Sol
I: James
A few years ago
“Stay close, Jamie,” Euphemia Potter said, gripping her son’s hand tightly. “You remember what your father said?”
“Slavers target stragglers.” Seven-year-old James replied, happily swinging their hands between them.
Effie nodded and let out a sigh. “Good.”
The two stood just outside the bustling market on one of Ravka’s eastern villages. Monty had an important meeting with one of the friends he’s made within his line of work and Effie was taking James to refill their food stocks.
Effie began to lead them through the winding street, ducking under peoples arms and avoiding the eye contact of those selling the bones of Saints. James knew it was one Ravkan custom that his mother had yet to adapt to, despite having left Novyi Zem in her early twenties.
James looked around. He always loved these markets. It was all so alive. People moved from vender to vender, collecting trinkets or buying dinner. James loved the colours; the orange of jurda from Novyi Zem, the warm tones of fruits imported from the Southern Colonies, the browns and yellows of tea from Shu Han, the glittering rainbow of gemstones in jewelry, the cold metals of tinkered creations, the reds of fresh meat. He loved the bright smiles from vendors when someone showed interest in their products. He loved the assault of smells that didn’t quite go together but felt like entering a new world every time they moved to a new station. He loved the difference in peoples’ styles, their skin tones, hair colours, eye shape, everything. Each person was their own star and he was eager to memorize it.
As his mother stopped to inspect different types of Zemeni herbs, James caught sight of a boy his age. He was tall, taller than James by an inch or two. His hair was a sandy brown, his skin a rosy ivory. He wore shaggy garments; trousers that were much too small, a wooly jumper that he was drowning in, boots where the laces were too small to tie but long enough to curl on the ground. His head was down and James couldn’t see his face but he was sprinting, running as fast as he could with loose footwear. An older man quickly caught up to him, a man with a chipped tooth, a scar along his jaw and a long, expensive coat. James frowned as the man clamped his hand down on the boy, long, dirty, yellow nails digging into the wool. The boy turned to look up at the man and James’ jaw dropped as he finally saw the boy’s face. He had terrified, rich chocolate brown eyes, warm freckles coating his cheeks and a horrifying amount of fresh scars crossing and zigzagging over his nose, jaw, forehead and cheeks.
Logically, James knew he couldn’t do anything. The man was at least quadruple his age but the look on the boy’s face was begging for help. So, while his mother was distracted, he dropped her hand, gripped the knife in his belt and raced towards them. He gave quick apologies as he ducked under the arms of customers and skidded past those walking down the street. They all shouted at him but James could care less.
If only his father were here. He’d know what to do.
When James got close enough, he slashed at the back of his thighs, just above his knees.
The man cursed in pain and dropped the boy. He whirled around to James, seething. Two knives appeared in hand and James felt his stomach drop. Oh no. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He let out a breath and fell back into one of the fighting stances his father had taught him, vaguely gesturing for the boy to run.
“What do you think you’re doing, boy?” The man snarled in a horrible Ravkan accent. If James had to guess, he would say this man was Kerch.
James didn’t have a chance to respond. The man turned back to the boy, who was shaking worse than before but had a strong determination in his eye. The man now had a blade in the back of his shoulder.
In the boy’s hand were three rusty nails. He took one, clenched it in his fist and when his hand opened, another blade sat in his palm. He went to throw it but the man shoved his hand away and slashed at his face. The boy cried out as he was cut from cheekbone to cheekbone.
A fury ignited in James gut and he stabbed his knife deep into the back of this man’s chest, aiming for his heart.
But he must’ve missed as the man grabbed his arm and threw him over his shoulder. James went tumbling and smashed into the stones, rolling at the boy’s feet. How anyone in the market was missing this interaction, he had no idea.
The man kicked the boy in the chest and he stumbled backwards. James struggled to his feet, chest heaving as he desperately tried to catch his breath. The man stepped on his back, forcing him to the ground. He took a fistful of his curls, tugging his head back, and brought his knife to his throat. James went still.
“It’s cute that you’re trying to save someone your age, kid, but you should know when you’ve been bested. And I’m happy to teach you. It’s a shame you’ll never put your new knowledge to the test.”
Suddenly, a surge of water sprouted from the harbour and slammed into the the man’s side. The man was thrown off and James scrambled to stand, head whipping around to find the culprit. A pudgy boy with dark blond hair, striking blue eyes and light freckles stood on one of the docks, hands raised and guiding the wave as it curled around the man, picked him up and threw him into the sea.
The three boys stood, all of them unmoving as they fought to catch their breath. James slowly picked up the knife the man had put to his throat and slipped it into his belt. He waved the Tidemaker over and he slowly obliged, taking cautious steps until he was standing beside James and the other boy.
“Thanks, man,” James said to him, smiling and giving him an appreciative nod. “What’s your name?”
“Peter,” he said slowly. “Peter Pettigrew.”
James nodded again and turned to the other boy. Blood was dripping down his face from the fresh wound and the ones that had been torn open. His smile faded into a frown. “Are you okay? Aside from…” he waved his hand. “What should I call you?”
The boy cleared his throat and when he spoke, his voice croaked with misuse. “Remus. Remus Lupin.”
“Alright, Remus, we need to get you to a Healer. Is there anyone around here looking for you? A father or mother perhaps? Older sibling?”
Remus’ eyes glazed over before they hardened. He shook his head.
James glanced over to Peter. “You?”
“Nope. Not for a long time.”
“Sorry, mate. To both of you. Come with me, my dad knows a Healer and his meeting should be over-“
“JAMES?!” A distressed voice called, nearing the verge of tears. James and his new friends looked back as his mother bursted into the harbour, head whipping side to side frantically. When she spotted James, her worry morphed into fury and she stomped over. “James Fleamont Potter!” She shrieked, gripping his arm and yanking him forward. “What were you thinking?! We just talked about slavers and then you run off?! By all the Saints, you scared me!”
Another person ran into the harbour. Fleamont and James Potter had many similarities; the same unruly brown curls, the same deep brown eyes, the same barely-there dust of freckles, the same circular spectacles. But, unlike James, he had the ivory skin of a Ravkan. Fleamont wore brown trousers, an elegant coat of crimson and gold, a cream tunic and ebony boots. When he saw his son and Effie, his shoulders sagged in relief and he jogged over.
“Thank the Saints you found him,” He said once he was within earshot. He turned his stern gaze onto James. “You have two minutes to explain yourself.”
James gestured to Remus. “He was in trouble so I tried to help.”
Both of his parents’ eyes widened upon Remus’ state, finally noticing the other two boys.
Effie knelt down so she and Remus were at eye level and they began a quiet conversation.
Fleamont nodded to Peter. “And who’s this?”
Peter stared at Fleamont, mouth agape. He shook himself. “I’m Peter Pettigrew. And you- your Sol. The privateer.”
Monty smiled. “That I am but you may call me Monty. Assuming you’re coming with us, yes?”
Peter hesitated.
Monty chuckled. “That’s alright. Think on it for a moment. How do you fit into this equation?”
“Remus was being attacked. James stepped in to help. The man - I think he was a slaver? I’m not sure. He comes round he often, though. - had James pinned. I pulled him into the water.”
Monty cocked his head. “You’re a Tidemaker.”
“Don’t turn me into the Second Army. Please. I’ve heard stories.”
Monty smiled again. “I won’t, I promise. My ship is safe for Grisha and otkazat’sya alike.”
Peter thought for a moment. “Then yes. If you allow, I should like to join your ship.”
Monty smiled and held his hand out for a shake. “Welcome aboard, Peter.”
A wet slap caught the attention of all five of them. A scarred hand gripped the stones and another joined soon after. The man heaved himself upwards and his torso joined his hands on the stone. Remus’ breathing changed dramatically and he began to hyperventilate.
“Greyback,” Monty hissed and he stepped forward.
The man - Greyback - smiled cruelly. “Sol. A pleasure, as always.”
“If you’re looking for prey, you’ll have to go somewhere else. You’re lucky there’s a crowd, Greyback, or else I’d be painting a mural with your blood. You nearly killed my son.”
“Oh poor old Sol and his otkazat’sya family. But you have something of mine,” Greyback’s eyes slid to Remus. “He’s under my name, by the law of the Kerch government.”
“But we’re not in Kerch, are we? And if you think a handful of laws would stop me, you’re poorly mistaken. He’s with me now. Or he’s free to go. Doesn’t matter. He’ll never be anyone else’s property again.”
Greyback focused on Remus. “C’mon, gorgeous. Let me take ya home, yeah?”
Remus crouched down and picked up one of the nails he dropped. He walked over and Greyback smiled unnervingly up at him. Remus stepped on his fingers and Greyback tried to move away but Peter held up his hands and the water shoved him against the sea wall. With the nail, now a blade, Remus slashed at his eyes. Greyback screamed as he was rendered blind and Remus stepped back. Two crescent moon lines of blood began pouring down Greyback’s face. The blade, a nail once again, slipped through Remus’ fingers and clattered onto the ground.
“Now you can never look at me or another child again.” He said, voice cold.
Peter pushed his hands out and Greyback was dragged out of the harbour.
Remus’ knees gave out and he toppled to the stones, body shaking.
Monty ran over and scooped him up into his arms and the five of them made for his massive ship, The Marauder.
II: Regulus
Sirius was an amazing student and Regulus was proud of him for it. His Healer lessons were going swimmingly, he passed his second year of his Heartrending course top of his class and he was a class clown. He was beloved by students and teachers alike, even if he did cause mischief every other class.
Which meant, by default, all of Regulus’ professors expected him to be exactly like his brother.
First year had been, like Sirius had said, a breeze, for the most part. They were all things he’s known for years. At the end of the course, it was all about transferring their knowledge from paper to reality. Regulus hasn’t scored the best but he could do it, and that was that.
His second year, however, was tremendously difficult.
When it came to absorbing information and taking notes, he excelled. But whenever he tried to preform any Heartrending acts, it took every ounce of concentration and energy and he couldn’t even accomplish anything. He knew where the larynx was. He knew what it did. He could feel it. But that was his limit. He couldn’t get any farther than that.
To say that Mad-Eye was disappointed was an understatement. To say his parents were furious didn’t even begin to describe their rage.
But there was a highlight to second year. After getting the basic Heartrending, more options opened up. He could take Healing classes with the other interested Heartrenders or he could take a Tailoring course with both Healers and Heartrenders.
Regulus knew what his parents’ reactions would be when they found out but it wasn’t a difficult choice. Not by a long shot.
When Regulus entered the room with a large group of female Healers and Heartrenders, he didn’t even feel out of place. This was where Regulus was supposed to be learning the Small Science. It felt like home.
Regulus took a desk at the front instead of the back, like he would if Moody was teaching him. But the man at the front of the room with long sandy blond hair and bright, excited eyes wasn’t Mad-Eye Moody. It was Caradoc Dearborn.
That first lesson, Regulus had a blast and he didn’t even do any Tailoring.
His Tailor lessons quickly became the highlight of his week. Every minute he spent with Caradoc Dearborn felt like he was floating. The classes when by faster than he’d liked them to. They didn’t drag on for hours like the ones Moody taught, even though they were the same length.
Regulus quickly began to despise the rest of his week. Almost a month in and he was leagues behind in his Heartrending course. So much so that Moody had begun to incorporate one-on-one lessons into his curriculum, and his curriculum only.
Which is how he ended up in a room with Madame Pomfrey and Mad-Eye Moody on a Saturday evening.
“Listen, Mr. Black,” Moody began and Regulus fought a sigh. “There are basic things a Heartrender can control: the heart, the blood, the breath. You can manage beats, you can move blood but, for whatever reason, you seem to have difficulty stopping someone’s breath,” Moody snapped his fingers and one of Ravka’s prisoners was wheeled out from behind those stupid red glass doors and strapped to the chair in front of him. Gellert Grindewald read his name tag. “The first step, find his windpipe.”
Regulus closed his eyes and let out a breath. He opened them, determined to finally get this down and raised his hands, channeling all his power and concentration to the person in front of him.
Regulus found his heart first and followed his bloodstream. It took him far longer than it should to feel the larynx and the oxygen rushing through it.
“Got it.”
Moody let out a sigh at the wait. He leaned down, pushing most of his weight on the wooden staff he called a cane, until his mouth was level with Regulus’ ear. Regulus fought a shiver of disgust at the proximity and focused on Grindewald. “Good. Now crush it. We don’t even care if he dies right now. All we want is for you to make him stop breathing.”
Regulus imagined his hand had suddenly extended and wormed its way under Grindewald’s flesh. He imagined his fingers wound around his windpipe. He imagined Grindewald gasping for breath as his fingers held his larynx shut.
Regulus squeezed his hand into a fist.
Nothing happened.
Regulus pulled his hand down and shook it, frowning at himself.
“Find it again.” Moody growled.
It took Regulus less time to get to the point he was at a few moments ago.
Moody suddenly jabbed him in between his shoulder blades. Regulus hissed as pain flickered through his back.
“Alastor!” Pomfrey cried, outraged.
“Shut it, Poppy!” Moody snapped.
No. His brain whimpered. A sting flashed behind his eyes and Regulus pushed it away. Not here too.
“Crush it.”
Regulus tried again and failed.
Moody smacked his outer thigh and Pomfrey rushed forward to heal the bruise that was forming. Mad-Eye battered her hand away.
“Again.”
Moody made him attempt it over and over and over again and each time, he struck him in a new place. His sides, his ankles, his knees, his elbows, his arms, his stomach, his face. Each time, Poppy tried to heal him. Each time, Moody shoved her back. Each time, Regulus failed.
Pomfrey healed every injury he had received before he was allowed to leave.
When Regulus returned to his dorm that night, his roommates were sleeping soundlessly. The tears that had built throughout the session spilled out onto his cheeks.
He was supposed to be safe at the Little Palace. No one was supposed to touch him here outside of combat training. Sirius had said as much.
But no. It was exactly like it was at home. You failed to meet expectations, you reaped a punishment.
Regulus slipped into the bathroom until his tears subsided. He stared into the mirror, eyes red and puffy, tear tracks etched into his skin and pulling it tight. His Tailoring from a few days ago had faded and the scars under his eyes were visible.
He took his blade and slashed at them, just like his mother would, and vanished them.
Because boys don’t cry.
Regulus had another Tailoring lesson two days later and he hadn’t fully emotionally recovered. His mood lightened a bit when he heard that by next week, they’d try actual Tailoring. But he didn’t have his usual enthusiasm. He didn’t jump to answer questions and Caradoc noticed and called on other people, sending him concerned looks all throughout his lesson.
When class ended, Caradoc called out.
“Regulus? Could you stay a moment?”
Regulus paused and waited until the rest of the class filed out before turning to his Tailoring Professor.
Caradoc walked over, the blue embroidery of his kefta matching the darker tones of his eyes. He tilted his head and his hair fell to one shoulder. “Are you alright?”
Regulus gave him a small smile. “Perfectly fine, thanks.”
Caradoc gave him a look. “I may be a Tailor, but I can still hear heartbeats,” Caradoc tapped his chest. “And you’re lying.”
Regulus paused and Caradoc waited with patient eyes. He trusted this man with his life and something about him made Regulus feel comfortable, safe and seen.
Those weren’t feelings Regulus felt often.
“My- I’m not doing so well in my Heartrending course.” He found himself saying.
“You have more to say.” Caradoc said and Regulus cursed his observational skills.
“I had a one-on-one with Moody not too long ago. It didn’t go well.”
Caradoc frowned. “I heard he could be brutal. But what’s happening with your Heartrending? You’re my star-“
Caradoc paused and Regulus felt anxiety spike through him as confusion clouded his Professor’s eyes.
“What?” Regulus asked, fingers picking at his nails.
Caradoc’s hands rose to his face and Regulus flinched. Caradoc hesitated before flicking his thumb up and gripping an imaginary plaster. He peeled it back and repeated the process on the other side. Regulus’ stomach dropped.
Caradoc had noticed the seams of his Tailoring. His scars were now on full display.
Caradoc frowned, eyes sad. “Did Moody do this?”
There wasn’t any point in lying. “No.”
A pause. “Did you?”
No reply.
“Oh Regulus. Can I hug you?”
Regulus shook his head and Caradoc stepped back, giving him space.
“There is only one known Tailor in this building and I most certainly didn’t do this. Did you?”
Regulus nodded.
Regulus saw the moment when realization dawned on Caradoc. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped.
“No wonder you’re having trouble in Moody’s classes. You’re not a Heartrender. You’re a Tail-“
Regulus shook his head firmly, hands flying up to his temples. “Stop. Stop, stop, stop,” he whispered. “It’s bad enough when my family says it out loud, it’s bad when I say it. If someone else says it, there’s no way I would be able to deny it.”
Caradoc paused. “What’s so bad about being a Tailor?”
“Ask my parents or anyone else in my family, who have all been Heartrenders.”
“Oh. I see,” Caradoc fell silent. “Show me what you can do.”
Regulus hesitated but the safe aura floating around the room brought his hands to his scars. In two quick swipes, they vanished.
Caradoc hummed in approval and it did something funky in Regulus’ stomach. “You’ve never had any lessons, besides the few I’ve taught you?”
Regulus shook his head.
“This is impressive. Should you have a free spot in your schedule, I could expand your horizons.”
Regulus brightened. “Really?”
Caradoc smiled and nodded.
“Thank you.”
“Anytime, Regulus.”