Solstice
Slowly, the late days of June turn to the bittersweet, yellowy days of mid-July. The city of London is blessed by a week of sun, and Harry spends long afternoons lounging in warm, honey-sweet pools of sunlight that stream in through the tall windows of their home. He begins his summer homework, practising transfiguration and charms, writing an essay assigned to him by Remus.
It’s calm, and it’s predictable, it’s even a little boring.
Harry loves it.
After lunch one day, as the three of them are clearing up, Sirius asks Harry what he would like for his birthday.
His tone is so casual, so normal that Harry doesn’t even register the question for a moment. It’s not something he’s ever been asked before.
“Oh.” he says, feeling a little stupid.
“I mean,” Sirius says, rambling on, “Obviously you can’t stop me from spoiling you within an inch of your life even if you say you don’t want anything. But are there any specifics?”
Harry opens and closes his mouth. “I–er. I’m not sure. Can I–I’m going to go think about it.”
He flees upstairs to his room before Sirius or Remus can stop him, odd feelings sloshing around in the heavy pit of his stomach. He should have expected this, should have given this some thought beforehand. Harry doesn’t know what the right answer is here.
He lies back on his bed, mattress creaking beneath him. Logically, if he pulls himself into an outside perspective, he knows there’s not really a right answer to this. Sirius is asking what he wants, so he’s meant to be honest about that.
So…hmm. Harry wracks his mind, trying to think of objects that he needs. His school supplies, obviously…but does one ask for their school supplies for their birthday? Probably not. Harry mentally crosses that one out, and leans over for a scrap of parchment and a quill. He sits for a moment on his bed, mentally sorting through things he needs, or wants, but he’s coming up blank.
Merlin, Harry really doesn’t know how to do this. Could he write to Ron and ask about it? No, this seems like a conversation a bit too complicated to explain through letters.
Outside, lightning splits the still afternoon, and rain begins to tumble down out of the sky. London’s precious week of sunlight is over. Harry has reached a conclusion.
He’s going to have to ask Sirius and Remus for help.
So he waits, until no one else is speaking and he can’t possibly be bothering anyone with his request.
“Um,” he coughs a little. “Er, I need, er, I’m not sure how to–I–I don’t know how to write a birthday list.” The words come tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them, and his stomach twists with nerves.
Sirius sets down his fork. He’s got a small, sad smile on his face, intense grey eyes fixed on Harry. “Oh,” he says, voice light and lilting into understanding.
Harry nods, not sure what to say. Is Sirius disappointed? Is Remus, who hasn’t said anything yet?
But Sirius just slings an arm over Harry’s shoulders, pulling him into his leather jacket-clad side.
“I should’ve thought of that,” Sirius murmured. ‘I’m sorry, Haz. I had the same struggle when I was around your age. I can’t believe I didn’t remember.” He looks so put out by this that Harry feels a little bad.
“We’ll help you write a list,” Remus says quickly. “Here, I’ll get a quill and some parchment.”
Harry nearly deflates in relief. Remus brings the quill and parchment to the table, and together, they get to work.
“I haven’t really done a lot of reading for fun,” Harry says, pondering. “Books are…a good thing to put on the list?”
Remus nods, and writes down ‘books!’. Below, he begins a bulleted list: ‘classics, comics, magical history’.
“What about some new quidditch things?” Sirius asks.
“I’ve got a broom,” Harry reminds him. “Hey, wait, you know that. You sent me that broom.”
Sirius shrugs, a small grin on his face. “Well, yes.”
“I think I’ve got enough quidditch things for now. Hermione gave me a broom cleaning kit last term and I get all my kits from school anyway. But I guess I get kind of cold up there.”
“We’ll add warm jumpers to the list, then!” Sirius says happily. “Wait a minute, did we ever go shopping for clothes?”
“Er, I don’t think so.”
“Damn. Well, that doesn’t have to be birthday related. Moony, you’re around for the next few days, right?”
Remus looks up in surprise. “Oh, er, yeah.”
“You two can go shopping, then.” Sirius claps his hands together. “Perfect!”
Staying true to his word, Sirius does indeed send Remus and Harry out shopping the following day.
“You’re better off without my fashion insights, Haz,” he says jokingly. “I don’t think ol’ Minnie will survive if she sees another leather jacket in her classroom.”
When Harry softly admits he’s never been clothes shopping in a Magical establishment before, Remus insists they opt for Magical shops instead of Muggle.
“My mum was a Muggleborn,” Remus explains, “So I grew up in that world, too. It’s still a bit of an adventure to see Diagon and go into all the shops. I can’t believe how Magically-raised wizards act sometimes.”
“I know!” Harry exclaims. “It’s crazy! Everyone I know who’s not a muggleborn takes magic for granted and I didn’t even know it existed until I was eleven. I wish I had known earlier, but…” He shrugs, a far-off look in his eyes. “It didn’t turn out that way, I guess.”
Remus winces, remembering where he had been for Harry’s younger childhood. He had fought for the boy, yes, spoken to Dumbledore and the ministry more times than he could count about custody arrangements, but he constantly regretted not doing more.
Harry doesn’t seem to dwell on this, though, and is quickly distracted by posters advertising the upcoming quidditch world cup as they enter Diagon Alley. Sirius was already considering purchasing tickets for the three of them, and attending in his blond disguise.
“Ireland or Bulgaria, Remus?” Harry asks.
“Well, my father is Irish, so I fear it may be blasphemous for me to say Bulgaria,” Remus says dryly. “I don’t really keep up much with quidditch, though, it’s more Sirius’s speed. Your dad, though—he knew everything about every team.”
Harry brightens. “Really? Which was his team?”
“The Harpies, of course. And he would never let anyone forget it.”
They spent the rest of their journey to Diagon Alley in pleasant conversation, Remus regaling Harry with tales of James’s antics during their school years; by the time they step into the Leaky Cauldron and enter Diagon Alley, Harry is a resolute Harpies fan.
It’s only natural, then, that the first stop was Quality Quidditch Supplies. Remus was properly horrified to learn that Harry had been playing without the proper safety gear.
“It’s a wonder you’ve not broken a bone yet,” Remus muses, digging through a bin of quidditch gloves as Harry ogled at the brooms.
“I did once!” Harry announces cheerfully. “And then Lockhart–he was our Defense professor before you–vanished all the bones in my arm and I had to take Skele-Gro. Did you ever meet Professor Lockhart?”
Remus grimaces. “By the time I came along, he was not exactly of sound mind, so no, I never met the man. I’ve read a few of his books, though, they’re quite bad.”
“Ron’s mum loves him. Maybe not as much after last year, though… I dunno…”
Harry wanders off to look at the colourful, moving posters of in-action quidditch stars and Remus takes the moment to revel in how blissfully domestic it all was. He’s out shopping with Harry, Sirius is at home, unpacking boxes into their home and cooking them dinner.
It’s perfect, or as close to perfect as Remus has ever dreamed of.
Something will break, as sure as night will turn to day. And Remus will enjoy this scrap of domesticity for as long as he possibly can.
When they return, shopping bags in hand, Sirius ropes them into helping him prepare the most delicious bolognese Remus has eaten in years. The leftovers carry them easily through the next week, and before they know it, Harry’s birthday is just two days away.
“Why don’t you write your friends, try to arrange something with them?” Sirius suggests.
So Harry does, sending Hedwig off into the night laden with letters for Ron and Hermione.
As he falls asleep, he realises that for the first time in his life, he’s looking forward to his birthday.