#septdrella

      "Easier I reckon than what you fared, luv," Septimus says, leaning across the threshold to peck that bemused smile.

      And good thing he leans, too. He's not about to go anywhere with the two weights that anchor themselves to either of his legs in that moment, ignorant of their parents' stern looks.

      "Ah, boys? Might I come in?"

      The eldest, Cyril, has the Black family smirk down at the precocious age of six…plus he's getting to be a wee bit large for this show of affection, reedy though he might be. "Maybe," he says.

      Bilius, four years old, mimics his brother, right down to the way he says, "Maybe," but the chubby-cheeked lad is too happy to keep the bit going. He bursts into a fit of giggles right after, which Cyril catches when their father walks into the house with them attached this way.

      Cedrella rolls her eyes and shuts the door behind them. "Oh, good grief! It's been a ruckus in here all day long, Sep. You'd think Christmas was tomorrow, not weeks behind us."

      Septimus just manages to shrug off his outer cloak with Cedrella's help. Then he gives each of his sons a long look. "Boys, is this true? You didn't let Mum have her peace and quiet?"

      Cyril switches from rambunctious to guilty in a flash, his cheeks faintly colored red just like his hair (their firstborn is so equal parts them, Septimus thinks, from looks down to personality). He detaches himself from Septimus' left leg, clasps his hands behind his back, and bows his head to Cedrella. "…sorry, Mum."

      Cedrella purses her lips again, but it's to stifle a chuckle, Septimus knows, especially when she locks eyes with her husband. She draws their oddly meek child to her middle and hugs him tight. "Oh, Cy… Thank you, dear. I appreciate it."

      Partly to mimic Cyril, partly to behave, partly for the reward of Cedrella's warm hug, Bilius follows suit, springing up with an "I'm sorry, too!"

      Now the parents do laugh, and Septimus tousles his boys' hair. "All right, all right… Why don't you two head upstairs and tidy up then? Give Mum some of that quiet time for a bit now."

      "But supper—"

      "Supper will be done shortly," Cedrella assures their growing boys. Her eyes follow them upstairs, but then she turns to Septimus with a haggard sigh, half collapsing in his arms. "…it will, but. Sep, I dunno how I can make it another month or so."

      At that, Septimus steadies her with one arm and drops his free hand to her round belly. His touch doesn't linger long before he feels the kick. Internally, he heaves a sigh of relief as he leads Cedrella to the nearby armchair.

      He doesn't doubt that they'll greet a new baby next month, when February brings new chills and the promises of spring around the corner. But he also wonders…

      As if sensing his hesitation, Cedrella lifts her lolling head from the back of the chair and reaches for his hand, their fingertips brushing in her tiredness. "Septimus?"

      He musters a smile for her. "Cedrella?"

      She shoots him a look. All this time, and it'll never change, him replying with her name when she simply beckons with his. "Something on your mind?" She tugs on his ring finger and taps his wedding band for emphasis.

      "Oh, not that worry again," he insists as he pulls up the ottoman to sit in front of her.

      Cedrella lowers her voice. "I know it's not ideal, but. So my parents don't see me as their own anymore. And…Callidora and Charis stopped answering my owls years ago." She tries so desperately to feign strength, but her dark eyes drop to her lap (…well, to her belly) at talk of her immediate family. "But not everyone in the house of Black has the same opinion. There have been others before me who've gone against the family's unappealing 'ideals,' and I certainly won't be the last. So, if we're stumbling a bit right now, Sep, I know I can find some sort of support. True family helps true family."

      He winces. He doesn't disagree, and it's a value she shares with his own father, funnily enough. But Septimus has done…all right to support them, on his own ability. A fifth mouth to feed will make things extra tight, yes, but they will manage, and without the charity of the family who excised his wife from their family tree. Still… "Cedrella…," Septimus starts with a sigh in his voice, "I…never told you the origin of my name, did I?"

      The non sequitur takes Cedrella by surprise. "Sorry?"

      Septimus smiles and pauses to let his eyes rove over her, tracing the subtle wave of her dark blond locks before the knot in her hair and sinking into the depth of her stone brown eyes ("Gray eyes run in the Black blood," she told him back in fifth year after their first kiss, "but mine don't quite want to be gray"). He muses on how she used to be sallow, too, like her sisters, their first few years in Hogwarts before she started rebelling and flying during her breaks and eventually befriending "that Weasley boy." But now? Now she spends time with her family outside and radiates warmth around the clock, as evidenced by her rosy cheeks, upon which his gaze rests now.

      "…Sep…?"

      "Ah, right. Sorry." Plucked from his appraisal, he cups her cheek in his hand and runs his thumb along her cheekbone, and the feel of her calms him. So, starting again, Septimus clears his throat. "My name normally would've gone to a seventh son."

      Cedrella furrows her brow. Of course she's confused; they both know he's an only child.

      "My parents never had or lost any before me… And I'm not the seventh Weasley generation."

      "No, your family's older than mine, even."

      "Yeah, color me surprised by that one." Septimus takes another breath and slides both of his hands into Cedrella's. "You…met my parents and all the assorted uncles and aunts and cousins at our wedding. My grandparents, too."

      Cedrella chuckles here. "The Weasleys are a big but warm and welcoming bunch," she remarks.

      "Cedrella, we weren't always that way. Actually—we aren't always that way. The big bit, not the warm and welcoming."

      Once more, she furrows her brow, over his correction of tense, but it sinks so low over her dark eyes that it borders on glare (in this, she's almost the spitting image of her elder sister, who never lost a chance to scoff whenever Septimus passed them in the school's corridors). "Septimus," she warns.

      He squeezes her fingers lightly but doesn't let go. "Look, it's. Sort of superstition, one might say?"

      "'Superstition'? Was there magic involved?"

      "Well, I know how you feel about Divination…"

      Cedrella sighs. "If ever they nix a subject from the curriculum—" She squeezes her husband's hands in response. "Nevertheless, continue."

      Septimus bites his bottom lip and offers her a consoling smile. "…it began generations ago, y'know. And they thought it was a fluke, at first. It wasn't until Great-Great-Granddad Trick that they believed in it for real."

      "Believed in what, Sep?"

      "Well…that, through a combination of Arithmancy, Divination, and moderately sound business advice…the Weasley family could, would be fruitful. Just. Never all at once."

      "How?"

      He sighs. "We've reserved numerical names for ages, and they've been the ones with large families."

      Cedrella blinks in the quiet of the house. Off in the distance upstairs, they hear the boys shuffling about in their room.

      Septimus knows his wife, though, because they've been together since their school days, so he knows when she needs just a little more information before she reacts. He swallows a lump in his throat and cautiously proceeds: "So Old Trick…er, Triconius, that is…had a handful of sons. They didn't all have families, but one of his sons had a single son of his own, Grandpa Quincy. Grandpa Quincy was an only child like Trick but had many sons, the second of which was my dad, who had…only me." He stops there and raises his eyebrows.

      Some days she feigns ignorance on account of the hormones, and Septimus happily takes care of this and that around the house, because a first or third pregnancy can't be easy on Cedrella. But her eyes are sharp and clear right now as she pieces things together. "You mentioned Arithmancy."

      He nods.

      "So—these names aren't just a quirk of your family, like star names in mine?"

      "Quirk? Somewhat. Done entirely on purpose with full intent? Yes."

      Finally, her mouth pops open in a small "o." "Then…Cyril and Bilius and our new baby…"

      "I want whatever size family you want, Ced. But the magic's in the family's favor, just so you know." His shoulders sag, unsure of what to expect next.

      Cedrella frowns. But, after a beat, she ventures, "Well, you've told me before that it's been ages since a Weasley witch was born into the family, right?"

      He perks up at that. "Yes. Loads of wizards for generations."

      "Perhaps it's time to wish for a witch, then," Cedrella states with a small pat of her belly. "Although, I have a feeling it's a boy," she admits a second later.

      Septimus quirks an eyebrow at her. "Then what now?"

      Cedrella pecks his cheek and leans back in the armchair with a content sigh. "Then we do what we do best: We raise another healthy, happy boy. But, this time, Septimus, we'll warn him and his brothers about the family tradition…and perhaps we'll let them decide their own fates and families and names when the times come." She tugs his left hand and his ring finger once more, cracking one eye open and sharing some of her confidence with him with a secret smile.

      …and, honestly? It works. Her expression and gesture convey what she won't say, that perhaps family tradition is something not quite keeping the Weasley family alive but bogging them down. And, if there's an expert on flying free of their family's musts, it's Cedrella (formerly Black) Weasley.

      So Septimus shares in her smile. Because he's never been very good at flying, but he's always been prepared for something brand-new or terrifying so long as Cedrella's at his side.

Done for the If You Dare Challenge (for prompt #806: deep roots) in the HPFC forum on FFN. THESE. THESE ARE THE HCS I thought I could squeeze into "The Future of the Bloodline" and was so woefully wrong, *lol*. I long ago decided that Bilius was one of Arthur's two brothers, and I only recently gave a name to his other one; here, too, I wrote for the second time (first was ynusly ch79) that Arthur's their youngest, so that was fun. But just…egads. The idea of the Weasleys being a long, established, big family but how marinated in my brain for a long time and didn't properly form until my recent Septdrella (and some Prewett) hcs took shape. Now, me being a maths major, I enjoyed naming some Weasley forebears, since "Septimus" has the root for "seven," so does "Quincy" have the one for "five" and "Triconius" for "three" (all prime numbers, btw, altho "Triconius" is of my own making and mixes Greek and Latin, but we're gonna breeze over that XP). Whether the fam members in btwn are named for "four" and for "six," respectively…eh, couldn't decide. XD Anywho! Cedrella has been warned: They rly could've had a larger fam…but I like how her rebel streak gave Septimus some confidence that things don't have to be that way. The Black family has traditions that ought to be retired, so perhaps the Weasley family did, too! Final thoughts: The hc of the Weasleys being older than the Blacks is derived from the etymology of the surnames, and it's implied that the Weasley disdain for Divination is inherent (Ron got it from Grandma Cedrella XD).

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

      Septimus tenses. Mum and Dad almost never keep things from him, especially now that he's older and nearly done with school. He knows that Dad's often struggled to buy gifts for his many siblings (although, truthfully, Septimus figured that out on his own ages ago) and that sometimes helping the previous, fruitful generation has led to a strain on their own family's finances. He knows Mum's accessory-making hobby has turned into a side business that's eased that strain sometimes (and he's seen her work in Malkin's window displays—Septimus would offer his compliments if only Mum weren't so proud so as not to be embarrassed by the circumstances).

      So…if it's one of the few things they feel they can't tell him yet…or if they're prepping how to tell him…

      His stomach stops its rumbling and his parched throat is no longer a priority as new concerns replace his priorities. Septimus can't help but fear as he pushes the dining room door open and blurts, "What are you two doing up? Is someone hurt? Is someone—gone?"

      Mum and Dad jump in their seats nearest the door. Mum pales, white as a ghost, while Dad slaps a hand over his heart and settles his son with a wide-eyed stare. "Merlin's beard—! Don't scare us like that, Septimus!"

      "I'm sorry, but—is someone." He stops there. He can't ask again. He doesn't want to think of his cousins, his aunts and uncles, his grandparents—

      But Mum shakes her head vigorously and turns in her chair, reaching for Septimus' hand. "No! No, dear, no one's dead. No funeral planning. Everyone's in good health, I assure you."

      He lets himself be tugged forward, though he swipes at his eyes with his free hand as relief surges through him. "O-Oh. That. That's good then… But why are you awake?"

      With their hands connected, Septimus isn't fooled by Mum's excellent poker face (that's how she wins at Exploding Snap and all other card games), because her fingers go rigid around his hand. In response, she looks to her husband to explain.

      And that's when Septimus notices the ocean of parchment on the dining table. Scattered around and some cheaper than others, there's letter after letter, more than a dozen opened envelopes. He doesn't read the words, but he recognizes the handwriting right away, because he receives birthday cards every year from these people…from his loved ones. "Are these new?"

      "Relatively recent, yes," Dad answers.

      "Why's everyone writing us all at once?" Sure, no one's dead or dying, but perhaps the family of one of his uncles is in far worse shape than they thought.

      "Because…Septimus, it's past time, actually." Dad sighs and pinches the freckled bridge of his nose. "And…they didn't write to all three of us. Just to your mum and me. About you."

      His nerves wind up again, taut, at the revelation. "Huh?"

      Dad sighs again and Mum's shoulders sag, but they give him twin smiles of sympathy as she pulls their son between them and rubs soothing circles in the small of his back. "You've got two years of school left, yes, but it's also a good time to think about your future."

      "You mean—work?" Septimus ignores the uncomfortable way his pajama shirt keeps bunching where Mum rubs; the motion is more comforting to her than to him, anyway. "Reckon I'd follow in your footsteps…"

      Dad's smile is tight, but he shakes his head. His hair, once as red as his son's, is considerably lighter this past year, flecked with threads of gray and even sparse white; it's more noticeable by candlelight tonight. "No, Septimus. Not work, son."

      If not work, then—? Septimus freezes and snatches up the topmost letter, from Uncle Fen, Dad's eldest brother, and the words "arranged marriage" jump off the parchment at him. He doesn't even have to grab the other correspondences for the phrase to highlight itself, drawing Septimus' eye with a quick skim.

      "Nothing's set in stone," Mum rushes. "It's just talk. Ultimately we want you to be happy, Septimus."

      "Then why is anyone discussing an arranged marriage for me? I'm freshly sixteen!"

      Dad and Mum share a soft chuckle as well as a glance, and something passes between them in that fond moment.

      …oh. Septimus knows his parents love each other, a lot, and he's walked past their photos in the hall countless times. But he's never truly asked them how they met or when or why they got married, has he?

      So…perhaps he's the odd one out, being unsure of this arranged marriage business.

      Either way, Septimus knows how he feels about the topic and clears his throat. He backs away from Mum's ministrations, too, because he's not a child anymore. "What else?" he asks.

      His parents return from La-La Land, and Dad's usually happy-go-lucky countenance is nowhere to be seen. In fact, his blue eyes (the same ones Septimus has) drop to the spread of letters. "…there's discussion about making you a pureblood match."

      Keeping the Weasley family pureblood in the process.

      Septimus mulls over the thought, but it bothers him, the notion that anyone in his family thinks that's a worthy priority. The fact sinks into the pit of his stomach, where it sours and makes the back of his throat burn.

      …realistically speaking, though, he muses if the adults have thought this through. His father's generation was an abundant one and still all made pureblood matches, five brothers in total. Uncle Fen and his wife never had children, so Septimus is the eldest cousin, but…

      Unless their family stops only appreciating Muggles and Muggle-borns and starts marrying them, too, then won't they be right quick out of options? Especially when particular families have hated them for generations…

      As if sensing his train of thought, his parents sigh, and Dad shuffles the letters before tidying them into a neat pile to set aside. "Look, it's just a thought. There's—There's a Blishwick daughter, I think… Your Aunt Pea mentioned her cousin has a daughter, too, so that's the Max line. Or, with the right gift, I'm sure we could talk to the Bulstrodes or to the Macmillans—"

      "No, don't."

      His parents stop and focus their attention on him. If they were half awake while wading through this mess, they're fully awake now.

      But now… Now Septimus has his chance. He can voice every last thought he has on this bloody idea and put it to bed and then they can all return to bed, which sounds quite lovely at two in the morning.

      He licks his lips and swallows a nervous lump. They wait.

      "I…don't know any of those witches."

      They're his parents. They know to wait for the rest.

      "…and…I have someone I like."

      Their eyes widen. Dad's "Why didn't you say so sooner?" overlaps with Mum's "Oh, Septimus, that's lovely, darling!"

      He lets them coo and pepper him with basic questions, and he answers as many as he can while being as vague as possible. It's partly a stroll down Memory Lane for him ("When did you two start talking?" "Politely? First time…third year…properly, fourth." "Same House?" "No, different." "Does she like Wizard's Chess?" "Afraid not much, Dad, but I suspect that's because I keep winning every time I try to teach her." "That's no good, son, let a lady win once in a while." "We're allowed to have our own talents, Mum; she's an ace flyer, and I imagine she'd be great at Quidditch if her family would let her play." "Oh, a Quidditch enthusiast? She sounds like fun, Septimus! Why haven't we heard about her before?"). It's partly an exercise in keeping his privacy as well as hers…not just because she's asked him before, but especially now, with all this arranged marriage nonsense and wondering what the status of the Weasley line will look like in a generation or two…

      That's when it hits him.

      Septimus…doesn't want to stick a pin in his parents' and uncles' and aunts' meddling merely out of principle. He—He's thinking about his future, himself.

      And with her—Cedrella—in it.

      He blinks and shakes himself free of his stupor, amazed by this newfound clarity. He has half a mind to owl Cedrella right now…but, no, that would be unwise at this late hour.

      "…imus? Septimus?"

      "Mm?"

      Mum chuckles and reaches up, combing her fingers through his bedhead. "Do we even get to know her name, dear?"

      He reddens, which makes them laugh since red cheeks forever spotlight a Weasley's freckles, but Septimus sighs. "I…will tell you her name and more about her come Christmas break. Deal?"

      "We don't even get a hint?"

      Septimus turns on his heel, exhausted by the turn of events, but he pauses before returning to his room and muses on the irony of things. If how fondly, how deeply he's come to care for the kindhearted Cedrella, of the Weasley-despising Black family, is any portend of what sixth year, seventh year, and after Hogwarts will be like, then things look promising. So he replies with wry smile, "She's someone who ticks my—and the family's—boxes. Goodnight, you two."

      And there he leaves his parents pondering who their prospective future daughter-in-law could be.

Done for the If You Dare Challenge (for prompt #985: irony) in the HPFC forum on FFN. I've got a few old Weasley fam hcs and more are cropping up, thx to inspo from my pal, controlled climb (and srsly go read her Septdrellas bc they're SO GOOD TT-TT), and thx to working on developing some hcs for the Prewett fam at the same time. I realize, in hindsight, this one was more Septimus-centric with just mentions of Cedrella at the end, but that means some ideas not crammed in here turned into another fic, *LOL*. But for reals: If the Weasleys have been large, poor, but pureblood for generations…that's like…gonna be rly hard to manage? *dubiously eyes canon* Anywho. I still have more thoughts on this, hence a separate fic, which will show Septdrella front and center. :3c Also, truly ironic that some in the family would want to continue being pureblood, and Septimus thinks it's a non-issue…but marries a pureblood witch anyway. XD So! Here's to more hcs~ (And hence my marking this a Maydayverse fic, since it's part of my overall hc. :3)

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!