[6,124 Words]
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.