[9,718 Words]
October 13th, 1975, Monday
Sylvan Fawley sat stiff-backed on the navy couch, parchment stretched across his knees, quill twitching furiously. His essay was covered in spidery handwriting and increasingly panicked ink blots. Beside him, Polaris Black sat cross-legged with a red Self-Correcting Quill, steadily tearing through Sylvan's argument like it had personally offended him.
A scratch, a scribble, a long line drawn through an entire paragraph.
"…Did you write this with your eyes shut?" Polaris asked, glancing sideways.
Sylvan shot him a look. "Excuse me?"
Polaris flipped the page and read aloud:
"Transfiguration is mostly about wanting it badly enough, like Professor Dumbledore said magic is emotion sometimes which means if you try hard, it works probably."
A beat.
Polaris looked up slowly, face impassive. "Did you hit your head recently?"
Sylvan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It sounded better in my head."
"No, it didn't," Polaris said dryly, crossing out another two lines. "Also, you spelled 'probable' as 'probably' and used it like a fact. And you made up a Dumbledore quote."
"He does talk about emotion and—"
"He talks vaguely . You sound like my brother Sirius after he had three Butterbeers."
Sylvan grumbled and leaned over to grab his textbook. Polaris kept going, reading aloud with increasing disbelief:
"If you don't concentrate, your wand might just give up or do something weird, like turn a pineapple into… not a pineapple."
Polaris blinked. "Into what , Sylvan?"
"I was going to say 'a different fruit'—"
"Then why didn't you?" Polaris pointed his quill accusingly at the word not . "This is nothing. This is a sentence about nothing."
Sylvan flopped backward onto the couch. "I hate you."
"You'll hate yourself more when Professor McGonagall reads this and asks if you've suffered a recent head trauma."
Sylvan groaned. "We have fifteen minutes."
"Twenty," Polaris corrected, checking the clock, "but only if you plan to walk at a criminal pace."
He leaned back, arms crossed. "You've written 312 words. Only 100 of them are salvageable. Possibly. Do you have a specific aversion to clarity, or are you just guessing until the page is full?"
Sylvan sat up, hair askew and expression long-suffering. "Are you trying to cause me a breakdown?"
"No, but I wouldn't be shocked if your essay caused one in McGonagall."
Sylvan dragged his hands down his face. "Fine. What do I even say? Just tell me."
Polaris narrowed his eyes, then replied as if it were the simplest thing in the world:
"Transfiguration relies on the caster's intent to define the spell's target outcome, and concentration to control magical energy during execution. Lack of either increases the risk of partial transfiguration, magical rebound, or uncontrolled results. It's not about raw power—it's about precision."
Sylvan stared at him. "Did you memorize the textbook?"
"No," Polaris said, shrugging. "I understood it."
"…You're unbearable."
"And yet," Polaris said, handing him back the thoroughly butchered essay, "you'll thank me when your pineapple stays a pineapple."
Sylvan took it with a martyred sigh and started scribbling furiously trying to correct his essay.
After a beat, Polaris leaned back again, muttering, "Also, if you're dyslexic, I can help you format things more clearly."
Sylvan froze. "Wait, what?"
Polaris gestured vaguely to the messy, looping letters. "Just wondering. Your sentences lose track of themselves halfway through like they're trying to escape."
Sylvan gave him a flat look. "I'm not dyslexic."
"Alright," Polaris said easily. "Just checking."
Sylvan went back to writing, muttering something very un-Ravenclaw about murdering his study partner with a fruit bowl.
Polaris's attention shifted. Footsteps—three of them—coming too slowly to be casual, like someone rehearsed walking across a room. He didn't look up right away.
"Um. Hi."
That made him glance up.
Three first-years stood awkwardly in front of them. Idris Chang (whose handwriting was so neat it could be printed), Agnes Pennyfeather (always adjusting her collar), and Oliver Llewellyn (the boy who cried every time they practiced Aguamenti because it got on his shoes). They were all fidgeting.
Polaris tilted his head slightly, owl-like. "Yes?"
Agnes cleared her throat. "We—uh. We wanted to say sorry."
Sylvan didn't stop writing, but his eyebrows arched slightly.
Idris took over. "Rafiq told us what happened. About the… misunderstanding. And how he kind of… exaggerated things. A lot."
Polaris blinked at them.
Oliver, sheepish, added, "We didn't mean to freeze you out. We thought—well, we thought you were being a bit of a snob, honestly, and maybe unkind to Muggleborns, and, uh—"
"—and none of that was actually true," Agnes cut in quickly. "Rafiq explained. He said you were just… confused. Not rude. And that he made it sound worse than it was."
Polaris stared at them a moment longer, then said flatly, "He lied because he was upset and wanted people on his side. And you believed him without asking me."
All three flinched.
"Well," Polaris continued calmly, "alright."
They blinked.
"That's it?" Idris asked, confused.
"What else do you want?" Polaris said. "I accept your apology. I'm not angry. I didn't think we were particularly close to begin with."
Behind him, Sylvan made a soft snort and didn't look up.
There was a beat of tense silence. Then Agnes ventured, "We also wanted to ask if you wanted to sit with us at dinner tonight. Since… well, you've been at the Slytherin table. And we thought that was because of us."
"It wasn't," Polaris said simply. "I sit with my friends."
"Oh." Agnes faltered. "But—would you maybe like to sit with us? Just once?"
Polaris considered this. His face didn't change, but his eyes flicked briefly toward Sylvan, still writing, and then up to the girl seated across the room—Senna Greengrass, leafing through a Charms book while absently fixing her braid with a slow, precise motion.
Then back to the three in front of him.
"If I sat with you," Polaris said slowly, "I'd be sitting with Sylvan and Senna, not you."
They all stared.
"I don't mean that cruelly," he added quickly. "I just wouldn't know what to talk to you about. And I don't want to pretend to be better friends than we are because you feel guilty."
It wasn't said with venom—just cool logic, like someone explaining why a plant would not grow in shadow.
Oliver shifted uncomfortably. "Right. Um. That makes sense, I guess."
"Besides," Polaris went on, "the Slytherin table has better bread."
Sylvan coughed.
Agnes opened her mouth but clearly couldn't find a polite rebuttal to better bread . She nodded instead. "Well. If you ever want to join us, you're welcome. Truly."
"I know," Polaris said simply.
They left after that, a little bewildered, and Polaris turned back to Sylvan, who had finally put down his quill.
"Well, that was awkward," Sylvan said, not unkindly. "But I suppose you saved me from sitting near Oliver's dramatic water trauma monologue."
Polaris tilted his head again. "Do you think I was rude?"
"No," Sylvan said. "You were honest. That's worse, to most people."
Polaris hummed. "It seemed like the kind thing to do. Being unclear just makes people expect something you're not offering."
Sylvan gave him a look, dry and appraising. "You make a terrible diplomat."
"I wasn't raised to be one."
There was a silence.
Sylvan didn't say anything right away. He shifted his essay in his hands, as if weighing whether or not to say something.
Polaris noticed but didn't interrupt. He'd learned to be patient with silences; they revealed more than people thought.
Then Sylvan said, voice carefully level, "Can I ask you something... not diplomatic either?"
Polaris glanced at him. "You can ask."
Sylvan hesitated. "What do you actually think about Muggleborns ?"
Polaris didn't blink. "Is this about Rafiq?"
"No," Sylvan said. Then he amended, "Yes. Partly. But not only."
There was another pause. Polaris looked away, toward the high windows, where morning light stretched thin across the stone.
"I don't hate them," he said at last. "I was taught to. Obviously. But I don't think I do."
Sylvan didn't interrupt.
Polaris continued, "There's this whole world—ours—that's old and complicated and held together by rules no one ever really wrote down. And then someone walks in who doesn't know any of it, and everything shifts. They ask questions we were taught never to ask. They change the way things are done just by being here."
He paused. "I don't think they mean harm. I think they're trying to belong. But sometimes it feels like… like they want this world to bend to them, instead of learning how to move through it."
Sylvan tilted his head slightly, the way he did when he was listening closely.
Polaris stared ahead. "Magic is old. It has weight. Shape. You're supposed to fit yourself to it. Not make it fit you. I don't understand people who act like everything can be redefined, like traditions are optional."
Another pause.
"I'm not saying they don't deserve to be here," he added, a little faster. "Just that sometimes it feels like they don't see the world they've walked into. Like they're standing in a cathedral and arguing about the ceiling colour."
Sylvan blinked. "Cathedral?"
Polaris froze. Just slightly.
Sylvan's brow lifted, clearly intrigued. "That's a Muggle word."
Polaris's expression didn't change, but his ears pinked slightly.
"I overheard some Muggleborns arguing about Christianity ," he said finally, like he was admitting to stealing sugar quills from the Honeydukes counter. "One of them said religion was about belief, and the other said it was about power structures, and then someone else shouted about Protestantism, and someone else started crying."
Sylvan stared.
Polaris shrugged stiffly. "It was a loud argument. In the library. So I read about it."
"You read about religion."
" A religion," Polaris corrected. "Apparently there are dozens. Christianity is just one part of it, and then that splits into more parts, and it's all layered and conflicting and—" he stopped, scowling faintly. "It's absurdly complicated."
Sylvan let out a quiet, stunned laugh. "You read theology because you overheard Muggleborns arguing in a library?"
Polaris's ears went pinker. "I was curious."
"And?"
"I think they're more divided than we are," Polaris muttered. "They act like they've figured everything out, but they haven't. They just have different categories to argue in. Just like us."
Sylvan looked at him for a long moment, head tilted, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he said dryly, "You are the most accidentally fascinating person I've ever met."
Polaris blinked. "That's not—"
"I mean it," Sylvan cut in. "You're completely nothing like I expected. When I heard Polaris Black was sorted into Ravenclaw, I braced myself for some third-string Black whining about not being in Slytherin, threatening to owl his mother every time someone sat too close."
Polaris blinked, then gave a small huff of laughter. " Third-string Black ," he repeated, almost thoughtfully. "No one's ever called me that before."
"Not denying it, though," Sylvan noted.
Polaris tilted his head, still amused. "Why would I? It's not wrong."
"You also do this thing where you look like you've just discovered disappointment as a concept. It's worse." Sylvan smirked slightly, then kept going, warming to the subject. "And honestly, you were so awkward the first few weeks. I wasn't sure you even liked being spoken to."
"I didn't," Polaris said flatly.
"See?" Sylvan gestured vaguely, as if that proved everything. "But then you just… appeared one day with this completely unearned knowledge about the life cycle of self-repairing staircases and started correcting my Astronomy homework like it personally offended your soul."
"It was wrong," Polaris said, blinking. "You said Europa was larger than Ganymede. That's just incorrect."
"Yes, I know that now," Sylvan drawled. "But what I mean is—you're the most oblivious person I've ever met for someone so observant. You'll spot a broken hinge from three doors away but not notice when someone's trying to be friendly unless they throw a biscuit at your head."
Polaris frowned. "When has anyone thrown a biscuit at my head?"
Sylvan ignored that. "You're blunt to the point of psychic injury. You know the most unhinged random facts. And you're basically best friends with a group of Slytherins despite claiming to value logic and academic prowess above all else."
Polaris's frown deepened. "They're not illogical."
"No," Sylvan admitted. "But they are Slytherins. Which isn't bad, mind you—both my parents were in Slytherin. I was practically raised on tales of cunning and tradition. Not that you care. Anyway, Parkinson once threatened to jinx a prefect because he borrowed her ink, and you called it 'an appropriate escalation.'"
"He used her enchanted ink without asking," Polaris said matter-of-factly, as if that settled everything.
Sylvan gave him a long, theatrical blink. "You're a chaos magnet in denial."
Polaris didn't dignify that with a response. He stared at Sylvan instead, brow faintly furrowed, as if trying to decide whether his friend was mocking him or simply feeling uncharacteristically insightful.
Sylvan smirked. "Don't look at me like that. Someone's got to keep a running list of your contradictions."
"I don't contradict myself," Polaris muttered.
"You're the literal child of a notoriously pureblood supremacist family," Sylvan said, tone gentler now, "and yet here you are quoting Muggle theology and correcting half-bloods and Muggleborns like it's a public service."
Then Polaris spoke, carefully: "I don't believe blood makes you intelligent. Perhaps I did once upon a time. But I was taught that certain lines carry weight. That heritage shapes power." His tone flattened—like he was reciting from a memory burned too deep to erase.
"I believed it," he added. "Because I had to."
Sylvan didn't interrupt. His fingers, which had been tapping idly against the corner of his essay, stilled.
Polaris went on, "I still think blood carries something—memory, maybe. History. But it doesn't make you better. It doesn't make you right. It just makes you… louder in the room, sometimes."
Sylvan's voice was soft now. "And do you want to be louder?"
"No," Polaris said immediately. "I want to be heard."
A stretch of silence passed between them.
Then Sylvan said quietly, "You don't have to worry. About any of that getting out."
Polaris turned his head, just slightly. His face didn't change, but the stillness sharpened.
Sylvan went on, eyes fixed on the parchment in his lap, voice even but unflinching. "I mean it. I'm not going to run off and whisper it to someone who'll twist it into a headline. Or an owl. Or a curse."
Polaris watched him a moment longer, unreadable. "You think someone would?"
Sylvan finally looked up. "I think the wrong person hearing that would be a problem. For you. And I'm not stupid enough to pretend your name doesn't carry weight in rooms I've never stepped into."
Another pause.
Polaris exhaled, slow and controlled. "It wasn't meant to be a confession."
"I know," Sylvan said simply. "But it mattered."
Polaris was quiet for a long time after that. Not in a tense way—just still, like he was sorting something that didn't want to be sorted.
Then, almost reluctantly, he said, "Thank you."
Sylvan blinked. "For what?"
Polaris didn't look at him. "For not being the kind of person I thought you were."
That caught Sylvan off guard. "I didn't realise I made such a dreadful first impression."
"You didn't," Polaris admitted. "You made no impression. You were just... the boy with terrible handwriting and random stories about your cousins setting furniture on fire."
Sylvan laughed, startled and a little indignant. "Rude."
"It wasn't personal," Polaris said, a little too flatly. "I just didn't think much of you."
"Well, now I feel very cherished."
Polaris finally looked at him, and this time his expression was just a little sheepish. "I was wrong. Obviously."
Sylvan smirked. "Obviously."
"I wasn't expecting you to matter," Polaris added, like he was still trying to make sense of it. "But you do."
The smile faltered a little on Sylvan's face—not gone, just softer, more real.
"I suppose that's the best compliment I'll ever get from you," he said lightly.
"It's the only kind I give," Polaris replied.
Sylvan leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the ceiling. "Well, now you're stuck with me. Congratulations."
Polaris glanced back down at his scroll. Neatly drawn boxes and thin arrows connected fragmented points—a skeleton of his argument forming before the real research began. "I've survived worse."
Polaris glanced back down at the scroll in his hand. "I've survived worse."
It wasn't a letter, or a homework assignment—just a sketch. A rough outline of how he wanted to structure his argument for the trial debate. The parchment was covered in faint lines and scrawled notes, like a blueprint made in haste. Fragments of counterpoints, potential openings, and citations tangled across the surface, but no full paragraphs yet. Just architecture.
He was still working on the research part—he had ideas, angles, instincts. But instincts weren't evidence. And Hector had made it clear: structure first, then foundation. Don't build the tower before you measure the ground.
It was a new kind of challenge. Polaris had never needed to prepare like this before. He was used to analysis, not persuasion. He knew how to dissect arguments, how to break things down until they collapsed under their own weight—but building one that could stand? That was something else.
Oddly enough, he liked it.
It wasn't easy. It was slow and fussy and maddening in the way only precise things could be. But it scratched at something in him—some quiet need for order that he didn't usually get to feed. He'd rewritten his opening thesis five times already and still wasn't satisfied. His notes kept sprawling sideways into footnotes and tangents that he told himself he'd trim later.
He wouldn't. He'd probably rewrite the whole thing again before Thursday.
Sylvan glanced sideways, noticing the scroll. "That the draft for your death match with Lowley?"
Polaris gave a small hum. "It's not a draft. It's... scaffolding."
Sylvan raised an eyebrow. "Looks like a spider had a panic attack on it."
Polaris didn't look up. "It's a structural map. I'm still deciding how to anchor the core argument. I want to dismantle the assumption that lineage-bound curses are inherently dangerous unless disclosed. But that requires historical precedent, counter-statistics, and an ethical framework to question the policy logic behind mandatory reporting."
Sylvan blinked. "That sounds wildly overthought." then he muttered more to himself than anything, "I don't even know if I understood most of that."
"It's supposed to be," Polaris said, without irony. "If Hector's going to tear it apart, I want to make sure he has to try."
Sylvan let out a quiet snort. "You're such a Ravenclaw it hurts."
Polaris rolled the scroll tighter. "I've never actually researched to win before," he admitted. "I've researched to know. But not like this. Not with pressure behind it. It's… different."
Sylvan looked at him for a beat. Then: "You enjoy it, don't you?"
Polaris hesitated. "It's methodical."
"Which is your version of fun," Sylvan said.
Polaris didn't deny it.
When they reached the Transfiguration classroom doors, Polaris paused.
Not visibly—he didn't stumble or freeze—but something in his posture went rigid. His hand tightened around his wand, fingers tensing as though the handle had suddenly become unsteady.
Sylvan, about to push the door open, half-turned. "You good—?"
But the question was cut off as another voice rang out from behind them.
"Morning, boys!" Nate slid into view with all the breezy energy of someone whose essay had earned top marks and knew it. His robes were askew from rushing, but his smile was unmistakably smug. "You ready for this? My Transfiguration essay was immaculate. I've already drafted the thank-you speech McGonagall will definitely ask me to deliver."
Sylvan raised a brow and slipped through the door with a murmur of, "Tragic."
Polaris didn't move.
Nate, now beside him, didn't seem to notice the delay at first. "She's bringing out the big stuff today, right? Legacy magic? Heirlooms? Can't wait to see something cursed. You coming to duelling later, by the way?"
Polaris still hadn't spoken. His grip on his wand had gone white-knuckled, his brows drawn low over his eyes.
His hand felt warmer than usual, or was it his wand?
Nate's smile faltered. He leaned in slightly. "Hey. You alright?"
Polaris blinked once, and the spell broke. "I'm fine," he said, voice low but steady. "And yes. I'll likely be at duelling."
Nate hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but gave a slow nod. "Okay. Just… y'know. Let me know if not."
They entered together.
The classroom was already filling up, the scrape of chairs and low murmur of voices echoing off the high stone walls. Professor McGonagall was at her desk, sorting through what looked like velvet-lined boxes, her usual expression unreadable but focused. Something about the atmosphere felt quieter than usual—less like a classroom, more like a ritual was about to begin.
Polaris took a seat near the front. He rarely did that—preferred to observe from a distance where he could map the room as well as the content. But lately, he'd been positioning himself closer. Closer to technique.
Nate slid into the seat beside him, still eyeing him with veiled concern.
Polaris didn't acknowledge it.
He set his wand down on the desk with a soft but abrupt clack.
And immediately, something shifted.
His hands, now resting on the edge of the desk, curled faintly inward. His posture stiffened—not defensive, but like something inside him had pulled taut. His eyes were fixed on nothing. Breathing shallow. A cold ripple slipped down his spine.
Nate was still talking beside him, probably rambling about the heirloom demonstration or making some remark about someone's smug expression two rows over—but Polaris couldn't hear it.
Not properly.
The air felt wrong.
Like the walls had narrowed in by degrees without moving.
There was a hum beneath everything—too deep to be sound, too quiet to be real. It was like pressure. Like something was folding inward.
His wand, normally a silent tether, was no longer in his hand. He hadn't realized how much it grounded him until it was gone.
And now?
He felt... unanchored.
Nate stopped mid-sentence, frowning as he leaned in.
"Polaris?"
No answer.
The professor began to speak, but the words swam past him like water slipping over glass. Something about memory. About objects that remembered.
Polaris stared ahead, jaw locked, hands trembling faintly at the knuckles where they touched the desk.
He didn't know why he felt like this.
He just knew he was dreading this feeling, he was perfectly fine for so long so why again, why now?
Professor McGonagall moved to the centre of the room, her expression as crisp and composed as always. A flick of her wand dimmed the torches slightly, enough to cast the enchanted display in sharper relief. Floating midair behind her was a brooch—ornate, silver-gilt, glimmering faintly with an internal light, as though the metal itself remembered moonlight.
"This," she said, voice cutting through the classroom like a blade through fog, "is a Transmuted Legacy Object. It began its existence as a comb. Over the course of several generations, it was transfigured by its owners—altered not just in shape, but in identity. It is now classified as a brooch. But that term is insufficient."
She paused, letting the object rotate slowly in the air.
"Each magical alteration—each change made not out of necessity, but emotional intent—left an imprint. And while the object's structure may be stable, its magical signature is layered. Subtle. Resonant."
Polaris blinked slowly, his eyes locked on the brooch but not seeing it.
His hands still gripped the edge of the desk, fingertips pale. There was a distant pressure building in his chest—not pain, exactly, but tightness . Like something was rising inside him. Climbing upward from somewhere low and hollow in his gut.
McGonagall continued, "You may be familiar with wand allegiance, yes—but heirlooms such as this operate differently. They do not choose. They remember. "
I can't breathe.
"Not consciously, no—but magically. Repetition. Attachment. Emotional saturation. These factors bend an object's magical identity until it becomes more than the sum of its uses."
The brooch hovered closer, pulsing faintly. The brooch pulsed once—soft, silver, and slow—as if exhaling a memory.
"Legacy magic of this kind is rare. Most often, you'll find it in ancestral estates or institutions with long magical histories. But today's lesson will explore why such objects resist transfiguration—and why some spells, no matter how expertly cast, fail entirely when confronting an object steeped in time and will."
Polaris's vision had begun to blur slightly at the edges. Not fully dark—just grey, static-soft and curling in.
"Your essays," McGonagall added, "are due at the end of the lesson. I expect no excuses. Not illness and not forgetfulness. If you are here and breathing, I expect parchment."
A few chuckles from the class. Nate smiled faintly beside him.
Polaris didn't move.
He couldn't.
There was something else now—an odd, rising flutter in his stomach, almost like the floor had dropped beneath him. Like falling—but standing still.
This is wrong. Something's wrong.
He tried to lift a hand, to reach for his wand—forgotten on the desk in front of him—but his body wouldn't quite listen. His muscles felt underwater. The pressure in his chest was expanding, not violently, but steadily—cold and trembling and quiet.
I need to leave.
He didn't.
He stayed still, staring ahead like a statue, while something inside him cracked.
There was a smell, sudden and sharp—like ash and old metal. Not real. Not in the room. But inside him. Behind his nose, in the back of his throat.
Then came the fear.
Sharp and ancient and inexplicable.
It gripped him suddenly—fully—like a hand closing around his ribs.
I can't move.
I can't move I can't move I can't—
Everything turned to static.
The sound dimmed to a low thrum. Someone—Nate?—was speaking beside him, leaning closer, concerned, but it was like the words were coming from behind a wall. His name was being said. Again. Sharper now. Urgent.
Polaris didn't hear the last one.
Because by then, the world had already tilted—then snapped.
There was no warning cry, no dramatic collapse. Just a terrible stillness. His body jolted once—barely perceptible—then seized in place, like a puppet with its strings yanked taut. A tremor ran through him, sharp and involuntary, before he crumpled forward over the desk.
His wand rolled to the edge and clattered to the floor.
And then panic bloomed—sudden, sharp, and loud. Chairs scraped back. Someone shouted his name. A ripple of fear surged through the class like a spell gone wrong.
The world returned in pieces.
Light, at first. Pale and soft, filtered through stained-glass windows.
Then sound—the low rustle of pages turning, the faint clink of glass, the steady tick of the enchanted wall clock.
Polaris blinked, vision swimming. The ceiling overhead was unfamiliar, blurred at the edges. There was a soft weight across his chest—blankets. Starched and warm.
He shifted and immediately winced. His head throbbed. His limbs felt like they were made of stone. His throat was dry.
He sat up too quickly.
"Easy now," came a voice. Firm. Kind. "Don't rush. You're safe."
Polaris turned sharply toward it—Madam Pomfrey was beside his bed, setting a small bottle on the nightstand. She looked exhausted. Her usually neat bun had come loose, and there was a pinched tightness around her eyes.
His gaze darted around the room, his breathing speeding up.
"Where—" His voice cracked. "What time is it?"
"Half-past six in the evening," she said, reaching for a vial. "You've been unconscious since second period."
Second—?
Transfiguration.
The memory didn't come.
"I—what happened?" His voice was raw now, hoarse and frantic. "Where's—where's Sylvan? Where's my wand? What happened to me?"
He started pulling at the blanket, like he meant to leave. His chest rose and fell too quickly, shoulders tight, vision tunnelling.
"Mr. Black—"
"I don't remember, " he gasped. "I was with Sylvan—I was—"
"Breathe," she said gently but firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're alright now. Just breathe with me."
He couldn't.
His mind was fogged and jagged at the edges, like broken glass submerged in smoke. He didn't know what had happened, only that something had gone terribly wrong. There was a sensation like falling, but backward in time— what did I say, who saw, what did they see—?
"Polaris," Madam Pomfrey said again, her voice steady. "Look at me."
He did, barely.
"Inhale. Deeply. Good—hold it. Now exhale. Again. Once more."
He obeyed, barely registering the vial she pressed into his hand.
"This will help settle your nerves," she said, uncorking it and helping guide it to his lips.
He drank.
Warmth spread through his chest—not fire, not calm exactly, but weight. Heavy enough to anchor him back in his body.
He breathed.
Finally, he breathed.
"You're alright," she repeated once she saw his shoulders drop slightly. "You're safe, Polaris. You had a seizure. A magical one."
He stared at her. Confused. Pale.
She softened. "It's not unheard of, but… not like this. Magical feedback. Intense emotional or arcane disruption. You collapsed in Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall brought you here herself."
His brow furrowed, slow and unsteady. "I don't remember anything after…"
He trailed off, searching.
"Helping Sylvan with his essay," she supplied gently.
He nodded faintly. "Then… nothing."
Madam Pomfrey gestured to the side table. "Your things are all here. Safe."
His eyes flicked over—and there it was.
His wand.
Without thinking, he reached for it—hands still trembling—but the moment his fingers closed around the handle, something inside him unclenched. The tremor eased slightly. Like a tether had been caught.
He didn't let go.
Not this time.
Polaris didn't speak for a long time.
Madam Pomfrey moved slowly, returning to her chair at his bedside. She didn't rush him, didn't press. She simply waited until the silence wasn't quite so loud.
At last, Polaris found his voice again. It came out quieter than before, uncertain and cracked.
"You said it was a seizure."
She nodded, folding her hands. "A magical seizure."
"What does that… mean?"
She let out a slow breath. "There are many kinds. Some are triggered by sudden arcane overload—students handling unstable objects, for instance. Others are caused by feedback loops—when magic inside the body reacts violently to external magical fields. That's more common in those with sensitive cores. Magical prodigies, sometimes. Or those with cursed inheritance."
Polaris's fingers twitched.
She went on gently. "But yours was… unusual."
He looked at her sharply. "Unusual how?"
"You collapsed without touching the object in question. There was no spell misfire. No wand activity. And according to Professor McGonagall, you hadn't even raised your hand before it happened."
Polaris said nothing.
"You seized up like your entire system had short-circuited," she said quietly. "And when I tried the usual stabilising charms, your magic resisted me."
His breath caught.
"Only when your wand was returned to you did your aura settle." She gave him a searching look. "That's rare, Mr. Black. Very rare."
Polaris stared at his wand again; at the way it rested so naturally in his palm. "I don't remember anything," he whispered.
Somewhere across the ward, a low sigh broke the silence—a shift of movement, the creak of a distant cot. Polaris turned his head slightly.
Another bed. Another figure.
Andrew Travers. His face was bruised, his arm bandaged to the elbow. He was fast asleep, mouth slightly open, breathing deep and even. A half-curtained divider cast a slant of shadow over him.
Polaris looked away.
Back to his wand. Back to the weight in his chest.
She nodded slowly. "That's common. Magical seizures often come with memory disruption. Fog. Emotional aftershocks. But this wasn't just a seizure, Polaris."
A beat passed.
"What do you mean?"
"I've seen magical convulsions before. Backlash from dark artefacts. Spell poisoning. Even accidental emotional channelling in particularly volatile students." She hesitated. "But your case… felt different. Not darker, necessarily. Just… different."
Polaris's spine stiffened.
Different.
"Magic pulled through you, not just at you," she continued, half to herself. "As if you were reacting to something deeper than presence. I'm really not sure."
Polaris flinched before he could stop himself.
Madam Pomfrey noticed. Her voice softened again. "Have you ever had magical episodes before? At home? Dreams? maybe—visions?"
"No," Polaris said too quickly. "...I don't think so."
She gave him a long look, not pressing, but not entirely convinced either.
"I'll write a report," she said finally, standing with a soft sigh. "But I won't speculate without evidence. I'm more interested in keeping you well than drawing headlines."
Polaris gripped the edge of his blanket. "What if it happens again?"
She turned back to him. "Then you come straight to me. The moment you feel anything wrong. A twinge. A hum. A rise in pressure. Don't second-guess it."
He swallowed. "But if no one knows what it is…"
She tilted her head slightly. "That doesn't mean we can't manage it. Magic is older than memory, Mr Black. There are still pieces of it we don't fully understand. That doesn't make you a danger. It just means you're… tuned differently."
Polaris looked down. That wasn't the word he would've used.
Tuned. No.
Broken, maybe.
The word kept echoing: seizure . A thing that happened to a body. A thing you couldn't stop. A word that meant out of control .
He gripped his wand tighter, knuckles pale.
It had calmed him. Again.
Is it protecting me?
No—that wasn't right. Wands didn't protect. They obeyed. They channelled. But his… his had responded. As if it had recognized something. As if it had known what to do when he didn't.
What did that mean?
His throat tightened.
What if it wasn't protecting me? What if it was shielding everything else from me?
What if the wand was the dam keeping something inside him from spilling out?
His head began to throb again—not like before, not the static weight of collapse, but a sharp, splintered ache right behind the eyes. He tried to breathe through it, but the questions were piling fast.
What did McGonagall see? What did everyone see?
The chairs scraping, the panic, someone shouting his name—he remembered that now. Not the words, but the volume.
He wondered what they were all saying about what happened.
His surname didn't buy him much grace. Black came with assumptions. Shadows. Expectations. He was already on a thinner line than most. They watched his house. Watched his bloodline. He could feel it in the glances—the hesitation behind names, the tilt of professors' heads when they saw his essays as if already knowing what to expect with someone from the House of Black.
He pressed his palm to his chest, grounding himself.
It didn't help.
The weight was still there.
The wrongness .
A soft clearing of the throat drew his attention.
Polaris looked up sharply.
There, just inside the infirmary door, stood Professor Dumbledore. His robes were plum velvet today, embroidered with tiny golden stars that shimmered faintly in the low light. His expression was mild—almost absent—but his eyes were sharp. Very sharp.
"Forgive the intrusion," Dumbledore said, stepping in with measured ease. "Madam Pomfrey allowed me to speak with you, if you're feeling up to it."
Polaris didn't answer. His back had straightened almost unconsciously. The wand beneath his blanket felt like a secret he wasn't ready to share.
Dumbledore didn't press. He conjured a wooden chair with a flick of his fingers—silent, elegant—and sat beside the bed as if settling in for a quiet conversation with an old friend.
"I'm relieved to see you awake," he said gently. "You gave quite a fright to your classmates. To Professor McGonagall. And to me."
Polaris stared ahead, jaw tight. "I didn't mean to," he muttered.
"No. I don't imagine you did." Dumbledore folded his hands. "Magic rarely waits for permission, unfortunately."
That earned him a glance. Polaris didn't want to be flattered. Didn't want to be handled. But Dumbledore's tone was hard to read—there was no mockery, no condescension. Just quiet observation.
Still, Polaris didn't speak.
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly. "May I ask… how you're feeling?"
Polaris hesitated. "Tired," he said at last.
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Understandable. Professor McGonagall and I reviewed what we could, but I must admit—we are left with questions."
Polaris didn't respond, just watched him carefully.
"There was no indication you'd interacted with the object," Dumbledore went on, "and no evidence of spell activity on your part. Your wand wasn't even in hand. There is nothing, in fact, to suggest your collapse was a direct result of the object at all."
He let that sit in the air for a moment, then added, "Your health records—what little exists of them—mention some early signs of magical sensitivity. Overactivity in early childhood. Nothing severe. But still… noted."
Polaris flinched, barely. "So what does that mean?" he asked quietly.
Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "It may mean nothing. Some magical cores are simply more reactive. Especially in adolescence. Especially in the presence of older magic."
Silence again.
Then: "Your wand. It reacted, didn't it?"
Polaris flinched. He hadn't meant to. But the question cut too cleanly.
Dumbledore's gaze didn't waver. "Madam Pomfrey mentioned it. That your aura resisted until the wand was returned to you. That's… highly unusual."
Polaris's fingers curled tighter beneath the blanket. "It's mine," he said sharply.
"Of course," Dumbledore said, calm as still water. "I have no intention of taking it from you."
"But you want to see it," Polaris muttered.
Dumbledore was quiet for a moment. Then, simply: "Yes."
"No." Polaris's voice was firmer now. "It's not a thing to be examined. It's not a cursed object. It's mine . And it's not the wand's fault."
"Nor yours," Dumbledore said gently.
Polaris didn't respond. His shoulders stayed taut.
"I understand," Dumbledore said, with what sounded like real softness. "Possession is a form of identity. And the wand chooses its wizard, after all. Rarely for light reasons."
That pricked at Polaris's nerves.
Dumbledore continued, voice mild: "There are some families, you know, that pass their wands down for generations. Others believe that new wands should be earned by the soul, not the name. I've found… the latter tend to yield better results."
Polaris turned to him fully now, eyes sharp. "Is that a comment on my family?"
Dumbledore blinked, as if surprised. "Not at all."
But the air had shifted.
Polaris could feel it—like a chord struck slightly off. A subtle tension behind the words.
"Because if it was ," he went on, voice rising slightly, "I'd suggest you be more careful with how you say things. I know what people think of my name. I hear it every day. I know what kind of story you'd rather tell. Noble House, tragic fall, corrupted lineage—all of it." His breathing hitched. "But I'm not here to be a cautionary tale."
Dumbledore didn't interrupt. His expression hadn't changed.
"I didn't choose to be born into my family," Polaris said, quieter now. "But I won't let you or anyone else rewrite them into monsters just to make things easier for you."
A pause. Polaris could hear the blood rushing in his ears. They are monster.
Dumbledore finally spoke. His voice was calm, almost disarmingly so.
"I only meant to say," he said, "that names are powerful. But they do not define us. Nor do they protect us. Sometimes, they even mislead."
He smiled—light, wry. "If I have overstepped, I apologize. I meant only to understand."
But Polaris heard the tilt in the words.
Not define.
Not protect.
Sometimes, mislead .
It was polite disapproval dressed as philosophy. A warning wearing the skin of wisdom.
And worst of all— a test .
Polaris's hands had gone clammy again. He looked down, feeling the storm of too many thoughts pressing against his ribs.
Dumbledore stood.
"I won't keep you," he said gently. "Rest. And if you ever feel the need to talk—to ask questions—I will be here."
He turned to go, then paused, hand on the back of the chair.
"Would you like your family to be informed?"
Polaris froze.
The question landed sharper than it had any right to.
"I don't think that will be necessary," he said, too quickly.
Dumbledore's head tilted just slightly. "You're certain?"
Polaris nodded, already looking away. "It was just a seizure. Magical sensitivity, or something like that."
His tone had shifted—flatter now, clinical. Detached.
"Nothing worth worrying about."
Dumbledore didn't argue. He only regarded him for a long, unreadable moment.
"You understand," he said carefully, "that we would normally notify a student's guardians in the case of magical collapse. Particularly if it may happen again."
Polaris didn't hesitate this time. "I said I'm fine."
He didn't raise his voice, but there was an edge beneath it. Not anger. Fear disguised as control.
"I don't need anyone rushing to conclusions. Or reacting. Or—sending letters."
He practically spat the word.
His gaze flicked to the side table where his wand now rested again. He reached out and quietly drew it back into his hand, as if anchoring the moment.
"I'm fine now," he repeated, eyes low. "I just need to rest now."
Dumbledore studied him for a beat longer.
But when he spoke again, his voice was soft. "Very well."
That was all.
No pressure. No insistence.
But Polaris had the distinct feeling that something had been filed away. That his refusal had been noted and tucked into one of Dumbledore's countless drawers of secrets.
The headmaster stepped back toward the door.
"And Polaris," he said again, as though the conversation had never broken, "whatever is happening—whatever this magic becomes—you are not alone in it."
Then he left.
Polaris stared at the place he had been, jaw tight.
He didn't feel reassured.
Polaris lay back slowly, the cot creaking beneath him. He closed his eyes, but his thoughts didn't still.
Not alone, Dumbledore had said. But he didn't feel accompanied.
He wasn't sure when his thoughts began to slip sideways. When the haze crept in again, soft and unrelenting. His body was too tired to keep resisting it.
He didn't mean to fall asleep.
But the silence swallowed him slowly.
— ❈ —
Polaris sat upright, but barely.
His head throbbed with a dull, pulsing ache behind his eyes. Everything felt too bright even though it was late. Too loud, even in silence. The ward's pale light stung at the edges of his vision. He blinked, slow and sluggish, trying to steady his breath.
For a moment, he wasn't sure what time it was—how long it had been. The bed felt too stiff. The blanket too tight. His wand was still clutched loosely in his right hand, fingers stiff around the handle.
Then he noticed the weight.
A head rested near his side—messy black hair tumbling over an arm, slouched awkwardly against the mattress.
Sirius .
He was asleep, face slack, mouth slightly open, snoring softly against the crook of his elbow. One arm hung off the edge of the bed, fingers twitching faintly with each breath.
On the other side, perched in a stiff wooden chair, sat Regulus—hunched over a thick book, his brows drawn low in concentration. His robes were rumpled, and there was a half-eaten chocolate frog beside him on the table, its wrapper torn in neat, precise folds.
He hadn't noticed yet that Polaris was awake.
The sight made something twist in Polaris's chest.
He looked down at Sirius again. His brother's arm was curled loosely near him, not holding on, but close. Close enough.
Regulus stirred slightly. His eyes flicked upward—just a glance at first—then stilled.
A heartbeat passed.
He looked again.
Their gazes met.
Regulus's face didn't change at first.
He closed the book slowly, setting it on the nightstand with deliberate care—like it was something fragile. Then he stood, brushing off his robes as if preparing for battle.
In a voice low and matter-of-fact, he muttered, "Well, it's about time."
He stepped closer to the bed, arms crossed. "You've been out most the day, you know. Pomfrey said you'd wake up when you were ready, but Merlin, I was beginning to think we'd have to start spoon-feeding you broth."
Polaris blinked slowly, eyes half-lidded. He didn't respond. He didn't need to. Regulus was already moving.
He reached out, not awkwardly but with brisk, practiced purpose, and pressed the back of his hand lightly to Polaris's forehead—cool fingers brushing over too-warm skin.
"Still flushed," he muttered, almost to himself. "But not burning. You look like someone hexed you into a painting and forgot to add the colour back."
Polaris didn't pull away.
In fact, he leaned toward the touch, slow and unthinking, until his head dipped slightly to the side—resting just barely against Regulus's hand.
The weight of it startled Regulus for a moment. His fingers twitched, but he didn't move. He just stood there, letting Polaris rest into him like he was something solid. Something safe.
A flicker of something passed over Regulus's face. He didn't name it.
Instead, he clicked his tongue softly.
"You're an idiot," he said.
Polaris still didn't answer. His eyes had slipped halfway shut again, lashes casting shadows against pale cheeks.
Regulus let out a quiet breath through his nose, more relief than anything else. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary—then he pulled it away, gently.
"You're lucky Sirius badgered half the staff or I wouldn't have even known. He made such a scene you'd think he was the one who nearly died."
He gestured vaguely at their brother, still slumped at the edge of the bed, snoring faintly.
Polaris's mouth twitched.
Regulus caught it. Said nothing.
Instead, he reached down, adjusted the blanket around Polaris's shoulders, and muttered, "Sleep more if you need to. I'll make sure no one bothers you."
He sat back in the chair, retrieved his book, and opened it with a flick—like nothing had happened.
But every few seconds, his eyes flicked over the top of the page, just to check that Polaris was still breathing.
Polaris barely registered the blanket being adjusted again.
He was sinking back under, eyelids too heavy to fight.
The warmth of the bed was beginning to pull him down again when he heard it:
A soft, congested snort.
Then Sirius's voice, groggy and a little muffled:
"Is he awake?"
A pause. The sound of a page turning.
"Was," Regulus said flatly. "You missed it."
"What—? Reg , are you serious?"
"I'm Regulus, actually."
"Not the bloody time."
There was a flurry of movement—Sirius straightening in the chair, muttering something about cricked necks and should've woken me up, you git .
"You looked busy drooling on his blanket," Regulus replied smoothly.
"I wasn't drooling, I was resting my eyes —"
"You were snoring."
"You could've nudged me! "
"You'd have woken the whole ward."
"I wouldn't have cared! He woke up , and you let me miss it! "
Polaris might have smiled. He wasn't sure. It didn't quite reach his face. But the sound of their voices—alive, bickering, close—settled something inside him.
The argument kept going in quiet bursts, more grumble than fury.
"You're impossible."
"And you're dramatic."
"Say that again and I swear—"
"Go ahead. Wake him. See what Madam Pomfrey does to you."
"…fair point."
Silence. Then, more softly:
"Did he say anything?"
Regulus didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was low.
"No."
Polaris heard the chair creak as someone sat again—probably Sirius.
He felt safe between them.
The words faded.
So did the light.
Polaris exhaled once through his nose, quietly.
And then he slept.
Across the ward, Andrew sat hunched in bed, knees drawn up beneath the blankets, a book balanced against them. His face was still bruised, one eye faintly swollen, but his gaze was sharp—clear despite the low light.
He hadn't said a word. Hadn't moved since the brothers started arguing. But he was watching.
Not obviously. Not with any softness.
His mouth was set in a line, eyes flicking between Regulus and Sirius with something unreadable—tight and brittle, like a thought chewed raw at the edges.
There was something in it— resentment , maybe. Or longing , twisted into a shape that looked safer to carry.
He didn't sleep long.
By the time the castle had fully sunk into silence — the kind that felt padded — Polaris had risen, pulled his shoes back on, and slipped out of the ward without a sound. The nurses hadn't stopped him. He wasn't sure they even saw him leave.
When he finally pushed open the Ravenclaw common room door, the riddle barely registered.
He answered it on reflex.
Something about constellations.
Inside, the room wasn't quite empty.
The hearth still burned low — casting amber light across the floor in soft, slow-moving patterns. And there, scattered around the armchairs and steps, were five or six first-years in various states of being nosy, worried, and pretending not to be either.
They looked up when he entered.
Sylvan was sitting on the window ledge, of course. Senna had claimed the best chair with a blanket tucked over her knees and a book open but clearly forgotten in her lap. Gilderoy was curled up nearby in what appeared to be a self-imagined vigil, though he immediately sat up straighter when Polaris appeared, hair flipping like a hero in a painting.
Elias raised his head from where he was half-dozing on a rolled-up jumper. "You're not supposed to be out of bed."
Polaris stepped fully into the light. He looked fine. A little pale maybe, but nothing like earlier.
No one said anything for a beat.
Then—
"Did you die?" Gilderoy blurted, clearly unsure of the appropriate tone. "Because if you did, and came back, I'd quite like to borrow that talent for my autobiography."
"Shut up, Lockhart," Senna said without even looking at him.
Sylvan slid down from the window and crossed the room, arms folded, his expression unreadable — but his eyes were sharper than usual. Not dramatic, just... watching . "You okay?"
Polaris looked at him.
Then Senna.
Then the others — Elias blinking blearily, Gilderoy still looking like this was all terribly thrilling.
"I'm fine," Polaris said finally.
It was too neat. Too practiced.
Senna closed her book with a soft snap . "That's not what Madam Pomfrey said. She wouldn't even allow us to see you."
"I'm fine, I left after all," Polaris replied, like that explained everything.
Sylvan frowned. "You left? You were seizing , mate. You don't just walk off from that."
"Apparently I do."
That hung there — flat, distant, tired.
No one quite knew what to do with it.
Senna rose slowly from the chair and crossed to him. She didn't touch him. Just stood close enough that he could feel the weight of her presence.
"You don't have to pretend," she said. "We saw it happen."
Polaris's mouth pulled into a line. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Then don't," Sylvan said, arms still crossed. "But don't expect us not to care, either. You scared the absolute hell out of us."
Senna's eyes flicked over him again — thoughtful, careful. "It's not about being fine. It's about being here ."
That almost did it.
Polaris looked away, toward the hearth, where the fire still flickered soft and slow.
"I just wanted to sleep in my own bed," he muttered.
Senna gave a soft hum. "You can do that. Just… don't scare us next time, alright?"
Polaris nodded once.
It wasn't much. But it was honest.
Sylvan glanced at the clock. "Well. You're five minutes into curfew, technically."
"I won't tell if you won't," Polaris murmured.
Senna offered him a corner of her blanket wordlessly — not an invitation, but an allowance.
Polaris didn't take it. But he sat down beside her anyway.
No one said much after that.
The common room softened around them.
Some of the others drifted off to their dorms. Gilderoy made a loud show of "standing guard" before promptly falling asleep on a cushion. Elias tucked himself under a blanket and muttered something about not setting alarms. Sylvan and Senna stayed a little longer — not talking, not hovering, just being — and Polaris, sitting on the edge of the hearth, let himself watch the flames until the tension in his spine eased just slightly.
Eventually, he climbed the stairs. He didn't sleep much. But it was better than nothing.
The next morning, the castle was still rubbing sleep from its eyes.
A group of second-years passed the spiral staircase humming some off-key version of the Hogwarts school song. A suit of armour groaned theatrically when a girl knocked into it. The hallway outside the Ravenclaw entrance was flooded with pale gold light, soft enough that it didn't quite feel like day yet — just the idea of one.
And in that light stood three very different boys — already mid-chaos.
"I still don't get why you're here," Corvus muttered, one arm looped under a sleek black cat whose tail flicked with regal indifference. "Did Smyth send you to do recon? Or is this part of your personal redemption arc?"
Nate leaned against the stone column like someone who genuinely didn't notice the chill. "I'm here for Polaris."
Corvus's smile was sharp and thin. "Of course you are."
On Corvus's shoulder, Loki blinked once, slow and deliberate — feline judgment made flesh.
Bastian sat on the step just below them, slouched and silent, his chin resting in one hand. He glanced at Corvus, then at Nate, and didn't bother commenting. He hadn't said a full sentence since arriving.
Nate either didn't notice the frost or chose to ignore it. "He said he didn't like hospital food," he added casually. "Thought maybe breakfast would be better motivation."
"And so you rose before the sun," Corvus said flatly, "to fulfil your sacred quest."
"I didn't realize showing up made you this bitter."
"I'm not bitter," Corvus said. "I'm discerning."
Nate raised an eyebrow. "Right. That's what we're calling it."
Bastian made a faint sound — something between a sigh and a groan. "You two gonna kiss or duel?"
Corvus gave him a look. "Don't encourage him."
"I'm not. I'm just tired."
Nate ignored them both, eyes drifting toward the still-closed Ravenclaw door. "You think he's okay?"
"He walked himself back from the Hospital Wing," Corvus said. "He's more than okay. He's practically indestructible, just a little bit stupid about it."
"Sounds like someone we know," Bastian muttered without looking up.
At that moment, the bronze eagle gave a low clunk . The door creaked open.
Polaris stepped out.
His robe collar was skewed, one sleeve buttoned and the other rolled, and his hair was doing something that probably had its own gravitational pull. He looked like someone who hadn't decided whether the morning was real yet.
The three boys looked up in sync. Loki perked up and immediately leapt from Corvus's arms to saunter over and wind around Polaris's ankles like this was his real owner and everyone else had just been babysitting.
Polaris stared down at the cat. Then up at the three very different expressions. Corvus rather stiff, Nate stared wide eyed as if he thought Polaris had come back from the dead. Bastian looked like he was struggling to stay awake.
Polaris blinked once. "...Is this an intervention?"
"No," Corvus said. "This is a gathering of forces . I brought the emotional support cat. He brought the optimism. Bastian brought the attitude."
"I brought myself," Bastian said.
"See? Effort."
Nate stepped forward and handed Polaris a folded scrap of parchment. "Treacle tart is still on the board. I told the elves you were undernourished and emotionally traumatized."
Polaris took the paper slowly. "That's not inaccurate."
"I know," Nate said, all too pleased.
Corvus rolled his eyes, but his heart wasn't in it. His posture was just a little too tight, his jaw just a little too still. He hadn't said anything about the day before — not directly — but Polaris could feel the weight of it, the kind that doesn't settle until you're certain someone's still breathing.
Rumours had circled fast. Corvus had caught whispers from every corner of the castle — some said Polaris had fainted in the middle of a corridor when it was during class, others swore he'd had a fit, that he was unconscious for hours, that he wasn't waking up, that he was in a coma. One first-year insisted he saw Madam Pomfrey crying, which was clearly a lie, but the kind Corvus couldn't shake.
And the worst part?
He hadn't been allowed to see him.
Not until now.
So Corvus didn't say any of that. He didn't ask what happened. He didn't demand answers or details or explanations. Instead, he just looked Polaris up and down like he was taking inventory — pale, tired, a little crumpled, but undeniably alive .
And then, without warning, Corvus stepped forward and threw his arms around him.
It wasn't elegant.
It wasn't even that long.
But it was real.
Just a tight squeeze — one second of solid contact, arms wrapped around Polaris like he was anchoring something back into place — and then Corvus was pulling away again just as fast, already turning on his heel.
"No one say anything," he muttered, brushing off his sleeves like the hug had been a temporary possession. "Let's just get to breakfast before anyone gets emotional and Sayre tries to write us a song about it."
Nate opened his mouth — probably to offer to write a song — but Bastian gave him a look that said "no" more efficiently than words ever could.
They started walking toward the Great Hall, Loki trailing after them with the casual elegance of someone who knew the corridor belonged to him now.
Polaris fell into step beside Corvus.
He didn't say anything right away.
Then, softly, and only for Corvus: "I'm perfectly fine, you know."
Corvus snorted, still staring straight ahead. "Apparently you looked perfectly dead yesterday."
"Well. That's just dramatic."
"You collapsed."
"It was a minor incident."
"You had a seizure, Rye."
Polaris was quiet for a second. Then — almost cheekily — he slung one arm around Corvus's shoulders and leaned on him just enough to be annoying. "And yet here I am. Bright-eyed. Bushy-tailed. Cat-adjacent."
Corvus huffed. "You're annoying sometimes."
"But alive."
"Barely."
Polaris grinned faintly. "Thanks for showing up."
Corvus didn't answer right away. Then, just as softly: "Always."