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Chapter Text

There were nights when Orion Black wondered what might have become of him had he been born to a different name. A name without legacy. Without bloodlines that suffocated him with expectation, and portraits that watched down from their gilded frames, waiting for their descendants to behave like proper Blacks.  

He imagined, sometimes, a quieter existence—where one could smile because they wanted to, not because it was expected. Where ambition was a flame, not a leash. A world where dreams were not considered signs of weakness, and sons were not groomed like hounds for a hunt they'd never chosen.  

But those were foolish thoughts. Weak thoughts. He had buried them long ago, he knew better.  

His father had taught him early: duty was not something one desired. It was something one wore. Like a mantle—heavy, stifling and suffocating. You learned to breathe beneath its weight, or you were crushed by it. Orion had not been crushed. He had adapted. He had endured. And, most importantly, he was fulfilling his role. That was what was important.  

He had given the family an heir. Sirius—brilliant, difficult, and wild.  

He had given them a spare. Regulus—quiet, obedient, with eyes always cast toward approval.  

He had done his part. The line was secure. The Black name would continue.  

And yet.  

Walburga had not been satisfied. As always, her ambition outpaced reason. There had been that night—a blur of incense, heavy wine, and the bitter taste of potion-laced kisses. She had taken what she wanted, the way only a true Black could: without permission, without shame.  

Now she carried a third son in her womb.  

Another heir. Another tool. Another Black. Another star carved into the tapestry.  

He felt nothing for the child. Not rage. Not grief. Just… fatigue. A weariness so deep it felt carved into the marrow of his bones. This was not a child born of love, or even necessity. This was a statement. A flex of control from a woman who no longer recognized the difference between power and madness.  

And yet, when the boy was born—if he lived—he would still be hers . A Black by blood. Branded from his first breath with a name that carried rot beneath its gold. He wouldn’t inherit a home, or a fortune. He’d inherit the expectation. The ruin. The curse of carrying forward something that should’ve died long ago.  

Not because he was loved. Not because he was wanted. But because Orion had once believed someone ought to carry the weight after him—and it sure as hell wouldn’t be him again.  

Sirius had rebelled the moment he could form his own thoughts. Regulus, though more pliable, had proven too delicate—more consumed by the idea of pleasing than leading.  

So, Walburga had taken it upon herself to secure a third.  

And Orion? He hadn't let her. He never would have. But Walburga had never needed permission—only opportunity. She took, as she always had, with cold hands and colder conviction. She gave nothing. Not tenderness. Not truth. Not even the illusion of choice.  

Sometimes, in the darkest corners of his thoughts, he imagined his hands wrapped around her throat—not out of passion, but finality. The silence after her last breath would be the first peace she'd ever given him.  

She had drugged him. Claimed him. Used his body like a means to an end, like a name to be bred forward, not a man to be met.  

And now, she carried the evidence.  

This child—this afterthought—would inherit the same shackles Orion had worn all his life. Not freedom. Not love. Just duty — soul-grinding and endless. A punishment, not a gift.  

Let the boy learn early what it meant to be a Black.  

He would be born into a cage, same as his father. And when he looked up one day with empty eyes, begging for meaning, for breath, for a single dream of his own—Orion would simply watch.  

Because that was the way of things. And no one had ever watched for him.  

“He kicked again,” Walburga said from her chaise, her hands resting lightly on the curve of her stomach as if cradling a relic, not a child. Her voice cut through the silence of the drawing room like a needle slipping through silk—measured, precise, always slightly amused.  

Orion did not look up from the brandy in his glass, jaw clenched, the glass trembling faintly in his hand. “He will learn to stop.”  

“You say that as though he will listen to you.”  

He turned his head, slow and mechanical, eyes meeting hers with the dead calm of a man who had nothing left to burn. “They always listen. Eventually.”   

Walburga smiled—not warm, not even smug but c ertain. “This one will be different. I feel it.”  

Orion downed the drink in a single, punishing swallow, the burn barely registering. “They all feel different when they’re still inside you.”  

A flicker of tension crossed her face, but she let it pass, feigning serenity as she leaned back and closed her eyes. “You’ll see. He’ll be what the others couldn’t.”  

He took a step toward the fire. The silence thickened.  

The heir and the spare were still so young—barely boys. Four and three. Was she truly that impatient, that dissatisfied, that she’d already begun discarding them as failures? Sirius needed the wildness beaten out of him, not labelled broken. And Regulus—if she’d stop coddling him long enough, he might yet grow a spine.  

But of course, patience was never a Black virtue. Only dominance. Only legacy. Only control.  

And what was he, if not the result of that same twisted inheritance? He remembered the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder, the sharp sting of Arcturus’s disappointment, the silence that followed every mistake—longer and heavier than any punishment. He had been moulded, forged, hardened.  

Now he caught himself doing the same.  

Trying to iron out Sirius’s defiance with discipline. Trying to carve leadership into Regulus with expectation alone. Because that’s what had been done to him and look how well that had turned out.  

Look what was left of him.  

And Walburga? She wanted to start over. Wanted a clean slate. As if the others were defective. As if it wasn’t them —the parents—who had failed.  

And now, she carried her solution. Her next attempt. Her next Black.  

Another Black to break.  

“Another heir.” His voice was quieter now but emptied of feeling. “Another symbol for your little shrine. That’s all he’ll be.”  

She opened her eyes again, watching him. Studying. “I didn’t do this alone.”  

“No,” he snapped, spinning on her. “You just made sure I couldn’t stop you.”  

The silence cracked like glass underfoot. For a moment, even Walburga looked uncertain.  

Orion stepped closer, brandy glass still in hand, his voice low but laced with venom. “You drugged me. Lied to me. Took what you wanted, as always. And now you want me to pretend this is something sacred?”  

Walburga's gaze narrowed, unblinking. “It’s ours .”  

Something in him snapped.  

The glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor, but he didn’t even look down. In two strides, he was on her—his hand clamping around her throat, not tight enough to choke, but enough to warn . Enough to tremble with the violence he would not unleash.  

Her breath hitched—but not in fear. Her eyes met his, cool and unwavering, as if daring him to go further. As if this was just another power play.  

“It’s ours ,” she said again, staring straight into him. “You can't unmake it, Orion.”  

His grip tightened for a breathless second—his knuckles white, jaw clenched, every inch of him carved from rage. Then he shoved her back against the cushions and tore himself away, breathing hard, chest heaving like a man just pulled from drowning.  

“No,” he said, turning from her, voice raw. “It’s yours . You own this. Don’t try to wrap it in legacy and call it love.”  

He walked toward the fire, slow and deliberate, as if movement alone would keep him from breaking more than the glass. The shadows stretched behind him like chains, long and grasping.  

“He’ll be what we make him,” he said finally, hollow and final. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”  

And this time, Walburga did not reply.  

She only placed a hand back on her stomach and smiled.  

March 20th, 1964, Friday  

The house did not change when the boy was born.  

It remained still and unwelcoming. As always, everything was in perfect order. The silver tapestries still shimmered under torchlight. The ancestral portraits still scowled and murmured their judgments in passing. Nothing in the air hinted at celebration—only expectation, like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting to see if the newest Black would be worthy of the name.  

Walburga named him Polaris Rigel Black —a star to outshine them all, she said, as if it were prophecy.  

Polaris, the fixed point in the sky. The one the others revolved around, guided by. The North Star. The symbol of unwavering purpose.  

Rigel, because of course she would. Orion’s brightest star—his own namesake turned into tribute and mockery all at once. She knew exactly what she was doing. A reminder. A claim. A final twist of the knife.  

Orion had said nothing. He had already given the child his future. Let her dress it up in starlight if it made her feel clever.  

The room was still heavy with the scent of blood and spell-cleansed linens when Arcturus Black arrived, walking through the front door with the chill of old winter clinging to his cloak. His presence required no announcement. The house had long since bent itself around his authority, like ivy grown inward toward rot. He did not smile. Black men rarely did.  

He studied the swaddled infant in silence for a full minute before offering a nod that served as approval.  

“Strong features,” he said. “The line endures.”  

That was all. That was enough.  

Sirius stared through the bars of the cradle with the thin-lipped expression of a child who had been made to wait far too long. He was only four, but already the defiance burned in his eyes—dark and sharp like flint.  

“Why is he so small?” he asked.  

Regulus stood quietly beside him, a step behind, as he always was. Three years old and already mastered the art of stillness, of pleasing looks, of blending in. His hands clutched the edge of the crib as if unsure whether he was meant to touch or watch.  

“He looks boring,” Sirius muttered.  

Behind them, Orion stood like a shadow cast too long across the room. His arms were crossed. His gaze was not warm, but it was fixed on the infant, and that was enough to spark the quiet bloom of jealousy in Sirius's chest.  

“He’s just another baby,” Sirius snapped. “We already have enough.”  

“You will hold your tongue,” Orion said, voice cutting through the room like drawn steel. “This is not your place.”  

Sirius flinched—not visibly, not enough to admit weakness, but his scowl faltered.  

“I don’t want another brother.”  

Orion turned to him then, slowly, the weight of his stare colder than any reprimand. “And what you want,” he said, low and final, “is irrelevant.”  

Sirius dropped his gaze and bit the inside of his cheek. Swallowed words that no one wanted to hear.  

Orion didn’t look at his eldest. His attention remained on the youngest, whose eyes were shut, lips pursed like a secret unspoken. The others had cried when they were born. This one hadn’t made a sound.  

And the longer Orion looked, the more it bothered him.  

The child had his nose. His mouth. That slight furrow between the brows that ran like a fault line through the Black men—Arcturus, himself, and now this one. It should have stirred pride. It didn’t. It stirred something different. A slow, tight coil of irritation that curled in his gut the way guilt sometimes did, unspoken and unwanted.  

You’re not a legacy—you’re a reminder. Of what she took. Of what I couldn’t stop.  

There were not many moments Orion could remember that he felt as weak as he did now.  

His jaw clenched. He told himself it was exhaustion. Told himself the boy would grow into the name, into the role. Told himself this was the cost of legacy. But the truth was simpler. He had already given the child his future—and now, staring down at him, Orion felt like the boy had stolen something in return.  

Walburga sat upright in bed despite her pallor, already issuing instructions to the house-elf and to the nursemaid. Her tone was brisk, commanding. She wore exhaustion like a badge of martyrdom.  

“This one will be different,” she said for the second time in as many days. “He will not shame the name.”  

There was no affection in her voice—only intent. As if the child were a plan, not a person.  

Sirius didn’t understand all of it. Not yet. But he understood enough to know that his mother wanted this brother in a way she had never wanted him. It showed in the way she allowed the nursemaid to linger. It showed in how she didn’t immediately order the cradle moved out of sight. It showed in the way Orion—distant, unreachable Orion— looked .  

And something inside Sirius closed that day. Not a door, but something smaller.  

Regulus said nothing. He never did. But he stayed close to Sirius’s side, watching, always watching.  

In the weeks that followed, the house did not grow warmer. There were no lullabies, no playful coos. Polaris was held only, when necessary, passed between nursemaids and occasionally presented like a relic to visiting kin. His purpose had been decided before his first breath—not to be cherished, but to be prepared.  

He was not the heir. That title belonged to Sirius, by blood and by birthright.  

But Sirius had always been… unpredictable. Restless. Unruly in a way no amount of correction had yet tamed. And Orion, though he never said it aloud, had already begun bracing for the inevitable.  

Polaris would be raised not merely as a son, but as a failsafe.  

He was not born into a family. He was born into a dynasty.  

And it showed in every silence, every command, every expectation carved into the bones of the walls. The House of Black did not raise children. It forged legacies.  

Sirius would come to hate it for that.  

Regulus would come to be consumed by it.  

Polaris—Polaris would be made from it, though what he would become remained unwritten.  

Three stars cast from the same dying constellation: one burned out too fast, one collapsed inward, and one was still becoming—uncertain, unfinished, not yet claimed by light or shadow. They were named for brilliance, but none of them asked to shine. Not like this.  

— ❈ —  

And somewhere, far from the sky and its reckonings, a different kind of darkness gathered.  

The room was dark—not merely unlit but steeped in a kind of ancient hush that pressed against the bones. Not silence, exactly, but the pause before something begins, or ends. Curtains had long since rotted from the windows, and time itself seemed to retreat in the corners, afraid to move forward. A single seer knelt in the centre, trembling, lips bloodied from biting back screams.  

He stood motionless, cloaked in black that seemed to absorb the room around him, a figure carved from night itself. His features were smooth and unnatural, stretched tight like something grown rather than born.  

His wand held lazily in one hand. The seer's voice, moments ago ethereal and trembling with prophecy, had collapsed into incoherence. Whatever had possessed him was gone now, leaving only a shivering husk.  

The figure spoke, cutting through the silence, soft as silk and twice as dangerous. “Say it again.”  

“I—I told you everything, my Lord…” the seer whimpered, head bowed. “The vision came—it left—I do not know more—”  

A flick of the wand. A whisper of Avada Kedavra .  

The seer fell inwards, limbs folding like failed wings, his body robbed of meaning before it met the floor. Voldemort’s red eyes lingered on the corpse for a moment, but he did not look disappointed. He looked...curious.   

From the far side of the room, where the walls leaned inward like listening giants, Abraxas Malfoy stepped forward. He was still immaculate in pale grey robes, the silver embroidery catching the weak candlelight.  

“You believe it held truth?” he asked. “Or was it the ravings of a mind undone by prophecy?”  

Voldemort didn’t answer at once. He stared at the empty space the seer had occupied, as though expecting the vision to echo there still. When he did speak, his voice was low and speculative.  

“When the soul is split beyond its bearing, 
And death is denied its due, 
The North Star shall rise unbidden— 
Lit with truths the dark disowns...” 

His voice lingered on that line, almost reverent. Then he turned, sharply. “What do you make of that , Abraxas? ‘The North Star shall rise’—what is the North Star?”  

Abraxas considered, choosing his words with the care of a man who knew how quickly brilliance could turn to wrath. “The North Star is called Polaris ,” he said. “It is a constant in the sky unchanging. A guiding light. For centuries, travellers and sailors have followed it to find their way north. It is a symbol of constancy, clarity… direction. If I remember right, in old texts, some called it the bridge between realms. The fixed point above the axis of the world. A symbol, not only of direction—but of connection. Between what was and what will be.”  

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “A bridge,” he echoed.  

“Between the broken and the whole. Between past and future. Even between life and death.”  

That word— death —hung in the air like a challenge. Voldemort didn’t flinch.  

“A poetic notion,” he said after a pause, but there was something different in his tone now.  

He began to pace, the hem of his robes dragging like smoke. “This is no idle metaphor. ‘The North Star shall rise…’” He paused. “Could it be a person? A place? An object imbued with power?”  

“Perhaps all,” Abraxas offered carefully. “Or perhaps none. It may not be what it seems. Prophecy rarely speaks plainly.”  

Voldemort stopped. His eyes gleamed, alight with calculation. “ Lit with truths the dark disowns. There is something… unnatural in that. Subversive.” He spoke the last word with disdain. “ He shall bear the weight of what was cast aside. ”  

“An heir?” Abraxas mused. “A forgotten lineage? Or someone who carries the burden of others… perhaps even yours?”  

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed at him, but not in anger. In thought.  

“Through him, the pieces shall be drawn— 
Not by force, but resonance.” 

He exhaled slowly. “ The soul is split beyond its bearing… A reference to me? To the Horcruxes?” A flicker of rare tension crossed his features. “ And death is denied its due... ”  

“Your immortality,” Abraxas said quietly. “Or… its price.”  

Silence bloomed between them. Then Voldemort spoke again, this time almost to himself. “If this ‘North Star’ is to rise —then he, or it, does not yet stand among us. Perhaps… he has only just arrived.”  

A pause. A glance to the eastern horizon, pale and bleak beyond the shattered glass. “There are many born this year,” Voldemort said. “The stars are busy.”  

He turned toward Abraxas with sudden decisiveness. “Find the children born this spring. Those with lineage—power—potential.”  

“And when I do, my lord?” Abraxas asked.  

“If this child is to be the bridge, then I will decide what is crossed. ”  

Chapter Text

May 16th, 1968, Thursday  

Polaris felt as though he knew a lot for his age.  

Not numbers, not runes, not spells—not yet. But rules. And those were more important.  

Some were written. Most were not.  

The first rule was this: Be still.  

Still hands. Still voice. Still face.  

Stillness meant control. Stillness meant respectability. Stillness made you watchable, admirable, safe.  

The kind of child people pointed to and said, “Now that is a proper pureblood.”  

He didn’t know what proper meant, not really. But he knew the difference between Sirius’s tapping fingers and Regulus’s folded ones. He knew which one got scolded less. Which one Mother smiled at longer.  

Today, there had been a tea. A formal one. The kind with too many spoons and stiff-backed chairs and adults who spoke in clipped syllables and glanced at him only when he fidgeted.  

He had tried not to. He really had.  

But his fingers always wanted to move.  

He hadn’t meant to tap the table leg. Or bounce his heel. Or stare too long at the gold-rimmed saucer, wondering how the flowers on it never faded.  

But his mother had seen. She always did.  

The guests were gone now.  

The room had been cleared.  

And Polaris was waiting.  

Just as he’d been told.  

Polaris sat on the velvet footstool, hands stretched palm-up over the silk runner. His feet dangled above the floor, heels knocking gently against the carved leg. The room smelled of rosewater and lemon polish—and something thinner underneath, like metal left too long in the rain.  

His fingers twitched—barely.  

Walburga turned, slowly. Her smile was small and smooth and terrible.  

To Polaris, she was everything sharp and shining. Her gowns rustled like warning bells, her perfume always too sweet, layered over the cold bite of something chemical and dry. Her face was beautiful in the way portraits were—perfectly framed, perfectly still—but her eyes never blinked quite when they should. They were always watching, maybe even waiting.  

"Again?" she said softly. That softness was always worse.  

“You know what I’ve told you, darling. About hands that can’t be still.”  

Polaris bit his cheek and nodded.  

He had been still. Mostly. But “mostly” didn’t count. Not here. Not with her. Mistakes didn’t need to be loud to be noticed. In this house, there was no such thing as small. Every slip was a stain. Every twitch a failure. And failures had consequences. Predictable ones.  

If you forgot, you paid. If you moved, you were corrected. That was the rule. And rules, she always said, made things safe.  

"You embarrass yourself when you fidget," she said, crouching to eye level. Her tone was clipped, almost weary. "You undermine the name I gave you. Polaris . Do you even know what that name means?"  

He swallowed. “The North Star.”  

"Yes," she said, kneeling before him with the slow, deliberate grace of someone used to being obeyed. Her hands rested lightly on his knees, and her eyes fixed on his with a gentleness that always felt like something else beneath the surface.  

“The fixed star,” she murmured. “Polaris. It does not flicker. It does not fall. While the other stars spin madly, it holds its place. That is why you were named.”  

She reached up, brushed a strand of hair from his face, then let her fingers linger just a moment too long.  

“You think we choose names at random in this family?” she said, voice dipping into something close to amusement. “No, darling. We name our children after stars because stars endure . They are distant, yes—but constant. Immortal. Cold when they must be.”  

She smiled—quiet, satisfied.  

“Our bloodline is like the night sky: ancient, pure, and full of power. Bellatrix burns hot. Regulus orbits close to the centre. And Sirius—” her mouth twitched “—Sirius was born the brightest of them all. So full of promise. So eager to shine.”  

She exhaled through her nose, something sharp behind it.  

“But brightness means nothing if it turns wild. A star that strays too far from its constellation is just a warning in the sky. Remember that Polaris. Even brilliance can burn itself out if it forgets its place.”  

Her hands moved to cup Polaris’s.  

“But you, my love, are Polaris. Not the brightest. The steadfast . The anchor. The one that guides without needing to shout or spin.”  

She leaned closer. Her breath was warm against his temple.  

“Names have meaning. And yours—yours is a promise. To me. To this family. To all of us. You were born to be still. To be certain. To endure .”  

But her gaze sharpened.  

"And yet tonight… you couldn’t keep your hands still. You wriggled like you were nervous. Like you didn’t want to be seen."  

“I didn’t mean to—” he started, voice small.  

She cut him off with a soft “Shhh.”  

"Regulus knew how to sit still at three. Sirius…" A pause. Her lips pressed thin. “Well. You are not Sirius.”  

Then, with a sigh—disappointed, not angry—she reached for the thin lacquered cane on the table beside her.  

“I don’t do this because I’m angry,” she said, still calm. “You need to understand that.”  

Polaris stayed silent. That was the second rule. Don’t speak unless asked.  

She stepped back in front of him.  

“I do this because I love you. And love, real love, is not kind for kindness’ sake. Love teaches. Now straighten your hands.”  

That he did.  

The first strike landed across the soft flesh, and the pain bloomed like heat under the skin—sharp, hot, immediate. He didn’t cry out. Just blinked hard and focused on the rug beneath her shoes.  

The second landed lower, catching the wrist. A welt would rise there. It always did.  

When it was done, she crouched again, lifted his hands gently — as if the welts weren’t already rising.  

“See?” she said, almost tender. “You can be still. You’re stronger than you think.”  

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. Her lips were cold.  

“One day, you’ll thank me. When the world looks to you, when the family counts on you — you’ll remember this, and you’ll know how to hold your ground. Like a star. Like a Black.”  

He nodded, because that was the third rule: Always agree in the end.  

That night, well after the silence had settled thick through the halls, his door creaked open.  

Regulus was the first in. Quieter than Sirius, both hands wrapped around a folded napkin that sagged slightly in the middle. He paused near the bed before crouching down beside Polaris on the floor.  

“I saved you the corner piece,” he whispered, and carefully unwrapped the bundle.  

The smell hit first—warm sugar and golden syrup, buttery pastry flaking at the edges. The tart was slightly squashed, the crust cracked along the top, but Polaris’s eyes lit up anyway. It was his favourite: thick with treacle, sticky in the best way, and still faintly warm, like it had been snuck from the kitchen only minutes ago.  

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. Regulus just sat beside him, knees tucked up to his chest, watching.  

Polaris picked at the corner with slow, bandaged fingers. The sugar clung to the cloth strips, and he had to tug it free in pieces. His hands stung when he moved them, especially the left, where one welt had cracked slightly beneath the gauze.  

“I told you,” Sirius said sharply, kicking the door shut as he stormed in. “I told you not to fidget when she’s watching. What were you thinking?”  

Polaris didn’t look up. “I forgot she was there.”  

He pulled a crumb from the crust and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. “I was thinking about how mirrors know when you're looking at them.”  

Sirius huffed, pacing. “You always do this. You know what she’s like when she’s in a bad mood. Now I’m not allowed to go outside all day. Because of you .”  

Polaris winced—not because of the words, but because he flexed his palm wrong trying to lift another bite. He paused, then carefully cradled the rest in his lap.  

“I didn’t mean to,” he said quietly as he was trying to concentrate on eating the tart without hurting his hands. “I’ll remember next time.”  

“She hit you, Pol,” Sirius snapped the frustration building up. “She cane-whipped you. That’s not—” He cut off, fists balled at his sides. “It’s not fair.”  

Regulus looked over. “Does it hurt much?” he asked softly.  

Polaris nodded, just once. “Only when I move them.”  

“Then don’t move them,” Regulus said, shifting closer, as if that alone could protect him.  

Sirius sat down hard on the bed, arms crossed. His cheeks were still flushed. “You shouldn’t even have to remember. It’s stupid.”  

“It’s just the rules,” Polaris mumbled around another mouthful. “I moved when I shouldn’t have. She told me to learn stillness. This helps.”  

“Rules this, rule that ,” Sirius muttered.  

Polaris blinked up at him, confused. “I just want her to stop being angry.”  

Sirius didn’t answer right away. He watched Polaris struggle to lift another crumb to his mouth, his fingers trembling slightly even through the bandages. He watched Regulus silently inch closer again, resting his shoulder against Polaris’s like he used to do with bruised birds they found in the garden.  

Sirius’s anger didn’t burn out—it just folded in on itself, sullen and hot and helpless.  

He stood again, paced once, then came back and dropped to the floor beside them.  

No one spoke after that.  

They sat in a row on the cold wood floor, three boys and one half-eaten tart between them. Regulus gently brushed crumbs off Polaris’s lap. Sirius tore a flaky edge from the pastry and passed it over without a word.  

Polaris took the piece and tucked it between his fingers, careful not to press too hard.  

The tart was sweet. His hands still hurt.  

They stayed like that until the tart was gone and the silence felt full enough to fall asleep in.  

June 26th, 1968, Wednesday  

Once, there was a little star who didn’t know he was burning.  

He lived at the bottom of a well, deep in the earth where the sky was only a memory passed down by insects. The well was tall, and the stone walls were smooth, too smooth to climb. But the star didn’t mind. He thought the world was the well—grey, silent, safe. The echoes were his lullabies, the shadows his only company.  

But still, sometimes, late in the never-night, he looked up. And sometimes—only sometimes—he thought he saw something blue.  

Not just blue. Endless.  

And though he didn’t know the word for it, not yet, he wondered what it meant to fly.  

Polaris Black, four years old, paused, pencil hovering in midair. He blinked down at the page.  

He hadn’t meant to write a story. It just… appeared.  

The drawing wasn’t anything special. A round, slightly crooked well, a sky too big for the page, and a small figure curled at the bottom—somewhere between a star and a boy. His legs were tucked under him. His face was round, a little sad, but there was a tiny flame in his chest. Polaris had drawn it with gold ink from one of his mother’s old calligraphy sets. He wasn't supposed to use it, but it felt right.  

The sketchbook had been a gift—from Uncle Alphard.  

He remembered the moment clearly, even though it had happened months ago. Alphard had crouched down to his level, pressing the wrapped parcel into his hands with a grin.  

“A place for your stories,” he’d said, crouching down to meet his eyes. “Even the ones you don’t have words for yet.”  

Polaris had turned it over in his hands, hesitant. “But I don’t know how to draw,” he had whispered.  

Alphard had smiled. “ Of course you do. You just haven’t remembered yet.”  

Then, quieter—like it was a secret meant only for the shadows between them— “One day, I’ll paint you. But only when you’re ready to be seen.”  

Polaris hadn’t fully understood what that meant. Not then. But it had stayed with him.  

He was lying on his stomach, on the thick rug in the corner of his room. Books were scattered around him in quiet chaos—pure-blood histories with stiff leather spines, pictureless spell theory volumes, a worn copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard (one Regulus had slipped him, carefully unwrapped from brown paper). A blanket hung off the edge of his bed like it was trying to reach him but hadn’t quite made it.  

The room was silent except for the gentle scratch of pencil against paper. No ticking clocks. No humming portraits. Even the wind outside knew better than to knock on these windows.  

Polaris didn't speak the story aloud. He just knew it, he made it.  

The star-boy wasn’t brave. Not really. He wasn’t clever like the foxes Polaris had read about, or bold like the lions that roamed through myths. But he watched. And listening, in the world Polaris came from, was more important than roaring.  

That was what Father said.  

"Speak only when spoken to. Observe before acting. A sharp mind is a quiet one."  

There were always things to remember. So many rules. So many ways to do it wrong. Don’t speak out of turn. Don’t fidget. Don’t forget what the colours on the robes meant. Don’t sit in the wrong chair. It was tiring . And sometimes Polaris wanted to say something , even if it wasn’t important. But what if he said it wrong? What if he forgot a rule again?  

He didn’t like forgetting. It made Father’s mouth go thin.  

He turned another page in the sketchbook and drew the well again—this time with roots tangled around its stones. He didn’t know why. Maybe the star-boy wanted to escape. Maybe the roots were trying to hold him in.  

“Polaris.”  

The voice slipped under the door like a spell.  

He didn’t jump. Didn’t speak. He simply closed the notebook with steady fingers, slid it under the nearest book, and sat up straight. His back hurt from the floor. His legs had gone numb. But that didn’t matter.  

He moved like he was used to this. Because he was.  

His room was beautiful in the way a cage is beautiful—tall ceilings, velvet curtains, gleaming shelves. Every surface polished. Every book approved... maybe not all . But there were no toys. No colours that didn’t match the family crest. No childish mess.  

The door creaked open, and his father stepped in, wand tucked in his robes like a reminder. His eyes swept the room with that usual cool precision.  

“Is this where I told you to be?” came the voice from the doorway— Polaris could hear the disappointment.  

Polaris looked up, eyes wide for a moment before they settled into stillness. He sat straighter, brushing the gold ink from his fingers against his robes in an attempt to hide it. But it was no use—the stains were vivid, smudged like bruises across his small palms.  

His father stepped inside, wand tucked away but unnecessary. Orion Black didn’t need a wand to hurt. His words were often enough.  

The man’s gaze dropped to the mess on the floor—open books, scrawled parchment, a small streak of red crayon on the corner of the rug. Polaris followed his eyes and suddenly hated what he saw.  

Too many colours. Too much softness. His chest tightened without reason.  

Orion didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. His disappointment settled over the room like smoke, thick and suffocating.  

“I see,” he murmured. “You’ve been playing again.”  

Polaris opened his mouth—he wasn’t sure to say what—but then closed it. His hands folded tightly in his lap, hiding the stains. His fingers still tingled from the drawings.  

“Do you think the world will honour a Black who plays with colours like a street urchin? A child who rolls on the floor like a Kneazle chasing thread?” His voice was smooth—so smooth it cut clean. “Is that what you wish to be, Polaris?”  

The boy shook his head quickly. “No, father.”  

Orion’s eyes were still cold. “Then why do you insist on behaving like one?”  

Polaris didn’t know. He only knew the drawings made him feel something warm—something that didn’t live in this house. He liked the way the stories came out of the pencil without permission, like they wanted to be born. He liked the colours.  

Silence was safer than truth.  

Then Orion’s eyes narrowed. He had spotted something. A book, half-hidden beneath The Nature of Cursed Lineages . Not a family-approved title.  

He bent slowly, plucking it from the floor with thin, precise fingers.  

Polaris stilled.  

It was that book.  

A small, worn volume with a pale blue cover and gentle script on the front: A Kindness Beyond Magic: Parallels in Non-Wizarding Lore. It had no dust jacket. No aggressive politics. Just stories and reflections—written by wizards.  

His uncle Alphard had given it to him just a few weeks ago. “Not every inheritance is written in gold,” he’d said with a wink. “Some things we lose matter more than we remember. Read when you’re alone—you’ll see what I mean.”  

The first pages were simple. They spoke of how certain charms—like those for warding sickness or blessing new homes—appeared not just in magical families, but in old Muggle traditions, too.  

Polaris hadn’t read much. But he had read enough .  

Orion opened the book, flipping through its pages with slow, deliberate motions. His eyes skimmed diagrams, footnotes, hand-drawn runes beside sketches of ancient stone circles. Notes on magical convergence. Folklore crossovers. Mentions of “non-wizarding” beliefs and “pre-Statute customs.”  

His brows drew low. His lip curled.  

The silence pressed in.  

Then—  

Snap.  

The sound was small: the book’s spine bending under his grip.  

He looked up, eyes no longer cold—but burning.  

“Who gave you this?” he asked, voice deceptively calm.  

Polaris’s heart thudded. He felt suddenly very small.  

“I…” His throat tightened. “Uncle Alphard. For my birthday.”  

Orion stepped closer. “How much of it have you read?”  

“Just the beginning,” Polaris whispered.  

In one movement, Orion knelt before him, hand catching his chin—not gently—and lifting it so their eyes met. Polaris's breath hitched. His father’s grip was not cruel enough to bruise, but firm enough to scare. Enough to say: you do not lie to me.  

“What exactly did it say?” he asked. “In those first few pages you read.”  

Polaris’s lips parted. He tried to remember the words—not perfectly, but enough. The pages hadn’t seemed dangerous when he read them. They’d felt soft. Like someone wrapping a blanket around a storm.  

“It said…” he began slowly, “that some spells might have come from stories. That Muggles and wizards used to… share things. Like songs. Charms. Even if they didn’t know what they meant.”  

A flicker passed through Orion’s eyes. Disgust hidden behind a smooth mask.  

“I see,” he said, letting go of Polaris at last. He stood and walked a slow, measured step back, holding the book as though it were infected.  

“Do you know what that is?” he asked, voice calm again, but sharp with a blade beneath it. “That is a lie. A child's story, told by those too weak to accept the truth.”  

Polaris stayed on the floor, eyes wide.  

“But—” he began, quietly.  

Orion’s voice cut clean through. “There is no magic in ignorance. There is no strength in failure. And Muggles , Polaris, are a failure of nature. Squibs of the world, left to crawl and whimper and pretend they matter. It’s dangerous to draw lines between ourselves and people who were never meant to carry power.”  

Polaris didn’t respond. But something folded in his chest.  

Orion stepped closer again, crouching to his level. His voice was velvet now, the kind that curled around the ears like lullabies—but there was no warmth behind it.  

“Do you know why they write things like that?” he asked. “Because they are afraid of us. Afraid of our names. Afraid of the power we carry in our blood. So, they write lies to make themselves feel brave. They pretend that kindness is stronger than magic. That effort matters more than legacy.”  

He tapped a finger against the cover of the book. “This… this is poison dressed in sugar.”  

Polaris blinked. The words echoed in his head.  

Poison? Dressed in sugar? It sounded odd.  

Polaris didn’t know how sugar could be poison. Sugar was for birthdays and cocoa and the middle of cinnamon toast. But he didn’t say that. Maybe grown-ups knew something about sugar he didn’t.  

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.  

“Of course you didn’t.” Orion smiled now—tight and hollow.  

It didn’t look like a real smile. Not to Polaris. Real smiles crinkled eyes and made people softer. This one didn’t. This one sat on Orion’s face like something painted on, and if anything, it scared him.  

“You are still young. But you must learn, Polaris, and you must learn early .”  

His voice lowered again.  

“You are not like them. You were born for better. You carry a name that bends the world, not one that is bent by it. That truth — our truth—is not cruelty. It is clarity. And clarity is power.”  

Polaris looked down at the gold stain on his fingers, at the edge of colour that still lingered on the rug. The part of him that had felt warm, that had made stories, seemed suddenly... wrong. He wasn’t sure.  

“I didn’t mean to…” he started but didn’t know how to finish it.  

It was clear his father was frustrated; with the tone he was now using.  

“You strayed,” Orion said flatly. “And when one strays, they are corrected. There is no shame in that. But there is shame in refusing to be corrected.”   

Strayed. Polaris wasn’t sure what that meant exactly. It sounded like when a dog runs off and someone has to call it back. But he hadn’t run anywhere. Just… read. He only wanted to see the pictures.  

Polaris looked up.  

“Do you understand now?” Orion asked, an edge to his tone. “Do you see how they twist the world to lure you from it?”  

And Polaris—just four years old, tired, confused, craving approval the way flowers crave sun—nodded.  

“Yes, Father.”  

Orion studied him, and for a moment Polaris thought he saw something close to disappointment. It made Polaris’ chest hurt; he hated when his father looked at him like that.  

“Good,” the man said, standing tall again. “Then remember this: the only truth worth holding is the one you are born into. Everything else is noise. You will not read this again. And you will not speak of it.”  

He turned for the door. “Wash your hands,” he added, just before stepping through.  

Then the door clicked closed behind him.  

Polaris sat in the silence. The room was still full of books and stories and drawings—but now they looked different. Like things he shouldn’t have touched.  

His hands felt dirty.  

He rubbed at the gold on his skin with the hem of his robe, scrubbing until the colour faded.  

He told himself he had done wrong.  

That stories could lie.  

That sugar could poison.  

Children tend to believe the people who name the world for them.  

Yet, he had wanted to ask why .  

He knew better than to ask that question.  

The last time he’d asked why , Father’s hand had met his cheek. It hadn’t left a mark, not one anyone could see, but it had ached deep in his jaw for days. Every bite of food had reminded him not to question. Every glance in the mirror, searching for a bruise that wasn’t there, had reminded him that pain didn’t always need proof.  

June 27th, 1968, Thursday  

The morning came too early.  

Light leaked past the heavy velvet curtains, soft and gold and uninvited. Polaris blinked up at the ceiling, his small frame stiff beneath the weight of the blankets. He hadn't meant to wake so early. He hadn't meant to wake at all—not yet. But sleep had turned on him sometime in the night.  

It had started as a dream. Maybe even a story at first.  

He was climbing—yes, climbing—up and up toward a sky that shimmered like glass. There was a ladder, just like the one he’d drawn, and it stretched higher than any tower, through stars that winked at him like they knew something he didn’t. But then the sky cracked. And the ladder broke.  

And he fell.  

Down, down, down, his arms reaching for rungs that weren’t there anymore. He tried to call out, but the wind ate his voice. And the stars? They didn’t blink this time. They just watched.  

That was when he woke up.  

He hadn’t screamed—he never screamed—but his hands had shaken under the covers, and his chest felt full of something too big for a four-year-old to hold. Fear. Shame. Or something without a name.  

His dreams were always odd in their own way. Like that time, he had dreamed of strings stretched too tight, snapping one by one—and the sound they made was not pain, but music.  

Another night, he saw stars fall like teeth from the sky, and when they hit the ground, they didn’t shatter—they sank into the earth and hummed.  

Once, he opened a door that wasn’t there the night before and found a room full of cloaks. Not people—just cloaks, hanging. Some still warm.  

He had walked across a frozen lake where faces moved under the ice, drifting closer each time he looked away.  

He dreamed of a mirror with no reflection, but when he breathed on the glass, something behind it breathed back.  

And once, just once, he dreamed that someone called his name—not loudly, but with the kind of voice that knew him, the kind that wasn’t supposed to exist, or maybe it did?  

Now he lay there, still quiet, as the world around him stirred. The house was waking up. Footsteps clicked somewhere below, then silence. A door closed. The clock in the hallway ticked.  

Today was his first lesson.  

He should’ve been excited. He had been, when Mother first told him. She’d knelt beside him in the drawing room and said it was time he had a proper tutor of his own. That he would learn the things befitting a son of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. His chest had swelled with pride—until she mentioned that he would not be joining Sirius and Regulus. Not yet.  

“They are far ahead,” she said. “Your place is here. Starting where one must start.”  

He had nodded, of course because she was right, everyone had to start from somewhere. Though he still looked toward the staircase that led to the upper study, where Sirius and Regulus sometimes sat with books too big for their laps, and for a moment, his throat had felt tight.  

He thought maybe he’d get to sit beside them. Maybe it would feel like being part of something.  

But he would be alone.  

And that made the lesson feel heavier than the books stacked on his little desk.  

Still, he dressed himself neatly in the charcoal-grey robes folded at the edge of his bed. He fastened the buttons with steady fingers. Pressed the creases. Smoothed the collar. There was pride in being presentable. That much he knew.  

He didn’t go back to the sketchbook hidden beneath his mattress. Not today. Not when he had something to prove.  

Instead, Polaris made his way to the side chamber off the main library, a room his father had deemed “suitable for instruction.” His legs were still short, but his strides were practiced. The house held its usual hush — not silence, but something heavier, like breath held too long.  

And when he opened the door to the study room, he was already standing straight.  

The walls were lined with glass-doored bookcases, filled spine to spine with volumes older than Polaris’s grandfathers. A globe sat in the corner, all sea and parchment-toned land, with tiny dragons sketched in the oceans like warnings. There was a desk too—small, crafted of dark wood. A chair waited behind it, straight-backed and expectant. Beside it, a taller one.  

Polaris sat.  

He didn’t swing his legs, though they didn’t reach the floor.  

He didn’t fidget.  

He folded his hands just so, fingers light in his lap the way Mother had taught him.  

The door creaked open a minute later.  

His tutor entered—tall, thin, robes crisp like folded letters. His eyes were dark, but not unkind. Not at first. Just distant. Observing. Like he already knew who Polaris would be before he ever said a word.  

“Polaris Black,” the man greeted, voice smooth and practiced.  

“Yes, sir.”  

The tutor gave a single nod, as if that confirmed everything he needed.  

“You can call me, Mr Thorne. I have taught many young men from the great houses of our world. I expect discipline, thought, and respect. Do you understand these things?”  

“Yes, Mr Thorne.”  

“Good.”  

A thick folder was placed on the desk. He opened it with ceremony, flipping past pages as if searching for the right place to begin.  

“We’ll start with blood.”  

Polaris blinked.  

“Blood?” he echoed.  

For a second, he thought of the red kind. The warm kind. The kind that spilled if you fell hard enough or got caught doing something you shouldn’t. He remembered the time he’d cut his palm on the edge of a broken picture frame and stared, mesmerised, as it welled up in a perfect bead—so vivid it didn’t feel real.  

Was that what they meant? Was this lesson about medicine? Or healing spells?  

But Mr Thorne’s tone was too careful. This was his first lesson, Polaris didn’t think he was ready to learn about spells , not at all. He wanted to learn but he also didn’t want to fail.  

He said blood like Father said honour . Like something invisible that everyone was meant to understand without question.  

Then it clicked.  

Not the kind that hurt. The kind that meant something.  

Mr Thorne gave a small, patient smile, like one might offer a child who had asked a question just a little too late.  

“Not the kind that spills when you're careless,” he said. “The kind that lives in you. That defines you. That binds you to the name you carry.”  

Polaris sat up straighter. This he had heard before. At dinner. In passing. In Father’s voice, low and reverent.  

“Pure blood,” Polaris said, a bit quieter.  

“Precisely.”  

The man drew a piece of parchment and slid it across the desk. On it were four columns: Noble, Mixed, Tainted, and Other.  

“Which do you think you are?”  

Polaris didn’t hesitate. “Noble.”  

“And which do you think your tutor is?”  

Polaris hesitated. He looked up. The Thorne’s eyes were unreadable.  

“I don’t know, sir.”  

“A fair answer. I am noble-born. As are you. As are your brothers. Your mother. Your father. And what does that mean?”  

Polaris thought. “That we come from… good families?”  

“Strong families,” the man corrected gently. “Families untouched by corruption. Families that preserved their strength through care. Through tradition. That is not something to be ashamed of. That is something to honour.”  

Polaris nodded, slowly. Something about the words made his chest tighten—but not in a bad way. It was like holding your breath so you wouldn’t let anything spill.  

“You must understand,” Mr Thorne continued, “there are others who would like to see that strength weakened. Diluted. Lost. Those who do not understand the value of purity seek to mock it, change it, destroy it. They speak of kindness, of acceptance and of sameness. Do you know why?”  

Polaris frowned. “Because… they’re jealous?”  

Mr Thorne’s eyes gleamed, pleased.  

“Very good,” he said—but this time, his voice held more than approval. There was something weightier beneath it, a kind of gravity meant to press into the bones. “Jealousy is the seed of much in this world, Mr Black. Envy curdles the heart. It makes people lie, makes them twist truths into virtues. They envy what they cannot be. They envy what they cannot earn.”  

He tapped the parchment lightly, his finger landing again on the word Noble .  

“That is what you must understand. Not everyone who smiles at you wishes you well. Not everyone who speaks of equality does so from a place of goodness. Many speak of sameness because it makes them feel less small. Because if they admit there is such a thing as better—better breeding, better heritage, better magic —then they must also admit to being lesser. And that, for them, is unbearable.”  

He leaned back, letting the words hang.  

“So instead, they pretend. They speak of change. Of fairness. They call your strength privilege, and your honour pride. And in time, if you let them, they will convince you to be ashamed of what you are. To forget .”  

Polaris didn’t speak. He felt something hot and strange in his chest—an emotion that was part pride, part fear, part something he couldn’t name. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry or stand taller.  

Thorne watched him closely, then softened—just slightly.  

“But you won’t forget. Will you?”  

Polaris swallowed. “No, sir.”  

“Good,” Thorne said, voice low. “Because the world forgets too easily. And when it does, it destroys the very things that made it great.”  

Polaris didn’t fully understand. Not all the way. But the words fit together like puzzle pieces, even if he didn’t know the full picture yet. They made sense . They were spoken calmly. Kindly, even.  

And when things made sense, Polaris believed them.  

He wanted to understand.  

He wanted to learn.  

“Now,” Mr Thorne said, tapping the parchment. “We shall begin by listing the sacred twenty-eight. Your legacy. Then we’ll compare it to the lesser lines.”  

Polaris took the quill. His hands were small. His fingers ink-stained from yesterday, but he didn’t think about colours anymore.  

He just wrote.  

“…and so,” Mr Thorne concluded, tapping the illustration of the Rosier family crest, “it is not merely blood that defines us, but the memory of blood—who we have been, and what we are expected to become.”  

Polaris blinked at the page. The quill was still warm in his fingers. His notes were neat. Careful. He liked how the words looked on parchment—how they sat, like little soldiers, waiting to be read again.  

But a question tugged at him. It had been whispering there for minutes now, quiet but stubborn.  

He raised his hand.  

Thorne paused. He arched one eyebrow, almost amused.  

“Yes?”  

Polaris didn’t fidget. He knew better. But the words came out fast.  

“If blood remembers, sir… how does it remember? Is it magic, or… is it something else? Do names hold the magic, or the people?”  

Mr Thorne’s lips parted. Not with annoyance—no, this was something else. Surprise. Maybe even approval.  

“A thoughtful question,” he said. “Not one most your age would think to ask.”  

Polaris sat straighter, chest warm with something close to pride.  

Thorne stepped away from the board and folded his hands behind his back, pacing lightly. Thoughtfully.  

“Blood remembers through lineage,” he said. “Through action. Through legacy. The magic we carry is not simply a gift; it is cultivated. Protected. When a family guards its values—when it holds to truth and strength and pride—then yes, that memory grows deeper. Stronger. That is why names matter.”  

“But what if someone has a strong name,” Polaris asked, “and does something… not strong? What happens to the memory then?”  

There was silence.  

And then, slowly, then Thorne walked back toward him.  

He knelt—his eyes now level with Polaris’.  

“You are young, Mr. Black. But already I see the mind working beneath your stillness. That’s good. Curiosity is no enemy—but it must be directed.”  

Polaris nodded. Slowly, unsure what he meant. Curious was supposed to be directed?  

He thought of the bugs he watched crawl under rocks, the way he’d once spent an hour taking apart a wind-up toy just to see what made it tick. No one had told him to do that. It just happened , like a voice telling him, look closer. Was that the wrong kind of curiosity? The sort that wasn’t "directed"?  

He looked up at the man—tall, with kind eyes, though they didn’t smile. Grown-ups were strange. They said things that made sense like riddles. Curiosity was no enemy… unless you pointed it the wrong way? Like a wand in shaking hands. Like Sirius pointing at the family tapestry asking, “Why’s that one burnt off?” and getting slapped for it.  

So, curiosity had rules, then. Invisible lines...  

Maybe that was what " directed " meant.  

Polaris tucked the word away in his chest like a coin. He’d spend it later, when the world made more sense.  

“Remember this,” Thorne said, voice gentler now. “A name is a promise. When someone breaks that promise, the fault lies not in the name, but in the person who shamed it. We do not change the name—we correct the mistake.”  

Polaris’s chest tightened.  

Correct the mistake.  

That meant names had rules.  

And mistakes could be erased.  

His small hands curled against his robes. It was too many rules. Too many things with edges. Curiosity had to be directed. Names had to be protected. Mistakes could be undone but only in the right way.  

Even feelings had rules, he was beginning to suspect. Sirius got away with shouting when he was angry—but only because he was older. Regulus cried once and got sent out of the room. Polaris had wanted to laugh when the tea kettle squealed like it was dying, but the noise had startled Mother, so he swallowed it down and said nothing.  

The world seemed packed with invisible strings—pull one wrong and something snapped.  

He glanced up at Thorne, eyes wide, thoughtful. “How do you know which things are mistakes?”  

Thorne didn’t answer right away. That was another thing grown-ups did. They paused like they were choosing from too many doors.  

“Time,” the man said at last. “Time tells you. And consequence.”  

Polaris nodded again, slowly, like before. But inside, he wondered— what if you ran out of time before you knew which rule you broke?  

Thorne stood again and moved back to the board, where a series of names had been drawn beneath the “Tainted” column.  

“Some of these names were once noble,” he said, circling one with the tip of his wand. Sparks flared red, then dimmed. “But they chose weakness. Compassion. They betrayed their own. And so, their names are remembered differently now. Their children bear that shame.”  

Polaris swallowed.  

He didn’t want to shame his name.  

He didn’t want to be remembered… wrongly.  

“You must never forget what you are,” Mr Thorne said quietly. “Or let others forget it.”  

Polaris looked up at him, eyes uncertain. “But what if they say we’re all the same? That blood doesn’t matter?”  

A flicker of something colder passed through Thorne’s gaze. Not anger. Not yet. But steel.  

“Then they lie. Or they are fools. Likely both.”  

He crouched again, his voice lower now—meant just for Polaris.  

“You must never let someone of lesser blood look down at you. Do you understand?”  

Polaris nodded, but slowly. “I think so.”  

“They will try,” Thorne said. “They will say you are arrogant. They will say you are cruel. But what are they truly doing?”  

Polaris thought. “Trying to… bring me down?”  

“To make you forget ,” Thorne whispered. “To drag you to their level. Because if they can convince you to doubt yourself, then they can rise. And you must never let that happen.”  

Polaris stared at the page again. The words. The columns.  

“What happens to them?” he asked quietly. “The ones who try to rise?”  

Thorne gave a small, knowing smile. “They mimic. But they cannot become. A goblin may dress like a wizard. A Muggle-born may wave a wand. But that does not make them you . Greatness is not performed—it is inherited .”  

There was a pause. Polaris’s fingers twitched around his quill.  

“If someone clever comes from the wrong family,” he said, “shouldn’t we… help them? Teach them?”  

Mr Thorne straightened once more.  

“There is a kind of cleverness that mimics brilliance. Like a mirror held to the sun—it may seem bright, but it gives no heat. No fire. You, Polaris, carry a legacy. That is real. That is rare. You must protect it.”  

Polaris sat still, a thousand thoughts turning behind his eyes—but none louder than one:  

He didn’t want to forget.  

He didn’t want to fall.  

“I won’t let them,” he said.  

Mr Thorne gave him one final nod, thin and satisfied.  

“Good. Then this has been a worthy first lesson.”  

The door to the study clicked shut behind him, and Polaris walked the corridor with measured steps—just as Mr Thorne had. He didn’t run. Didn’t skip.  

He didn’t quite understand everything Mr Thorne had said, not yet. But it had sounded important. Felt important. And he had understood one thing clearly:  

He wasn’t a child anymore.  

His steps down the corridor were just a touch more deliberate than usual, hands tucked behind his back the way his grandfather did when he walked the estate, when the family went to visit the manor. The portraits lining the hall didn’t comment as he passed, but Polaris imagined they could sense the difference. Or perhaps he only hoped they could.  

He felt taller. Not physically, of course—his feet still didn’t touch the floor when he sat—but in the way that mattered. In the way that lived behind the ribs. He was being tutored now. Like Sirius and Regulus. Like Father had been. That meant something.  

He found them in the lounge.  

Sirius and Regulus sat cross-legged on the floor by the low table, a chessboard between them, the pieces clicking into place on their own, soldiers obeying their masters’ strategies without a word.  

Regulus was winning—his pawns lined up with suspicious precision, a knight poised for the finishing strike. He wore the look of someone almost bored by his own cleverness. Sirius was chewing the inside of his cheek, one leg jittering against the floor as he stared at the board like it had personally offended him.  

Polaris stopped just inside the doorway and listened. Sirius darted forward, queen in hand, ignoring a vulnerable corner. The piece hopped across the board… and fell immediately into Regulus’s trap. His rook swooped in with a clean, decisive move and captured her.  

“You always forget to protect her,” Regulus said, not unkindly, but not trying to soften the victory either. “She’s the strongest piece.”  

“I know that.” Sirius snapped, hand darting toward the board, like he might undo the move if he could just get there fast enough. But it was already done.  

Polaris saw the mistake before it happened. Had seen the past three, in fact. But he didn’t say anything. Sirius never liked being corrected. Not even when it was meant kindly. Especially not then.  

“I’ll give you another minute,” Regulus said primly. “But then I’m taking your rook.”  

Sirius pressed his lips together and glowered at the magical soldiers. His hair fell forward to mask his eyes, the scowl more eloquent than a dozen words.  

Polaris stepped inside, folding his arms lightly behind his back the way Mr Thorne had. “You’re letting him trap you, Ris.”  

“I know what I’m doing,” Sirius snapped, not looking up.  

Polaris said nothing more, he knew better that to add more to it instead Polaris just sat on the edge of the settee, hands folded, expression neutral.  

Regulus grinned without subtlety. “He always forgets the left flank. He’s done it three times now.”  

Sirius’s eyes flashed. “At least I don’t take ten minutes to decide every move.”  

“It’s called strategy ,” Regulus sniffed.  

Polaris smiled, though it was small. And then, unable to hold it in longer, he announced, “I had my first lesson today.” It was clear the youngest Black was proud of such a statement.  

Regulus looked up immediately, his competitive glint replaced with curiosity. “With Thorne?”  

Polaris nodded, trying not to puff his chest, but it was difficult. “Yeah. We started with bloodlines and legacy. He said I have a good mind.”  

Sirius rolled his eyes but didn’t comment.  

Regulus leaned forward, chess momentarily forgotten. His silver-blue eyes—so much like their mother’s—were bright with interest. “Did you do the columns? Noble, Mixed, and stuff?”  

“Yes,” Polaris said, and this time he did let a bit of pride through. “He made me list the Sacred Twenty-Eight from memory. Then we talked about what happens when names get lost. Or… fall out of favour.”  

Regulus nodded, eyes bright. “Mother says the Shafiqs used to be one of the oldest, but they keep to themselves now. She says they married carelessly. Not wrong , just… not wisely. That’s what happens when you forget tradition.”  

Polaris tilted his head, recalling. “Mr Thorne says memory is more than just words that It’s legacy. That blood remembers. ”  

Regulus’s eyes widened, as if Polaris had just told him the answer to an unsolvable riddle. “He said that? That’s brilliant. ”  

Sirius finally made a sound—a loud exhale, long-suffering. “Sounds boring. Blood and remembering and whatever, blah blah blah. Bet he just wants to make you write essays all day.”  

“It’s not like school,” Polaris replied carefully. “It’s… different. It’s about who we are. ”  

Sirius shrugged and moved a pawn. Another poor decision.  

Regulus immediately capitalized on it with a smug flourish. “Mate in four.”  

“Shut up.”  

Sirius glared at the board as if it had betrayed him personally. His fingers drummed once against the edge of the table, then stilled.  

“This game’s cursed,” he muttered.  

“It’s not cursed,” Regulus said without looking up. “You just keep making bad moves.”  

“Keep talking, Reg. I’ll start charging admission.”  

Polaris watched the board in silence. Regulus had him. Mate in four, he’d said—and he was right. The path was clear. Elegant, even. Sirius had all but handed him the win with that last move. Polaris could see it in his head, the way it would play out. Knight to D3. Queen to H5. A few shuffles, and it would be over.  

The next move sealed it.  

Regulus dropped his bishop with an irritatingly smug clack, and Sirius groaned—loud, theatrical, as if he’d just been sentenced to Azkaban.  

“Ugh, fine, ” he huffed, pushing back from the table. “I’m done. He cheats anyway.”  

Regulus’s eyes narrowed. “I do not cheat.”  

“You think ten moves ahead like a creep. Same thing.”  

“That’s how chess works , idiot.”  

Sirius turned away dramatically, then pivoted back with a sudden, sharp grin. “Hey, Pol. You play.”  

Polaris blinked. “Me?”  

“Yeah. Take my spot. You’ve been watching the whole time anyway.” Sirius leaned over the board, still grinning as he ruffled Polaris’s hair with a rough hand. “Bet you could beat him.”  

Polaris straightened his shoulders. “I like watching.”  

“But don’t you want to win?”  

That earned a snort from Regulus. “He’s four.”  

“He’s smart ,” Sirius shot back, eyes gleaming now—not just with mischief, but something like petty vengeance. “Smarter than you, sometimes.”  

Regulus bristled. “He’s not better than me.”  

“I didn’t say better,” Sirius said, voice all innocence. “Just that he might finally shut you up.”  

That did it. Regulus leaned back, arms folded, already sulking before a single piece moved.  

Polaris hesitated only a second more before slipping into Sirius’s chair. His legs dangled above the floor again, but this time, he didn’t notice. His eyes were on the board.  

The game unfolded quickly.  

Polaris’s choices were deliberate, he thought through every move. He didn’t gloat when he took a pawn or smile when Regulus’s queen was forced into retreat—he was too focused for that. There was something comforting in the click of piece to square, the quiet thrill of seeing patterns unfold. Chess had rules but not limits. Every move reshaped the future. There were always a hundred things you could do—some louder, some quieter. He liked that.  

Sirius hovered behind him, practically vibrating with delight.  

“Oof, bad move, Reg,” he cackled as Polaris sacrificed a knight only to trap two of Regulus’s bishops. “Did you mean to do that? Or are you just naturally terrible?”  

Regulus glared. “He’s guessing.”  

“No, he’s winning. That’s what he’s doing.”  

“I wasn’t even trying yet.”  

Sirius laughed again, cruel and careless. “Yeah? Maybe don’t try at all. Might help.”  

Regulus’s face went red.  

Polaris stayed quiet. He could feel the heat between them now, that sibling tension that sparked like kindling when pride was poked. He didn’t mean to make Regulus angry—but the board didn’t lie. He was winning.  

“You’re distracting me,” Regulus muttered, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes.  

“Maybe you just don’t like losing to someone in shorts, ” Sirius said with another bark of laughter. “Honestly, Reg, what’ll Mother say when she hears you got beaten by the baby?”  

He didn’t look up right away.  

I’m not a baby, he thought, the words stiff and hot in his chest. Babies don’t learn about bloodlines or sacred names or how to sit properly with their hands folded just so.  

He had done all of those things.  

“I’ll hit you,” Regulus snapped, shoving a pawn forward harder than necessary.  

Polaris looked up, quietly. “I don’t mind stopping.”  

“No,” Sirius said at once, dropping a hand to Polaris’s shoulder like a general defending his champion. “He stays. You’ve had it too easy for too long, Reggie .”  

“I said don’t call me that! ”  

“I’ll stop when you stop being such a little—”  

“ Boys .”  

Their mother’s voice echoed faintly from the hall—a single, sharp syllable that froze all three in place.  

Sirius threw himself dramatically onto the sofa with a groan. Regulus muttered under his breath and began resetting the pieces with stiff, annoyed hands. Polaris sat still, eyes still half on the board, already replaying the match in his head. He liked the way it had gone. Not because he’d won—but because there had been so many ways it could have gone. Every piece held potential. Every loss opened a new possibility.  

Then Sirius muttered, just loud enough to be heard, “I hate her.”  

Regulus froze. “Don’t say that,” he snapped, eyes narrowed. “You can’t say that.”  

Sirius only shrugged, stretching long and lazy like nothing had happened. “I’ll say what I like.”  

August 25th, 1968, Sunday  

Polaris didn’t really understand what the big deal about flowers was.  

They didn’t do anything. They just sat there, smelling strange and looking soft and breakable. But every time he visited his great aunt Cassiopeia’s house—which had been happening since he was three—there was always a walk. And every walk, without fail, ended in the greenhouse.  

Aunt Cassiopeia liked flowers. That much he’d learned.  

She never said it outright. She didn’t talk like other grown-ups, not in the way that made you feel small or like you were supposed to be somewhere else. She talked to him, not at him. And when she talked about her flowers, her voice changed—just a little. Softer. Like she was remembering something she didn’t want to forget.  

Polaris didn’t care much for the flowers themselves. But he liked listening to her talk about them. He liked the way it made her smile.  

She never smiled at family dinners, not when everyone was gathered and pretending to be pleased to see each other. Not at the social events where people wore too much perfume and said things they didn’t mean. Not even when she came over to his house and had tea with his mother, sitting stiffly in the drawing room like she was somewhere far away.  

But in the greenhouse, with the sun slanting through the glass and the air thick with green and growing things, she smiled. Just a little. Just for him.  

Lately, though, she’d been moving slower. She sat down more often during their walks, resting on the stone bench beneath the hanging ivy. Sometimes she’d press a hand to her chest when she thought he wasn’t looking. Her voice, once steady and clear, had grown quieter, like it was being carried away by the wind.  

Polaris didn’t ask. He didn’t know what to ask.  

Polaris didn’t like flowers. Not really.  

But he tried to learn them anyway—because maybe, if he knew their names, Great Aunt Cassiopeia would be proud of him.  

He’d rushed through a book about magical flora the night before, flipping pages too fast, trying to cram the names into his head like spells. He should’ve taken his time. If he had, maybe he would’ve remembered.  

“Oxglove,” he said, pointing to a tall stalk with bell-shaped blooms.  

Cassiopeia glanced over, one brow raised.  

“No, wait. Forget-me-not?” He frowned. “Or was it…”  

She laughed—not unkindly, but like a breeze rustling through leaves. “You’ll remember when it matters.”  

He didn’t get upset. Not with her. He just nodded, quietly promising himself he’d learn every flower in the greenhouse. Every single one. For her.  

He watched her for a moment as she knelt beside a pale, drowsy-looking blossom curled in on itself like it was still dreaming. She touched its petals with the back of her fingers, humming something soft and low. The flower stirred, slowly opening, its silvery-blue glow catching the light.  

“Why do you like them so much?” Polaris asked. “They don’t… do anything. They’re kind of useless.  

Cassiopeia didn’t answer right away. She was coaxing the moonbell fully awake, her voice barely above a whisper. When she finally spoke, it was like she was speaking to the flower, not him.  

“They’re quiet,” she said. “They don’t ask for much. And if you’re patient… they show you who they are.”  

After that day Polaris spent a long time reading about flowers.  

Who knew there were so many? Four hundred thousand types, the book had said. Polaris had been baffled. Four hundred thousand. He’d only had a month, but he tried anyway—cramming names and meanings and blooming seasons into his head like they were spells he could cast to make her proud.  

He never got to use any of it.  

He never got to ask her what her favourite flower was.  

Because a month later, she was gone.  

It didn’t make sense. One day she was there, humming to moonbells and calling him her little star. The next, he wasn’t allowed to visit. Then, suddenly, they were all dressed in black, standing in a cold room and someone said the word “funeral.”  

No one told him anything. Not really.  

When he asked if the funeral was for her, Pollux Black, his grandfather— Cassiopia's brother-just nodded solemnly and said, “She served her name well. She died with her bloodline intact and her honour unbroken.”  

Polaris didn’t know what any of that had to do with her not being here anymore.   

Pollux patted him on the shoulder like that was supposed to help. “Be proud, boy. That’s how we go.”  

Arcturus, his grandfather, added, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”  

That was all.  

He didn’t look at the casket. He looked at the sky instead, because the sky didn’t lie to him.  

Aunt Druella, who always smelled like lavender and sharp perfume, said, “She was lucky, in the end. Died in her sleep. That’s rare in this world.”  

She said it like she was talking about a sale on rare tea. Not a person.  

“Better to go quiet than screaming. That’s what I say.”  

Everyone kept saying legacy like it was supposed to mean something. Like it was supposed to fill the empty chair in the greenhouse. Like it was supposed to explain why no one would answer when he asked where Cassiopeia had gone.  

Polaris didn’t understand. He was four. He didn’t know what death was. He didn’t know where people went when they stopped being here. He didn’t know why no one would just tell him.  

Polaris wandered because he was bored, because Sirius was bothering mother about when they got to go home, all the while Regulus was allowed to take a nap because he was sick.  

The other adults had begun to drift back toward the manor—talking in hushed, bitter voices that called themselves reverence. No one noticed him slip away. No one ever noticed when he moved quietly as he carefully watched for who was watching .  

The burial grove lay quiet beneath a veil of heavy mist. The grass was damp. The roses bowed their heads, too elegant to bloom in mourning.  

He didn’t know why he’d come. Maybe he wanted to say goodbye, because that was what it seemed like everyone was doing. Maybe he just wanted to see where she'd be forever instead of her greenhouse.  

He stood by the earth. Freshly turned.  

He had thought maybe Uncle Alphard would come. He kept glancing over his shoulder, just in case—a flicker of hope he hadn’t even meant to light. But he never came.  

Polaris hadn’t seen him in a while now. No one really talked about him, not unless they were angry.  

He missed him.  

Alphard would’ve said goodbye properly. He would’ve helped Polaris pick the right flower for the grave, maybe even told a story about Cassiopeia that made her feel closer instead of further away.  

He wished he’d come to say goodbye too.  

That’s when she found him.  

“ Polariiis ,” Bellatrix sang, her voice wrapping around his name like silk laced with poison.  

She emerged from behind him, tall and black-clad, seventeen and dangerous in a way that didn’t need announcing. Her eyes sparkled like a dare or maybe a challenge. No one was supposed to be out here alone—  

but Bellatrix had never cared much for rules. This was one of the rules Polaris decided needed to be broken.  

She smiled, wide and wrong. “Do you know what they’re going to do?”  

Polaris didn’t answer. He didn’t like the way she looked at the grave. Like it was something fun .  

“They’ll dig a hole,” she continued, sweet as honey left too long in the sun. “Right here, where the dirt’s still soft. Then they’ll put her in a box—tight and dark and velvet-lined like a gift nobody wants to open.”  

Polaris blinked. “She’s… sleeping.”  

Bellatrix laughed—a high, strange sound that made his ribs tighten.  

“Oh, little star ,” she cooed as if mocking the way Aunt Cassiopeia said it, crouching beside him, close enough that her hair brushed his sleeve. “No, she’s rotting. That’s what death does.”  

She pointed to the ground like she was pointing out a puddle.  

“Soon her skin will turn grey, like old wax. Her mouth will gape and spill flies. Her eyes will collapse in on themselves, and her hands—those delicate hands she used to touch her stupid flowers—they’ll shrivel until they look like claws.”  

Polaris went still. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink.  

“But that’s not the worst part,” she whispered. “Not yet. First she’ll bloat. The gases build up, you see. It’s like a balloon. Eventually she’ll burst —right there in her pretty little box.”  

Bellatrix’s eyes lit up like she was describing fireworks.  

“And when the worms come, they won’t start with her feet. No, they like the soft parts. The insides . That’s what you are, cousin. That’s what she is now. A garden for maggots.”  

Polaris trembled.  

His hands clenched around the hem of his sleeve.  

Bellatrix leaned in so close he could feel her breath on his cheek. “Everyone says she’s gone to rest,” she whispered, “but there’s no peace under the soil. Just silence. Just darkness. Just the smell of ending .”  

He didn’t like what she was saying, was that really what death was?  

She tilted her head, all teeth and mock concern. “Don’t cry, Polaris. You’ll water the grave. The worms might come up early.”  

Then she stood. Straightened her robes. And walked away without looking back.  

He sank to the grass when she vanished. Knees folded beneath him, face blank. He didn’t know how long he sat there for.  

He heard her footsteps before he saw her. His mother had found him.  

She did not rush. Black women did not rush—not even through grief, and certainly not through gardens.  

Her robes trailed behind her like a stormcloud stitched with silver. Her shoes did not stain in the mud. Her expression was not one of concern—it never was—but of irritation worn like perfume.  

Polaris didn’t look up at first. His eyes were red, he didn’t want her to see, but it was too late for that wasn’t it.  

Walburga looked down at him, frowning. “What are you doing here?” she asked, though the question was already a reprimand.  

Polaris wiped at his cheek with his sleeve, ashamed to feel it damp.  

“I—Bellatrix said—” he started, but the words knotted in his throat. “She said Aunt Cassie… that the worms… they’re going to eat her.”  

His voice cracked on eat . It was a child’s voice again, not the careful, clipped tone she’d trained into him.  

Walburga did not kneel. She never lowered herself—not to eye level, not to emotion, not to grief.  

“They will,” she said calmly. “Eventually.”  

Polaris stared up at her, eyes wide.  

“It’s natural,” she continued, as though they were discussing rainfall. “The body breaks down. It feeds the soil. The cycle continues.”  

“But—” Polaris choked, “she’s Aunt Cassiopeia. ”  

“And now she’s carrion.” Her tone didn’t waver. “Her purpose is complete. Her body returns to the earth. This is not something to fear. It is something to accept .”  

He looked at the dirt. It didn’t look like peace.   

“But… doesn’t it hurt?”  

Walburga exhaled sharply through her nose—never a sigh. “She’s dead. She doesn’t feel. You do. And you must learn to manage that.”  

She took a step closer, one gloved hand brushing the wrinkle from his shoulder.  

“Grief is not meant to spill out of you like blood. That is common . That is indulgent. ”  

Her hand hovered over his face, not tenderly, but precisely. She wiped beneath his eye with the edge of her sleeve like she was cleaning a stain.  

“A Black does not weep in the open. We endure. We carry memory, not display it.”  

Polaris’s voice was barely a breath. “But I miss her.”  

Walburga straightened. “Then prove she mattered. Stand with your spine unbent. Bury your grief where it belongs— inside .”  

Polaris swallowed. The tears retreated. Shame replaced them like cold water poured into a cup already cracked.  

He stood, slowly.  

He looked at the grave one last time.  

Who would sing to the flowers now?  

Polaris tightened his fingers around the edge of his sleeve. No one had said anything about the greenhouse. No one had told the flowers she wasn’t coming back.  

Did the dead really feel nothing?  

He wasn’t sure. Not really.  

Bellatrix said she was meat. His mother said she was memory. But when he closed his eyes, he could still feel Cassiopeia’s voice humming through the stems.  

How could something like that just disappear?  

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it got buried, like everything else.  

That was the Black way, after all.  

Chapter Text

October 23rd, 1970, Friday  

The garden was too perfect.  

Trimmed hedges like teeth, white roses that never wilted, and the peacocks—pearl-white, aloof—stalked between hedges trimmed into the silhouettes of duelling wizards. But none of that mattered to the children of the Sacred Twenty-Eight—not when their parents were locked away in the manor, voices weaving politics and power through cigar smoke and wine.  

The children were left to their own devices, in the golden hour light of late afternoon.   

Corvus Avery was lying on his back atop the trimmed grass, hands laced behind his head, a smirk playing on his lips like he was already bored of the world. He was the same age as Polaris—though he carried it differently. His soft brown hair curled slightly at the ends, and his eyes—blue, bold—seemed to think themselves older than they were.  

Polaris Black, six now crouched beside a line of ants, watching them move in quiet awe, a twig in his hand forgotten. He’d read once that ants could carry ten times their weight. That they left invisible trails. That if the queen died, the whole colony would unravel.  

He wondered how long that would take.  

“This is dull,” Corvus announced, dragging out the word like it was a yawn. “They should’ve brought dragons or cursed portraits or something.”  

Polaris hummed, distracted. “You said cursed portraits scared you.”  

“I was four,” Corvus shot back, puffing out his chest. “Now I could duel one. Blindfolded.”  

Polaris didn’t answer. He was smiling—quietly, the kind that lived mostly behind his eyes. He reached down and nudged one ant aside with the twig, gently but with no real concern for where it ended up. He just wanted to see if the others would notice. Would they pause? Panic? Reorganise?  

That was what Corvus liked about Polaris. He listened. Even when Corvus bragged or complained or made-up grand adventures about blood-thirsty hats and enchanted lemon trees, Polaris never told him to be quiet. Unlike Corvus’ older cousins, Avner and Aura.  

Corvus rolled onto his side and picked up a discarded biscuit from the tray the house-elf had left behind. “I wonder if anyone’s ever hexed a scone to explode,” he mused, holding it like a Gobstone about to erupt.  

“Maybe don’t throw it at anyone,” Polaris said softly, eyes still on the ants.  

“Not anyone important,” Corvus muttered.  

Polaris finally stood, brushing dirt from his knees. He looked down at the thin, busy trail of insects threading across the garden path, their tiny legs moving in perfect, thoughtless rhythm.  

“Do you think they know I’m here?” he asked suddenly.  

Corvus looked up, confused. “The ants?”  

Polaris nodded. “Do they think at all? Or just… move?”  

He stepped forward. Slowly. One foot landed squarely on the trail. He lifted it again. Several ants were caught beneath the sole of his shoe—squashed, legs crumpled, still. He crouched again and watched the survivors, who milled and twitched in new, panicked patterns around the dead.  

“They don’t stop for long,” he murmured. “Just reroute.”  

Corvus made a face. “That’s gross.”  

Polaris didn’t seem to hear him. “It’s strange, isn’t it? You’d think they’d mourn. Or at least freeze. But they don’t. They just keep going.”  

He watched for another few seconds, head tilted slightly. Then, almost absently, he crushed another small cluster with the heel of his boot.  

“They’re not like us,” he said.  

Corvus opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wasn’t sure if Polaris was talking to him anymore—or to the ants.  

There were other children, too. The Rosiers. The Selwyn twins. That Rowle boy—Callister or Caldon or something heavy and blockish. They played their own games in cliques, laughing like daggers. Polaris didn’t miss the way one of them had looked at him earlier, as if already ranking him on some unseen scale.  

Then it happened.  

A crack — sharp, violent.  

Polaris’s head snapped up.  

Sirius.  

He had Rowle pinned, fists flying.  

Rowle shoved back, wild and clumsy.  

They crashed into the hedge. Thorns tore sleeves. Bark snapped.  

Someone screamed — not in fear, in excitement.  

Polaris stood frozen.  

He couldn’t hear the words. Only the rage.  

Corvus shaded his eyes lazily with a hand. “Well. That escalated.”  

“What happened?” Polaris asked, the question more to himself.  

Polaris watched, frozen in place as the scuffle broke. Sirius shoved the older boy back with a final hiss of a word Polaris couldn’t hear—but it dripped with venom. Rowle spat something back, something that made Sirius’s face twist.  

And then Sirius turned and ran.  

Fast. Through the hedges. Into the grove that shadowed the garden like a secret waiting to be kept.  

Polaris didn’t think. His legs just moved.  

“Where’re you going?” Corvus called after him.  

But Polaris didn’t stop. Didn’t answer.  

Sirius’s feet pounded against the grass, through hedges and low-hanging charms that tugged at his sleeves like whispers trying to pull him back. The grove was cooler in its silence, shadows thick between the trees. He stumbled once, caught himself, and pressed forward until he couldn’t see the manor anymore.  

He stopped beneath an old willow, chest rising and falling in jagged rhythm.  

His fists were still clenched.  

Rowle had deserved it. The git had said something vile about blood—something about how even certain purebloods were starting to turn soft.  

Sirius hadn’t thought. He never did when it came to that.  

He bit the inside of his cheek hard. His fingers were trembling now, not from rage but from the slow crawl of oh no, what have I done? His mother would know. She always knew. His father would barely look at him, but the silence would be thick enough to drown in.  

And if they were really angry this time—  

Sirius winced as he shifted, the bruises across his back aching beneath his dress robes. Fading purple and yellow. He hadn’t told anyone—not even his brothers because they would have heard it.  

He ran both hands through his hair, tugged at it, the panic bubbling now, hot in his chest. He needed an excuse. Something clever. Something defensible . He was a Black, wasn’t he? He could lie his way out. He had to. That’s what they wanted.  

“Ris?”  

He flinched so hard he nearly dropped to his knees.  

But it was just Polaris, panting softly, wide-eyed at the edge of the grove.  

Sirius looked away.  

“Don’t,” he muttered.  

Polaris stepped closer anyway.  

“Why did you follow me,” Sirius said again, but it came out shakier this time. Less sharp, more cracked, it was clear he was more concentrated with what was worrying him.  

“I wanted to,” Polaris replied simply. And then, quieter: “Are you hurt?”  

Sirius shook his head, jaw tight. “He deserved it.”  

“I know,” Polaris said—not because he cared what Rowle had done, but because the idea of someone looking down on their family made something cold twist in his gut. Rowle must have said something—of course he had—but Polaris didn’t really care about the details. He only hated the feeling.  

Besides, Sirius was always finding someone to fight with. Always some new slight, some complaint, some excuse to flare up. He wasn’t exactly good at keeping his mouth shut.  

Silence. The kind that didn’t press, just waited.  

Sirius collapsed onto the roots, one arm slung across a knee. “They’re going to kill me,” he muttered.  

“No, they won’t,” Polaris said—because it was what you were supposed to say, even if you didn’t believe it. Because he already knew Sirius would get in trouble. Of course he would.  

And getting in trouble in the House of Black wasn’t something to be proud of.  

Polaris could still remember the first real punishment he'd received, just last year when he was five. His father’s wand—drawn without a word—and the pain that followed like lightning. It hadn’t felt like discipline. It had felt like being broken open. He didn’t think his older brothers had ever been punished like that by their father. When it came to discipline, it was usually their mother. But not that time.  

“You weren’t there,” Sirius whispered. “Last time… it wasn’t even this bad and she—” He stopped. Gritted his teeth. “They told me not to embarrass them. First thing they said.”  

Polaris knelt beside him, unsure if he should speak, if there was anything that could be said. His brother looked older like this, and smaller at the same time.  

Sirius stared at the ground. “It’s not fair.”  

Polaris looked at the bruises blooming beneath Sirius’s collar. He wanted to reach out but didn’t. He just watched, quiet, thinking.   

If most of the blame laid with Rowle then, for Sirius it wouldn’t be the worst punishment he’d ever had. Not by Black standards. Sirius would be yelled at, maybe hexed, maybe grounded to his room for the rest of the summer. It would hurt, but it wouldn't break him.  

“Maybe,” Polaris whispered, “you could say Rowle said something about me.”  

Sirius blinked.  

“I’m one of the youngest here. It’d make sense you were protecting me.”  

Sirius looked at him then, really looked—and for the first time since the fight, his shoulders dropped just a little.  

“You’d do that?”  

Polaris nodded. “It might work.”  

It was strategy, really. Simple cause and effect. The adults would see it as chivalry, not recklessness. The right kind of trouble, which meant less pain for Sirius—and if anyone ended up embarrassed, it’d be Rowle.  

Sirius gave a breath of something close to a laugh. It was too tight to be joy, but it wasn’t panic anymore either.  

“You’re clever,” he said.  

Polaris didn’t answer. Just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, in the quiet grove where the lantern light didn’t reach.  

They stayed like that a while. And when they finally stood to return, Sirius’s steps were just a bit steadier.  

By the time they returned to the gathering, the air was already thick with tension.  

The children had been herded together, a cluster of well-dressed discomfort beneath a sky blooming with evening charms. An elder Rosier was speaking with tight lips to a rather flushed Lord Rowle, while Walburga stood nearby like a statue carved in frost.  

Polaris spotted Corvus instantly standing by the buffet table, two sugared plums in one hand, blinking at them as if they were ghosts.  

Rowle, on the other hand, had a blotchy nose and a twisted scowl. His sleeve was torn at the shoulder, and he was already mid-rant, voice raised in that shrill, desperate pitch of a boy who knows he's losing.  

“I didn’t start it! He—he punched me first! I didn't even say anything !”  

Sirius straightened beside Polaris, jaw set.  

Walburga turned her eyes—sharp and silver—and Polaris could feel the whole world tilt with the weight of her gaze. “Is that true?” she asked, voice calm and cold. “Did you strike first, Sirius?”  

Polaris stepped forward before his brother could speak.  

“No, mother,” he said. “He said something about me. About our blood. Sirius was just protecting me.”  

He didn’t glance at Sirius. Not yet.  

Walburga’s expression didn’t change—at least not to someone who didn’t know her. But Polaris had spent enough time watching her face, learning the language of her silences and small movements. The almost imperceptible flick of an eyebrow. The way her lips pressed together—not in displeasure, but in consideration as if measuring him.  

She was particular. Precise. Every look she gave meant something.  

And in that moment, Polaris felt the flicker of uncertainty cross her face—not whether he was lying, but why he had lied.  

Walburga blinked, slowly. “What exactly did he say?”  

Polaris hesitated—not out of fear, but from calculation. He understood, now, what lying really was. Not just avoiding truth, but crafting something more useful.  

“He said I must be more Muggle than wizard. That no real Black would spend so much time crawling in the grass with insects... which I wasn’t. ” He glanced down, quiet. “He said I was embarrassing the family.”  

A lie. But one Rowle might’ve said, in another mood, on another day. Close enough to truth that it had weight.  

Walburga looked at him for a beat too long.  

And Polaris knew better than to speak again.  

Because there were two kinds of silence in the House of Black—the kind that protected you, and the kind that marked you.  

He only hoped this was the first.  

“He called him a ‘mud-touched little crow,’” Sirius added unnecessarily, voice steady. “I don’t know what it means, but I wasn’t going to let it go.” He definitely knew what it meant.  

Corvus’s eyes went wide behind them. A moment later, Polaris turned, meeting his friend’s stare. Just once.  

Corvus blinked. Then straightened his back.  

“That’s what I heard, too,” he said casually, biting into a plum. “Clear as day.”  

Silence stretched. One by one, the other children nodded—some reluctantly, some not even fully sure what they were agreeing to, but all of them old enough to understand sides .  

Even little Cassiopeia Yaxley — the youngest of the three Yaxley siblings and the only one in attendance that evening — gave a decisive nod, her curls bouncing. She’d spent the first half of the night trying to feed a doxy her dessert.  

Rowle’s face turned a furious, mottled red. “ They’re lying! ” he shrieked. “They’re all lying! I didn’t say any of that! They’re protecting him ! They’re just scared— ”  

“Enough,” Lord Rowle snapped, the command slicing through the air like a whip. “You’ve humiliated us enough for one evening, Calren.”  

“But—!”  

“I said enough .”  

Rowle’s mouth snapped shut, trembling. His eyes darted to Sirius, to Polaris, burning with something deeper than anger.  

Hatred, perhaps.  

Polaris felt it. Held it. Let it slide over him like a chill wind.  

Sirius looked away, face unreadable now.  

Walburga turned, her voice distant. “We’ll discuss this at home.”  

Which meant punishment. Which meant silence. Which meant survival.  

And still, as they were dismissed and the gathering began to thin—like storm clouds finally breaking apart—Polaris felt Sirius touch his arm.  

A silent thank you. A breath of something more.  

Corvus drifted over a moment later, brows raised as if to ask what even happened?  

Polaris was too busy thinking about what it had meant. That a few words—just a few—could shape everything .  

Not magic. Not curses. Just story, spun well enough to change the course of the evening.  

He stared out at the thinning crowd, fingers absently curling against his robe.  

And for the first time, he wondered:  

What else could words change?  

A shadow moved at the edge of his vision. Regulus stood apart from the rest, just near enough to have heard everything, just far enough to pretend he hadn’t. He hadn’t said a  

word during the confrontation—but Polaris saw the look he gave them now. Not confusion. Not judgment.  

Recognition.  

He’d been there. He’d heard what Rowle actually said—something sharp, yes, but ordinary. Barely more than a sneer. Nothing worth fists or fury.  

Regulus knew it had been a lie. Knew Sirius had chosen violence, and Polaris had chosen words to cover it.  

And still, Regulus said nothing.  

Their eyes met, briefly. It was weighted with a kind of understanding passed between them, brittle and strange.  

Just the knowledge that sometimes, a lie was the only thing standing between you and something worse.  

Then Regulus looked away.  

And Polaris exhaled.  

An hour later, they were home.  

Their father was still out—off doing whatever Orion Black deemed important. It wasn’t unusual. He rarely accompanied them to events like these, and when he did, he kept to the corners, drink in hand, eyes anywhere but on his wife. Polaris couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen both their parents in the same room without an argument. If it wasn’t Orion accusing her of breathing too loud, it was their mother criticising the way he looked at the curtains.  

Tonight, had been no exception. He hadn’t come.  

Their mother, on the other hand, was very much present—her voice drifted from downstairs now, sharp and endless, delivering Sirius a lecture that was half about appearances and half about disgrace, with very little breath between. Something about honour , and the family name , and not letting emotions rule you like a common mudblood.  

Polaris slipped away before she could pull him into it too, at that time Regulus was long gone, he had a knack for having Polaris look for him.  

The Black brothers were particular about their rooms. Territorial, even.  

Crossing the threshold without permission was a silent offence—one that might not earn shouting but would be remembered. Each brother had their own knock, an unspoken code.  

Polaris’s was four taps: two quick, one pause, then two again.  

He used it now and waited.  

The door creaked open a few inches. “You can come in,” Regulus said simply.  

Which was probably why he let him in.  

Regulus always kept the curtains drawn tight, even in summer, and the whole space had a quiet, rehearsed perfection to it—as though inspected daily by some invisible jury. His books were alphabetised. His socks folded by spell. His slippers aligned like soldiers at the foot of his bed.  

Polaris stepped in carefully, as if the wrong breath might crease the air.  

Regulus swung his legs off the bed and stood, putting on his most serious expression—the one he used whenever Mother was particularly volatile. He was lying on his stomach now, chin resting on his arms at the edge of the bed, watching Polaris with a frown that was half irritation, half big-brother fascination.  

“You can’t just throw lies like that around,” Was the first thing Regulus said, in the deeply serious tone of a boy who once read a twelve-chapter book on magical law for fun. Polaris might’ve done the same out of curiosity — to understand, to pick it apart — but never for enjoyment. That’s what novels were for.  

Polaris, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his hands in his lap, blinked up. “It was believable.”  

Regulus huffed. “To them . Not to Mother . She’s going to unravel that thing by breakfast.”  

“She didn’t look—”  

“She always looks like that,” Regulus interrupted. “That’s her thinking face. You’ve only bought Sirius a day. Maybe two.”  

Polaris considered this gravely.  

Then: “That’s still something.”  

Regulus made a noise that might’ve been approval. It was hard to tell with Regulus. He had a face like a shut book—neat spine, no title. You only found out what was inside if he let you.  

“You have to make your lies stick better,” Regulus went on, turning over onto his side now, his voice taking on that instructive air again. “Make them small. People believe small things. And don’t blink so much. You blinked five times.”  

“I did not.”  

“You did . Five. I counted.”  

Polaris looked vaguely betrayed.  

Regulus shrugged, unrepentant. “You always blink when you’re buying time. Also—” he gestured with a hand, “—don’t explain so much. The more you explain, the more people think you’re hiding something.”  

“I am hiding something,” Polaris pointed out.  

“Exactly.”  

Polaris frowned, like this was deeply unfair.  

“Also,” Regulus added, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling like a tiny, weary general, “it helps to make yourself look a little pathetic. Not too much. Just enough to make adults feel clever for believing you.”  

Polaris gave him a slow, deeply sceptical look. “You’re good at this.”  

“I know .”  

He sounded almost proud.  

Polaris studied him for a moment. “How do you practise lying?”  

Regulus pointed vaguely toward the mirror on his wardrobe. “Mostly I rehearse.”  

“You rehearse lying?”  

“Obviously.”  

Polaris was quiet for a long moment. “Can you teach me?”  

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He turned his head slightly, gaze sliding from the ceiling to his little brother. Polaris looked painfully small sitting there on the rug—his robes wrinkled, one sleeve falling down over his knuckles. The grass stains hadn’t faded.   

Regulus exhaled. “Alright. Lesson one.”  

Polaris straightened instinctively.  

Regulus swung his legs off the bed and stood, putting on his most serious expression—the one he used whenever Mother was particularly volatile.  

“Lie to me,” he said. “Anything.”  

Polaris blinked, then let out a small huff of laughter. The request was so absurdly formal, so very Regulus , that he couldn't help it.  

“Alright,” he said, biting back a grin. “I’m not tired.”  

Regulus raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’re literally yawning.”  

Polaris stifled another laugh, rubbing at his eyes. “Details, details.”  

“You're not even trying, try again” Regulus said immediately.  

“Okay, fine. I love spinach. With liver.”  

“You’re not even trying,” Regulus said. “Too fast, and you looked like you wanted to laugh.”  

“I did,” Polaris admitted. “Because it’s disgusting.”  

Regulus folded his arms. “Come on. One real lie. Just one.”  

Polaris tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “I think I’d like to be a dragon tamer.”  

Regulus squinted. “Almost. But your face does this thing when you’re pretending. Your eyebrows go weird.”  

Polaris wrinkled his nose. “Maybe your face is weird.”  

“That’s not a lie, that’s just rude.”  

“I’m eleven.”  

“You’re six.”  

They stared at each other a moment, then broke into matching, crooked grins. It lasted only a second—but it was enough. The tension of the evening softened a little. Cracked open like a window.  

Regulus flopped back onto the bed dramatically, one arm over his eyes. “You’re hopeless.”  

Polaris climbed up after him without asking and sat at the edge, small hands braced on the quilt.  

His eyes fell on the bear.  

It sat where it always did—half-buried among Regulus’s pillows. One ear chewed, one button eye slightly loose. A faded green ribbon tied round its neck like an afterthought.  

“Is he part of the lesson?” Polaris asked, nudging the bear gently with a finger.  

Regulus moved his arm, just enough to squint at him. “He’s the exam.”  

Polaris blinked.  

“Convince him you didn’t lie tonight.”  

Polaris turned to the bear, suddenly solemn. Cleared his throat.  

“I didn’t lie. Not really. It was a version of the truth.”  

Regulus snorted.  

Polaris looked back. “What’s his name?”  

Regulus hesitated. Then, like it hurt a little: “Button.”  

Polaris blinked, slow and reverent. “That’s a good name.”  

“Don’t tell anyone.”  

“I won’t.”  

Another beat passed.  

Regulus sat up, picking up the bear and setting it gently between them. “Uncle Alphard gave him to me. When I was five.”  

“Why?”  

Regulus shrugged. “I think he knew I’d need something to talk to.”  

Polaris didn’t say anything to that.  

October 26th, 1970, Monday  

Marriage, as far as Polaris could tell, had very little to do with love.  

He was six years old, and no one had explained it to him properly—not in words, at least—but he understood things by how people looked at each other, and more often, how they didn’t. He had learned that smiles didn’t always mean happiness and that a quiet room wasn’t always peaceful. In his world, marriage seemed to be about names and promises, about vaults full of gold and last names that made people nod with respect—or fear.  

His cousin Narcissa had just turned fifteen and was newly engaged to Lucius Malfoy, heir to a wealthy and ambitious house that styled itself nearly their equal. The adults called it a “perfect match.” They said it with the kind of satisfaction they usually reserved for fine wine or winning a duel.   

Lucius had come to Uncle Cygnus’s house that afternoon wearing pale robes that shimmered like frost. He stood too straight and smiled too little. He kissed Narcissa’s hand, and she smiled back the way her mother did when greeting people, she didn’t like but had to tolerate anyway—small, tight, and unbothered.  

Polaris watched from behind the doorway, half-hidden simply watching.  

No one ever talked about whether Narcissa liked Lucius. That wasn’t the point. She didn’t have to like him. He was the right choice that was all that mattered.  

Polaris had heard that phrase many times before: the right choice . It sounded like something good. But when he looked at Narcissa’s face—when she wasn’t being watched—he thought it didn’t look like she’d won anything at all.  

He didn’t know much about love. But he knew when someone was pretending.  

Everyone was downstairs.  

The drawing room had filled with silk voices and sharp smiles; all directed at Lucius Malfoy—the Malfoy heir. That word had been repeated a hundred times that day, heir , as if it made him more important than anyone else. Even the way people looked at him seemed to shimmer, like he already carried some kind of crown.  

Polaris thought it was dreadfully boring.  

He had been sitting stiffly in a too-tall chair beside his mother, trying to look proper while the adults fawned and praised and pretended. Narcissa stood near Lucius, pale and perfect in a new robe with silver threads. Polaris didn’t want to watch her be engaged to someone who looked like he’d been carved from ice.  

So, he slipped away.  

The hallway upstairs was quiet, cooler than the rooms below. The shadows felt softer somehow, less watched. He crept up the staircase, avoiding the third and fifth steps, the ones that creaked. Andromeda had told him that once, back when she used to talk to him.  

He didn’t mean to go into her room.  

But the door was open.  

That alone was strange—Andromeda never left her door open. She barely tolerated him knocking. The last time he’d pushed his way in, she’d snapped and shoved him out by the shoulders, muttering about boundaries and privacy like she was someone’s governess.  

But now… the door stood open, and the room was different.  

Had it been repainted?   

He peeked in. The walls were soft green now, not the deep plum he remembered. Her desk had moved. A new set of ink bottles stood on a tray by the window. Something about the shift drew him closer, made his steps slow and curious.  

He only meant to look. Just for a moment.  

The letter was folded but not hidden. It was on the floor near the bed, as if it had slipped from between pages of the book it had once called home. His fingers reached before he could tell them not to.  

The parchment felt warm from the sun. He unfolded it.  

As he opened it, the air around him tightened. The light from the window dimmed for a breath, as if the room were listening. A faint tremble ran up his arms, not cold, not warm—just strange. He blinked and shook it off.  

By the time he reached the end, he wasn’t breathing.  

Ted,  

I swore I wouldn’t write to you again. 
I swore a lot of things, didn’t I? 

I told you I could end it cleanly. That I wasn’t afraid. That it was only for your safety. That I could go back to pretending. That I didn’t love you enough to burn down everything for you.  

All lies.  

I was afraid, Ted. Still am. Not of you—never of you—but of what it would mean to choose you. To lose my name, my blood, my family. You have to understand, they’ve carved those things into my skin since I could talk. Told me what I’m worth and who I’ll marry and why love is only ever a transaction. Told me that someone like you—a Muggle-born—could never be enough. So, when you looked at me like I was more than a surname—like I was mine—I didn’t know what to do with that. It was too much. Too good. 

I miss the way you say my name like it has no price tag. I miss your hands, calloused and ink stained. The way you trace your thumb over my knuckles like they’re breakable. The way you listen. God, Ted, you listen like you want to memorise me.  

And I miss the sound you make when you're trying not to laugh in the library. The way you always butter both sides of your toast like a heathen. The way you touch me only when I ask you to—but never like I’m fragile. Just real.  

You make me real.  

And I threw that away.  

If I could take it back, I would. Every word. Every lie I told myself to make it easier. I left because I thought I had to choose between you and everything I’ve ever known. But I think the truth is: you’re the only thing that’s ever been mine.  

If you still want me—if you still love me, even after this—I’m yours because I love you.  

Andromeda (Your Dromeda, if you'll have her back.)  

He didn’t hear her until the letter was gone from his hands.  

Snatched .  

“WHAT—” Andromeda’s voice cracked into the room like thunder. Her face was white with fury, with something else he didn’t yet have the words for. “What are you doing in here?!”  

Polaris froze. “I—”  

“That was private! ”  

“I didn’t— I just—”  

“You read it.”  

“I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly, eyes wide, hands still held out like they might give the letter back. “It was on the floor. I didn’t know—”  

“You shouldn’t even be in here, ” she snapped. Her voice shook. “This isn’t your room, you nosy little—”  

“But it’s about a Muggle-born! ” Polaris blurted, panic starting to rise in his chest. “You—he’s not even—he’s not one of us!”  

Andromeda went very still.  

Polaris stepped back. “You’re not supposed to— That’s wrong. That’s tainted. That’s what Mr Thorne said—he said they pretend to be like us, but they’re not! They’re jealous, and they lie, and they don’t understand what it means to carry a name like Black. ”  

Her eyes were wide now. Not just with anger. With fear.  

“You… don’t understand,” she said, voice lower. “You’re six.”  

“I do understand,” he argued, chest hot. “We inherit more than names. Names are promises. If you break them, you shame the name. You’re shaming the name. ”  

Andromeda moved toward him.  

Polaris stepped back.  

“I have to tell someone,” he said. “They need to know. You’re— You were meant to marry—Bellatrix did instead but it was meant to be you, wasn’t it? And now you’re writing to a Muggle-born? ”  

She grabbed his wrist.  

Hard.  

Polaris yelped. “Let go! That hurts! ”  

Her grip loosened instantly.  

He stumbled back, holding his wrist, eyes watering more from shock than pain.  

Andromeda stared at her hand, as if just realizing what she’d done. “I didn’t—” She swallowed. “Polaris—please. Don’t. Don’t tell anyone. It was an old letter; it doesn’t even matter .”  

“You’re not supposed to ask me that,” he said. “You hurt me.”  

“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “I just— Please.”  

He looked at her, really looked. Not at the angry cousin who’d shouted at him. But at her face now. The way it crumpled at the edges. The way she looked like something was breaking inside.  

Polaris shook his head. None of this made sense. Love was duty. Love was arranged. Love was a transaction.  

But she’d written to someone who made her real. He didn’t know what that meant.  

But it was wrong. Wasn’t it?  

It had to be.  

Polaris didn’t look at her.  

He stared at the floor, clutching his wrist where she’d grabbed him, fingers curled tight into the sore place like he could press it all away. His voice came out small. Flat.  

“You always agreed with the adults.”  

Andromeda didn’t move.  

“You always said the right things. When to speak, when not to. You—” His throat felt thick. “You made Grandfather Pollux smile. He likes you. He says you’re the only girl who’s not all fire or fog. That you’re… balanced. That you’re proper. ”  

She said nothing.  

“Uncle Cygnus said you were the perfect daughter,” he went on, still not looking at her, words tumbling like broken glass. “The best parts of Bellatrix and Narcissa, but smarter. Better. ” His voice cracked slightly. “You knew all the rules. You followed them.”  

His fingers pressed harder into his wrist.  

“This isn’t following them.”  

A silence stretched between them like a fault line.  

“You wrote to him behind their backs,” Polaris whispered. “A Muggle-born. You— love him.”  

He spat the word like it tasted wrong. It did. Love wasn’t supposed to be like this. Love was what you were told. Love was someone chosen for you, by people who understood your name better than you ever could.  

This—whatever this was—was not that.  

“You’re not the person they think you are,” he said, voice trembling. “You’re not perfect.”  

He turned then, finally lifting his head. Not to meet her eyes—but to glare past her, at the door.  

“I’m telling someone.” He said, and he meant it. Or thought he did.  

Because none of this made sense.  

And things that didn’t make sense were dangerous.  

“I want to leave,” Polaris said flatly.  

She stood in front of the door, arms folded now like she was the grown-up that knew it all, and he was the one being unreasonable, when she only turned seventeen this year.  

Polaris froze, chest tight, every instinct saying run , but she was crying now—and that was wrong. Andromeda didn’t cry. Not when Aunt Druella screamed. Not when Grandfather raised his voice. Not even when Bellatrix did that thing with her wand that made Narcissa flinch for days.  

“You don’t understand,” she said hoarsely, tears spilling now, angry and hot. “You can’t understand. You’re bloody six.”  

Polaris stiffened. She never cursed. Not in front of him. Not in the house.  

“All you know are the rules they’ve spoon-fed you since you could talk. Father says. Mother says. Mr Thorne says.” She threw her hands in the air. “You don’t even leave the house unless someone’s holding your hand, don’t you get that?”  

Her voice was cracking—sharp and sharp and sharp, like it might cut her open.  

“You’ve never met a Muggle-born. You’ve never met anyone who wasn’t chosen for you. Watched over. Controlled. Every letter you write is read before it’s sealed. Every toy you own is spelled. You don’t even know what you’re allowed to think until someone tells you.”  

He said nothing. She was right... he never actually met a muggle-born, the people he was taught were, wrong.  

Andromeda wiped furiously at her face. “I’m not perfect. Fine. You’re right. I lied. I smiled at Grandfather and played the part and nodded when they told me who I was supposed to marry. But he —” Her voice faltered. “Ted was the first person who ever looked at me like I was real. Not a prize. Not a puppet. Not Bellatrix-but-better.”  

She swallowed hard.  

“Just promise me,” she said, softer now—like he was too fragile to handle anything else. “Please. You can’t tell anyone. You don’t understand what they’d do to him. To me.”  

He clenched his jaw.  

“I do understand,” Polaris snapped, voice rising. “You think I don’t know anything just because I’m six—but I do! I know what happens to people who break the rules. I know what happens to blood traitors.”  

Andromeda flinched, but he couldn’t stop now. His fists were tight at his sides, his wrist still aching from where she’d grabbed him. “I’ve heard the things Bellatrix says. I’ve heard what she laughs about. About your kind —”  

“My kind?” Andromeda’s voice cracked. “Polaris—”  

“ You’re disgusting! ” he shouted. “Just like the ones they talk about! A filthy blood-traitor , running off with some Mudblood ! That’s what he is, isn’t he? That’s why you’re hiding it. You’re ashamed, because it’s wrong ! You know it.”  

He didn’t mean to shout so loud. But it came from somewhere deep—somewhere full of fear and confusion and shame and the growing sense that everything he thought he understood was slipping.  

Andromeda didn’t say anything.  

She just stared at him.  

Something between them strained. A thread he couldn’t see—but felt. Like a tether pulled too tight. Like a snap that hadn’t quite happened yet. It made his skin prickle, made his heart thump wrong. He didn’t know what it was. Only that it hurt.   

Her eyes were wide and strange, like she was looking at a stranger. Like he wasn’t her cousin anymore. Like she couldn’t see anything of him that she knew.  

For a long moment, she didn’t speak.  

Then—wordlessly—she stepped aside.  

Polaris didn’t look at her as he walked out.  

He didn’t run.  

He just walked. Clutching his wrist. Back straight.  

Polaris told the elf he was ill.  

Didn’t want dinner. Didn't want tea. Just his bed and maybe the curtains drawn and please don’t tell Mother yet, he’d said, I’ll be fine.  

The elf hesitated—probably wasn’t supposed to listen to him over an adult—but something in Polaris’s voice must have been sharp enough, shaky enough, to make it obey. It left with a soft pop, and Polaris curled up beneath the coverlet with his face turned to the wall.  

Something inside him felt bruised. Not his wrist, not his chest—something deeper. Like he’d swallowed too many words, too much truth, and it had lodged somewhere he couldn’t reach. The room felt too loud, even in silence.  

He wasn’t sick. Not really.  

But… he felt sick. That sort of sick where your chest keeps doing strange things and your thoughts run too fast to catch and everything behind your eyes feels too full. Like they might spill.  

And they had spilled.  

His mother had come in to check on him sometime after supper. Her shoes made soft clicks on the floor—he could always tell it was her by the rhythm. She didn’t knock. Walburga Black never knocked in her own house.  

She stood by the bed for a moment, saying nothing. Just watching. He rolled away, pretending to sleep.  

The mattress dipped slightly under her weight as she sat. He could smell her perfume; he hated how she always put so much that it was the only thing you could smell when you stood in the same room as her.  

“Polaris,” she’d said in an unamused tone, smoothing a hand down the back of his hair, it was messy.  

That was when the tears gave him away.  

“What is it?” she asked—not gently, but with that cold sort of concern she saved for glassware and fragile heirlooms.  

“My tummy hurts,” he’d lied.  

She didn’t press. She never did when emotions tangled too close to the surface. Instead, she touched his temple like she was checking for fever and murmured something about sweets and overindulgence and how he’d need to be more careful next time. Then she rose, already done with the moment.  

He let her believe it. That it was sugar or stomach or sleep. It was easier than explaining the ache in his throat or the wet pillow under his cheek.  

If anything, his mother was only kind when he was sick. Or rather—she allowed for softness when it could be explained. When it wasn’t weakness , but a symptom.  

Now he lay alone again, the room dark but not quite dark enough.  

He kept thinking of Andromeda’s face.  

She’d looked at him like she didn’t know him.  

Not like he was annoying. Or young. Or nosy. She’d looked at him like… like he’d broken something between them. Something big. Something invisible but real.  

And maybe he had.  

But she’d been the one doing something wrong —hadn’t she?  

She was supposed to marry someone like Rabastan Lestrange. That was how it worked. That was how everyone said it worked. You married strong blood. Good families. That’s what kept the magic from thinning. That’s what kept the names proud.  

He knew that. Thorne had taught him. Mother had repeated it. Even Andromeda used to say it. She always said the right things. She was clever. She made Lord Black, his grandfather Arcturus smile , and hardly anyone could do that. Uncle Cygnus called her the perfect daughter.  

But now…  

Now she wasn’t perfect. She was lying. Hiding .  

A Muggle-born.  

Polaris whispered the word into his pillow. It sounded strange. He’d never used it before—not like that. Never with those other words either. The ones he’d spat like venom. He hadn’t even known he remembered them until they were already out of his mouth.  

He’d heard them before, of course. Bellatrix said them sometimes, when she didn’t know he was listening. Or maybe when she did. She liked the way people flinched at her words. Liked the laughter it brought from her friends.  

But Polaris… he didn’t like the way it felt on his tongue.  

It had tasted wrong. Sharp. Like biting metal. And now it was stuck in his mouth, bitter and awful and unspittable.  

He hadn’t told anyone what he read, the letter.  

Polaris pulled the blanket over his head and squeezed his eyes shut.  

He didn’t know what he wanted. For things to go back. For her not to be doing this. For him not to have seen it. For the words he said to never have left his mouth. For Andromeda to smile at him again, like she used to.  

He hadn’t meant it .  

Not really.  

But how could he take it back?  

You weren’t supposed to take things like that back. That’s what adults always said. You said what you meant. You meant what you said. That was honour. That was pride.  

But it didn’t feel like pride. Not now.  

It felt like shame.  

Chapter Text

October 28th, 1970, Wednesday  

It had been two days since the shouting, since the heavy silence that followed. His mother was going back to his cousin’s house, and Polaris decided—without saying much—that he would go too. Not for his mother, not for the house itself, but because he didn’t want Andromeda to go back to Hogwarts after the Samhain break still angry at him. 

It was rather rare for students to be allowed to go home during this time but with the right words, and the request from the right family it was possible.

The moment they arrived, he ran up the stairs, feet thudding against the wood, heartbeat louder still. He didn’t knock. He didn’t think. He was only focused on finding her. 

Her door swung open under his hand, and there she was—standing in front of the mirror, brushing something from her robes. She turned in surprise, hand still at her collar. 

She was going somewhere. 

He rushed to her, arms wrapping tightly around her waist. His face pressed against her middle. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into the fabric—not quite meaning to take the words back but knowing maybe he should’ve said them better. 

Andromeda blinked, stunned. “Polaris—” 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he cut in quickly, the words tumbling out. “I mean—I did but not mean . I learned a word. Double standards. That’s when someone’s allowed to do something, but other people aren’t. Like… like if you get to have secrets but I don’t. Or if you say someone’s bad for doing something but then you do it too and it's fine.” 

He frowned, his little brows knotting together, trying to sort the mess of it all. 

“You’re doing that. But I decided—” he glanced up at her, cheeks pink with the effort of putting tangled feelings into words, “you get a standard. Just one. So, I won’t tell.” 

He looked down again. “But don’t be angry at me.” 

Her expression softened as she knelt down in front of him, ruffling his hair gently. 

“I’m not angry at you,” she said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I couldn’t be. You’re young. You’re still learning, Pol. You only know what people tell you. What you’ve been shown. And some of those things—they’re wrong. But that’s not your fault.” 

He didn’t answer. He didn’t know how. 

Andromeda let out a quiet breath, studying his face. Then her mouth quirked, a small, crooked smile forming. “Did you really just say I get a standard ? Like I’ve won a prize?” 

He blinked at her, not sure if he was in trouble. 

“You’re very generous,” she said, a soft laugh escaping her. “Only one, though?” 

His frown deepened. “You shouldn’t get too many,” he muttered, arms folding across his chest. “That’s how it gets unfair again.” 

“Oh, of course,” she said solemnly, nodding as if he’d made the wisest point in the world. “Just the one. I’ll guard it with my life.” 

He gave a little huff, and she took that as a small victory. 

“I’m going to Diagon Alley,” she said after a moment, her voice dropping to a hush as if sharing a dangerous secret. “I’m meeting Ted.” 

He tensed, looking away again. 

He didn’t look up. His whole body had gone stiff, arms tight against his ribs like he was bracing for impact. Saying no hadn’t made it better—it had made it worse. He wanted to go. He wanted to follow her wherever she was going, because what if she didn’t come back? What if something bad happened and he never saw her again? He didn’t want to stay behind. But he couldn’t go . 

He knew this kind of secret. Knew what it meant to go behind his parents’ backs. There were rules in the house that weren't spoken but were written into the shape of every room, the weight in the air. Some things— some people —were off-limits. The kind of off-limits that came with screaming and slaps, the kind that made your nose bleed and your hands shake for hours after. 

And this—this was worse. This wasn’t just stealing sugar quills or hiding a broken ornament. This was a muggle-born . This was blood . 

“I can’t,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’d find out.” 

“They won’t,” Andromeda said gently. “It’ll just be the two of us. No one has to know.” 

“But if they did —” He broke off, throat tightening. He couldn’t even say what he knew would happen. His fists curled tighter. “I’m not supposed to—” 

“I know,” she said, and there was no impatience in her tone, only sadness. 

He stared at the floor like it could give him an answer. Like if he looked long enough, it would tell him the right thing to do. 

“I don’t want to meet him. He’s the one who’s going to get you in trouble.” His voice was small now, quieter than before. 

She let out a slow breath, then knelt again, her hands reaching up to gently cup his face. His eyes flinched shut on reflex, but her touch was careful, warm, not punishing. She tilted his head up until he met her gaze. 

“What if we made a deal?” she said. “What if we did something just for you? Just for fun. I was thinking we could stop at the bookshop. You can pick out every book that catches your interest. And it’ll be our secret. Another one, just for us.” 

His eyes widened slightly, lips parting. He looked unsure again, but something in him wavered. 

“You’d let me get any book?” he asked, voice small. 

“Any one you like,” she said, smoothing his hair back. “Even the ones with dragons. Or maps. Or just silly jokes. No questions asked.” 

He hesitated. Bit his lip. 

“That sounds like more than one standard,” he said cautiously. 

She laughed under her breath, then leaned in and whispered, “I won’t tell if you don’t.” 

The shop was called Thorn and Tassel’s . It sat on a quieter stretch of Diagon Alley, tucked between a tailor’s and an apothecary, with high windows and thick velvet drapes that kept the sunlight politely dim. The sort of place where pure-blood children were brought to “develop their minds,” and their parents could trust the staff not to stock unsuitable literature . 

Polaris’s mother had been hesitant about letting him out of her sight, but Aunt Druella—armed with her usual smile that could slice a tapestry in half—had assured her it was good for the children to bond. “They’re cousins,” she’d said silkily. “Let them have their little adventures. I trust Andromeda.” 

Which was a funny thing to say, Polaris thought. Because trust, lately, seemed a fragile thing. 

He wandered slowly along the aisles, dragging his fingers across spines of bound dragonhide, velvet, and iron-pressed leather. Some books hummed softly. Others twitched or rattled in their cases, but none seemed bothered by his presence. 

Andromeda had only just knelt to help him reach a shelf when a soft chime rang from the door. 

“I’ll be just a moment,” she said, brushing dust from her knees as she stood. “Stay here.” 

He nodded, pretending to be absorbed in a copy of Magical Architecture Through the Ages , though his heart thudded hard against his ribs. He already knew where she was going. She hadn’t said it, but she didn’t have to. Andromeda’s face gave everything away when it came to him . 

Ted. 

The Muggle-born . 

Polaris’s hands tightened on the book until the leather cover creaked. 

Why had he come? Why had he agreed? He’d already said no. He meant no. But the promise of the bookshop had been… tempting. Too tempting. And now—now he was here , and she was out there , and what if someone saw? 

What if someone recognised them? 

He clutched the book tighter, breathing through his nose. 

The bell chimed again. 

He turned. 

Andromeda stepped in, flushed and smiling—but not like she smiled at family gatherings. No, this smile was lighter. Real. He hated how it looked on her, because he didn’t understand it. 

And beside her was him . 

Ted Tonks. 

He was tall. Taller than most wizards Polaris had met. His clothes were tidy but not right —not the way pure-blood robes fit, cut, or flowed. His hair was messy, like he’d combed it with his hands. He looked… normal. Like someone who worked in a shop, or wrote essays in cafés, or walked too quickly in the rain without a charm for it. 

“And this,” Andromeda said, her voice light with careful purpose, “is my cousin, Polaris.” 

Ted smiled—a little nervous, but kind. He held out his hand. “Hi, Polaris. It’s nice to meet you.” 

Polaris stared at the hand. He didn’t move. 

If his father found out— 

No, when he found out. 

Home had a way of dragging the truth out—one way or another. 

And when Father punished him, it wasn’t like with Regulus or Sirius. They were lucky. He barely touched them. He let Mother handle it—her punishments were loud and cruel, but predictable, even if they hurt too. 

His father was different. 

He didn’t punish often. But when he did—when he chose to— 

It hurt, more than Mothers punishments. 

Worse than shouting. Worse than hexes. Polaris hated the look his father always gave him when he didn’t do what was expected, sometimes even when he did do what was expected. 

Polaris swallowed hard, blinking fast. 

He hadn’t even done anything. Not really. 

He was just trying to understand... right? 

But father wouldn’t see it that way. 

He never did. 

There was a long, awkward beat. 

“I don’t shake hands with Muggle-borns,” he said calmly, matter-of-fact. Not cruel—just true . 

Ted’s smile flickered. 

Andromeda’s eyes widened slightly. “Polaris—” 

“It’s not rude,” he added quickly, feeling her shift beside him. “Mr Thorne said it’s how you stay clean. That Muggle-borns carry things. Not diseases, ” he added, as if clarifying would help, “but… the wrong kind of magic. It’s diluted. Unstable. Like backwash in a potion. It ruins the base.” 

Ted was very still. 

Polaris blinked up at him. “I’m not trying to be mean,” he said, with a quiet kind of urgency, like he wanted Ted to understand he wasn’t trying to hex him or shout. “I just know what I’ve been told. That’s all.” 

Ted had known to expect something like this. 

Andromeda had warned him—told him what her family believed, what they taught their children before they were even old enough to question it. She’d said she used to sound just like Polaris. Because for a while, it was all she knew. 

Still. 

Hearing it aloud—so calmly, so matter-of-fact—was different. 

It wasn’t hatred. That would’ve been easier, maybe. 

It was belief. Earnest, innocent belief, repeated like a lesson from a book. Like brushing your teeth or tying your shoes. 

Stay clean.  

Ted swallowed, the words sitting like iron in his mouth. He looked at Andromeda again, trying to remember she’d once been this small, this certain, too. 

And now she looked like she was holding back a storm behind her eyes. 

She didn’t speak right away. She just closed her eyes for a second, like she was gathering a hundred words and deciding which ones wouldn’t explode. 

When she opened them again, she knelt—very slowly—beside Polaris and placed a steady hand on his shoulder. 

“Books,” she said gently, like she was changing the subject, but her voice was tighter now. “Let’s go find the ones you want.” 

He hesitated. Staring at Ted like he’d done something wrong just by standing there. 

“I already picked two,” Polaris muttered. “I don't need help.” 

Andromeda nodded. “Then you can pick two more.” 

“But—” he stopped. Because she was looking at him again in that way that made him feel like he was standing at the edge of something and didn’t know whether to jump or run. 

Ted was still standing there, hand half-raised, when Andromeda jabbed him sharply in the ribs with her elbow. It wasn’t hard—barely more than a nudge—but her eyes flicked sideways with a pointed urgency that said try again . 

Ted cleared his throat as his hand fell back to his side like he’d forgotten what it was for. 

“Right,” he said. “Books. Yeah. I haven’t read many wizarding books outside the Hogwarts list, to be honest. I mean, obviously the ones we’re made to read for class—but outside of that, it’s mostly Muggle books for me.” 

Polaris didn’t reply. His eyes drifted down toward a display table stacked with charmed pop-up books on magical herbology. 

Ted shifted his weight, scratching the back of his neck. “There’s this one I really liked as a kid— The Phantom Tollbooth ? Bit odd, bit clever. It’s about this boy who drives a toy car through a tollbooth that suddenly appears in his room and ends up in a world where everything’s literal—like, actual islands of conclusions you can jump to.” He gave a weak laugh. “Anyway. I always thought that was a brilliant idea.” 

Polaris frowned slightly. His brow pinched, and for a moment, just a moment, he looked up at Ted. 

“What’s a... tollbooth?” he asked, cautious. 

Ted brightened. “Oh! It’s like—well, it’s a thing on roads, Muggle roads, where you stop and pay to go through. But in the book, it’s magic, sort of—it just shows up in the boy’s room and—” 

“What’s a car?” Polaris interrupted, visibly confused now. 

Ted blinked, then rubbed the back of his neck again, slower this time. “Oh. Right. It’s a Muggle thing too. You sit in it, and it takes you places. Kind of like a metal carriage, I guess. But it moves on its own. No Thestrals, no flying, just wheels.” 

The flicker of interest on Polaris’ face dimmed. His mouth pressed into a flat line as he looked down at the floor, then away, back to the shelves. 

“Oh,” he said, voice quiet and stiff. 

He turned, wandering a step closer to the bookcase, lifting a thick volume with a leathery green cover. It had nothing to do with cars or tollbooths or Muggles—just magical insects and their peculiar vanishing habits. 

Andromeda closed her eyes briefly, like she was trying not to sigh too loudly. 

Ted glanced at her. “Was it something I—?” 

She shook her head gently and gave him a soft nudge with her elbow again. “Keep trying,” she whispered. “He's curious. He just doesn’t know he’s allowed to be.” 

Ted nodded, then perhaps in a desperate effort to fill the silence, launched into an awkward stream of commentary while Polaris flipped through a book of insects. 

“—and, you know, I read a thing once about... I think it was magical echolocation? There’s this beast in Romania, apparently, that uses a kind of screech to find its prey in the dark, even in pitch black caves, and some people think it’s linked to early dragon sub-species, but it might just be a loud bat. Or a hoax. Definitely something I'd want to see one day though, right? Just—imagine the sound—” 

Andromeda had her hand over her mouth, clearly trying not to laugh. 

Polaris didn’t look up from the page he was reading. “Are you going to marry my cousin?” he asked abruptly, voice serious and sharp as a needle. 

Ted choked mid-word. 

Andromeda’s hand fell from her face as her eyes widened. “Polaris—!” 

Ted looked like someone had hit him with a jelly-legs jinx. His face went pink almost instantly, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “I—uh—well—” 

Polaris looked up at him then, gaze clear and direct. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t teasing. He was six, and six-year-olds meant things. His little fists clutched the heavy book to his chest. He wanted a no. He expected a no. 

Ted glanced at Andromeda. She was red too now, biting her lower lip and clearly unsure whether to scold Polaris or flee the shop altogether. 

“I... I’d like to,” Ted said finally, voice unsteady. He scratched the back of his neck again. “One day. If she’ll have me.” 

He looked at Andromeda again—not smiling, not quite. Something more honest than that. 

Polaris blinked slowly. Then he looked away, back to the shelves, his face unreadable. 

Polaris didn’t say anything. 

He didn’t need to. His silence folded over the group like a pressed shroud, unnatural in someone so young. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t look up again. Just stood stiffly beside the shelves, fingers smoothing over the spine of a book he hadn’t actually read, jaw set as if bracing for a punishment no one had yet dealt. 

Andromeda shifted, clearly noticing the change, but said nothing. 

He'd asked a simple question. One with a right answer. Or what should have been the right answer. No, of course not. That’s ridiculous. But that hadn’t been the answer. 

His cousin— his cousin—was going to marry someone like that ? 

He knew what people said. About what happened when a pureblood didn’t keep to their kind. It weakened the line. Polluted it. Let in softness, ignorance, need. People like Ted wanted things. That’s what everyone said. That they only ever wanted. They didn’t grow up with power, so they chased it. They didn’t have pride, so they took other people’s. It wasn’t just about blood, it was about balance. What was taken could never be truly given. 

He’d listened when the adults spoke, even when they didn’t think he was listening. At formal dinners, through half-closed doors, behind glamoured curtains in halls. Some of it he didn’t fully understand. But enough of it stayed. Enough of it sounded right. Logical. 

Muggle-borns always wanted something. They came to their world like it owed them something. And what did they give back? Nothing. They took wands, knowledge, names—and they never understood what it meant. What they were touching. Like handing a sacred artefact to someone who thought it was a toy. 

Was that what Ted was doing to Andromeda? 

And if she was letting him— choosing him—what did that mean about her? Was she like them, now? Could you even still be part of the family, part of anything, if you were willing to break it that easily? 

He stared blankly at the spine of a book in front of him. Ancient Magical Architecture: Foundations of Power . He didn’t even see it. 

Was she betraying them? 

No. That wasn’t the question. He knew she was. She had to be. The real question—the heavy one sitting in his chest like a stone—was whether she was betraying him , too. 

He didn’t look up when Andromeda knelt down beside him again. 

“Hey,” she said softly, brushing a bit of hair out of his eyes. “You’ve gone all quiet.” 

He shrugged, small shoulders tight. 

“Did we upset you?” 

He thought for a moment, then gave the barest nod. Not a yes. Just not a no. 

She sighed. “You know... you don’t have to like him. I didn’t bring you here to make you. I just... wanted you to see.” 

Polaris didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or scared. He just knew that something about this felt like wrong , even if his cousin seemed so sure. 

Andromeda glanced back at Ted, who was awkwardly pretending to study a nearby shelf. 

“I know it’s a lot,” she whispered, voice low. “And I know you’ve heard a lot about people like Ted. But he’s... not like that.” 

Polaris didn’t know what that meant anymore. He didn’t look at her. Instead, he held up another book in his hands, “I want this one.” 

She nodded. “Alright. That one too, then.” 

And she didn’t push it further. Didn’t ask for understanding or forgiveness or trust. Just took his little hand again and led him to the till. 

Later that night, the day ended with Polaris getting a scar. 

He hadn’t meant to start anything. He wasn’t even sure what he’d been hoping for when he asked. Maybe clarity. Maybe some soft answer that made everything make sense—Andromeda’s smile, Ted’s laugh, the way no one in the shop had noticed anything strange, even though Polaris knew they were keeping a secret big enough to ruin them.  

But the question had come out of his mouth before he could think twice. 

And it was a stupid question. 

What happens to a Black who marries a Muggle-born? 

He should have known better. He did know better. That kind of wondering had no place in the house on Grimmauld Place. No room for curiosity. No room for softness. Only lineage and law and obedience. How foolish of him, he was six he should have known better. 

He should’ve kept it to himself. 

His father’s hand had come fast, surer than his voice, steadier than any shout. 

The glass hadn’t shattered on the ground. It shattered against Polaris’s head. 

A blooming ache behind his right temple, then warmth. Thick, slow, crimson warmth. 

He hadn’t cried. That had been important somehow, he didn’t want to show his father that he was scared even though he was. He didn’t cry when his father pressed the cloth to the wound. He didn’t cry when Orion stared through him like he was a broken thing. 

He stood there, trying so hard not to flinch, trying to tell his heart to stop pounding so loudly- why had it been so loud? 

The scar would stay. 

An ugly little line on his right temple. It was too obvious. 

He already hated it. How could he not? It was a reminder after all. 

Not just because of how it looked—though he would avoid mirrors for weeks afterward. He hated it because it reminded him of the question. The stupid, dangerous question. The one he hadn’t even meant like that. 

He hadn’t wanted to choose sides. 

He’d just wanted to understand. 

But in the Black family, even that was betrayal. 

He never asked about Muggle-borns again. 

Not out loud. 

And when he thought of that afternoon—of Andromeda’s hand in his, of the shop bell jingling as they left, of the quiet way she had said I just wanted you to see—it made his chest feel tight. 

Because he had seen. 

And he couldn’t unsee it. 

And still… he had gone home and asked the question. 

And now he had a scar. 

And even then? He wondered what if he shook Ted Tonks hand? He wished he did now. 

October 29th, 1970, Thursday  

His book lay open on his lap, but he hadn’t turned a page in ages. The words had become meaningless shapes—too far away to touch. 

The bandage on his temple itched beneath his hair. A dull throb pulsed under it, rhythmic and strange, like a second heartbeat. 

He didn’t hear Sirius enter. He only felt the weight of him in the room. 

Sirius had paused in the hall without knowing why. The moment he reached the door, something in him tightened, like stepping through an invisible veil. He didn’t hear anything—but he felt it. The way the air shifted. The way the world stilled. 

“Pol,” Sirius said. 

Polaris blinked up. His brother stood stiff in the doorway, eyes sharp, mouth set in a line that didn’t belong on a ten-year-old’s face. 

Sirius stepped forward, stopping just in front of the sofa. “Take it off.” 

Polaris blinked. “What?” 

“The bandage. Let me see it.” 

“No.” Polaris’s voice came out too quick, too tight. He sat up straighter, hiding behind the blanket. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine.” Sirius’s voice was quiet, but the kind of quiet that cracked porcelain. “What happened?” 

“I told you.” 

“Yeah, you told me ,” Sirius snapped. “You slipped and hit your head. That’s funny. You don’t usually bleed from your temple when you just fall in the drawing room.” 

Polaris didn’t answer. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of the blanket, knuckles white. The cotton felt thin. Like it wouldn’t hold him. 

“Did he do it?” 

Polaris looked away. The words hovered behind his teeth, bitter and burning. 

Sirius stepped closer, voice low but shaking. “Polaris. Did father do it?” 

“It’s not—” Polaris’s voice cracked. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“For Merlin's sake! —” 

“He was drunk!” Polaris burst out, his voice suddenly too loud, too fast. “He didn’t mean to! I—I asked something stupid!” 

Sirius froze, breath catching. 

“What could you possibly have asked that deserved that? ” 

Polaris flinched. “I didn’t think. That was the problem. I should have thought.” 

“What did you say?” 

Polaris’s heart thundered. The memory sat like a stone in his stomach. He stared at the carpet, as if it might answer for him. 

“I asked…” He swallowed. “I asked what happens to a Black who marries a Muggle-born.” 

Silence fell—heavy and too loud. 

Sirius didn’t move. 

“I wasn’t supposed to ask that,” Polaris said quickly, words tripping over each other. “It’s not a real question. I mean, it’s not a proper one. He said I was being foolish, that I’d been listening to rubbish. I was listening to rubbish. I overheard something I shouldn't have and—and I thought about it too long, and I forgot it was just a stupid thing someone said, and I shouldn’t have repeated it, I should have known—” 

“Polaris—” 

“He wouldn’t have been angry if I hadn’t said it.” Polaris’s voice shook.  

From down the corridor, a portrait creaked softly on its hinge. Not the wind—there was no draft. Just a sound like someone turning to listen. The sconces dimmed for a breath and then steadied again.  

“He didn’t just get mad for no reason. I gave him a reason. I made it worse.” 

Sirius looked like he might be sick. 

Polaris kept going. “He was tired. He’d been working. And then I asked that and—and he thought I was mocking the family. He thought I was mocking him . I wasn’t. I swear I wasn’t. I just didn’t say it right. I asked it wrong. It was my fault. I made him upset.” 

Sirius stepped back, slowly, like he was trying to understand a language he didn’t speak. 

“That’s not—Polaris, listen to yourself. ” 

Polaris blinked at him, confused. “What?” 

“You think it’s your fault?” 

“It is ,” Polaris said. His voice had gone flat, steady now. Logical. “You don’t say things like that in this house. You don’t ask things like that. That’s not how things are done.” 

Sirius opened his mouth. Nothing came out. 

Polaris lowered his gaze again. “He wasn’t angry before. Not until I said it. I changed the whole room.” 

Sirius’s hands were shaking. 

Polaris didn’t notice. He kept talking in that same quiet voice—like he was working out a puzzle. “He didn’t mean to hurt me. He was holding the glass already, and I startled him. I saw his face—he looked surprised. He probably didn’t know it would hit me that way. It was the corner that caught me. That’s what made it bad.” 

“That’s not—” Sirius’s voice broke. “ That’s not how this works, Pol. ” 

Polaris looked up at him, eyebrows slightly drawn. “Yes, it is.” 

Sirius stared at him like he didn’t recognize him. 

His fists were clenched now, trembling at his sides. 

“You sound like—” He choked on the rest. His throat worked around the words, but they came out wrong. “You sound like him .” 

Polaris’s heart clenched, like it always did when his father was mentioned. When his father entered a room. When his name was spoken. 

His chest always hurt around him. A strange, tight ache that he couldn’t name. It wasn’t fear exactly—not the loud kind. 

He didn’t know what it meant. 

He only knew it made him feel like crying sometimes, even when nothing had happened. Even when everything looked fine. 

Because sometimes his father’s words hurt. 

And Polaris hated that. Hated it more than the pain in his head, more than the bandage. Because words weren’t supposed to hurt him. He wasn’t supposed to care. 

But he did. 

And worse—somewhere, in a corner of his memory he didn’t like to visit—he remembered the words. 

You weren’t supposed to exist.  

He didn’t know if his father had meant it. Didn’t want to know. Because some part of him feared the answer wouldn’t matter. Meant or not, it had stuck. 

And now it echoed again—worse than the glass, worse than the blood. Polaris had buried it, like he buried everything. But Sirius’s voice had dragged it up. The thought that he might sound like the man who said those words made something split open in his chest. 

He wasn’t supposed to exist. 

He didn’t want to believe that. 

Maybe it had been a bad day. Maybe he'd been tired. Maybe he hadn't meant it at all. 

But Polaris had remembered. 

And he didn’t know how to forget. 

Polaris flinched. “I don’t.” 

“You do! ” Sirius’s voice rose, too loud for the quiet of the room. “You’re defending him. After what he did. You think that’s normal? You think that’s okay?” 

“I’m not defending—” 

“Yes, you are! ” Sirius turned in a furious half-circle, like he was trying to shake the storm off him. “You’re sitting there with a bandage on your head and telling me you deserved it ! What the hell is wrong with everyone in this house?” 

The door creaked behind them. Regulus stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight. 

“Maybe don’t shout,” he said, cool and clipped. 

Sirius turned. “Oh, look. Another expert on pretending everything’s fine.” 

“I didn’t say it was fine.” 

“No, you never say anything,” Sirius snapped. “That’s your trick, isn’t it? Stay quiet. Keep your head down. Smile at the right people and let someone else bleed for you.” 

Regulus’s eyes narrowed. “You think yelling fixes things?” 

“I think doing nothing doesn’t,” Sirius shot back. “He’s six , Reg. You saw the bandage. You know what it means.” 

Regulus’s voice dropped. “We don’t know anything.” 

“I know enough! ” 

“Knowing isn’t the same as proving. Or fixing.” 

“Merlin, listen to yourself!” Sirius’s hands flew up. “You talk like you're forty. Like you’ve already given up!” 

“Given up what?!” Regulus snapped. “You’re being stupid, like always. You don’t change anything by throwing yourself into a fire.” 

“No—you just stand there and watch it burn.” Sirius’s voice trembled with fury. “ Coward .” 

Regulus reeled like he’d been struck. 

The word hung in the air. It wasn’t a word Regulus took a liking to, he hated it and Sirius knew that, but he still kept calling him that for every little thing. 

Polaris shot to his feet. “ Stop it! ” 

Both brothers looked at him. Regulus’s face had gone pale. Sirius looked shaken, like the weight of what he’d said had just landed. 

Polaris’s chest heaved. “You’re always doing this. Picking fights, making things worse. Just leave it , Sirius. Please.” 

“But—” 

“ Go! ” Polaris shouted, loud enough to startle them both. “I can’t do this right now! Stop being annoying .” 

Sirius hesitated, breath shallow. His eyes flicked between them—between Polaris, trembling, and Regulus, locked stiff in silence. 

Polaris could barely breathe. His skull throbbed, a sharp pulse behind his eyes, behind the bandage. If they kept going, it would turn into one of those fights that dragged on forever. They never just argued—they escalated . And Polaris couldn’t take it right now. Not with the room tilting like it was. Not with that glass still echoing somewhere behind his eyes. 

“Just go,” he whispered, softer now. “Please.” 

Sirius’s jaw tightened. But after a long moment, he turned, fists still clenched—and slammed the door on his way out. 

The silence he left behind wasn’t calm. 

Polaris sat back down hard, dizzy. His head felt too big for his body. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to push the pain back in. 

Regulus didn’t move for a long time. 

Then, slowly, he crossed the room and sat down beside his little brother. Close, but not touching. 

His voice, when it came, was quiet. “I do care, you know.” 

Polaris didn’t look up. 

“I know I don’t always say the right thing,” Regulus said stiffly. “Or anything. But what he said—about me not caring—it’s not true.” 

Polaris turned his head, just slightly. Regulus was staring at the floor like it had told him off. Waiting for something. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe comfort. 

Polaris’s head throbbed harder. 

He didn’t want to be the one Regulus needed right now. He didn’t want to soothe anyone. Not when his skull was pulsing like a heartbeat under the bandage. Not when he could still feel the weight of Sirius’s stare, the slam of the door, and the heat in his brother’s voice when he’d said— 

‘You sound like him.’  

Polaris clenched his jaw. What had Sirius meant by that? Like Father—how? Because he tried to explain it? Because he didn’t scream and rage like Sirius did? Because he tried to be rational ? 

He hadn’t meant to sound like him . Polaris didn’t want to be like him, the thought made his stomach feel odd. 

He just didn’t want Sirius to get hurt too. That was all. That was the whole point. Wasn’t it? If he made a big deal out of it like Sirius was, then Sirius would really try do something about it... what was the point in both of them getting hurt? 

Regulus gave a short, bitter laugh. “He meant it. That’s what hurts.” 

Polaris didn’t respond. Sometimes Regulus could be so… needy . Always waiting for someone to make him feel better, to tell him he was good and brave and kind. Sirius used to do it. Mother too, when it suited her. But Polaris was the one with the aching head and the dried blood on the bandage. He didn’t have anything left to give. 

Still, without thinking, he reached out—habit, maybe—and curled his fingers around Regulus’s sleeve. Not out of comfort. Just to ground himself. Because the world still felt a little off-centre, like if he moved too fast it might tilt sideways again. 

Regulus froze, then relaxed a little. 

“You’re not a coward,” Polaris said dully. Not out of belief, not really. More because he didn’t want to say what he was actually thinking. “You’re still here.” 

Regulus looked over, startled. 

Polaris blinked at him, eyelids heavy, skull pounding behind his eyes. “That’s braver than it feels.” Polaris read that in a book once. 

Regulus didn’t speak. After a moment, he nodded. Like he believed it mattered. 

Polaris didn’t hold onto that. 

He let go. 

He felt like screaming- 

He hated him, his father. 

Not in the way children say when they’re told no.  

He hated the way his father walked into a room and made it smaller. He hated how the whole house held its breath around him, as if the walls themselves were afraid of being scolded. He hated the way the man looked at him—like he was checking for flaws in a thing he’d bought but never wanted. 

He hated that he still tried. Still longed for a word of praise, still shaped his sentences carefully, hoping today might be different. Hoping if he just behaved right , maybe—maybe—he’d be seen. Heard. Maybe he’d feel like someone worth something. 

Polaris hated that he made excuses for him. He had said his father hadn’t meant it, that he was tired, that Polaris was the one who asked the wrong question- as if there’s a right way to ask about people he’s decided don’t deserve to exist. 

Polaris didn’t want to be like him.  

The thought pressed harder now, threatening to rise like bile in his throat. He gritted his teeth. 

He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, because trying to make sense of what Sirius had said—what any of it meant—was going to tear something open in him if he wasn’t careful. 

So, he didn’t try. 

Instead, Polaris did what he had always done, long before he ever knew it had a name. 

He closed the door. 

He pulled his thoughts inward and downward, drawing them out of reach, like strings being wound around spools, neat and hidden. He pushed memory behind walls. Folded shame until it lay flat. Took the weight of his father’s voice, of Sirius’s fury, of Regulus’s silence, and placed it somewhere deeper, where it wouldn’t be too loud. 

Compartmentalization, most would call it. 

But this—this was deeper than that. 

It had started when he was young—before he could even read. Before he knew what it meant to feel too much, and to be punished for showing it. The first time he was called too sensitive. The first time he’d cried and seen disgust, not sympathy, on his father’s face. That was when the habit formed. The instinct to tuck things away . 

To become unreadable. 

Sometimes, the house felt too still when Polaris was thinking—like the air itself held its breath. 

Chapter Text

September 1st, 1971, Wednesday  

Polaris stood close to Regulus, the cuff of his jumper gripped in one hand. The station buzzed around them, unfamiliar and loud. There were children everywhere, parents, trunks with squeaky wheels, owls hooting in cages and cats darting under benches.  

One of the owls caught his eye—a sleek barn owl with golden eyes, shifting restlessly on its perch. Polaris stared. There was something about the tilt of its head, the way it blinked slowly, like it understood more than it let on. He took half a step forward before remembering himself and inching back beside Regulus, tugging his sleeve lower.  

A few steps away, a sleek black cat froze mid-step, eyes locked on Polaris. Its tail puffed slightly before it darted behind a bench. The barn owl shifted again, wings twitching like it wanted to take flight. A nearby toad let out a sharp, rattled croak and went still.  

Polaris didn’t notice, not really. But something in him prickled—the faint sense of being watched, or seen, in a way that felt heavier than it should. He looked up, found nothing but the sea of strangers and trunks and steam. Still, he edged closer to Regulus.  

All around them, other families were saying goodbye. A father knelt to fix his daughter’s collar, smiling as she beamed up at him, her arms thrown around his neck. A boy with ginger hair was nearly swallowed in a hug, his mother kissing his cheek while his father ruffled his hair and laughed. There were goodbyes with tears and laughter, reminders to write, to eat properly, to make friends.  

Polaris watched, not sure what to make of the warmth curling in his chest. It wasn't envy, exactly. Just... noticing. Like seeing something in a shop window you hadn’t known people were allowed to want.  

Their mother stood rigid beside Sirius, voice low but sharp, each word shaped like a warning. She looked pristine, as always—dark green robes trimmed with silver, hair twisted into an elegant coil. Her mouth barely moved when she spoke, but Sirius flinched all the same.  

“Do not embarrass this family. Do not disgrace the name I’ve given you. And if I hear even a whisper of impropriety—of disrespect—you’ll regret it.”  

Polaris didn’t hear Sirius answer. He probably didn’t.  

“I'm surprised he isn't talking back, I wonder why...” Regulus said suddenly, eyes fixed on the scene.  

Polaris shrugged. His fingers brushed through his hair—once, then again—before falling to his side.  

Regulus glanced down at him, brow twitching like he’d noticed something. But he didn’t say anything. Just shifted his weight and nudged Polaris lightly with the side of his foot.  

Polaris nudged him back. “He’s lucky,” he said.  

Regulus snorted. “You think that looks lucky?” He nodded toward Sirius, who was now pulling on his robes as their mother fussed over an invisible bit of lint on his collar.  

“He gets to leave,” Polaris murmured. “Even if it’s with her shouting in his ear. He still gets to go.” He looked up at Regulus, eyes narrowed. “And next year, you’ll go too.”  

Regulus gave him a lopsided smile. “Jealous?”  

Polaris didn’t answer. Just looked away.  

“I’ll write to you, when it's my turn to go.” Regulus said, like it was an apology.  

Polaris kicked a loose pebble toward his brother's foot. It tapped against his shoe. “Better.”  

Regulus grinned, flicked the pebble back. “Promise.”  

They fell into a quiet rhythm, the pebble scuffing lightly between their shoes. A game without rules. No score. Just movement.   

Sirius stepped back from their mother at last, dragging his trunk behind him. He didn’t look back at her. Didn’t offer a smile.  

Their father hadn’t come.  

None of them said anything about it. Sirius didn’t care—he was glad, if anything. One less lecture. One less cold stare. He liked that their father worked late, kept away, forgot to come home some nights. Polaris felt the same. Easier to breathe.  

It was only Regulus who seemed to notice. He never asked out loud, but sometimes he paused at the parlour window at night, like he was still waiting for something.   

Sirius walked up to them; clearly glad their mother stopped with her unnecessary chatter.  

“You two better not ruin anything while I’m gone,” Sirius said, but his voice was soft. Less teasing, more tired.  

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Who’d we ruin it for? You’re the one running off.”  

“I’m not running,” Sirius said, and this time his voice was sharper. Not defensive, exactly. But close. His eyes didn’t meet theirs. They were fixed on the far end of the platform—beyond the smoke and the steam, beyond the families clustered in tight little knots. Looking for... something. Maybe no one. Maybe anywhere else.  

Regulus shrugged, gaze still fixed on his brother. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”  

Polaris stayed quiet, watching the way Sirius's jaw set like he was holding something back. The way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to fight or flee.  

“You’re lucky,” Polaris said finally.  

Sirius looked at him, brows slightly raised.  

“You get to go,” Polaris added. “Even if it’s just school. Even if she's dragging you like you've already disappointed her.”  

Sirius didn’t laugh. But something in his expression flickered—like maybe that hit close to something real.  

“I’m not lucky,” he said, quieter now. “I’m just first .”  

Regulus gave him a sideways look. “What, so we’re supposed to learn from your mistakes?”  

Sirius gave a crooked grin. “That’s the idea.”  

Polaris didn’t smile. He thought of the nights Sirius had crept into Regulus’s room after an argument, of the bruises they never talked about, of the way their father looked through them, not at them.  

He thought maybe Sirius hadn’t made all the mistakes for them. But he’d made enough to leave a path—bloody, cracked, and half-lit—that the rest of them would either follow or spend their lives trying to avoid.  

“Still lucky,” Polaris said, barely above a whisper. “You get to leave.”  

September 3rd, 1971, Friday  

Polaris sat at his usual seat, back straight, eyes fixed somewhere just above Mr Thorne’s shoulder.  

On the board, Thorne was outlining the metabolic effects of belladonna in human versus goblin physiology. The diagram curved like roots, branching toward the margins—but Polaris wasn’t really looking at it. His hands worked ceaselessly beneath the desk, fingers tugging at the hem of his sleeve in a rhythmic stim he didn’t usually allow himself during lessons. Twist, pull, release. Again.  

“Mr Black.”  

Thorne’s voice brought him out of his thoughts.  

Polaris blinked. “Sir?”  

“You’ve not interrupted me once today,” Thorne said. “And you’re fiddling with your robes. I can only assume something’s distracting you.”  

Polaris hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “My brother was sorted into Gryffindor.”  

Thorne tilted his head a fraction, considering. “Yes. I’m aware.”  

Polaris glanced down at his hands. “Why does it matter so much? Everyone keeps whispering like it’s some kind of scandal. It’s just a house, right?”  

Thorne regarded him for a moment before speaking. “No, Mr Black. It’s never just a house. Not in families like yours.”  

He stepped away from the board, folding his arms with deliberate care.  

“In a family such as the Blacks—a family entrenched in old alliances, political tradition, and bloodline preservation—Slytherin isn’t merely expected. It’s symbolic. It signals continuity. Unity. A shared ideological framework passed from parent to child. To be sorted elsewhere—particularly into Gryffindor—undermines that structure.”  

Polaris frowned slightly. “But isn’t Gryffindor still a respectable house?”  

Thorne nodded once. “Respectable, yes. Compatible, no. Gryffindor values defiance, independence, moral absolutism. Those traits may sound admirable in abstract, but in practice, they threaten the kind of calculated cohesion your family depends upon. Gryffindors do not bend easily. And pure-blood society—especially one as rigidly built as the Black family’s—requires strategic compromise. Not heroic self-direction.”  

Polaris was still, fingers slowing.  

“Sirius was meant to be the standard bearer,” Thorne continued. “The heir. The firstborn. Your father has spent years shaping him to eventually assume the political and social weight of the family legacy. That legacy is built on loyalty to a network of names, histories, and favours—all of which presume certain ideological foundations. Foundations tied to Slytherin. Tied to tradition.”  

He paused, letting the implications settle before adding, “When Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor, he didn’t just choose a house. He publicly severed himself from that foundation. Or at the very least, cast doubt on it.”  

“So what?” Polaris said, softer now. “He doesn’t believe what they believe?”  

“That’s not the point,” Thorne replied. “Perception is power. In your world, appearances are currency. Sirius may still love his family—though that seems increasingly unlikely—but it doesn’t matter if others no longer believe he represents it. And if they question him , they begin to question your father. And by extension, all Black alliances. Doubt spreads quickly in your circles.”  

Polaris looked back at the chalkboard, but not as though he were reading. His hands had stopped moving.  

“So, it’s bad,” he said. “Because it makes people nervous.”  

Thorne smiled faintly. “Yes. And nervous allies become disloyal ones.”  

 It wasn’t just rebellion. It was treason. Politically, at least.  

But Polaris didn’t say that. What he did say, in a murmur so faint it was nearly lost beneath the creak of the greenhouse pipes, was: “I’m getting tired of all these rules.”  

Thorne gave him a long, searching look. “Rules, Mr Black, are the only thing that keep empires standing.”  

Polaris didn’t respond. But his eyes lingered on the chalkboard, unfocused, while a single rebellious thought curled up quietly in the back of his mind:  

Maybe some empires deserve to fall.   

Then, almost as if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud, Polaris murmured, “Everyone talks like obedience is a sign of strength. Isn’t it just fear, dressed up in prettier robes?”  

The air between them shifted.  

Mr Thorne didn’t react immediately. He simply regarded Polaris with that same unreadable calm he always wore—like someone who’d seen every answer to a question before the student had even learned to ask it.  

“An interesting proposition,” he said at last. “And one I suspect you already know the answer to.”  

Polaris’s jaw tensed. “I’m not sure I do.”  

Thorne stepped slowly around his desk, fingertips brushing the spine of a closed herbology text as he passed. “Obedience,” he said, “isn’t simply about control. It’s about sustainability. Fear, loyalty, duty—these are the ligaments that hold a society together. Particularly one built on hierarchy. On inheritance. On blood.”  

Polaris’s expression darkened, but he didn’t interrupt.  

“You call it fear,” Thorne went on, “and you’re not wrong. Fear keeps powerful things in check. Without it, the world would burn faster than any rebellion could hope to rebuild it.”  

He stopped in front of Polaris’s desk. “The Black family is not an empire because it is beloved. It is an empire because it is feared. Because it is structured. Because each member knows their role and plays it—whether by choice or necessity. That obedience is not a weakness. It’s a scaffold. Without it, the house collapses.”  

“But what if the scaffold’s rotten?” Polaris asked quietly. “What if it was built wrong from the beginning?”  

Thorne’s mouth twitched at the corner—not a smile, exactly. Something drier. More like a flicker of interest.  

“Then, Mr Black,” he said, voice measured, “you have two options. Reinforce it from within. Or tear it down and hope the rubble doesn’t bury you.”  

Polaris didn’t answer. Not right away. He just looked back at the chalkboard again, where belladonna’s branching influence spiralled into veins and organs and thin, curling nerves.  

Something about it suddenly felt familiar. A poison, disguised as healing. Or maybe the other way around.  

“I don’t want to tear anything down,” he said, almost too low to hear. “I just don’t want to be another piece of scaffolding.”  

Thorne regarded him for a long moment. Then, without another word, he turned and walked back to the board. Picked up a piece of chalk. Began drawing again.  

Polaris didn’t move for a long time after Thorne returned to the board. The lines of the diagram shifted and grew under Thorne’s steady hand—roots becoming nerves, veins becoming vines. But Polaris wasn’t watching the drawing anymore.  

Finally, his fingers twitched. Just once. And in a voice as hesitant as a breath held too long, he asked, “You won’t tell my parents, will you?” he asked. “What I said.”  

Thorne didn’t look away from the board. He finished drawing the final branch of belladonna’s influence through the goblin liver before setting the chalk down with care.  

“No,” he said simply. “I won’t.”  

Polaris exhaled—barely a sound, more a slackening in the way he held his body.  

Thorne turned back to face him, expression unreadable. “It’s good to ask questions,” he said. “Even dangerous ones.”  

He paused, his gaze sharpening just slightly.  

“But not everyone thinks that way. Some people see curiosity as a kind of infection—something that spreads, undermines, unravels. You’ll need to be careful with whom you share it.”  

Polaris nodded slowly, unsure if he felt relieved or more afraid. His fingers had begun moving again, but softer now, almost absentminded—just enough to feel the fabric between them.  

“Because curiosity can be dangerous,” Polaris said, echoing the words.  

Thorne gave the faintest incline of his head. “Indeed. But so can obedience.”  

The light had shifted by the time Polaris left the study, every Friday his lessons with Mr Thorne were in the morning and every afternoon after it he spent time with Corvus which was why he was now sat on his Corvus’ room.  

Polaris sat cross-legged on the edge of Corvus’s bed, thumbing the frayed ear of a stuffed black cat. It was soft from wear, one glass eye missing, the other scratched and cloudy. It had belonged to Corvus—something his parents had given him when he was a baby, before the accident, before everything changed. Polaris didn’t remember when he’d first started holding it during visits, or why he always reached for it now. But Corvus never said anything. He just let him.   

Across the room, Corvus Avery was halfway beneath his wardrobe, voice muffled, wandless fingers scrabbling through a pile of discarded socks and half-unravelled spell books.  

“It was right here,” he muttered. “I saw it yesterday. Stupid thing always disappears the second I actually need it.”  

Polaris tilted the cat back, watching its head wobble on its neck. “What is it you’re looking for?”  

“My notes,” Corvus groaned, thumping the inside of the wardrobe as he crawled further in. “The ones about some bloodline lecture my uncle gave me last night I’m supposed to recite them to my uncle before supper, or I get the look again. You know the one.”  

“I know the one,” Polaris murmured.  

“The ‘ how dare you misplace knowledge bestowed upon you by centuries of breeding’ look,” Corvus mimicked, finally wriggling out, hair askew and ink-smudged hands waving in exasperation. “Honestly, if they just gave me the lecture as a sugar quill, I’d have eaten it and remembered everything .”  

Polaris smiled faintly, still fiddling with the cat’s paw. “Complaining as always.”  

“I’m seven, I’m allowed ,” Corvus shot back. “If I don’t start now, I’ll just explode at twenty-five and insult the Minister of Magic at a gala. You’d have to smuggle me out of the country.”  

Polaris looked up. “I’d help you. But I’d complain about it.”  

“That’s fair.” Corvus flopped onto the floor beside the bed, hands behind his head, staring up at the green silk canopy. “We’ll flee to Albania. I hear the Dark creatures there are more polite than my uncle.”  

Polaris wrinkled his nose. “Not Albania. Too many mountains. We’d get eaten by something with teeth before breakfast.” He paused. “Let’s go to Brazil. They’ve got birds. Bright ones. Ones that scream all day.”  

Corvus gave a snort of laughter. “That sounds like torture.”  

Polaris’s smile deepened slightly. “Better than silence.”  

For a moment, they both went quiet. The kind of silence that only existed between people who didn’t need to fill it.  

Then Polaris asked, softly, “Do you think Sirius meant to end up in Gryffindor?”  

Corvus blinked at the ceiling. “Don’t know. Probably not.”  

“You don’t think he wanted it?”  

“No one wants to be yelled at by half the family during dessert,” Corvus replied. “Not unless they’re mental. But maybe he did something that tipped the scales.”  

“Like what?”  

“I dunno. Thought too loud.” Corvus shrugged. “Thought something the Hat liked. That’s what they say, isn’t it? It sees what you are and what you could be. That’s a dangerous thing to show anyone, right?”  

Polaris nodded slowly. He was still holding the cat. “Mr Thorne said it’s about perception. That people don’t care what Sirius believes. Just what he represents now.”  

Corvus turned his head to look at him. “That sounds like something Thorne would say, I think he said something about perception when I had my lesson with him yesterday afternoon. He’s got that creepy way of being right all the time. I don’t like it.”  

“I kind of do,” Polaris said. “At least he explains things. Properly.”  

“Yeah. Makes it harder to pretend you don’t understand what’s happening, though,” Corvus replied, voice quieter now. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t understand. It was easier when we were five and all we had to do was memorize which ancestor cursed a French duke.”  

Polaris didn’t answer right away. Then: “Do you think we’ll end up like them?”  

Corvus blinked again. “Like whom?”  

“Our families. Our parents. Uncles. All of them.”  

Corvus sat up now, arms looped over his knees. “I mean… isn’t that the whole point?”  

“Maybe,” Polaris said. “But… what if I don’t want to play the same role?”  

Corvus tilted his head. “You’d rather do what, then?”  

Polaris looked down at the cat again. “Something else. Something that still matters , but not because it’s expected.”  

Corvus was quiet for a long beat. Then he said, more softly than usual, “You always talk like that.”  

Polaris blinked. “Like what?”  

“I dunno.” Corvus shrugged. “Like you're trying to figure out the whole world at once.”  

Polaris tilted his head. “Is that bad?”  

“No. Just… I don’t know if we’re supposed to.”  

“Supposed to what?”  

Corvus frowned. “Think like that. Say stuff like that.”  

“Oh.” Polaris picked at the cat’s ear. “I don’t really know what ‘supposed to’ means anymore.”  

Corvus lay back again and huffed. “Probably means ‘stuff that doesn’t get you in trouble.’”  

Polaris scrunched his nose. “That’s a terrible meaning.”  

“I didn’t make the rules,” Corvus said, throwing a pillow at the foot of the bed for no reason. “If I did, we’d all wear hats shaped like badgers and bedtime would be never.”  

Polaris smiled faintly.  

Corvus turned toward the window, where the sky had turned a funny kind of purple, like it wasn’t sure if it was night yet. “Sometimes I think being pure-blood just means you have to follow more rules. Not less. I hate having to memorise so much and I hate forgetting some of them.”  

Polaris blinked. “But they say we’re better. We get more.”  

Corvus shrugged. “Feels like a lot.”  

“Yeah,” Polaris said, curling a little over the cat. “Feels like… you have to be something. Even if you don’t want to be.”  

Corvus sat up halfway, frowning. “Like a knight in a story.”  

“Or a chess piece,” Polaris murmured.  

Corvus made a face. “Ugh. I hate being the knight. It moves stupid.”  

“You always move the rook first chance you get.”  

“Because the rook’s honest and simple it moves in straight lines. None of that ‘L-shape’ nonsense.”  

Polaris gave a small, crooked smile. “I like the pawn.”  

Corvus looked at him. “Why? It’s the worst one.”  

“But it can change. If it gets all the way across.”  

Corvus blinked, then flopped onto his back with a groan. “You’re so weird sometimes.”  

“You asked,” Polaris said, gently patting the cat’s head.  

Corvus stared up at the ceiling for a long second. “I think they’re just scared. The grown-ups. Of stuff changing.”  

Polaris looked over. “Why would they be scared of that?”  

“Because if it changes, maybe they’re not right anymore.”  

Polaris thought about that for a long time, his hand stilling on the stuffed cat’s fur. “Yeah… That’s completely true. If things change, then what they built their lives on might turn out to be a lie. And if it is a lie, then they’d have to admit they hurt people for nothing. And I don’t think they want to know that.”  

Corvus sat up halfway, his brow furrowed. “That’s kind of dark.”  

Polaris tilted his head. “It’s just logic.”  

Corvus nodded, then gave him a lopsided grin. “Well, don’t worry. If you get in trouble for thinking too much, I’ll bring sweets to your cell.”  

“I’m not going to a cell,” Polaris said, mock-offended.  

“Well, not yet. But you did say something weird about the tapestry last week.”  

Polaris blinked. “I did?”  

Corvus nodded solemnly. “You said the tapestry wasn’t who we are, just who they wanted us to be.”  

Polaris’s eyes widened. “Oh. I forgot.”  

“See?” Corvus grinned. “That’s the kind of thing that gets you locked in a dungeon. Or given extra Latin lessons.”  

Polaris gave an exaggerated shudder. “Not Latin. Anything but that.”  

Corvus reached over and grabbed the cat from his lap, setting it gently on the space between them. “Anyway, if you do become a rebel, let me know first.”  

“I’m not becoming a rebel,” Polaris said, but not very firmly.  

“Just saying,” Corvus said with a shrug. “I’ll need time to pack. I’m not going anywhere without my chocolate frogs and at least three socks.”  

Polaris looked at him, then down at the cat. He didn’t say anything right away.  

Then, softly, “You should bring an even number of socks. Just in case.”  

Corvus glanced over, then gave a small snort. “Alright, four socks. Happy?”  

Polaris didn’t answer.  

But he smiled.  

“Hey,” Corvus said after a moment.  

Polaris looked up.  

“Promise me something.”  

Polaris blinked. “What?”  

“That no matter what happens—whether you turn into some noble rebel, or I end up running away to Albania with my chocolate frogs—you and me…” He hesitated, then grabbed the stuffed cat again, holding it between them like it was a solemn relic. “We’ll stay best friends. Forever.”  

Polaris stared at him. “Forever?”  

“Yeah. Even if we end up in different houses. Even if I steal your tarts. Even if you say more weird things about tapestries or pawns. Even if I do something stupid, like insult the Minister of Magic.” He squeezed the cat a little tighter. “I want us to stay... us.”  

Polaris didn’t smile right away. He looked at Corvus like he was memorizing the shape of him in that moment—the tousled hair, the scratched hands, the stubborn little crease between his brows when he said serious things and tried to sound casual.  

Then he frowned. “We’re not ending up in different houses.”  

Corvus hesitated. “You don’t know that.”  

“Yes I do,” Polaris said, with quiet certainty. “We’ll both be in Slytherin. That’s where we belong.”  

Corvus narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “How can you be so sure?”  

Polaris shrugged slightly. “Because. You’re bossy and clever and you don’t like losing. And I’m… me.”  

Corvus considered that for a second. “Alright, fair. But you do say weird things.”  

“I do not .” Polaris crossed his arms. “Just because I think about stuff doesn’t make it weird.”  

Corvus grinned. “You compared people to chess pieces.”  

Polaris’s eyes narrowed. “And you once tried to see if you could fly by jumping off the staircase with a pillowcase.”  

“That was an experiment ,” Corvus said defensively. “And it worked for half a second.”  

“You got a nosebleed.”  

“Worth it.”  

Polaris shook his head. “You’re going to do way more stupid things when you’re older.”  

“Probably,” Corvus admitted cheerfully. “But you’ll be there. You’ll stop me.”  

Polaris softened. “I hope so.”  

Corvus glanced at him, more serious now. “And you’ll tell me when I’m being awful.”  

Polaris gave a tiny nod. “You’re already kind of awful.”  

Corvus stuck out his tongue. Polaris didn’t return it, but his lips twitched.  

Then, after a beat, Corvus set the cat gently between them again and leaned forward a little, voice suddenly very earnest. “Promise me, though. Even if we fight, or grow up and become boring adults, or say dumb things… promise we’ll still be best friends. Forever.”  

Polaris looked down at the cat, its worn fur shining a little in the low light. Then back up at Corvus.  

“I promise.”  

Corvus let out a breath, then grinned—huge and uneven and so very seven.  

“Good, ‘cause you’re not allowed to be best friends with anyone else. I call dibs.”  

Polaris rolled his eyes, but this time, he smiled too.  

Corvus was still flipping the stuffed cat between his hands when he said, “You ever think our names are a bit… much?”  

Polaris blinked. “What do you mean?”  

“I mean—Corvus Aurelian Avery. That sounds like I should come with a title. Like ‘The Third.’ Or be made of marble.”  

Polaris considered. “You do get a bit stiff when you're nervous.”  

Corvus kicked him lightly. “And you—Polaris Rigel Black. That’s not a name. That’s a constellation having an identity crisis.”  

Polaris gave a small shrug. “It fits. I guess.”  

“Still.” Corvus scrunched his nose. “Maybe we should rename each other. Just for us.”  

Polaris looked at him, curious. “Like what?”  

“I dunno. Not Corvy, obviously. I’d hex you if my cousins actually let me use their wands.”  

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Polaris said dryly. “It’s awful. Makes you sound like a pet owl.”  

Corvus perked up. “Exactly. So go on, then. Try something. But from the middle bit. Aurelian.”  

Polaris looked at him, thoughtful. “...Aury?”  

Corvus made a gagging sound. “Absolutely not.”  

“Rel?”  

“You’re trying to get me bullied.”  

Polaris hummed, narrowing his eyes. “Lian.”  

Corvus blinked. Then nodded, just once. “Huh.”  

“You like it?”  

“I don’t hate it.” He tilted his head. “Yeah. Lian. That’s not bad.”  

Polaris smirked faintly. “Better than ‘Corvy.’”  

“ Way better. Right, now it’s my turn.”  

Polaris blinked. “What?”  

“Rigel. Your middle name. I’m not calling you Pol . That’s for your brothers. I need something better. Something exclusive.” He tapped his lip dramatically. “Okay, okay. Rigs?”  

Polaris wrinkled his nose. “Sounds like something Muggle .”  

“True. Riggy?”  

Polaris didn’t dignify that with a response.  

“Gel?”  

“No.”  

Corvus leaned in, eyes bright. “ Rye. ”  

Polaris paused. Then, slowly: “...Rye.”  

“It works.”  

“It does.” Polaris blinked. “It’s quiet I think.”  

Corvus grinned. “Like you. But not boring.”  

Polaris raised a brow. “You’re saying I’m not boring?”  

Corvus mock-gasped. “Miracles happen.”  

They looked at each other for a long second, both pretending not to be proud of themselves.  

Then Corvus said, “Rye and Lian. That sounds like a duo that could definitely survive Albania.”  

Polaris nodded solemnly. “And Brazil.”  

Corvus held out the stuffed cat between them like a sacred pact. “Sealed.”  

Polaris touched it gently. “Sealed.”  

And that was that. Rye and Lian.  

December 20th, 1971, Monday  

Polaris didn’t mean to draw it.  

He hadn’t even realized what he was sketching until the charcoal began to blur under the heat of his hand, the pressure too hard, too fast. It was past midnight, he shouldn’t be up, he really shouldn’t have but he just couldn’t sleep after what happened.  

The parchment was already warped with smudges, harsh strokes carved across it—violent lines, not like the careful ink portraits he used to draw in the nursery. This wasn’t just Sirius. It was what Sirius looked like through the pain.  

Polaris didn’t draw his brother’s face at first. He couldn’t .  

He drew the way Sirius’s body curled inwards, arms bound to his sides not by rope but by something worse—something you couldn't see. His knees drawn up, head pressed to the rug as though it might save him. Polaris’s hand shook as he darkened the lines around the spine, tracing tension, rigidity, resistance. The outline of someone trying not to break.  

Then came the screaming .  

Or at least, Polaris’s attempt to sketch it. He didn’t know how to draw sound, but he tried. Around Sirius’s head, the paper was marred by frantic spirals, lines scratched until they tore through. The kind of marks someone makes when they want to erase what’s already happening. Shrieks that echoed down the staircase—not loud so much as torn from somewhere deep, a ripping sound, like flesh and soul being pulled apart together.  

He shaded the rug next. Not the real one from the drawing room, with its ornate threads and sacred symbols—but the version Sirius had clawed into. Torn tufts, blackened in places. A place not of comfort, but of struggle.  

Finally, Polaris reached the face, he paused only for a moment.  

He hadn’t meant to go that far.  

But his hand moved anyway, careful now, reverent. He didn’t draw Sirius’s expression in full. Just the corner of a clenched jaw, the glint of teeth caught mid-scream, and the tear trailing from one tightly-shut eye—only one, because Sirius would never cry in full view, even while his body betrayed him.  

Polaris stared at the finished sketch for a long time.  

It didn’t look like Sirius. It looked like pain had taken up residence in his skin. It looked like Polaris had put his brother on parchment just to watch him suffer again. And yet, he couldn’t tear the page away. It was all he had to show for what he’d heard. All he could do when he hadn’t been able to help.  

He pressed his forehead to the desk, the charcoal still warm in his fingers, and whispered.  

“I’m sorry.”  

He was sorry he couldn’t help Sirius. Sorry he hadn’t been old enough, loud enough, strong enough to stop it.  

He was sorry he couldn’t stop her—couldn’t stop their mother’s voice from curling into that cruel incantation, couldn’t block the way it wrapped around Sirius and dragged him to the floor like he was nothing.  

His own cheek still throbbed, the skin tender where her palm had struck him. He hadn’t even thought before lunging between them. He’d shouted something—he couldn’t remember what—but it had earned him a backhand and a warning to stay out of it, child.  

And he had.  

He had stayed out of it. Like a good Black.  

That was the part he couldn’t forgive himself for.  

He told himself he’d tried—that he’d stepped between them, that he’d shouted, that he’d earned the sting still blooming on his cheek. But in the end, he’d done what he was told. He’d backed away. He’d let it happen.  

Pathetic, he thought bitterly. Coward.  

Things had been… normal, in a way, before the Yule break. Boring, as always. Silent, as expected. But bearable. There were lessons to study and spells to learn about and books to hide in. Mother had been quieter, Father more absent than usual, thankfully . No portraits had screamed in weeks.  

But then the holidays arrived. And so did Sirius.  

And with him came everything Polaris thought they’d left behind.  

The shame. The shouting. The scalding weight of disgrace that hung in the air that felt suffocating—because Sirius had been sorted into Gryffindor, and that was unforgivable.  

Because he had shamed the House of Black.  

Because he had chosen something different. Something less.  

Polaris wasn’t sure what exactly his brother had done wrong—only that it had made their mother’s hands crueller and her magic colder. And that it hurt to see him punished for it.  

It hurt worse not to be able to stop it.  

He lifted his head, stared at the drawing again—at the shape of Sirius’s pain, made permanent in black and grey. Polaris hadn’t drawn himself in the picture. He couldn’t bear to. But in some silent way, he knew he was there too.  

Then there was a knock on his door, seconds later the door creaked open without waiting for permission. Polaris bother moving at the sound.  

The door clicked shut behind Regulus, the soft sound barely cutting through the thick quiet of the room. He didn’t move at first, just stood there, his arms crossed over his chest like armour. His gaze flicked to the sketch on the desk—he didn’t ask about it.  

“She locked him in,” he said, voice low. “The drawing room. Kreacher says the wards are sealed. No one gets in and he’s not allowed out.”  

Polaris didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on his lap, where charcoal-smudged fingers curled into his dressing gown. He hated how calm Regulus sounded, as if glad it wasn’t himself.  

Regulus shifted, the floorboards creaking under his slippers. “You shouldn’t be up this late,” he added, though there wasn’t much conviction in it. He wasn’t here to scold.  

Polaris slouched deeper into the chair, his shoulders folding in on themselves. The tips of his toes pressed into the floor, as if anchoring him in place. He blinked hard, once—twice—like he could force the tears away through sheer will.  

But they came anyway. Quiet, reluctant little things, another thing the at made him weak . He couldn’t do anything right.  

One slipped down his cheek. Then another. He turned his face slightly, but Regulus saw.  

He didn’t speak at first. He just watched, uncertain, then took a hesitant step forward. And then another. Finally, he crossed the small space between them and, awkwardly, clumsily, draped his arms around Polaris’s shoulders from behind.  

It wasn’t how they usually touched. They were pure-blood sons of the Noble House of Black—taught to bow, to duel, to nod curtly. Not to hold each other.  

But Polaris didn’t pull away.  

“I didn’t know someone could sound like that,” he whispered. His voice cracked mid-sentence. “He was screaming, Reg.”  

Regulus’s arms tensed slightly.  

“It didn’t even sound like Ris. I didn’t think…” Polaris swallowed hard. “I didn’t think anything could hurt him like that.”  

He didn’t say Mother or the curse . He didn’t have to.  

Regulus rested his chin gently on Polaris’s head. “Ris wouldn’t want you to cry,” he murmured.  

“I don’t care,” Polaris mumbled. But the tears kept falling, hot and silent.  

They stayed like that for a while. Eventually, Regulus let go. Not abruptly, just enough to shift back, giving Polaris room to breathe again.  

Polaris looked up, eyes glassy, cheeks blotched red.  

“I’m scared I won’t be a Slytherin,” he said.  

It came out soft and uncertain—like a secret. Like a flaw .  

Regulus didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at him, really looked, as if seeing Polaris for the first time not as the quiet younger brother, or the thoughtful one, but as something else: a boy standing too close to the edge of everything expected of him.  

Regulus wanted to say something, anything but nothing came out, even as Polaris turned away from him, and placed his head on his desk. He opened his mouth once, then twice, but both times he couldn’t say anything to his little brother.  

The desk was cool against Polaris’ forehead. He closed his eyes hoping Regulus would leave him be.  

A proper Black was everything Sirius wasn’t.  

He repeated it like a prayer—one of the first lessons he’d ever learned. Not in a classroom, but in glances, gestures, silences. In the way Mother’s lips pursed when Sirius laughed too loudly. In the way Father’s voice tightened when he spoke of blood, of history, of duty.  

Legacy is a thread that cannot be cut, he remembered being told. We are its keepers, not its owners. To be a Black is to preserve what was handed down—without stain, without shame.  

He had believed it. Still did, mostly.  

He wanted to be a Slytherin. He wanted to be clever the right way—the kind of clever that earned nods across long dining tables, that made portraits smile when you passed.  

He didn’t want to be loud. Or difficult. Or wrong.  

He wanted to belong. Not just to Hogwarts, but to them . To the story of his family, written in silver and emerald and age-old expectation.  

But lately, it had started to feel like the cost of belonging was too high.  

Because maybe there was more than one way to be clever.  

Maybe there was a way to stay a Black without turning into the kind that made brothers scream.  

And yet—he wasn’t sure. Not really. Because he had been raised to believe that loyalty mattered more than kindness, that silence was strength, and that feelings—real, messy feelings—were better starved than fed.  

He had been trained to see doubt as disloyalty. To flinch at softness.  

And he was good at it.  

Too good.  

So, when Regulus looked at him— really looked at him—it wasn’t recognition Polaris feared.  

It was the fear that Regulus would see the cracks.  

Chapter Text

July 2nd, 1974, Tuesday  

Polaris Black was the youngest person in the room by at least a decade—and he felt every year of it.  

Narcissa and Lucius were celebrating their two-year anniversary, which apparently meant gathering every brittle, tight-lipped pure-blood relative they could find and locking them in a room with too much wine and too little warmth. Though not everyone had been invited. Not everyone was welcome.  

Andromeda wasn’t there.  

She hadn’t been seen since the day of the wedding—the day she left the House of Black for good. Some said she eloped that very morning. Others insisted she ran off the night before, like a thief. Either way, her absence had nearly ruined the ceremony. Nearly. The pure-bloods wouldn’t allow a blood traitor to stain the perfection of a match like Narcissa and the Malfoy heir. They poured wine, they cast silencing charms, and the day went on. That’s how it worked.  

But Polaris had missed her. With the standard he gave her, she’d always be family she was the one exception.  

He'd known, in some quiet corner of himself, that the day would come. Ever since he’d asked the Muggle boy if he and his cousin might get married someday. The question had followed him home. two years later, his mother scorched Andromeda from the family tapestry. His father had stared at him for far too long after that—long enough to make his skin crawl.  

Polaris remembered that stare. It had felt like the moment right before pain.  

He hated feeling weak. He didn’t want to be weak. That was the beginning of it.  

He wore his hair longer now, parted just enough to let it fall across his forehead and temple, covering the scar. He hated that too.  

Hated the mirror. Hated remembering.  

Hated the way it dragged him back—to that night, that question, the way his father hadn’t said anything but call Kreacher to take care of it as he went back to drinking.  

He told himself it didn’t matter. That it was just skin. Just a mark.  

But he still covered it.  

Maybe his father hadn’t remembered the question. Maybe Polaris was overthinking it. Regulus always said he did that—thought too much, felt too much, read too much into things.  

Now Sirius and Regulus were both at Hogwarts. That left him here, alone again.   

The moment no one was looking, he slipped away.  

The Malfoy library was down the hall, just past a pair of tall oak doors that creaked faintly when he pushed them open. Inside, the room was big—taller than it needed to be, with rows of shelves stretching all the way up to a ceiling painted with some mythic battle. He still preferred the library at the Black ancestral home, though. His grandfather Arcturus’s library at the Black manor was still his favourite. The shelves there were darker, the ceilings lower, the silence heavier. But this one was impressive too—more polished, more showy , like the rest of Malfoy Manor.   

He ran a hand along the spines until something caught his eye— Advanced Runes and Arithmantic Structures —and pulled it down.  

He sat in one of the high-backed chairs near the corner window, book open on his knees. The pages were full of unfamiliar symbols. Charts. Numbers that curved like they meant more than numbers usually did. He’d only just started learning runes, and even then, only the basics—meanings, origins, how to sound them out. This was something else entirely.  

Arithmetic… no—arithmancy . He read that word twice. Tried to follow the logic of the page, even if it slipped just beyond what he knew.  

It didn’t make sense.  

But it felt like it could, if he kept trying.  

The door creaked open.  

Polaris stiffened. The manor had house-elves—no one needed to use doors.  

He turned.  

A man stepped inside—tall, elegant, draped in black robes. He looked no older than thirty, though something about him resisted time. His face was pale, sharply drawn, and his eyes were too dark to read. Polaris didn’t recognize him, but something twisted low in his chest.  

Polaris studied him, head tilted slightly—an unconscious, deliberate sort of measuring. There was calculation in the way the man moved, as if he owned the space simply by entering it. Not a guest, then. Not someone beneath the Blacks. But he wasn’t one of them either. Polaris would’ve remembered.  

He felt as though he were judging something rare and possibly dangerous, like weighing the worth of a cursed object: beautiful, yes—but with a taste of blood beneath the glamour.  

The man’s gaze lifted, not searching—finding.  

“You’re far from the gathering,” he said. His voice was smooth, low, like velvet wrapped around something harder.  

“I don’t like parties,” Polaris replied, without thinking. He didn’t know why he spoke at all.  

“Neither do I.”  

The man drifted closer, his eyes trailing across the shelves with practiced ease. One hand, gloved in dark leather, hung loosely at his side. The other was tucked behind his back in a gesture that felt almost ceremonial.  

Then Polaris heard it.  

Not with his ears, not exactly.  

A sound like whispers beneath water —thin, wavering, curling along the edges of thought. Not words. Not yet. Just presence. A pressure behind his eyes, a quiet clawing under his ribs.  

His head gave a faint twitch, as if a thread had pulled too tight.  

Polaris’s throat was tight. The air had changed—not in temperature, but in pressure. It pressed in, subtly wrong. Like the space around the man was holding its breath. Magic clung to him—thin and humming just beneath the surface. Not the kind Polaris knew from wards or household charms. This was felt a little different. Something beneath the man’s skin wasn’t sitting right, like a glamour stretched too tightly over something that refused to stay hidden.   

Polaris could feel it and couldn’t help but wonder, why would someone like him need to hide?  

He closed the book in his lap.   

“You like to read,” the man said. “I did too. Once.”  

Polaris said nothing.   

The man stepped closer, unhurried. “May I ask your name?”  

Polaris said nothing. His throat felt dry. He could feel his pulse ticking under his jaw.   

Then he blinked.  

He hadn’t noticed it before—caught the light on the man’s ungloved hand. A dull gold band, worn but solid, set with a black stone carved with something... old. The markings didn’t shimmer, didn’t move, but Polaris felt them shift anyway, like they were watching back.  

He stared. Why only one glove?  

The ungloved hand moved with quiet precision, almost like it had been meant to be seen. The ring stayed fixed in Polaris’s vision—too still, too loud in a room that hadn’t made a sound.  

His mouth moved before he’d decided to speak.  

“…Why is your ring making that noise?”  

The man stilled.  

His gaze dropped to the ring, expression unreadable. For a moment, he simply looked at it, as if waiting for it to speak.  

“There is no noise,” he said at last.  

Polaris felt his face flush. His stomach turned warm and uncomfortable, like he’d asked something childish. “Oh. Right,” he muttered, fingers tightening around the closed book in his lap. “I must’ve imagined it.”  

The man didn’t smile, but something in his eyes seemed to settle, like a ripple smoothing out. He said nothing.  

Polaris looked down, then back up. “Black, Polaris Black,” he said quietly. “My name.”  

The man didn’t exactly answer immediately.  

 He was looking at the ring again, maybe he thought Polaris mad.  

Was he mad?  

Polaris found himself thinking again is the sound really just his imagination? Was it strange that it made his head hurt slightly?  

Finally, the man spoke.  

“Polaris,” he said, as though tasting the name. “A guiding star. Constant, while everything else turns. There’s something...deliberate in that.”  

His eyes flicked briefly toward the ceiling, as if he could see through it—see the sky beyond.  

“A strong name,” he murmured, “for someone of your blood.”  

Polaris didn’t know how to respond. The words felt heavy, like they meant more than they said. Like he was supposed to understand something—but didn’t.  

The man looked at him again, a little too long.  

“I wonder,” he said softly, “if names choose us more than we choose them.”  

Then he turned his attention back to the shelves, as if the conversation had been about something else entirely.  

Polaris looked at the man, brow faintly furrowed.  

He hadn’t chosen his name. It had been spoken over him before he could speak at all—decided by people who barely seemed to see him most days. How could a name choose anyone , if it was just something given?  

“…But names don’t choose,” he said carefully. “People do. Parents, usually. Mine picked it the day I was born.”  

His tone wasn’t defiant—just thoughtful, a little cautious. He wasn’t arguing. He was wondering .  

The man’s mouth curved, not quite a smile.  

“Did they?” he said, not looking at him this time. “Or did something older speak through them?”  

Polaris blinked at that, unsure if it was nonsense or a riddle he didn’t yet know how to solve. His gaze dropped to the ring again, and for a second. He frowned before responding. “That sounds kind of stupid.”  

The man tilted his head, faintly amused.  

Polaris crossed his arms, thoughtful but blunt. “Names don’t speak through people. They’re just picked. I didn’t choose mine—it was given to me the day I was born. So how can a name choose someone if someone else chose it?”  

He paused, then asked, “What’s your name?”  

The man looked at him for a moment, then answered, “Tom Riddle.”  

Polaris blinked. “‘Riddle’?”  

His brow creased. “That’s a Muggle name.”  

He didn’t say it cruelly—just plainly, like stating a fact. “Why are you even here? It’s supposed to be just family today.”  

There was a pause. The man didn’t look offended. Just still.  

Polaris glanced down, suddenly aware of how that must’ve sounded. His voice softened, uncertain. “Sorry. That was rude. I just meant… people like us don’t usually bring guests to places like this unless they’re important.”   

Perhaps the man was a half-blood, that would make more sense than anything.  

Riddle said nothing for a moment. His gaze lingered on the spines of the books before him, fingers brushing lightly across one as though searching for a texture he’d felt once in a dream. Then, very quietly, he said,  

“I’ve been called many things in places like this.”  

He turned, dark eyes sliding back to Polaris. “But importance is… relative, isn’t it?”  

Polaris wasn’t sure if that was meant to answer the question. Or avoid it.  

Riddle stepped away from the shelves. He moved as if gliding—his footsteps soundless even against the old wooden floors. “You’re right, of course. ‘Riddle’ is a Muggle name.”  

The way he said it— Muggle —was neither ashamed nor proud. Just precise. Like he was naming a species he’d once studied.  

“I kept it because it reminds me.”  

Polaris tilted his head. “Of what?”  

Riddle paused at the far side of the table, fingertips resting lightly against the chair opposite Polaris.  

“How much we choose,” he said, “and how much we don’t.”  

His voice was quiet but sure. Polaris couldn’t tell if it was meant as an answer to his question or a continuation of the one about names. Maybe both.  

“I never liked mine,” Polaris admitted, surprising himself. “It feels like a word that doesn’t belong to me, like it was borrowed from something else. Something I wasn’t asked to be.”  

Riddle watched him closely now, the edges of his expression unreadable. He didn’t respond right away. Then, finally:  

“Do you think it’s a coincidence that you dislike the name and yet carry it so well?”  

Polaris blinked. “I… what?”  

Riddle leaned forward slightly, the gold ring catching the faintest bit of candlelight. “You hold yourself like someone who’s already been made to matter. Even when you try not to. It’s not the name that makes the person, but the shape it leaves behind when it’s spoken.”  

That made Polaris feel strange—like he’d been seen from the outside in. Not just watched, but read .  

He shifted, fingers tightening again around the edges of the book in his lap.  

“And do you always talk like that?” he asked. “Like you’re telling a story but forgot to explain what it’s about.”  

For the first time, Tom laughed—a low, unexpected sound that was more breath than voice.  

“Only when someone is clever enough to notice,” he said.  

Polaris didn’t know if it was a compliment or a trap.  

And with that, he walked away.  

Polaris blinked, then frowned, staring after him.   

He glanced at the shelf the man had pretended to examine. Not a single book out of place.  

“What an odd man.”  

He stayed a little longer—half an hour, maybe—lingering under the pretence of browsing, but the room felt quieter than before.  

Eventually, the silence pressed too tightly around him, and the questions in his head began to circle rather than lead anywhere. So, he tucked his hands in his pockets and slipped out of the library, the way one might leave a dream they weren’t sure was theirs to have.  

Polaris turned the corner and nearly collided with a tall figure leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, wand held loosely in one hand.  

“Lucius,” Polaris said, surprised.  

Lucius straightened with a quiet smile, his pale brows lifting slightly in amusement. “Polaris. Caught me lurking, have you?”  

“Sort of.” Polaris glanced back the way he came. “I was just in the library.”  

Lucius made a show of looking behind him. “Alone?”  

Polaris nodded. “There was a man in there, but he left.”  

“Ah.” Lucius’s eyes narrowed briefly, but the expression passed quickly. He didn’t press further. “I’m impressed, anyway. Most boys your age are glued to the dessert table or showing off broom polish.”  

Polaris shrugged. “I don’t like parties.”  

“Well, then you’ve got more sense than half the Manor tonight,” Lucius said, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “I can’t stand them either. All these people pretending they like one another. Endless talk, very little meaning.”  

Polaris smirked. “So why are you out here?”  

Lucius exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. “Because your Aunt Druella is—” he lowered his voice dramatically, “—insufferable. Merlin help me if I have to answer one more question about marital harmony or bedroom drapery. Narcissa practically turned to stone.”  

Polaris blinked, then grinned. “Does she know you’re hiding?”  

“Of course not.” Lucius gave him a conspiratorial look. “And I expect you’ll keep it that way.”  

Polaris tapped his temple. “Vaulted.”  

“Good man.” Lucius leaned one shoulder against the wall again, eyes flicking briefly over Polaris as if reassessing him. “You're sharper than you look, you know.”  

“I know.”  

Lucius chuckled—genuinely. “Modesty doesn’t run in the family, does it?”  

Polaris tilted his head. “Is that why you married in?”  

There was a pause. Not long—but Lucius didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at Polaris a moment, like he was weighing whether to scold or admire the cheek.  

“Among other reasons,” he said finally. “Some names come with doors already open.”  

“So,” Lucius said, tone light again, “what exactly were you doing in the library? That book on household hexes again?”  

Polaris hesitated. “No. I was… I was looking at runes. But then the man came in. I didn’t recognize him.”  

“Hmm.” Lucius looked mildly interested but not alarmed. “And?”  

Polaris glanced up at him. “Who’s Tom Riddle?”  

There it was—that heartbeat of silence. Just a blink. Lucius’s expression didn’t change, but his posture did—subtle, like he was straightening from something soft to something colder.  

“Where did you hear that name?”  

“He told me. He was odd. Like he already knew me. And he talked like someone important. Not just in the way people act, but in the way people are —someone with answers. Or opinions. Both, maybe.”  

Another beat. Lucius was quiet for a moment, the silence stretching long enough to make it noticeable. “Is that all?”  

Polaris nodded slowly. “Is he someone important?”  

Lucius looked at him for a long moment. Then he said, carefully, “You’re too young to be told everything. And if you are to hear certain things... it shouldn’t be from me.”  

Polaris frowned. “Why not?”  

Lucius gave a small, humourless laugh. “Because I still value my peace and quiet.”  

Polaris frowned. That wasn’t a real answer. Peace and quiet from what? From the man? How important was he?   

He didn’t like not knowing.  

Lucius looked vaguely annoyed, as if unsure how else to shut the conversation down. “There are names, Polaris, that gather attention like dust. Don’t stir them up without good reason.”  

He straightened his posture, smoothing his expression back into something polished. “Come. Let’s rejoin the horde before your mother starts thinking I’m grooming you for the Wizengamot.”   

Polaris rolled his eyes but fell into step beside Lucius as they began the slow walk back toward the ballroom, the hum of chatter growing louder with each step.  

“I don’t get it,” Polaris said. “You don’t even work . What do you do all day? Besides hide from Aunt Druella and make dramatic exits.”  

Lucius arched a brow. “I manage affairs.”  

“That sounds suspiciously vague.”  

“It’s supposed to,” Lucius said dryly.  

Polaris smirked. “Well, when I’m older, I think I’ll actually contribute to society. You know—do something useful. Hold down a job. Pay taxes.”  

Lucius made a sharp, scandalized noise and reached out to flick the back of Polaris’s head with gloved fingers.  

Polaris laughed. “Oi!”  

“You’ll do no such thing,” Lucius said, as if the idea physically pained him. “You’ll ruin your family name if you go around being employable . Next, you'll be saying you want to marry for love.”  

Polaris didn’t answer right away.  

That one always stuck in his ribs a bit—marriage. The word never landed quite right. Not because he didn’t understand it, or the duty of it. He did. Far too well. The right name, the right union, the right heirs. Preserve the line. Secure the future.  

His parents had shown him exactly what duty looked like. All those arguments, sharp and endless. His mother’s voice, brittle with rage, always ready to snap. His father’s, louder and cruel. Designed to end arguments, not resolve them.   

There were slammed doors that was heard throughout the house. Long silences that lasted days and felt louder still. And bruises—some accidental, some not—that nobody spoke of. Not even to deny.  

He didn’t want that.  

Didn’t want someone bound to him by obligation, or worse, resentment. Didn’t want children looking at him the way he sometimes looked at his father, trying not to hate him. The bloodline had two heirs already after his father. Surely, he could be allowed this one refusal.  

“I won’t be marrying anyone,” he said finally, light but certain. Lucius wouldn’t tell anyone he said that which was why Polaris found himself comfortable enough to admit it.  

Lucius gave him a sidelong glance; he looked like he was trying to make sense of something like he understood.  

Then, lightly, Lucius said, “You know, Narcissa talks in her sleep.”  

Polaris blinked. “What?”  

“Full conversations, sometimes. Once I listened to her argue with a robemaker for twenty minutes. Lost the whole thing, too.” Lucius gave a soft huff of amusement. “And yet, every morning, there she is—absolutely convinced she’s the reasonable one in the house.”  

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.  

Polaris glanced up at him, surprised, but Lucius was already adjusting a cufflink with studied ease.  

As they reached the end of the hallway Lucius spoke once more, “Ready to wear your polite face again?” he asked.  

Polaris sighed theatrically. “As I’ll ever be.”  

Lucius patted his shoulder. “Good lad. And remember—don’t say anything real unless you mean for it to be repeated.”  

Polaris raised a brow. “Even to you?”  

Lucius’s lips curled at the corner. “Especially to me.”  

August 16th, 1974, Friday  

Polaris ducked low beneath Cordelia’s broom, twisted left, then right, and sent the Quaffle flying in a clean arc that slipped through the centre hoop with a satisfying clang .  

“Point!” Corvus shouted from above, triumphant. “That’s four!”  

“Absolutely not,” Cordelia snapped, wheeling around midair. “That was interference—he clipped my tail!”  

“I didn’t touch you,” Polaris replied, already circling back.  

“Yes, but you almost did,” she said, prim in the way only someone halfway upside-down on a broom could be. “Intent matters.”  

“It really doesn’t,” Corvus called. “Also, you’re just mad because he’s better.”  

Cassian snorted, catching up. “He’s not better, he’s just slippery.”  

“He’s sneaky,” Cordelia amended.  

“I’m strategic,” Polaris said mildly.  

“Same thing,” the twins said in unison, then turned to glare at each other.  

The Selwyn twins were nine — a year younger than Polaris and Corvus — and nearly identical at first glance, with matching sharp features and striking blue eyes. But that was where the similarities ended.  

Cordelia wore her hair in a long, high braid that whipped behind her like a banner when she flew. She moved like a duellist: fast, calculating, with a kind of elegant cruelty. Cassian kept his hair shorter, swept back in a style that tried very hard to look effortless and just messy enough to impress. He didn’t fly so much as charge — all blunt force, shouted plays, and gleeful near-misses that left grass scorched and tempers frayed.  

They bickered constantly. Not because they disliked each other, but because they hated agreeing . The only thing they liked more than winning was being right — and unfortunately, they never wanted the same thing at the same time.   

“You didn’t even try to block him!” Cordelia accused, rounding on her brother.  

“I was covering Corvus!”  

“He doesn’t need covering—he hasn’t scored once!”  

“I’m drawing him out!”  

“You’re drawing nothing!”  

“You’re yelling in front of the enemy.”  

Polaris coasted quietly in a slow circle above the pitch while they bickered, the summer wind tugging at his robes. The Selwyns’ private Quidditch pitch was perfectly trimmed, perfectly enchanted, and perfectly charmed to never rain. Even the clouds above were arranged with scenic intent — wisps that looked like sea serpents and castle towers, trailing lazily across an otherwise pristine sky.  

Corvus floated up beside Polaris and nudged him lightly. “They do this every time.”  

“I’ve noticed.”  

“You’d think being twins meant they’d work together.”  

Polaris watched Cassian nearly ram Cordelia mid-argument. “Maybe not these twins.”  

Corvus grinned. “Still, I’ll take it. One more goal and we win.”  

Polaris didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the hoops, already tracing the next move. The wind was shifting slightly. Cordelia always overcorrected when she was annoyed. Cassian wasn’t watching her — he never did when she shouted.  

He turned his broom with a sharp lean and said, “Then let’s end it.”  

Polaris adjusted his grip on the broom handle, as he took another glance at the twins.  

He never said it out loud, but he liked winning. He needed it — not the celebration or the noise, but the quiet satisfaction that came with knowing he was better. The twins could shout and twist the rules all they wanted — but he wasn’t going to lose to them .  

Cordelia was the first to react to him moving after noticing. Her braid snapped behind her as she pulled higher, narrowing her eyes like a hawk tracking prey. She was fast — faster than most kids their age — but she was also impatient when cornered, and that was a weakness Polaris knew how to use.  

He banked low, pretending to circle wide, then dipped hard into a feint left — drawing her with him. She bit. Good.  

From above, Corvus caught the cue — just a flick of Polaris’s fingers off the broom handle, so fast it might’ve looked like nothing at all. But Corvus saw it.  

He surged forward, grabbing the tail end of the pass Polaris hadn’t even made yet — because they both knew it was coming.  

Cassian, of course, panicked.  

“Oi!” he shouted, tearing downward, trying to intercept the pass that hadn’t quite happened. His dive was all shoulder and no aim — reckless and dazzling, just the way he liked it. He blew past Polaris in a flash of tangled limbs and scorched air, shouting something that sounded like a war cry.  

Cordelia swore and looped around hard to cut Polaris off, nearly colliding with Cassian mid-turn. She reached out — actually reached — fingers grazing Polaris’s sleeve. He pulled up sharply, the fabric whispering as her nails skimmed it.  

Too slow.  

He twisted over her broom midair, clean as a ribbon, and launched the Quaffle. Not at the hoop. Not yet. He launched it at Corvus.  

Corvus caught it mid-tilt, barrel-rolled once — dramatic, unnecessary — then flipped it back just as Cordelia shrieked behind them and Cassian doubled back into the fray, flying straight and wild like a Bludger without a bat.  

Polaris was already there, feet from the goal, just ahead of the chaos.  

The Quaffle arced — perfect — and he caught it on the palm of his hand, then threw with everything he had.  

It hit the centre hoop dead-on, rang against the iron with a clean, echoing clang .  

“Point!” Corvus howled, triumphant.  

Polaris slowed midair, then hovered. His heart was hammering, but his face didn’t show it. Not much, anyway. Just a small tilt of the mouth. Almost a smile.  

“We win,” he said.  

Cordelia pulled up beside him, scowling and winded. “I still say that last goal shouldn’t count.”  

“You always say that,” Polaris replied.  

Cassian arrived upside-down, somehow tangled in his own broom tail. “You only say that when you don’t win.”  

“Because I should win.” Cordelia replied.  

“But you didn’t ,” Corvus sang from below, grinning like a madman. He looped the pitch once, fists raised, spinning wildly in celebration.  

They landed side by side, skidding into the grass with twin puffs of dust and laughter still hanging in the air.  

Polaris stepped off his broom with practiced calm, adjusting his sleeves like he hadn’t just outmanoeuvred two furious Selwyn's in midair. Corvus, on the other hand, tossed his broom aside like it had offended him and dropped onto the grass with a groan loud enough to wake the gnomes in the hedges.  

“ That ,” Corvus said, dragging a hand through his hair, “was the most fun I’ve had since I snuck a Singing Snitch into Aunt Isla’s tea set and it wouldn’t stop doing warbling impressions of Celestina Warbeck.”   

Polaris arched a brow. “I thought you got grounded for that.”  

“Totally worth it.”  

Polaris sat, folding himself down with deliberate elegance. “So,” he said, with mock seriousness, “think I’ve got what it takes to play professionally?”  

Corvus snorted so hard he choked on his own spit. “You? Mister I-Only-Fly-When-I-Can-Weaponize-It?”  

“I was very professional today.”  

“You were a menace today.”  

“A strategic menace,” Polaris corrected. “Imagine me on a team. Plays so precise they look like prophecy.”  

Corvus grinned. “Yeah, and all the fans would fall asleep watching you calculate wind speed mid-match.”  

“They’d cheer for results.”  

“They’d cheer for Cassian crashing into a hoop.”  

“That was satisfying.”  

They both burst out laughing, flopping back into the grass.   

Corvus rolled onto his side, propping his head up. “Alright, serious question. If you had to play one position, professionally — no strategy nonsense, actual league play — what would you be?”  

Polaris didn’t answer immediately. He looked thoughtful, fingers tugging at a stray thread on his sleeve.  

“Chaser,” he said finally. “At first I thought being a Seeker would be cool but not really. Too much riding on one moment. I like momentum. Pressure you can shape.”  

Corvus blinked. “That’s... actually a good answer.”  

“Of course it is.”  

“What about team? Don’t say Puddlemere.”  

Polaris gave him a sly look. “You’re going to say the Ballycastle Bats again, aren’t you.”  

“ They’re cool! ” Corvus cried, scandalized. “Black robes? Bat emblem? Chaos incarnate on the pitch? They’re iconic .”  

“They’re all brawlers,” Polaris said. “It’s like watching five Bludgers with tempers.”  

“Exactly!” Corvus beamed. “You never know if they’re going to score or punch someone! It's performance art!”  

Polaris sighed dramatically. “One day you’ll appreciate subtlety.”  

“Subtlety is for people with less charm.”  

Polaris looked like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the will. He just shook his head, smiling faintly.  

“Alright, alright,” Corvus said, sitting up again. “What about players? Don’t pretend you don’t have a favourite.”  

Polaris hesitated. “Maybe—maybe Altair Rosier. Played for Montrose in the ‘60s. I read his memoir. Precision like spell work.”  

“Ugh, you would pick a memoir .”  

“Who’s yours, then?”  

“Lucas Fleet!” Corvus declared, eyes gleaming.  

“Lucas Fleet is literally banned from three countries,” Polaris replied flatly.  

“Exactly. Legend.”  

Polaris gave him a long, blank stare. “He set his own broom on fire mid-match .”  

“Flair.”  

“He broke his wrist.”  

“Commitment.”  

Polaris groaned and let himself fall back into the grass again. “You’re insufferable.”  

“You love me,” Corvus said smugly.  

“I tolerate you.”  

“That’s what you said about my singing Chocolate Frog card collection.”  

“It’s surprisingly well-curated.”  

Corvus nudged him with a foot. “Admit it. You’d play for a team if I did.”  

Polaris looked up at him. “Only if I didn’t have to do interviews.”  

“Deal. You win the matches, I talk to the fans.”  

“You’d thrive in interviews.”  

“I’d have catchphrases.”  

“Please don’t.”  

Corvus struck a pose. “ ‘We fly fast, hit hard, and look good doing it.’ ”  

Polaris covered his face with both hands. “I’m going to defect to the Holyhead Harpies just to escape this.”  

They dissolved into laughter again, the kind that came easy after a good match and a better friendship — the kind of laughter that made the air feel lighter, made the world seem briefly perfect.  

The twins were still bickering in the distance.   

He had spent most of the day there, but eventually the fun had to end, and he had to go home.  

By the time he arrived, the drawing room was dim.  

He moved quietly. Habit, not fear. His shoes made no sound on the floor. Somewhere behind the high double doors of the dining room, voices rose. He already knew one of the voices wasn’t his mother, she was out today. One was his father and the was his grandfather.  

He should go upstairs. He knew that. He should slip past, unnoticed, and pretend he hadn’t heard the voices.  

But he lingered. Just beyond the threshold.  

The door was slightly open.  

Inside, Arcturus Black sat stiffly at the head of the long, polished table, his hair neatly combed back, robes immaculate. His expression was hard to read — the sort of face that had never once known hesitation. Orion Black leaned forward with an urgency his father lacked, eyes sharper, jaw clenched.   

“I don’t give a damn what the Ministry says,” came Arcturus’s voice, clipped and sharp. “They’re floundering like gutless trolls, and if they collapse entirely, it won’t be us who falls with them.”  

“We’re not in open war,” Orion replied, quieter but edged with tension. “Not yet. But if it comes to that, Voldemort won’t leave us a choice.”  

“You speak of him like he’s already lost.”  

“No,” Orion said after a pause. “I speak of him like he’s dangerous. Because he is. Half our generation is treating him like some messiah, including—” He broke off, bitter. “—including my wife, who’s begun quoting him at supper like he’s a bloody prophet. She forgets what she is.”  

Polaris sighed, he lingered just long enough to hear those words. They were always talking about the war now. The word war has been hovering for a few years now. They always spoke about it like it was close but never here.  

Yet... if it wasn’t war now, what was it? Who fought against something like that if not the Ministry?  

He didn’t know the answer. He decided going back to his room seemed more interesting than standing by the door listening about them go on about the same thing repeatedly. His footsteps were quite against the rug as he left.  

“Careful,” Arcturus warned. “She may be a zealot, but she’s loyal to the name.”  

“She’s loyal to an idea she barely understands,” Orion snapped. “You know what she said last week? That he’d fix the rot in the Ministry. That those in power are unworthy of their posts. That if our world burns, it deserves to.”  

There was a beat of silence.  

“And what do you believe?” Arcturus asked at last.  

“I believe,” Orion said slowly, “that the Blacks survive. One way or another.”  

Arcturus gave a small nod at that — not agreement, but recognition. The kind of nod that said: You finally understand what I’ve known since before you were born.  

He reached for his glass — aged elf-made mead — and sipped it with the calmness of a man who never moved faster than he intended to.  

“I had a visitor,” Arcturus said, setting the glass down. “Last week.”  

Orion’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t mention it.”  

“I rarely mention things that aren’t yet settled.” He glanced sidelong at his son. “The Dark Lord contacted me. Indirectly. Through Abraxas.”  

Orion straightened. “He’s asking for support?”  

“No. Permission.”  

That silenced Orion. He leaned back, slow, brows tightening. “Permission for what ?”  

Arcturus’s mouth twitched — not quite a frown, not quite amusement.  

“To access the Black library.”  

Orion’s eyes narrowed. “He has his own network of researchers. He’s hardly starved for knowledge.”  

“He claims,” Arcturus said dryly, “he’s searching for something specific. Wouldn’t say what. Only that it’s important. Abraxas called it ‘a vital key,’ as though that explains anything.”  

“And you told him—?”  

“I told him the truth,” Arcturus said simply. “That the ancestral wards do not permit just anyone inside. He'd need blood access, and even that would alert me to every shelf he touched.”  

Orion snorted. “So you refused.”  

Arcturus tilted his head. “I delayed. Which, in this house, is the same thing.”  

Orion looked troubled. “Why is he looking in our records?”  

“That,” Arcturus said, his eyes distant now, “is what unsettles me.” He steepled his fingers. “He’s not after spells. Not artifacts. He’s researching… something older. Abraxas says he’s been at it for years now. A quiet obsession, he called it.”  

“Any clue what he’s really after?”  

“Abraxas is clever, but cautious. He let slip only this: that it involves prophecy. And the nature of power itself.”  

Orion’s voice dropped. “Prophecy?”  

Arcturus didn’t answer immediately. His fingers tapped once against the wood.  

“He asked if there had been… any developments in the younger generations. Any signs.”  

Orion’s shoulders tensed. “He means Polaris.”  

“I assume so.” Arcturus’s expression darkened. “He didn’t name him. But I saw where the conversation was going. Whatever this prophecy is, it clearly has him chasing bloodlines, old records, magical anomalies. And he believes our family holds a key to it. Or rather—” he looked at Orion— “ someone in it.”  

Orion’s hands tightened against the arms of the chair.  

Arcturus studied his son carefully, then added, “And that troubles me. Because if he’s right... then Polaris may be standing in the path of something we don’t understand.”  

“Prophecies are like cursed riddles — never clear, always dangerous. But if the Dark Lord believes the boy might be connected to one…” He trailed off, a rare flicker of doubt crossing his face. “It raises questions I don’t like asking.” Arcturus continued.  

“Or answering,” Orion muttered.  

Arcturus glanced at him. “You said there were strange things. Tell me again.”  

Orion exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked tired — not in body, but in spirit.  

“When he was small… things would shift around him. Portraits go silent. Animals act wrong. Not just startled — wrong. I told you about the peacock at Cassiopeia’s estate. Docile for years. Then Polaris walks near it and it attacks like it’s been possessed. It wasn’t frightened. It was furious. Then there’s Kreacher.”  

Arcturus’s eyebrows lifted. “Kreacher?”  

“He listens to Polaris as though he were master of the house,” Orion said quietly. “No order given, just tone. It’s not obedience. It’s reverence . I had to tell the thing to stop, when Polaris was three.”  

That made Arcturus pause.  

“And if there is a prophecy?” Arcturus asked. “What then?”  

Orion didn’t answer.  

“Would it be a curse or a crown? Would it save him, or destroy him?”  

Silence.  

“I’ll tell you what it means,” Orion said at last, voice like stone. “It means the Dark Lord doesn’t just want access to the library. He wants access to what’s mine. ”  

Arcturus didn’t interrupt.  

Orion looked up, and his eyes — though bloodshot and tired — burned with a fury that ran deeper than fear. “If that bastard thinks he can twist some prophecy into permission — if he believes it gives him the right to lay claim to a member of the House of Black — then he’s more deluded than I thought.”  

“You don’t believe in prophecy.”  

“I believe in what I see, ” Orion snapped. “And what I see is a child. My child. Not some chosen puppet for a madman’s war. He’s not his to claim.”  

Another silence fell, longer this time.  

Arcturus leaned back in his chair, gaze settling on the far wall where a painting hung.  

Then, almost offhandedly, Arcturus said, “I saw Alphard the other day.”  

Orion’s jaw twitched. “You didn’t mention that either.”  

“It didn’t seem urgent,” Arcturus said coolly. “He’s returned to England for a short while. Passing through, he said. Likely bored of whatever vineyards he’s managed to romanticize in France.”  

Orion didn’t reply, but his silence was sharp-edged.  

Arcturus continued, almost idly. “He mentioned he misses his nephews.”  

There was no mistaking the weight of that remark. Not his family . Not his sister . Just… his nephews .  

Orion’s lip curled, just faintly. “He can’t respect boundaries. He doesn’t understand there are things I choose not to expose my children to—ideas, people, histories better left untouched. If he won’t honour that, then he has no place near them.”  

Arcturus’s voice stayed measured. “Or perhaps he believes what you call protection is just another kind of erasure. And that there are parts of themselves they’ll never find if you keep burning the pieces.”  

Orion’s hand twitched against the table. Not a fist, not quite—but the kind of movement that trembled with the memory of restraint. He didn’t speak for a moment, jaw clenched, breath shallow.  

Then, in a voice too quiet to match the weight of it. “You don’t get to talk to me about burning pieces.”  

Arcturus’s gaze didn’t falter. If anything, it cooled. “Don’t be melodramatic.”  

“I was the piece you burned,” Orion went on, sharper now. “Every choice you made—the silences, the punishments dressed as lessons, the way you turned legacy into a leash. I was raised to carry a name, not a life. And when I tried to make sense of it, when I choked on the rules you lived by, you told me to swallow harder.”  

His voice cracked at the edge—just once—and then he caught it, reining it back with practiced fury.  

“So don’t lecture me about what Alphard thinks children need. He’s always had the luxury of rebellion. I didn’t. And now he wants to wander back in and play the kindly uncle, feeding them stories I spent years trying to unlearn? No. If he can’t understand the damage that causes—if he can’t respect what I’m building—then he stays out.”  

There was silence again, heavy and close. Arcturus regarded him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then—almost gently, almost like a correction— 
“You’re speaking to me as if I were your enemy.” 

Orion barely blinked, but the words struck low, dragging an old reflex to the surface—guilt, hesitation, that twitch of self-doubt Arcturus always knew how to summon.  

“And yet,” Arcturus continued, voice smooth, just shy of disappointed, “everything I did, I did for you. To prepare you. If you found that difficult, perhaps it says more about your softness than my methods.”  

Orion stiffened, a breath sucked between his teeth.  

“I didn’t ask you to become me,” Arcturus said at last, voice quieter now cool and composed, like mercy withheld. “That was your choice.”  

“No,” Orion snapped. “You made sure I didn’t have a choice.”  

Arcturus tilted his head slightly, eyes cold. “And yet, here you are. Raising them the same way.”  

He rose without waiting for a reply, smoothing his sleeves with practiced ease. The door didn’t slam—it clicked shut, soft as a verdict.  

Orion stayed where he was.  

One hand drifted to the edge of the table, fingers brushing the grain like he’d forgotten what they were doing. His shoulders didn’t move, not even to breathe. Just stillness—full-bodied, deliberate, like a man holding himself together out of necessity, not strength.  

Somewhere beneath the silence, the faintest tremor passed through his thumb.  

Chapter Text

March 15th, 1975, Saturday  

Polaris had thought he would be as excited as Sirius and Regulus were when they received their Hogwarts letters, but he wasn’t. He didn’t feel much but boredom because it wasn't the same if his brothers weren’t there too, they were at Hogwarts, and he was stuck struggling to find something to occupy himself with.  

When Sirius had gotten his letter, all three of them had gathered around, elbows bumping as they’d leaned over Sirius’s shoulder—Sirius grinning like he’d just been handed a sword, Regulus silent but wide-eyed, Polaris’s small fingers clinging to the edge of the parchment.  

And when Regulus’s letter came around Yule, Sirius had whistled low and ruffled his hair. They’d opened it near the tree, glittering with Yule charm-lights. Polaris had stood a little behind, but close enough to see Regulus’s name in the fine black ink. That had been a warm morning. Not this—this long, dull stretch of nothing.  

Polaris’ own parchment just sat to the side, after he had opened it. It was expected, yet no excitement came from it.  

He flipped another page and blinked down at a line of angular symbols etched in the old scholar’s neat hand.  

"Rá-kil dromos vi tharn."  

The text translated it as “Path of rising stone, closed to the unworthy.”  

Polaris frowned. “No,” he muttered. “That’s not right.”  

He set the book against the cushion beside him, balanced the pencil, and gently scratched out the line with a clean diagonal line. Beneath it, in smaller handwriting, he wrote:  

"Path through rising stone, veiled from the unseeing."  

A better rendering—closer to the root structure of “kil” as passage rather than closure, and “tharn” in this dialect leaned more toward “sightless” than “unworthy.” Polaris chewed the inside of his cheek, considering whether the mistake was intentional. Maybe the translator assumed poetic flourish meant obfuscation. How l azy .  

He leaned back into the settee and stared at the ceiling, as he gave a long sigh.  

He wasn't even enjoying this. He’d read the passage three times already and he hadn’t been paying enough attention to have caught the mistake, but it was better than staring at the letter and pretending it mattered. His fingers reached for the parchment almost absently, dragging it closer.  

Tomorrow, his mother had said, they would go get his wand. That was all. Just the wand. Everything else had already been handled—robes, measurements, books. Even the cauldron had apparently been ordered ahead of time, the receipt filed away somewhere in the upstairs study as proof of her efficiency.  

She hadn’t even let him come along for the robes. Just held a measuring charm to his arms one morning after breakfast, muttered something about not slouching, and then walked off.  

He had wanted to do it all in one day—buy his wand, try on cloaks that were too long in the sleeves, press his hands to the cool glass of the apothecary jars, and maybe, maybe laugh with Corvus over the odd smells rising from the cauldron shop. He’d thought, foolishly, that he might be allowed that.  

But when Lady Avery had suggested he accompany Corvus for his shopping, Polaris’ mother had refused with that frozen, unblinking tone she used when she wasn’t about to explain herself. As if she suddenly cared to spend the day with him. As if they were going to share some sacred mother-son bonding over a wand fitting.  

The truth was simpler. The week before, she and Lady Avery had argued—again. Something about bloodlines and politics, or maybe someone’s lack of discretion at a recent dinner party. Polaris hadn’t been listening closely, but the tension had hung like frost in the corridors for days.  

So now, instead of going with Corvus, instead of being part of something that felt fun, Polaris was left with this: a quiet room, a book of runes too advanced for his age, and a half-promise of one errand. One wand.  

He sighed and leaned his head back against the settee, he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to be talked to.  

He just wanted to be at Hogwarts already.  

He needed a break.  

He missed the noise in the house because he was getting too used to the silence.  

March 19th, 1975, Wednesday  

Polaris walked beside his mother in silence. She hadn’t said much beyond, “Chin up, you look like you’re skulking,” and he hadn’t replied. He had just adjusted his posture, but not by much. He wasn’t slouching exactly—just moving at his own pace, head tilted slightly as he watched the shop signs blur past. He didn’t skulk . He observed. There was a difference.  

His mother sighed. There was a rhythm to these outings—one she didn’t expect him to break. He was dressed in charcoal robes with silver fastenings, his hair combed neatly, mirror-worthy precision. Somewhere along the way he’d learned that the less he said, the prouder she seemed. Or at least, the quieter she stayed.  

“You’re not walking into a duel,” she said. “Try not to look like you're planning one.”  

Polaris arched an eyebrow but said nothing. He wasn't planning anything. He just didn’t like being paraded around like a prize-winning Kneazle.  

They were only a few shops from Ollivander’s when a voice called, airy and pointed.  

“Walburga.”  

His mother stopped. Polaris did, too, though he was already trying to anticipate how long they’d be delayed.  

“Selena,” Walburga Black returned, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Fancy seeing you out so early. I’d heard the Notts preferred August.”  

Lady Nott laughed—a sound like wind in a glass jar. “Only for the rabble. Kalen insisted.” She cast a glance toward her son, who stood half a pace behind her, dark-haired and lean, already taller than Polaris remembered.  

“Well,” Lady Nott added, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, “you know how some boys are. Impatient.”  

“Yes,” Walburga murmured, “and some know how to wait.”  

Kalen looked at Polaris then, a flicker of recognition passing between them—not warmth, not hostility. Just: I know you. I’ve watched you watching everyone else.  

“Hello, Polaris,” Kalen said, voice low but clear. It wasn’t quite a greeting; it sounded more like a statement.  

Polaris nodded, cool but not unkind. “Kalen...”  

They weren’t friends. But they weren’t strangers, either. They’d circled each other at enough parties, sat across from one another while Corvus Avery dragged them into debates about Quidditch teams or to trade Wizarding Duel Cards. Kalen was sharper than he let on, and quieter than most expected. Polaris had never decided whether he liked him or not.  

He glanced toward Ollivander’s, its crooked windows already tugging at his attention. He wanted the wand—not for power, not even for magic really, but for the shape of it.  He wasn't really sure why. Every wizard needed their wand; he just wanted his already.  

“Well,” Lady Nott said, tone clipped as she caught sight of someone across the street, “we mustn’t keep your father waiting. Kalen.”  

Walburga’s eyes narrowed slightly as Lady Nott drifted away, Kalen offering Polaris a nod before following, Polaris gave one back.  

“Go on,” she said quietly, her eyes now fixed on the women speaking across the alley—Lady Nott had stopped beside another witch, pale and overdressed, whispering. Whispering in plain view, it was clear Polaris’ mother assumed they were talking about her.  

Polaris looked back at his mother, surprised. Was she really leaving him to go interrupt their gossip?   

She didn’t meet his gaze. “I said go ahead, Polaris. You don’t need me for this.”  

He hesitated—but only for a breath. Then he turned.  

It didn’t bother him.  

She was there when Sirius got his wand.  

It didn’t... bother him .  

She was first in the shop when Regulus was getting his wand.  

...Maybe it did bother him.   

Behind him, he heard the swish of her robes, firm and composed as she moved across the cobblestones.  

The shop loomed ahead.  

He could already see in before he opened the door, the shop seemed empty, was it too early for other incoming first years to be getting their wands? Perhaps then again there was so much time until September. The bell chimed once when he entered.  

Ollivander appeared almost at once from behind a curtain, his eyes pale and restless.  

“Mr. Black,” he murmured, as if he already knew.  

Polaris didn’t answer. He simply nodded. His hands stayed at his sides. He’s already seen this man twice before, first time it was Sirius getting his wand, second time it was Regulus getting his wand, both those times all three brothers stood in the shop.  

Ollivander studied him for a long moment, before going to the back.  

Then— crash .  

Polaris flinched, his breath catching in his throat. The sound had been loud and unexpected.  

“Nothing to worry about,” Ollivander called, though his voice sounded more distracted than reassuring. Polaris heard the scrape of boxes being righted, a mutter, a creak of old wood.  

When Ollivander returned, he was holding a wand box. A long, narrow container. The wood was darker than the others, the corners unusually reinforced. A soft black sheen seemed to cling to it.  

“How curious…” Ollivander said, half to himself.  

When he opened it, even the air seemed to pull back.  

“Blackthorn,” Ollivander said, voice quiet. “Twelve and a quarter inch. Thestral tail hair core. Unyielding.”  

Polaris didn’t look at him. He was staring into the box.  

The wand inside was unlike any he had seen. Not glossy or elegant, not etched with silver or gleaming lacquer. It was matte, almost charred-looking, with an uneven, knotted texture—more like something grown than carved. At the handle, a faint spiral twist curled through the grain, not decorative, but... instinctive, like it had wound itself that way.  

He couldn’t explain it. He didn’t hear anything—not really—but he felt as though something inside him was being listened to. The kind of stillness that comes when you're not alone and you know it, even if no one is speaking.  

He swallowed. “It feels like it’s… watching,” he said, not sure if that made any sense.  

Ollivander tilted his head slightly, not surprised. “It has waited.”  

Polaris looked up, uncertain. “You seem certain this is my wand.”  

Ollivander didn’t answer directly. He simply extended a hand toward the box, palm open, inviting. “Go on.”  

Polaris hesitated, then slowly reached in.  

The moment his fingers touched the wand, the warmth surged—not bright, not gentle- more like heat from something that had been burning for a long time. His skin prickled. As he gripped it, it almost settled in his palm, like it had been reaching back. The spiral twist fit against his fingers as though it had known them.  

The lamps in the shop didn’t flicker. There was no burst of light. But the air shifted, the way it did before a storm—pressing in, expectant.  

Ollivander watched quietly, his pale eyes sharp beneath his unruly white brows. Then he nodded once.  

“This wand does not choose lightly,” he said, voice low. “Or twice.”  

He stepped closer, his gaze falling squarely on Polaris—not through him, not around him, but at him.  

There was no fear in the old man’s face. No awe, either. Only a kind of solemnity. A recognition.  

“That wand has seen death, Mr. Black,” Ollivander said. “It will see more.”  

He paused. Just long enough for Polaris to hear the silence press in behind the words and frown.  

“Just be certain it sees it for the right reasons.”  

Polaris’s fingers tightened around the wand. His mouth opened, then closed, before he finally said—more sharply than intended— “What do you mean death ?”  

Ollivander didn’t flinch.  

“You make it sound like I’ve already decided to go around duelling people . Or worse.” Polaris added with politeness razor thin.  

Ollivander raised a single white brow. “Have you not?”  

Polaris’s jaw tensed. “No. I haven’t. And I don’t appreciate the assumption.”  

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t snap. But his shoulders squared, chin lifting slightly in that dignified way he’d learned from Walburga and perfected in front of Arcturus, his grandfather.  

It wasn’t just the implication. It was that familiar look people gave when they heard his name—Black—and thought they knew what that meant.  

He forced himself to take a breath. “I didn’t come here to be told what kind of wizard I’m going to be. I came here for a wand .”  

Ollivander didn’t look away. “And you have one. A wand that chose you with no hesitation.”  

Polaris hesitated. His knuckles were pale where they wrapped around the wand.  

“I didn’t ask for one that’s— connected to death,” he said. “I’m not planning to kill anyone.”  

The older man nodded, expression unreadable. “Nor was I suggesting you would. Blackthorn doesn’t seek death. But it answers to those who walk near it. Who don’t turn away.”  

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment,” Polaris muttered.  

Ollivander’s tone softened, just a fraction. “It isn’t meant as one. It’s meant as a truth.”  

He stepped back, folding his hands behind his back.  

“Thestral tail hair,” he said softly. “Core of the unseen. Only those who’ve seen death can see a thestral, Mr. Black—but those bound to one need not have seen it yet. Only that they will.”  

Polaris swallowed hard. The wand hadn’t cooled in his hand. If anything, it felt more alive now, like it was listening.  

“You said it’s seen death,” Polaris said. “How?”  

Another pause. The wandmaker’s voice was distant now, as if remembering something.  

“That wand,” he said slowly, “was made in 1870. Not by me—but by my grandfather, Gerbold Ollivander. It was a rare experiment. Few wandmakers dared pair Blackthorn—wood of hardship and endurance—with thestral tail hair. Thestral hair is elusive. Wilful. It rarely binds with any wood at all. Not unless the wandmaker understands what death means —not destruction, but the truth of it. The kind that waits, and watches, and doesn’t look away.”  

Polaris’s expression tightened. He glanced down at the wand. It didn’t look strange.  

“It was commissioned,” Ollivander went on, “not for a student—but for a war mage. Emeric Vass. A quiet man, grim and gentle, who served in the Department of Mysteries during the last Goblin Rebellions. He was no Auror. No soldier. He was something harder to name.”  

Ollivander’s eyes grew shadowed. “The wand bonded to him immediately. Served him loyally for twenty years. Until he disappeared in Albania, chasing rumours of a soul ritual hidden deep in forest ruins. He never returned. His body was never found.”  

Polaris didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could.  

“The wand was recovered nearly two years later,” Ollivander said. “Scorched. Crusted with residue. Its core... silent. Not broken. Not spent. Simply... finished. It refused every hand that tried to claim it. Not with rejection. With stillness. As though it were waiting.”  

Polaris stared down at the wand in his hand, before looking back at Ollivander.  

“No child since had matched with it. Not in eighty-three years. Until you.”  

Ollivander folded his hands behind his back.  

“The wand is not cursed,” he said. “But nor is it innocent. It does not forgive waste. It does not tolerate frivolity. It was made for those who carry death, not wield it. For those who know that power is often grief in disguise. To put it simply, a man walked into darkness and never came out, And the wand mourned him quietly. It remembered. And it waited.”  

Polaris’s chest ached—not from fear, but from something more complicated. The sense that the wand hadn’t chosen him for greatness… but because it recognized something broken in him. Which was stupid.   

He wasn’t broken.  

It’s just a wand . Just wood and hair and a silly story, who is to say it’s true. Polaris sighed before paying what was owed for what was to remain by his side his whole life.  

The wand had remembered a man who never came back.  

And now it had chosen him.  

Polaris didn’t speak as he left the shop. He held the wand box close to his chest. Surely, he was supposed to feel excited? After all he finally had a wand, yet he didn’t, which was odd.  

Why wasn’t he excited? Why had he been more excited when Sirius and Regulus had gotten their own wands? Why did his chest feel so heavy?  

Some part of him wished he had been chosen by a different wand.  

By the time he got home even the wand seemed to feel heavier in his grasp, as he walked through the house.  

Ignoring the way his footsteps softened over the thick carpets, the way the portraits stilled. He barely looked up, even when the sharp voice of his mother called something indistinct from behind. His hand tightened around the package from Ollivander’s.  

He didn’t stop until he reached the top of the stairs, then down the quieter hall that led to his bedroom.  

When he opened the door, he stilled.  

There, perched on the windowsill like it had been waiting, was an owl.  

Polaris blinked. It wasn’t just that the bird was there—it was that it shouldn’t be. Sirius hadn’t received his owl until the week before school. Regulus had complained about having to wait as well. Polaris had assumed the same for himself. But this owl… it looked nothing like theirs.  

Its feathers were black—not the soft, mottled black of a barn owl or even the soot-grey of a common tawny. These were dark as wet ink, sleek and layered like raven feathers, catching the fading afternoon light with a strange shimmer. Its eyes were gold. Not yellow, not amber— gold , bright and clear, like coins heated in fire.  

It didn’t hoot or shuffle. It simply watched him.  

The moment Polaris stepped further into the room, the owl shifted—wings flaring slightly, as if ready to take flight. It didn’t. It didn’t even back away. Just… flared. A warning, maybe. Or a question.  

Polaris froze.  

He wasn’t sure how he felt about animals. He’d never had one of his own. Creatures in the house were usually pests. The family dogs his grandfather kept were more beast than companion. There had been a family cat once, briefly, but it had vanished before Polaris was old enough to remember if it liked him. The house-elves didn’t let creatures linger.  

Still, he didn’t move away. The owl hadn’t attacked. It hadn’t left either.  

He took another step forward. Slowly.  

The owl’s feathers rippled faintly, but it didn’t retreat. Its gaze followed him—not nervous, not hostile. Just… attentive.  

Polaris exhaled softly, letting the tension leave his shoulders. Then, carefully, he crouched.  

“I didn’t think I’d have one yet,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re early.”  

The owl blinked, then tilted its head slightly, gold eyes sharp with intelligence. It made no sound.  

Polaris studied it, unable to help the quiet flicker of excitement in his chest. He’d read about owls—how magical ones bonded not just by training but by instinct. Some breeds could navigate storm wards, carry letters through illusions, even find their masters halfway across the world. But this one… he didn’t recognize it. It looked like something out of a book he wasn’t meant to read.  

He liked owls. Had read about them. Studied their wingspans and migration patterns and magical subspecies.  

“Are you mine?” he asked quietly. “Or just visiting?”  

The owl didn’t answer, of course. But it didn’t fly away either.  

He stood slowly and moved toward the window, pausing just before the owl’s perch. It didn’t flinch when he reached out—tentatively, not to touch, but to offer his hand beside it.  

The bird lowered its wings, calm now. It tilted its head the other way.  

His fingers hovered near its feathers. Still, he didn’t touch. Instead, he smiled, just slightly.  

“I think I’ll call you Orpheus,” he whispered.  

The owl blinked.  

“I read about him,” Polaris went on softly, voice dropping into that tone he used only when alone—when it was safe to sound like he cared too much. “He was a musician. A poet. He went to the underworld to bring someone back.” His eyes drifted down, then up again. “It didn’t work. He looked back too soon. But the thing is… people always talk about how he failed. They forget he walked into the underworld alone. That he tried and that’s better than doing nothing . ”  

The owl remained silent. Listening.  

“Orpheus means ‘darkness of night,’ I think. Or maybe just 'the darkness.’” Polaris gave a faint smile, lopsided. “Fitting, isn’t it?”  

He took another step forward. The owl didn’t move.  

Polaris sat down fully now, cross-legged on the floor, looking up at the creature perched above him like a shadow stitched to the world. “You’re not like other owls,” he whispered. “You're like…” He trailed off, shook his head once. “Never mind.”  

He glanced toward the door, the walls, then back at the owl.  

“Who brought you here?” he murmured.  

The owl said nothing. But it blinked slowly, a movement that felt almost… knowing.  

He leaned back on his hands, gaze steady. “Well,” he said softly, “I guess we’ll find out together.”  

The owl shifted.  

Just a slight movement—wings tightening, weight adjusting on the sill—but it was enough to draw Polaris’s eye again. That’s when he noticed it.  

A small piece of parchment, tucked neatly into the thin leather band around the owl’s leg. Subtle.  

Polaris stood carefully and stepped closer. The owl didn’t move. He reached out slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the parchment before slipping it free. The paper was thick, expensive. Folded twice. Sealed with a pressed wax crest he recognized: the Black family sigil—but not the main seal of his father’s household.  

Pollux’s.  

He stared at it a moment longer before breaking the seal.  

The note was brief, handwritten in the neat, upright strokes of his grandfather’s script.  

To my grandson, Polaris—  

Consider this an early birthday gift. I will not be able to see you on the day, but I trust this owl will serve you well as you begin your new chapter. He is rare—both in breed and in temperament. Not bred to carry errands, but to accompany someone who does not lose his way.  

Choose a name for him. Make it one worth carrying.  

—P.B.  

Polaris’s brow furrowed, his thumb lingering on the edge of the parchment. Pollux Black didn’t do sentiment. But there was something in the phrasing that made Polaris pause.  

"Not bred to carry errands, but to accompany someone who does not lose his way."  

It sounded like praise or warning... or maybe both?  

He looked back up at the owl—at Orpheus—and felt the smallest pull of something he couldn’t name.  

“Orpheus,” he said aloud, as if confirming it. The owl watched him still, unblinking.  

Polaris folded the note and tucked it away in the drawer of his desk, beneath a sheaf of untouched parchment and a small bottle of ink still sealed with wax. His hand hovered for a moment over the thin, navy-blue leather-bound journal resting beside them—his Chronologus , embossed with his initials in silver on the bottom right corner: P.R.B .  

A magical journal, a gift from his cousin Narcissa a few Yules back. It had become a habit for him to document his life within its pages — nearly every day, noting what he did, what happened, how he felt, what he wanted. It was the closest thing to a confession he allowed himself. Not that anyone else could read it. The Chronologus was made to respond only to its owner; without the proper touch, its pages remained blank and sealed.  

“I’ll have to remember to write about today.”  

Orpheus blinked once, then tucked his wings in, clearly uninterested int what Polaris had to say.  

Polaris’ eyes drifted from the bird—and then narrowed. There it was again. That sound.  

It was a faint ringing – like the whine of glass under pressure... it wasn’t exactly loud, but it was unnerving, and he wanted it to stop. It hasn’t been the first time he’s been hearing things. There’s always a strange sound here and there, the first few times he dismissed them as his imagination and now he couldn’t keep ignoring it.  

Was there something wrong with him? Was he sick?   

He waited for it to fade but it didn’t, even when he pressed his hands against his ears. His temples throbbed, as he forced himself to move, with uncertainty he moved towards the door to the corridor. The pressure spiked, a high whine splitting through his head like a tuning fork struck too hard.  

Before he knew it, he’d made his way downstairs and was now standing in front of his father’s office.  

His heart ached. He was nervous—even though he knew his father wasn’t home. His father hated anyone entering the office without permission. All three brothers had learned that the hard way when they were little.  

And truthfully, he hadn’t been inside for years.  

The last time he had...  

That was when he got his scar.  

Polaris hesitated, fingers hovering over the brass handle, then turned it slowly. The door creaked open.  

He didn’t linger in the doorway. His head was pounding again sharp and strange, like the ache was coming from outside him. He stepped in quickly, the wooden floor cool beneath his bare feet.  

He rushed towards the desk, because surely that’s where that noise was coming from- on the desk there was a mirror... surely it couldn’t be this? Could it?   

It sat atop the polished desk as if someone had only just set it down—deliberately, carefully. And yet, something about it felt old . It was large for a hand mirror, oval-shaped, set in a heavy silver frame. The handle was thick and cool, tarnished in places where the metal had dulled with age. The silver curled into delicate scrollwork along the edges, etched with runes too faint to read, but not quite asleep.  

Polaris stared at it, he felt uncertain.   

But the pressure behind his eyes sharpened the longer he looked at it. His hand lifted, hesitant, as if the thing might shatter from being noticed.  

He took a step closer.  

He didn’t touch it.  

He didn’t need to.  

The magic inside the mirror was already awake .  

A soft pulse thrummed through the room. Not loud. Barely perceptible. But Polaris felt it, somewhere beneath his ribs, like a second heartbeat out of time with his own.   

It wasn’t rejection. The mirror had tried to match with him—and failed, violently. Not because he was incompatible, but because his presence disrupted the soul-binding magic at its core.  

The spell work buried in its silver bones twisted, seeking something familiar in him: a match of blood, a bound name, a fragment it recognized. But what it found was... noise.  

Polaris blinked, eyes watering. The pressure behind his eyes had become a spike.  

The mirror flickered.  

Only for an instant—but the glass warped , as if it had tried to show something and failed. A shape nearly formed, then snapped away, leaving a smear of grey static across the surface.  

Polaris flinched. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t done anything.  

The mirror trembled.  

Thin cracks spread across the glass, delicate as veins under ice, webbing out from the centre with a sound too soft to be real. The runes along the silver frame gave a single, fading pulse—like a breath held and released—before going still, their glow extinguished for good.  

The mirror broke.  

The pressure in Polaris’s skull vanished all at once.  

And then came the pain.  

He gasped—sharp, involuntary—as a spike of heat shot through his chest. Not like fire. Not even like magic. More like something inside him had been twisted and let go too fast.  

His knees buckled.  

He grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself, but the room was already tilting. A single drop of blood slipped from his nose, bright against the floorboards.  

Polaris pressed his sleeve to it, confused more than afraid.  

He hadn’t touched anything.  

And yet... his body was reacting like he’d just tried to channel something far beyond his reach.  

A low nausea coiled in his stomach. Not sickness, exactly. Not normal. It felt like something inward had been pulled too hard, like a thread that wasn’t meant to stretch. His vision pulsed at the edges.  

He sank into the nearest chair and sat very still, hand still clutched to his nose, staring at the cracked mirror on the desk as he tried to make sense of it all...  

Nosebleeds paired with auditory phenomena. What did that suggest?  

Spellshock? No—he hadn’t been duelling, and there were no outward hex marks.  

Residual curse-burn? Maybe. But he hadn’t touched the mirror until after it cracked. And he hadn’t cast anything .  

Inherited curse? Some older pure-blood lines carried recessive magical faults. The Nott family had those compulsive chanting fits. The Bulstrodes—madness that smelled like rotting lavender. But the Blacks? No. There were things wrong with them, yes, but not this .  

Maybe a strain of veiled aural sensitivity ? Some curse-breakers had it: picking up sounds tied to residual spells or soul echoes. But Polaris had never—  

He cut the thought short.  

The mirror.  

He glanced at it again. Still cracked. Still.  

He hadn’t seen a flash. No runes flaring, no glyphs exposed. Whatever enchantment had been woven into it, it was hidden deep, laced under silver and intent.  

What could’ve broken it? Magic didn’t just stop . He hadn’t done anything. No wand out. No incantation. No intention.  

Polaris’s breath caught. A flush of cold sweat beaded at the back of his neck, as the slow realisation of his situation dawned on him, the fact that he was in his father’s office.  

Panic twisted in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to be here.  

He wasn’t allowed to be here.  

You broke it.  

He backed away, hands shaking now, fingertips cold.  

You broke it, you broke it, you weren’t even meant to touch it, and now it’s—  

His thoughts crashed into each other. His mind was too loud. That sound from earlier—it was gone now, but it had wormed its way into him, left a pressure behind, and now it was building again.  

What if it wasn’t the mirror that was cursed? What if it was him ?  

Polaris gripped the back of the chair like a lifeline, but the world was still tilting. His ears were ringing. His vision blurred at the edges again bright and white and wrong.  

What if he’d done something without realising it? What if it was the wand?  

His wand.  

He thought of Ollivander’s voice—soft and distant and final:  

It was made for those who carry death, not wield it.  

No child had matched with it.  

Not in eighty-five years.  

Until him.  

The blood in Polaris’s veins felt wrong. Heavy. Like it was moving too slowly. Or maybe too fast.  

Maybe something had broken inside him.  

He stumbled back a step. His mouth was dry. He tried to draw in a breath, but it didn’t come easily.  

He was dizzy.  

Too warm.  

Too cold.  

His chest hurt.  

What if this was the beginning of something awful? Something irreversible?  

What if he was dying?  

That thought came quietly—too quietly. And it stuck.  

His pulse surged. He sank to the floor hard, knees folding under him. The room was too big suddenly, the air too thin. His lungs fluttered uselessly in his chest, catching on nothing. His hands shook. He couldn’t stop them.  

He pressed them to his ribs, as if he could hold himself together.