[6,150 Words]
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.