Chapter Text
One of Sol’s earliest memories is a picnic. He’s young, probably only about two, three at most. And it’s just him and his father and his mother, sitting upon a picnic blanket in the back garden under the summer sun. He can remember he’d had ice-cream, his hands had ben sticky with the substance and he’d pawed at Dad after finishing it and Mum had laughed, a loud, bark of a thing. Not that he’d make such comparisons out loud; Mum’s grumpy look whenever someone even so much as relates her to Uncle Sirius more than explains why. But this had been a time when he’d had no understanding of social niceties. Luckily enough, he’d not had a good enough command of the English language to make the comparison then, so it’s all a moot point.
He remembers Dad had picked him up in both hands, fingers around his rib cage as he’d scowled down at his top, asking him if he thought he was funny. Sol had. He’d found himself absolutely hilarious. Mum was laughing; it’s obvious he was funny. Dad had swept him down into his lap and tickled at his ribs until he was nearly crying with laughter. That’s when Mum had decided she needed to return the favour for him and Dad had let out a startled laugh. They’d ended up lying on the blanket just existing.
Sol knows he dozed off at that point; he’d have remembered Uncle James making his way over if that were so.
This summer, they don’t really have time for a picnic, as much as Sol would wish otherwise. Sure, Mum’s pregnant again, but that hadn’t stopped her when she was due to have Caelum. Not that his memories on that time were particularly clear but there’s enough photos of them out and about to support his conclusions there. No, what’s upsetting everything is his great grandfather. Arcturus Black, one of the last of the Black old guard, seems to have finally realised that he’s got no line of succession past Sirius (his uncle, the ‘eternal bachelor who shall never have kids’ to use his self-proclaimed title). Not unless he once again considers the side of the family he hasn’t spoken to since, well, just before Sol was born, actually.
His father seems to take dark amusement from the old man’s begrudgingly acknowledgement of them. It’s that, Dad says, of give the Black fortune over to the Malfoys. The scoff Mum makes at the very thought shows just how popular that particular family are. Powerful, yes. Popular, no.
Sol’s not an idiot, he’s well aware his parents have a bias towards, well, pretty much everyone that isn’t close family. Even then, there’s the occasional moment when Mum squints at Uncle James and Uncle Sirius a little. He’ll reserve his judgements of his second cousin until they actually meet but, given what he knows of the other, it’ll be a bit of a miracle if they actually do get along.
Still, it does bring him back to the key hot topic in their house.
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it; you just have to bear with it until the old man croaks.”
His mother’s mulish face showcases exactly how she feels about that particular comment and Sol hides a smile behind his fist, one elbow resting on the table as he meets Caelum’s gaze. His younger brother is splitting his time between scribbling away in one of his many notebooks and sharing amused looks with him, lips tucking up at the corners and grey eyes alight with mirth. Caelum is the spitting image of their dad, barring the thick smattering of freckles that form a bridge across his nose and cheeks, hugging close to the curve of his eyes. They’re from Grandpa. The muggle blood showing, as Great Aunt Cassiopeia had declared. Mum had hexed her for that and they’d not visited again for another six months (the day of the third not-apology card arrived). Which was a shame; Great Aunt Cassiopeia is his favourite Black relative; she gives him the best gifts in exchange for watching him morph.
“And how long will that be? How many months will he have access to our child?” And yeah, that’s what this big… blow out is about. Grandfather Arcturus has agreed to instate father as the Black Heir on the agreement that he gets some time to teach Sol all about his… family history. Which is funny because, before Arcturus had been diagnosed with an incurable disease determined to eat through his guts, he hadn’t even considered Sol family. Hell, Dad had been blasted off the legendary family tapestry.
“It is my family history, Evans.” Caelum mouths the words at the same time Dad says them and Sol doesn’t even try to hide his smirk now.
“A family you turned your back on, Black.” They always degenerate into last names when they don’t want to give an inch. Sol’s seen it all the time, he’s well used to it. Enough to know that there’s a fifty-fifty on how it’ll turn out.
Caelum meets his eyes across the table once again, tapping at the edge of his book with the tip of his quill. ‘Five sickles on Dad’ is written on the page and Sol nods his head, accepting that bet. Because there’s nothing Mum won’t do for him and Caelum. Even drag Dad over the hot coals.
It’s gearing up to be an interesting one.
It lasts three days. Three days of Mum and Dad going through the usual routines: morning kisses on the cheek; taking it in turns to sort the food or enchant the pots, even as Dad spares Mum’s bespelled slow-cooker a deeply suspicious glance; taking it in turns to tutor them. Honestly, there’s nothing much different about life when Mum and Dad are locking horns, other than the fact they’ll take the occasional pot shot at each other. Most of the time it’s verbal, but there had been that one time with the hair-snakes that had sent Dad retreating to lick his wounds, muttering and grumbling and there’s a story to that, Sol’s sure. He just doesn’t know what it is yet. But he will.
He’s not quite sure what has Mum conceding, but concede she does.
Sol hands Caelum his lump sum of five sickles. His little brother pockets it quietly.
“One hour a week. You’re there for all of it and if I get so much of a hint that he’s in danger, we shut it down.”
“As if I’d ever allow any harm to come to our children,” Dad sniffs, that posh, high-brow one that Mum always takes the mick out of him for. It’s still kind of difficult to imagine how Dad was brought up; certainly, different from how Sol himself has been raised. He didn’t get on half as well with his brother but, then again, Sol is no Uncle Sirius. There can only be one Uncle Sirius in the world; Mum says it’s a good thing he’s decided he doesn’t want kids. Sol’s not too sure about that; it would be nice to have a baby cousin on his dad’s side of the family. But the youngest on that side is his Malfoy cousin and, yeah. He doesn’t want to poke too far into that relationship given the whole ‘slimy Death Eater and his weasel face wriggling out of prison’, as Uncle James puts it.
Yeah, he’ll offer Malfoy junior a chance, but he’s sure as hell not going anywhere near Malfoy senior without his parents at his back. That, or without an O in his defence OWL.
“Let me know if the Great Grump shares any secret family magic with you,” Caelum instructs, snapping the little notebook he always keeps in his pockets closed, a dangerous little smile slipping across his face. “I’ll probably be able to break it down and build it up into something better by the end of the week.” That, Sol doesn’t doubt.
Perhaps, were he in any other family, having a younger brother like Caelum would be scary. True, there have been moments when the green-eyed monster had wiggled about in his guts. Sol’s good at admitting truths though and the truth is, Caelum’s smarter than him. Hell, he’s smarter than pretty much anyone he knows. It’s enough to make an older brother feel inadequate. Luckily, he has his dear cousin who shares the same worrisome fate of being the elder sibling to a genius.
“Will do. Just don’t get too lonely when I’m gone,” Sol chips in, knocking his elbow against Caelum’s and getting a grin in return.
“Please. Mum’s expecting by the end of October and Zinnia will be over loads; I’ll barely notice you’re gone.”
“So cruel, baby bro. Be careful or you might get a birthday present that’ll bite you back for it.”
“Nah, you love me too much for that.” He’s right. The brat.
Sol catches Caelum in a headlock, pulling his down and (gently) digging his knuckles into the other boy’s curly black hair.
“Not the brain, not the brain!” After the third swat at his chest, Sol releases his prey, watching Caelum pat at his thick curls, frown on his face.
Their banter is interrupted by Mum as she taps them both on the head, looking amused. Sol beams up at her, all big eyes and cherub smile, face the picture of innocence. He doubts she believes if for one second but that’s the good thing about Mum. Unless he’s in trouble, she’s willing to leave him to his games. Even if he is in trouble, his punishments usually end up being either a. how could he have avoided the trouble or b. if it were intentionally created trouble, how could he avoid getting caught. Dad had listened in on one chat, deemed it ‘good preparation for Hogwarts’ and left it at that. It takes a lot to get Mum genuinely mad.
In fact, he can only recall it happening once, back when he had Caelum had been larking about and his little brother had fallen and split his head open. Unlike Sol, he’s not a metamorphmagi, so he’s stuck with the lightning bolt scar on his forehead for the rest of his days. It’s kinda cool though, so Caelum’s not too bothered.
He was also too young to really remember how Mum had gone apocalyptic over it.
“Are you sure you want to go see your Great Grandfather?” Mum says it as if the experience would be worse than getting all of his teeth pulled out, one after the other. With no pain-relief potions.
Sol considers it for a moment, then nods.
“Sure. I mean, it can’t hurt to see what he wants. I can always back out if I don’t like it.”
“Exactly my point,” Dad puts in, one of his hands resting on Sol’s shoulder and giving him that ‘I’m proud of you’ look. Sol, as always, basks in it. Doesn’t matter how often he gets it; he’ll soak it all up anyway.
The next day, they’re living in peace times again. Dad’s off at work so Mum’s got her feet up on the coffee table, reading with the book resting atop her swelling belly. Caelum’s down in the basement doing what Caelum does best, which leaves Sol here. Standing in the hallway with a letter in his hand, a wide smile slowly crawling across his face. The envelop is heavy, indicating there’s some good quality parchment inside and he knows the green ink from his parents’ tales.
‘Mr S. Black,
The South Facing Bedroom,
Perennial Cottage,
Godric’s Hollow’
It’s his Hogwarts letter.
Leaning against the front door, Sol slowly slides down until he’s sitting on the floor. Dad’d sniff at him and tell him to get off the floor because Black’s don’t sit on the floor (to which Mum’d always give him one of those secretive looks that neither he or Caelum understand the meaning of yet but would never fail to shut Dad up) but Sol thinks he’ll understand.
It’s his Hogwarts letter. Not that there’d been any doubt that he’d get in, but still. It’s here, in his hands. He can physically touch it.
A muffle bang and the rattling of the floorboard breaks jolts him from the stupor. Dad’s homemade siren began wailing and Mum’s half rushing, half waddling out of the living room a second later, Sol hot on her heels.
By the time they get down the stairs to the basement, Caelum’s already opening the door, his hair blow back from his face and both eyebrows scorched off. He’s grinning from ear to ear, the little devil.
“I’ve improved exploding snap!” he declares in the same instance that Mum takes his face in one hand, licking at the thumb of her other before she goes about trying to wipe his face.
“You’ve ruined your face is what you’ve done. Look at this, Sol. His eyebrows are gone.”