[6,799 Words]
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.