’s still better at it than you are.”

“You’re still not getting frosting.” Remus clicked the mixer a notch higher. “We’re keeping this at a pretty low setting so the dough stays soft, and we’re only going to let it run until the dough is one big lump. Now that that’s together, we’re turning the mixer off and covering the bowl with a towel for about five minutes while we get our sugar, salt, and softened butter ready.”

The camera cut briefly; when it returned, Julian was scraping fine crystals off the countertop into a towel Remus was holding over the edge. “Slight problem,” Julian said through a laugh. “Uh, we got a little bit excited about the sugar.”

“Oh, god, it’s getting all over the floor—” Remus straightened slightly and whistled. “Hattie! Treats!”

The house was silent for a moment before the sound of skittering paws reached the camera. Both Remus and Julian broke into wide grins, and Julian dusted his hands onto the floor so he could reach down and pet the pointed ears just barely visible over the counter edge. “Hi, baby,” he cooed, leaning over until he was mostly out of frame. “Aw, little vacuum cleaner. Is sugar bad for dogs?”

“She has eaten so much worse.” The inky tip of Hattie’s tail was the happiest metronome in the world while Remus dumped a small container of salt and sugar into the dough. “We’re going to blend this until the dough gets stretchy instead of lumpy, still on low speed, and—hi, honey, I don’t have anything in my pockets. I promise. No, you can’t eat my keys. There’s definitely still some stuff on the floor for you, though.”

A black nose appeared by Julian’s knee and he giggled as it wandered down the side of his pants, honing in on each pocket. Hattie sneezed when she reached his sock and gave the hem of his pantleg a light nibble. Julian beamed up at Remus. “Can I bring her home with me?”

“If you steal my dog, I’m donating you to Goodwill. Okay, this is going to go for about twenty minutes and they’re definitely going to speed that up in editing, so here’s the rundown: mix this for 20 minutes, add your butter in tablespoon chunks, mix it until the dough is soft, then let it sit on your counter for an hour before putting it in the fridge.”

“Why don’t we just put it right in the fridge?”

“Because the yeast would die.”

Julian’s eyes went wide. “Yeast is alive?”

The kitchen was much brighter when the video returned—the new camera angle allowed sunlight to stream in through the side window unhindered, as well as giving an unobstructed view of Hattie on the floor by Remus’ slipper-clad feet. Her yawn squeaked, pink tongue lolling, but her full attention was fixed on the activity above.

“It’s about eight in the morning now, hence the pajamas,” Remus informed the camera. “I took the dough out of the fridge about ten minutes ago, and you can see it’s close to doubled in size.”

Julian gave the bowl a mournful look. The cowlick on the side of his head matched Remus’ with frightening accuracy. “How long is this going to take?”

“You can go back to sleep once it goes in the oven. We’re going to do the filling right now, though.” Remus held a hand out; Julian passed him a crinkly plastic cracker sleeve. “These are airplane cookies. Or biscotti, or whatever the fancy name is. They have cinnamon roll spices in them because I’m too lazy to track down all the individual bottles from the spice cabinet this early. You can probably find them in the recipe. I don’t know. You can crush them in a food processor if you want to wake up your entire family, or you can just use a rolling pin.”

Remus set the sleeve of cookies on the countertop and handed over the rolling pin—one half-started “wait” and an enormous THUD later, both of them were frozen, staring at the ruptured end of the plastic sleeve where shards of cinnamon cookie had burst forth.

“Oops,” Julian whispered.

“Or,” Remus began. “You can give your little brother a rolling pin and kill two birds with one stone.”

“…my bad.”

Remus glanced at the ceiling. They were silent for a handful of seconds. “Honestly, dude, I don’t think anyone noticed.”

Julian muffled a laugh in the crook of his elbow and Remus turned away for a moment to compose himself, filling the kitchen with quiet snickering as Hattie cleaned up the few crumbs that had fallen onto the floor by her paws. Finally, Julian picked up the rolling pin and began gingerly crushing the rest of the cookies. “I’m gonna keep going until it’s kinda powdery, I think.”

“Good plan.” Remus shot a quick, small smile at the camera while he watched Julian work, brow creasing with the effort. “We’ve got a stick and a half of soft butter here when you’re ready.”

It didn’t take long; Julian carefully poured the crushed cookie into a bowl and folded the butter through with a faintly rainbow-tinted spatula. Remus took a pan from the ever-shrinking pile of dishes beside them and lined it with parchment paper, ripping the edges so they would fold nicely in the corners.

“Kay.” Julian tilted his head at the filling and nodded. “It’s smooth.”

“Sick. Scootch over, I’ll roll this out.” Remus tossed a small handful of flour onto the countertop before dumping the dough out, dropping a playful elbow to Julian’s side. “Ope, sorry.”

“You’re so mean to me.”

“Whatever. We’re going to make this into a rectangle so it’s easier, and it should be fine for rolling because it was in the fridge all night. I’m going to flatten this until it’ll fit in the pan. It’ll be…an inch thick? Half an inch, maybe? And then Jules, you’re gonna spread the filling over it.”

Julian frowned. “We’re cooking it flat?”

“What? Why would we do that?”

“You said it should be the length of the pan.”

“Yeah, so that all the pieces will fit.”

“Oh. That makes more sense.”

“We’re not making cinnamon pita.”

Julian tipped his head back and forth. “Doesn’t sound bad, actually.”

“You’re eleven, you’re basically a garbage disposal.”

“I’m basically twelve.”

“Three days.”

“Ugh, you’re so annoying.”

Despite the back-and-forth, Julian tucked himself close to Remus’ side while Remus rolled the dough into an even rectangle, and spread the filling across it with intense focus. “Leave a little space on the sides to roll it up,” Remus suggested gently. Julian’s tongue poked out at the corner as he scraped the edge clean and gave a last sweep with the spatula before leaning away.

“Good?”

“Perfect.” Remus loosened the edge closest to him and began to roll it up with steady, methodical hands. “You want to go slow with this part, or else it won’t spiral. And once we get it to the end here, we’re going make sure it’s all nice and even before cutting. Uh, I’m using unflavored dental floss right now because that’s what I have, but you can use string or whatever. If you use a knife, you might squish the inside and get a wonky shape.”

“Dad uses fishing line.”

“Mhmm.” Their concentrated frowns matched while Remus slid the floss beneath the roll and wrapped it around, allowing the floss to slice cleanly through the dough. Julian buried a yawn in Remus’ shoulder and gave a slow, sleepy blink. Once the rolls were cut, they filled the parchment-lined pan to the edges. Remus cracked his knuckles and looked up at the camera. “We’re going to take a quick breakfast break while these double in size, and I’ll put them in the oven at 350 degrees for 15 minutes after that. We’ll see you for the frosting!”

“Your TV voice is weird.”

“Your TV voice is weird,” Remus mimicked, prodding him until Julian hopped off his stool with a laugh. “Go eat your Cheerios.”

The video sped through their break—Remus collected a few items from the fridge and returned to the counter to mix a handful of ingredients into a bowl. The pan steamed, the coffeepot bubbled, and Hattie waited dutifully by his side for her allotted bits of ham, hand-fed alongside a few Cheerios from Julian. The rolls went in and came out without a fuss as Remus finished the scramble and smiled to someone off-screen.

“Frosting,” he announced when the video returned to normal speed. “Super easy. Cream cheese, powdered sugar, vanilla. Mix it up, then add a stick of butter, because this recipe is delicious and also personally clogs your arteries. Jules, touch the rolls for me.”

“Why?”

“To check if they’re cooled down.”

“But they might be hot.”

“Right, which is why I’m making you do it.”

Julian scrunched his nose at him, but gave the rolls a tentative poke. “They’re fine.”

“Sweet.” Remus tugged the pan to the middle of their workspace and scooped a lump of frosting into the center. Overall, it kept its shape as he slathered it to each edge and corner. Julian gave an expectant look; Remus paused, but scraped the last bits off the sides of the bowl and handed the laden spatula to him with an affectionate roll of his eyes. “Don’t tell mom.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jules said around a mouthful of thick sugar.

Remus pushed the rolls toward the camera with a smile that dimpled one cheek. “That’s all for today, folks. Hope you enjoyed making cinnamon rolls with us, or at least enjoyed seeing the real star of the show—”

“Me.”

“—Hattie. Make sure to tune in for our home game in Gryff tomorrow night!"

#remus lupin #julian lupin #hattie #sweater weather #vaincre #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #social media #baking #lion pride #fluff

115 notes · View notes

fruitcoops · 6 months

Note

So I was just watching Matty Healy’s “celebrity school run” interview from BCC Radio One, and my mind jumped right to imagining Sirius with a couple awestruck hockey kids in the back of his truck, navigating questions as he drives them around (maybe to hockey practice instead of school??)! Congrats on finishing finals!! <3

Fic O'Ween Day 9: Sugar Rush! Cap credit to @lumosinlove and fest credit to @noots-fic-fests <3 Cutie patootie start to the weekend!

“Ask him!”

“I don’t wanna ask. You do it.”

“Everything alright back there?”

A small boy in a blue shirt dropped an elbow into the side of his, equally small yet significantly blonder, companion. “How does the internet work?” the blond boy blurted.

In the front seat, Sirius Black frowned at the road. “Quoi?”

“I told you it was a dumb question!” a redheaded little girl whispered across the seat.

“The internet,” the blond boy repeated, twisting the pocket of his cargo shorts into a nub in his fist. “How’s it work?”

“Uh…”

“My mom said the government tells you on your first adult birthday,” the dark-haired boy informed him as he leaned forward onto the console. “So you’ve gotta know, ‘cause you’re totally an adult.”

“Your mother is right, Ethan,” Sirius agreed. His eyes darted to the small camera stuck on the car’s dashboard. “That’s—yes, you’ll have to wait until you’re eighteen to find out. I can’t tell you. It would be illegal.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “But you’re Canadian, so American laws don’t apply to you.”

“It’s international.” Suburban homes rolled past outside, surrounded by fresh spring foliage. “The UN decided on that rule.”

“Aw, man.”

“Are you really getting married?” the redheaded girl piped up.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Summer.”

“But when?”

“Summer,” Sirius repeated with a laugh.

“What day?” She poked her head between the front seats as well, bumping shoulders with Ethan. “Can we come?”

“Definitely not. Both of you, sit back, you’re going to get hurt.” Sirius glanced into the rearview mirror as he turned onto another narrow street. “Look at Jacob. He’s doing it right.”

Jacob preened, shooting each of his companions a Cheshire grin. “Lydia said you’re getting married to your boyfriend. Is that true?”

“Fiance, but yes.” Sirius reached back to shoo Lydia and Ethan back into their seats, one hand on the wheel. “Why do you know so much about my wedding? Aren’t you supposed to ask me hockey questions?”

“We have time. School doesn’t start for an hour.” Lydia folded her hands in her lap and squinted to look out at the road. “Also, my sister plays hockey and she was telling me that her team was telling her that you're gonna be the first married hockey player ever.”

“That’s…that’s not true.”

“Of course it is.”

“There are so many married hockey players!” Sirius laughed.

“Oh yeah?” Jacob challenged. “Who?”

“James Potter, Pascal Dumais, Sergei Ivanov, Adam Fox, Mika Zibanejad, Brad Marchand—I think most NHL players are married, actually.”

“Is the Earth actually round, or is the government lying?” Ethan asked, picking at the back of Sirius’ seat.

Sirius pressed his lips together for a moment. “Ah,” he began, coughing through a laugh. “Nope, it’s definitely round. People have known that for a long time.”

“My uncle says the government lies a lot.”

“Well, my uncle works for the government,” Jacob scoffed.

“Well—”

“Why is the Earth round?” Lydia butted in. “I think you’re lying. If it was round, everything in Australia would be upside down.”

“Oh god,” Sirius muttered. “Okay, new rule: no flat Earth discussions in the car.”

“Cause you’re lying?”

“Cause Galileo is spinning in his grave.”

“Isn’t that the bird from the movie with the girl and the volcano and the lizard and Russell Crowe and that one lady?”

Jacob gasped and turned to her. “My mom loves Russell Crowe! Y’know, Mr. Sirius Black, you kinda look like Russell Crowe.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He kinda does,” Ethan admitted.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Nuh—”

“Okay,” Sirius announced as he paused at a stoplight with a thousand-yard stare. “We’re not doing any ‘nuh-uh’s until you are safely at school. Do you act like this when your parents are driving?”

All three children stared at him from the backseat. For a singular second, their fidgeting paused. “Like what?” Lydia asked, clearly bewildered. “The lady with the camera told us to ask you questions.”

Sirius seemed to process that for a beat. His fingertips drummed on the steering wheel while they waited for the light to change. “I’m starting to realize I don’t spend enough time with kids to know how you’re supposed to act.”

“Isn’t your brother a million years younger than you?”

“Six years.”

Lydia gave him a skeptical look over her glasses. “I’m only eight, so that’s basically forever.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“How come clouds have different shapes?” Ethan asked. “Is it because birds fly through them and turn them all thin after they’re fluffy?”

“No, the wind does that.”

“Why?”

“It’s the wind, it doesn’t have reasons.”

“How do you know.”

“Because I’m an adult. Hey, look, a pigeon.”

All three children lunged toward the window, straining at their seatbelts and booster seats. Sirius glanced at the dashcam with a small, pleased smile and made a smooth left turn onto Main Street. “Where is it?” Jacob asked eagerly. “Was it big? What color was it? I don’t see it.”

“Oh, I think it was in the parking lot back there,” Sirius said casually. “Keep an eye out, see if there are more.”

“I’m never allowed to ask adults this many questions,” Lydia gushed, swinging her feet above the floor of the car. “Do you pay taxes?”

“Yes.”

“How do they work?”

“Good question. I have no idea.”

Ethan, apparently tired of pigeon-spotting, sat up straight and began peeling a sticker off the side of his booster. “Do you speak French?”

“Ouais.”

“Can you say something in French?”

“Ouais,” Sirius repeated with a grin.

“Please?”

“I just did.”

“Way,” Ethan mimicked. “Ha! That sounds like a duck. Wah-wah-wah-wah—”

“Yellow punch buggy.”

A flurry of movement and stifled ‘ow’s followed on swift wings; Sirius winced, but didn’t seem particularly regretful. “So,” he tried again. “What do you guys like to do at school?”

“Have lunch.”

“Read.”

“Recess.”

He nodded with a light laugh. “You know what, that’s fair.”

Jacob cocked his head to the side. “Did you like school?”

“I loved school.”

“What was your favorite subject?”

“Math.” A simultaneous false gag from three different mouths made him jump slightly, glancing over his shoulder. “Jesus—”

“I hate math,” Lydia declared. “We started multiplication and it makes my head hurt.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

Ethan’s nose wrinkled. “I like math, but it’s definitely not my favorite. Hey, do you have tattoos?”

“No.”

“Can we see them?”

Sirius’ brow knit. “I just told you I don’t have any.”

“You’re a hockey player, you gotta have tattoos. Thomas Walker has them, Cole Reyes has them, James Potter has them…”

“James doesn’t have tattoos,” Sirius snorted. “Where are you getting your information?”

“My brother. He knows everything.”

“How old is he?”

“Eleven.”

Sirius nodded slowly, biting the inside of his cheek. “A wise age.”

“How many teeth are you missing?”

“None, dude,” Jacob interrupted. “Didn’t you see earlier? He has perfect teeth. Hey, Mr. Sirius Black, did you have braces?”

“No.”

“Your teeth just grew like that?”

“Mhmm.”

“I just lost a tooth last week.”

Sirius stopped at the corner, looking over his shoulder at them. “Oh, really? Your first?”

“Nah, my fifth,” Jacob answered, as jaded as a third-grader could get. “It’s boring now. I got a quarter for it, though. My sister wanted to tie it to a doorknob, but my dad didn’t let her.”

Lydia nodded solemnly. “My cousin lost her first tooth when a piñata hit her.”

“I lost mine while I was eating a tuna sandwich,” Ethan added. “Then it was a blood sandwich. It was crazy.”

“Gross,” Lydia said with great approval.

Apparently satisfied with the direction the conversation had gone, the car remained near-silent for almost fifteen seconds. They headed past several gas stations (and their pigeon-filled parking lots) before stopping once again at a red light.

Ethan let out a loud gasp. “Tim Hortons!”

Sirius turned as if on instinct, craning his neck, before he seemed to realize the danger of the situation. Lydia slapped at the back of the driver’s seat with an excited hand, bouncing in her booster. “We gotta go, we gotta go, we gotta go.”

To his credit, Sirius spared a half-second to consider it. “Absolutely not.”

To his demise, Sirius spared a half-second to consider it. They fell on him like miniature wolves to a downed caribou.

“Please,” Ethan begged. “Please, please, their hot cocoa is so good, you don’t understand.”

“I’m Canadian, I understand better than you do.”

“Then we have to go!”

“There is no world where I get three kids on a Tim Horton’s sugar rush before school.” He shook his head and began turning off Main Street. “Not in this lifetime. Your teachers would hunt me for sport.”

“You’re Canadian! You’re—you’re Queb—” Ethan made a frustrated noise and turned to Jacob. “What’s the word for Quebec people?”

“…Canadians…?”

“Quebecois,” Sirius informed him. His eyes widened slightly. “Wow, is that the first question you’ve asked that I can actually answer?”

“You’re Quebecois,” Ethan continued, stumbling over each syllable. He made it there in the end, but not before everyone else in the car made a pained face. “That means you have to take us to Tim Horton’s.”

“No.”

Lydia’s eyes were fever-bright in the backseat, as if she had knocked back a handful of jellybeans and Red Bull. “Timmy’s, Timmy’s, Timmy’s…”

“Please, no.”

Jacob and Ethan brightened immediately, because of course they did. Sirius watched the road in mournful disbelief, like he was driving into his personal hell with no exit ramp in sight. “TIMMY’S, TIMMY’S, TIMMY’S—”

“I’ve never having children.”

“TIMMY’S, TIMMY’S, TIMMY’S, TIMMY’S—”

The shouting came to an abrupt halt. Sirius parked the car under the shade of a large oak tree and waited for several seconds, until all three kids started to exchange wary looks. The silence dragged on. Polyester and cotton rustled.

Sirius rested his elbow on the console and turned to the backseat, one eyebrow raised. “Are we done?”

“Are you gonna turn this car around?” Jacob whispered in quiet horror.

“Non. I have a deal for you, though.” Instant curiosity overcame their concern. Sirius held three fingers up. “One: don’t kick the back of my seat. Two: don’t yell in my car, it’s very distracting. Three: Count five pigeons by the time we get to school. I will ask your parents if I can bring you Timbits—”

Gasps of delight filled the car.

“—if you promise to do all three of those things.”

Jacob tucked his hands under his legs, all but vibrating with anticipation. “Can you get cinnamon ones?”

“Can you find five pigeons?”

“Of course I can,” he whispered.

Sirius nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Do you make a million bajillion dollars?” Lydia asked.

“Non. But I do have money for Timbits for nice kids who ask cool questions.”

Ethan’s mouth fell open. “We’re nice kids who ask cool questions!”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sirius gave a teasing hum. “I don’t know. Think you can prove it in the next five minutes?”

“What kind of dog do you have?” Lydia asked without hesitation.

“Oh, that is a good question.” The car rumbled to life, and they pulled onto the road without issue. “I don’t know. She’s black, and she has pointy ears.”

“How long do you want to play hockey?”

“Oof. A while. Maybe ten more years? We’ll see.”

Ethan finished peeling the sticker off his booster seat and reached over Lydia to stick it on Jacob’s. “Is being an adult fun?”

“Yes.”

“Is it hard?”

“Yes.”

“If you could get in a time machine and be eight again, would you do it?”

“No.”

Jacob frowned. “How come?”

“Because I like being able to make my own dinner, I would miss my friends, and I wouldn’t be able to get Tim Horton’s whenever I want to.”

Lydia started to kick the back of his seat in boredom, but quickly tucked her foot behind her other leg. “If you were eight and went to our school, do you think we would be friends?”

Sirius smiled, moving slowly past a wire fence. “Sure.”

“Can you say more French stuff?”

“Comme quoi?”

“Um—can you say ‘hello’?”

“Bonjour.”

Jacob chewed on his lower lip. “Can you say…this school is super cool?”

“Cette école est très cool.”

“Is ‘cool’ the same in both?”

“Ouais.”

“Okay, stop, stop, you gotta do English now,” Ethan said hurriedly, waving his hands. “I don’t speak French.”

“That’s okay, you can learn,” Sirius laughed. They rolled to a stop in a mostly-empty section of the parking lot; he waved to someone outside, and the children quickly followed suit. He propped his arm on the console again and raised his eyebrows. “I think your parents are ready to have you back. Any last questions?”

“Do you like books?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“What kind of Timbits do you like?’

“Have you been playing hockey since before we were born?”

“How does electricity work?”

“Do you kiss your boyfriend? Oh, yeah, how do cars work?”

“How come the sky changes colors but the ocean doesn’t?”

Sirius didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, blue, all of them, yes, I think it’s something with electrons and metal? Yes, engines and combustion, and because the sky and the ocean are made of different things.”

“Okay,” Jacob said with a decisive nod. “Cool! Thanks!”

“Thank you, this was lots of fun.” Sirius unbuckled his seat belt and stepped out of the car, then came around and opened the backseat door for them. They spilled out in a pile, each meeting his gentle fist-bump with incredible enthusiasm that only grew when he feigned injury at the strength of their hands. Their booster seats came free with little finagling. “Alright, go see your parents. I can carry these.”

“Wait!” Lydia yelped, turning on her heel halfway through a step. “What about the Timbits?”

“Nobody kicked my seat or yelled,” Sirius mused, gathering the boosters in his arms. “Pigeons?”

“Two on the sidewalk, one in the parking lot, and two at the Gas ‘n Sip,” Jacob announced.

“Then they’ll be here when you get out of school,” he promised. They shook on it, tiny hands dwarfed by his palm, before they were off at a sprint once more. “Be safe! Don’t trip on the concrete!”

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