[9,097 Words]
The Chronologus Entry — October 21st, 1975, Tuesday
written in slanted, scratchy ink with a few words half-blotted out and rewritten tighter beside them.
It's only been a few days since I last wrote.
Strange. I used to write every day at home. Like clockwork.
Here, I lose track of time. Not because I'm happy, exactly—just… the hours run together. Maybe it's the castle. Maybe it's me. Either way, I try to keep writing.
Not just to remember.
To understand.
When I'm older—when I've done something worth remembering—I want to look back and know who I was before I became whoever I turn into.
And if I'm going to be honest about that—really honest—I have to write about this, too.
I had a seizure. Or, well, Madam Pomfrey called it that. I didn't know what was happening. One second I was—
I don't even know.
There's just this blank space in my head like something was scooped out. Apparently, that's normal in these kinds of episodes.
My head felt like it had been split open from the inside. My limbs ached like I'd been thrown around. Breathing didn't feel right, like my lungs had forgotten how.
You know what I think scares me?
Not the seizure. Not even the pain.
Just… the missing time. The not-knowing.
I always thought I wasn't afraid of death. That I'd made peace with it—somehow. Like I'd already met the worst of the world and didn't care what came next.
But every time I think about it now, I hear her voice.
"Do you know what they're going to do?"
"They'll put her in a box—tight and dark and velvet-lined like a gift nobody wants to open."
"She's rotting. That's what death does."
Those are the memories I have of the day I said goodbye to Aunt Cassie. And the words Bellatrix whispered — the ones that never left.
She said Aunt Cassie would burst. That worms would crawl through her eyes. That the softest parts would go first.
I don't want to be a garden for maggots.
I want to live so long I forget dying exists.
Maybe I am scared of dying.
I tell myself I'm not scared. That Blacks aren't scared. That fear is shameful and useless and unbecoming.
But the truth is—
I'm more scared of forgetting who I am— of something inside me breaking and not even knowing how or when or why.
Something's wrong. I know it. And not knowing what it is—that's the worst part. There's something different in me. Something fractured, or faulty, or off . I don't want my family to find out. I can't be the broken one. I already know how they'd look at me. I already know what they'd say.
They don't accept "wrong" things.
And now people won't stop looking . Like I'm a riddle they want to solve, or worse, like I'm contagious. Hogwarts students are the nosiest bloody bunch I've ever met.
But not everyone treated it like a drama.
Some people just said, "Alright, Polaris?" and left it at that.
Those are the ones I trust. The ones who didn't make it about themselves.
Lian hugged me, strangely enough. I can't remember the last time I hugged someone before that, though at least I do now.
As in Corvus Aurelian Avery as you very well know.
Quick. Two-arms. Acted like it didn't happen a second later but it did.
I think he was scared. I don't blame him. Rumours were ridiculous, and Corvus is... well, he's sensitive about death. No one talks about it, but I know. He doesn't remember much about his parents. Only two years old when it happened, but he dreams about it. Wakes up soaked in sweat some nights. I've heard him. Doesn't talk about it. Won't. But I know.
And I think hearing that I collapsed made something crack open again. Even if he'd never admit it.
Let's take a breather.
Well—I'm taking the breather.
I don't know how long I left you half-written like that. But I'm back now.
You're a journal. You don't feel time pass. Lucky you.
Let's talk about something normal for a little while. Something not terrifying.
Yesterday was the first match of the year—Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.
I sat with the Slytherins. Most of my friends are there, and… why not. Nate was over with the Gryffindors, obviously. He kept trying to catch my eye from across the stands like we were supposed to wave or something. I only waved once.
Potter—Aurelia, not James—didn't wear any house colours. Not red, not green. Just grey and black and her usual face that says she doesn't owe anyone anything. Maybe she didn't know who to cheer for. Her brother plays Chaser for Gryffindor, and everyone thought she'd be one too, a Gryffindor. Maybe she still feels like a stranger in Slytherin. I don't know. I don't want to assume.
But I noticed.
I didn't wear colours either. Not because I didn't care, but because I couldn't. Not with Ris playing Chaser for Gryffindor and Reg playing Seeker for Slytherin. The last thing I need is someone accusing me of picking sides. Not when I've already spent years trying not to be pulled in two directions.
Wearing red would've felt like betrayal. Wearing green, worse. So I wore nothing. Neutral. Uninvolved in a way.
Slytherin won. Reg caught the Snitch—of course he did. He looked straight ahead when he landed, all the Slytherin players surrounded him that it was hard to get a good look. He never plays to win—he plays to dominate he likes to say.
Ris tried to laugh it off. Shoved someone's shoulder, made a loud joke, acted like it didn't matter. But I know him. His grin didn't reach his eyes. His laugh was too sharp. He didn't like losing—and he definitely didn't like losing yesterday .
Sometimes I wonder what it would've been like—if they were on the same team. If we all were. If there was a side, I could stand on without feeling like I was standing against someone else.
But there isn't.
Not for me.
Sometimes I think about what it'd be like to play for a real team. Not just school, but proper Quidditch—professional. Maybe a Seeker, maybe a Chaser. I'm not sure yet, though Chaser is my favourite position.
My favourite player's Eden Bellwether from Puddlemere United. No one flies like her. Everyone talks about her feints and goal count and all that—sure, fine—but it's the way she moves that stays with you. She glides. Like she's flying a thought before it even forms.
The others make noise. Bellwether says things with her broom.
I remember watching a match last year where she didn't even score once, but the other team couldn't touch her. She kept drawing them out of formation—pulling them this way and that, weaving space for the others. Made the whole game look effortless.
That's what I want, I think. Not just to be good . To make it look like I belong up there . To do something that silences people—makes them stop seeing a Black and start seeing me .
Just a thought really, probably unrealistic.
Anyway.
This might sound ridiculous, but I swear I'm not lying but my wand, it hums. Well hum sounds odd I don't know how else to describe it, the feeling of it just changes at times.
When the headache starts, it hums. When the sounds come—those awful not-whispers , overlapping like water in my ears—it grounds me. It pulls me back. It's like it's protecting me.
It pointed toward the Restricted Section. I saw it, which probably sounds like another lie but it's not.
It wanted something in there. The Grey Lady told me to stay away from lost things. She warned me about the Room. But the wand knows. Whatever she meant—it's in the library.
And the wand itself—Ollivander said it was made for one person. Emeric Vass. Not chosen for. Made for. Custom commission. And yet it didn't choose anyone else. Not until me.
That means something. Doesn't it?
Did Vass go through this too? Did he get the whispers? The headaches? Did he pass out in corridors and wake up with questions no one could answer? Did he chase something into madness—or worse?
"Where the ink has faded, but the magic has not."
"He wrote of a presence the world had not yet named."
Did he name it?
Did he understand it before it took him?
What was he chasing?
What am I chasing?
It feels like my head is too full. Like life's suddenly five sizes too big and I'm trying to wear it anyway. Like I'm running but I don't know where. I just need to know .
I need to know.
The only time I managed to get into the Restricted Section lately was technically for research. For the mock trial. You know—academic integrity, legal precedent, blah blah. I'm prosecuting Vivienne Lowley (A half-blood Gryffindor), and she's actually good. Her arguments were sharper than mine in the practice round, though I'd never say that aloud.
But let's be honest: I didn't step foot in there for the trial. Not really.
I used the assignment as an excuse.
What I actually did was spend three whole days in the shadows of that cursed section, crouched on the floor like a pleb , watching my wand. Waiting for it to do something.
Looking around wasn't exactly easy.
I got special permission to access the Restricted Section — limited, of course. I had to list exactly what I needed and why, and Madam Pince made sure to remind me (twice) that it was a temporary academic privilege , not a personal invitation to rummage. She's the kind of person who probably dreams of alphabetising people's thoughts.
So, I had Corvus distract her. Something loud and obnoxious involving a returned copy of Magical Mishaps and Mayhem, Volume II and a very theatrical claim that it had hexed his fingers. She hates him, which helped. He called it a "noble sacrifice for the pursuit of forbidden knowledge," though I'm fairly sure he just wanted to mess with her.
Outside the Restricted Section, it tugged toward it like a compass. Purposeful . Certain. I thought this is it. This is where I'll find what the Grey Lady warned me about, what my wand is guarding me from.
But inside?
Nothing.
No pull. No hum. No flicker. Just me, looking like a pleb , holding my wand over ancient books and breathing like I was trying to hear a ghost whisper a password.
It was maddening.
I haven't actually done any real research for the trial. Haven't written more than a paragraph of the final draft.
But everyone thinks I'm falling behind because of the seizure.
Hector gave me that look again—the one where he tilts his head like I'm an injured kitten, all "just trying to help" as he shoves a dozen tips down my throat.
My draft wasn't lacking because I collapsed. It was lacking because I was chasing something else.
Something important.
But in the real trial, I'll prove them wrong.
I'm not something to pity.
I'm not a weakness to coddle.
And Vivienne will regret ever thinking "for" was the safer stance.
Just wait.
—The Defective One
October 22nd, 1975, Wednesda y
Polaris moved quietly between the stacks, his wand resting along the inside of his palm — not out, not raised. Just there. Always there. The wood had become an unconscious extension of his fingers now, like a breath he didn't have to think about.
It didn't thrum or pulse, not yet — not the way it sometimes did when he was near something important . But something in him knew to keep walking.
He passed shelves stacked with brittle parchment scrolls sealed in glass tubes, titles faded from long neglect. He paused by a cabinet with a dragon-hide binding charm stitched into its locks. Still nothing.
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
Wandering these shelves like something was supposed to leap out at him — a book, a page, a sign. The wand would twitch, or pull, or do something ... and then it wouldn't. Just silence. Just shelves.
He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shallow.
He didn't want to go back empty-handed. Not again.
Not when something in him still insisted he was close.
Then he turned, almost idly, toward a squat, unremarkable shelf tucked into a dim corner — books stuffed in too tightly, all thin spines and peeling edges.
His wand twitched.
Polaris froze.
Then nothing.
His gaze narrowed. He took a slow step backward, more a shift in weight than movement.
The wand gave another subtle pull.
There.
He whipped his head to the left — to the shelf he'd nearly passed without thinking. His brow furrowed. Nothing special stood out. Titles like Magical Damages: A Legal Codex and Lingering Charms and Lingering Consequences gathered dust in neat, narrow fonts.
Still holding his wand steady, Polaris lifted it slightly and moved it along the spines.
The reaction was immediate. It wasn't a pull, not this time — it felt different. A soft thrum of recognition between wand and wood, like the hush before music begins.
He hesitated. Felt foolish.
Then, slowly, he slid a finger under the spine of a slim, dust-veiled book nearly lost between two thicker tomes. It offered no resistance, but it was heavier than it looked.
Field Anomalies and Spell Residue
Department of Mysteries (Classified Archive Copy – Not for Circulation)
Polaris blinked at it.
It looked... bureaucratic. Something easy to forget seeing as it seemed no one had touch it in a long while. Was this really what he has been looking for this whole time?
He flipped it open.
Dry. Predictable. Section headings in small, blocky Ministry script. Diagrams of magical field curvature. Lists of obsolete procedures.
He almost closed it.
Then—his wand vibrated.
Gently. But enough that he felt it — not just as a physical tremor, but as something deeper. Emotional. Magical.
Instinctively, Polaris tapped the open page with the tip of his wand.
And watched.
Across the parchment, something stirred . Faded black lines bled faintly to the surface — not ink, but something deeper, something embedded . The page shimmered faintly, and in its wake, lines began to form — annotations, diagrams, jagged script interlaced with Elder Futhark and delicate, spiralling marks drawn not in ink, but etched in residue magic.
He touched a note near the margin. The letters flexed as if breathing, then stilled.
It wasn't ordinary writing.
The marginalia hadn't been inked — they'd been embedded , hidden beneath the surface like something sealed. And somehow, his wand had drawn them out.
Not just because it was magical. Because it matched something. The wood, the magic, the shape of intent.
On the bottom edge of one of the notes — etched so faintly it might've been mistaken for a scratch — was an initial.
E.V
Emeric Vass, was the name Polaris thought when he saw the initials.
He stared at the notes, heart ticking louder in his chest.
These weren't ordinary annotations. They hadn't been written, not really. They were sealed somehow — buried under the surface of the parchment, hidden until they were drawn out. And his wand had done that. Just by touching the page.
But how?
What kind of spell let you hide writing like that — not just invisibly , but intentionally , like it had been waiting for a very specific response?
Some kind of trigger charm? Or a password spell? No — he hadn't said anything aloud.
So, It was just the wand?
His wand — Vass's wand — had reacted instantly. No hesitation. No effort. Just touch , and the ink had surfaced like it remembered who had held it before.
What kind of spell did that?
Memory magic? But not in the usual way — not a memory to see , but something passed on. A thought. A message.
Each marked page bore the same strange symbol — a spiral eclipse, small and sharp, drawn with an obsessive precision that made it feel ritualistic.
But the last part was different.
It was... full . Drenched in ink and meaning. Sentences spilled across the parchment at odd, jarring angles — some crooked along the margins, others running straight through the printed text like they didn't care it was there. Symbols had been pressed so deeply into the page, they looked scorched into the fibers — not written, but burned in .
Ancient runes — Elder Futhark, mostly — threaded through the lines like veins of something older. Interwoven with them were numbers. Grids. Cross-references. Entire segments looked like codes inside codes, layered and tangled.
It didn't read like English. Or Latin. Or anything whole.
It looked like something broken on purpose.
Polaris leaned in, eyes scanning, trying to anchor himself in even one phrase — one word he could latch onto. But it was all shifting beneath him, like trying to hold mist in his hands. A cipher, clearly. But one made of thoughts and echoes, not logic.
His gaze drifted to the corner.
There, half-hidden in the chaos, the spiral eclipse returned — smaller this time. More intimate. Pressed beside a cluster of glyphs that looked less like a language and more like a whisper someone had turned into shape.
His wand pulsed.
He swallowed, barely aware of the tension in his body — shoulders locked, back rigid, fingers clenched too tightly around the spine of the book.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there. Time felt slow and thin, like the world outside the page had narrowed into silence.
His lashes fluttered once. Then, slowly, he looked up.
His heart was still thudding, too fast, too loud.
He had what he came for.
Sort of.
And now... he had a trial to win.
By the time Polaris emerged from the Restricted Section, the books cradled carefully in his arms, Corvus had Madam Pince thoroughly occupied in a passionate debate about the inherent legal ambiguity in bans on dragonblood-based ink.
"Technically, Madam, the legislation only applies to active trade, not to private possession—"
"The ink is illegal , Mr. Avery," she snapped, slamming a returns ledger shut with a crack that made a second-year nearby jump. "And I highly doubt your so-called 'charcoal spill' had nothing to do with that scorch mark in Ancient Legal Frameworks, Vol. III ."
Polaris slipped in behind them.
"Excuse me."
Madam Pince turned, narrowed her eyes at the stack in his hands. Her eyes narrowed further, then widened a fraction.
"Well," she said, reaching for the books. "Looks like you've finally found something worth your academic privileges. I was beginning to think you were only here for the ambiance."
Polaris gave her his most innocent, wide-eyed blink. "Just took some digging." he placed the books on the desk.
She muttered something under her breath as she began inspecting the covers. She flicked her wand, summoning each book to hover in midair while she read their spines.
Flipping to the cataloguing stamps inside each one.
"Wand Conduct and Legal Boundaries."
"Inherited Artefacts: Law and Liability."
"Judicial Theory in the Pre-Grindelwald Era."
Then—
"Field Anomalies and Spell Residue."
She paused. Her gaze flicked to him, sharp as cut glass.
"This one's... rather obscure," she said, tapping the last book with her wand. "Department of Mysteries volume. Not on the standard syllabus."
Polaris nodded. "Yes, but it references the identification of residual magic in heirlooms and cursed artefacts. Could help contextualize how objects affect behaviour and perception. I thought it might strengthen my position."
A pause.
"The topic," he added, "is whether students with known cursed objects in their lineage should be required to report them to the school."
"Hm."
Madam Pince made a sound halfway between disapproval and begrudging interest.
She waved her wand across the books, sealing the borrowing record with a faint silver glow.
"Well. If it helps you make a more informed argument," she said, sliding the stack back to him, "I suppose I'll allow it. But do try not to get lost in theories above your level, Mr. Black. This isn't the Department of Mysteries."
"No, ma'am," he said, slipping the books into his satchel.
Corvus appeared beside him just in time to mutter under his breath, "She says that as if you're not one."
Polaris didn't answer — but not because he didn't want to. Corvus ploughed on without waiting.
"I swear to Merlin, if I see another bookshelf, I might combust," he grumbled, rubbing at his eyes. "Do you have any idea how many hours of my life you've stolen with this little scavenger hunt? Three days. Three. I've spent more time in this cursed library than I have in the common room."
He looked vaguely affronted, like the very air smelled of parchment and decay.
"At least now I can brag that I've been to the library three days in a row. Do you think that gets me a Prefect badge? A medal? Maybe an exorcism?"
Still no reply.
Corvus's gaze flicked toward Polaris's satchel. "So… did you finally find what you've been looking for?"
Polaris hesitated.
He had. The wand had reacted. The book had answered. Something inside it had seen him. It wasn't just spell residue — it was memory, encrypted in runes and numbers and whatever language Vass had left behind.
But none of it was in English.
He'd turned the final page over and over again and still couldn't read a word.
Not yet.
"Sort of," Polaris said finally, too vaguely.
Corvus narrowed his eyes.
Polaris adjusted the weight of his bag. "It's not in any normal language," he admitted. "It's… layered. Ciphered. I think it's some combination of runes and substitution code. Elder Futhark mixed with… something."
"And you can read it?"
"No," Polaris said flatly. "Not yet."
Corvus made a noise somewhere between a snort and a groan.
"Well, that's promising."
"I have to return it," Polaris said, ignoring him. "Pince won't let me keep it for long. I'll need to copy the marginalia. All of it. Every line."
He didn't say what he was really thinking — that the notes seemed alive , reactive, almost like they were watching him. That every time he blinked, he saw the spiral eclipse symbol etched behind his eyes. That the closer he got to understanding it, the further away it seemed.
But he would copy it. He had to. Because whatever this was — whatever Vass had buried in the margins — it wasn't just theory.
"I'll have to look at it tomorrow," Polaris muttered, almost to himself.
Corvus tilted his head. "What, the ciphered riddle book of doom? Thought you were obsessed."
"I'm not obsessed , I'm just invested ," Polaris replied. "But the mock trial's tomorrow, and I haven't finished the final draft. If I don't polish it tonight, Hector might actually cry. Or worse— tutor me."
Corvus made a face like he'd just bitten into something cursed.
They started walking, falling into their usual side-by-side pace as the echo of their footsteps trailed behind them.
After a beat, Polaris asked, too casually, "You coming tomorrow?"
It took Corvus a second to respond.
"To what? The mock trial?"
Polaris nodded once.
Corvus looked at him like he'd just suggested they attend a six-hour lecture on goblin tax reform.
"You do remember I have a pulse, right?"
Polaris snorted. "I'm against Vivienne Lowley."
Corvus raised a brow, considering. "Hmm. So, potential sabotage. Public humiliation. Maybe a dramatic wand snap. That's something."
Polaris glanced at him sidelong. "So you're coming?"
Corvus sighed, shoulders slumping like it was a tremendous burden. "Well, Bastian already said he was going, didn't he? And someone's got to be there in case you faint mid-sentence and need to be dragged off stage."
"I'm not going to faint."
"Good. Then I won't have to carry you." He paused. "I'll bring snacks. Something loud and crunchy to show support."
Polaris rolled his eyes; he couldn't stop the smile.
"Just try not to get banned from the audience."
"No promises."
Polaris huffed, the smile lingered a second longer than usual.
By the time he made it back to the dormitory, most of the castle had folded itself into night.
Upstairs, their room was dim. The soft rustle of parchment and the quiet scratch of quills filled the space like background hum. Charlie was curled in bed with a book open on his chest, already half-asleep. Elias sat on the floor with his legs stretched out, writing an essay without bothering to use his desk. Felix and Rafiq were still downstairs, probably arguing about chess or wand motion again.
Polaris sat.
He pulled the debate materials toward him; the motion statement scrawled at the top in Hector's handwriting.
Should students with known cursed objects in their lineage report them to the school?
He read it once, then again — slower.
His fingers curled around the quill.
He didn't start writing immediately. He just stared, brow low, lips pressed thin. The silence wasn't peaceful. It was pressurized — like something waiting to detonate just beneath his ribs.
Then, in a quiet, sharp stroke, he began.
Line by line, thought by thought, he built the structure. Not rushed. Not messy. Precise . Paragraphs stacked like brickwork; every sentence sharpened to a point. This wasn't just argument — it was proof . Proof that he was capable. That his mind wasn't slipping. That he was still himself.
The candle beside him burned low.
He didn't notice.
The discovery in the Restricted Section haunted the edges of his thoughts — the ciphered page, the spiral eclipse, the way his wand had known . But there was no room to unravel it now. Not yet.
So, he turned the need to understand into something he could control words on a page. Logic. Rhetoric. Fire aimed carefully.
There were notes in the margins — side arguments, potential rebuttals, half-phrases he might throw in if Vivienne tried to back him into a corner. He wasn't just preparing to defend his stance — he was preparing to dismantle hers.
And beneath it all, between the ink lines and careful spacing, lay the unspoken thing:
He would not be the boy people whispered about in corridors.
He would not be pitied.
He would win .
October 23rd, 1975, Thursday
Most of the front rows were already filled with students — some murmuring predictions, others just there for the drama. Polaris's eyes scanned quickly for familiar faces, and spotted Bastian first, waving him over. He made his way up the narrow steps and slid into the empty seat beside him.
Bastian leaned in slightly. "You're on after this one."
Polaris gave a single nod, then sat back and folded his arms, trying to settle. Corvus was on Bastian's other side, slouched deep in his chair with a look of theatrical boredom. "We saved you a seat," he said dryly, "since you're apparently famous now."
Polaris didn't dignify it with a reply.
Then, from the corner of his eye, Polaris noticed someone sliding into the seat beside him—on his left, near the edge of the bench. He turned slightly and blinked.
Nate?
"Hey," Nate whispered, grinning. "Will dragged me here. Said we had to 'support the cause.'"
He gestured vaguely to where Willow had taken her seat at the very end of the row, legs swinging off the edge like she owned the place. She didn't spare Polaris nor the Slytherins with a glance. If anything, she looked rather sour about sitting there in that row.
Right. Aurelia was debating. That made sense.
He turned back to the centre of the room, finally letting himself look.
Aurelia stood at the right podium, wand in hand but held like a pointer, not a weapon. Her expression was calm, focused. Her hair was tied back in a high twist, no curls falling in her face this time. Her posture was impeccable — like she belonged there. Opposite her stood a Hufflepuff girl with a tight grip on her notes and a lot of energy. Too much, maybe.
Polaris hadn't expected much.
He wasn't even sure why.
Maybe it was how Aurelia usually acted — cool, a little smug, the sort of person who treated wit like currency. But now, watching her speak, he felt something shift.
She didn't just argue her point.
She owned it.
Her tone was confident but measured, her points well-structured, each one stacking neatly atop the last like clockwork logic. She didn't rush. She didn't hedge. And she never once looked flustered, even when the Hufflepuff girl tried to interrupt or wave her parchment around for emphasis.
Aurelia simply waited. Let her opponent hang herself with words. Then countered.
Polaris found himself sitting straighter. He didn't want to be impressed — but he was.
She didn't just sound like she belonged here.
She commanded it.
He glanced at his notes in his lap. The paper felt heavier than before.
The knot in his stomach pulled tighter.
It wasn't jealousy. Not exactly.
It was pressure.
Because next , it would be him standing there — in that same circle of silence, beneath the same hundred watching eyes.
And there would be no margin for error.
Aurelia was wrapping up now.
Her final rebuttal was calm but precise, clipped in a way that made even the fidgeting students in the back straighten up. Her voice carried without needing to rise — every syllable crisp, every word chosen.
"—but portrait memory is not identity. Magical simulations, no matter how refined, are not autonomous minds. We honour the dead by preserving memory, not by pretending it still thinks for itself. To give legal standing to echoes is not just impractical — it's dangerous."
She paused, just long enough to let the silence expand around the room like a held breath.
Then, like a quiet blade:
"Stories are not signatures."
With that, she stepped back from the podium, wand lowering to her side. The bell chimed, soft and final.
Polite applause followed — a few scattered cheers, some murmured reactions, the rustle of students shifting in their seats. The girl Aurelia had debated looked exhausted, though not defeated.
The Q&A portion followed — a brief, sharp exchange as one of the judges posed a question about magical legacy intent and enchanted loopholes. Aurelia answered cleanly. The other girl fumbled slightly but recovered enough to avoid outright embarrassment.
Then came closing summaries. Both sides offered brief final remarks, though the contrast remained stark.
And just like that, it was over.
Aurelia gave a curt nod to the panel, then stepped down without a backward glance.
There was a five-minute recess as the next debaters were called. The audience shifted—stretching limbs, murmuring over their parchment notes, speculating on how controversial the next round would be.
Polaris didn't hear most of it.
He stood already at one of the twin podiums, spine straight, notes held loosely in one hand. The circle of enchanted runes that marked the speaker's floor buzzed faintly beneath his shoes—like the air itself was waiting.
Across from him stood Vivienne Lowley, poised and narrow-eyed, her expression unreadable behind her polished smile. She was tall for their age, with pin-straight Black hair and the bearing of someone who expected to win—because losing wasn't a concept she'd ever had to consider.
The High Council sat in a curved arc behind the judges' bench, elevated slightly above the floor. They did not speak, but their presence was unmistakable. Zion Daramola lounged with an easy grace, legs crossed, his golden-rimmed glasses catching the light. Sabine Lay had her chin resting on one hand, gaze razor-sharp, as if she were already mapping the logic tree of the arguments to come. Caelan Mulciber looked bored, but Polaris didn't trust it. And Cassandra Rowley sat at the centre, wand resting horizontally across her knees like a sceptre.
Then the bell rang.
A soft chime. The audience hushed.
Cassandra's voice carried clear across the chamber. "This round's topic: Should students with known cursed objects in their lineage be required to report them to the school? Arguing for the motion: Vivienne Lowley, Gryffindor. Arguing against: Polaris Black, Ravenclaw."
Another pause. "Opening statements—begin."
Vivienne went first.
Her voice was even and calm.
"This is not about surveillance. It is about safety. Hogwarts is a magical institution tasked with the education and protection of every student within its walls. That protection cannot be upheld if the school is unaware of threats embedded in students' belongings—or bloodlines."
She glanced toward the Council.
"Cursed objects have long histories of lying dormant. A necklace here. A ring there. We know the tales—Borgin and Burkes is practically a graveyard of forgotten tragedies. Inheritance is not innocence."
A murmur stirred in the crowd.
Vivienne didn't smile, but her chin lifted slightly.
"I'm not suggesting punishment. I'm suggesting awareness. A simple policy: transparency in cases where an object's lineage includes proven malediction. Not rumour. Not gossip. Just fact. If we can track illness, we can track danger. And we must."
The bell rang again.
Cassandra nodded. "Thank you. Mr. Black—your opening."
Polaris stepped forward.
He did not speak immediately.
Instead, he let the silence stretch just long enough to make the front row lean forward. Then, calmly:
"This debate presumes a simple question: safety or secrecy."
His tone was quiet, but it cut through the room like a silver thread.
"But I would argue the premise itself is flawed. This is not a debate about curses. It is a debate about control. About who decides what danger looks like. And how quickly fear becomes policy."
He lifted his eyes toward the Council. Sabine met his gaze, expression unreadable.
"Magical inheritance is not a crime. And neither is silence."
Another pause. Then, more sharply:
"The Macnair Confiscation Acts of 1864 began with language just like this— reporting , precaution , security . Within a decade, hundreds of families lost access to heirlooms, ancestral tools, and yes—even objects of cultural significance—because a Ministry clerk believed a spell felt too sharp. "
Polaris leaned slightly into the podium.
"I do not defend the use of cursed artefacts. I defend the right not to be pre-emptively punished for a bloodline."
He stepped back.
The bell chimed.
For a moment, there was no sound but the soft scratch of Caelan Mulciber's quill.
Main Arguments.
Vivienne moved with clear confidence.
"Mr. Black speaks of theoretical oppression. I speak of concrete danger. In the last fifty years, there have been eight confirmed cursed object incidents in Hogwarts alone—two of them fatal. Every single one came from an unregistered family heirloom. No disclosure. No accountability. Only regret."
She held up a small stack of parchment. "Cursed object law exists. The Confinement Codex, Article VII. The Trelawney-Penn Inheritance Reform. All it asks is clarity. A single report. Quiet. Sealed. Handled with discretion."
A beat.
"If you are not hiding something dangerous, why would you refuse?"
Polaris didn't move.
He didn't need to.
The next chime.
He stepped up again.
"If we taught History of Magic properly," he said calmly, "we would all know that clarity is a luxury of the powerful."
That stirred something. Even Sabine's eyebrow ticked.
"The question isn't whether dangerous objects exist. Of course they do. So do dangerous spells. So do dangerous people. "
He let that settle. Let the implication breathe.
"The question is—what happens when a student is forced to confess a family's private shame to a system that already distrusts them?"
A flicker toward Vivienne.
"And how long until that shame is weaponized?"
He let that hang in the air, then turned slightly toward the judges' bench.
"This policy doesn't increase safety. It increases surveillance. It tells students: 'If your family made mistakes, if you carry that weight, we want your name on record.'"
Polaris's voice didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
"You do not protect children by making them complicit in their own condemnation."
The bell rang.
There was a moment of stillness—more than polite. Something close to reverent.
Even Caelan looked up.
Rebuttals.
Vivienne's eyes were colder now.
"So what? We do nothing ?" she asked. "We allow a first-year to carry a cursed signet ring into the dormitories and hope it doesn't whisper to her while she sleeps?"
She shook her head.
"No, it's not fearmongering. It's just being prepared. If you let a cursed object, go without saying anything, that's not privacy—it's just stupid. You don't wait for the hex to hit before you care."
And though her voice stayed steady, her gaze flicked — just for a moment — to the panel. Then back to Polaris. Almost like she wasn't just arguing with him anymore. She was defending herself.
The final bell.
Then Polaris again.
He didn't rush.
He just lifted his wand faintly—no spell, just a gesture.
"A wand," he said, "is the most dangerous magical object a student owns. Capable of harm. Of murder."
A pause.
"We do not ask students to register their wand cores. We trust them. We teach them. We guide them."
His gaze didn't waver.
"But the moment an object comes with a dark name, we panic. We assign guilt. We forget that trust is not something you receive once you're proven safe. It's something you give—so they can be."
He stepped back. Quietly. Fully.
The room stayed hushed.
The final bell rang.
Cassandra rose slightly in her seat. "Mr. Black, Miss Lowley — you may now address one another directly. Panel may interject at any time. Proceed."
Vivienne was the first to speak, voice clipped and practiced. "You keep talking about shame and punishment, Mr Black, but it's just record-keeping. Private reports. Not even a public list. You're acting like it's a noose."
Polaris didn't blink. "A noose and a file may look different, but both tighten when fear controls them."
Soft oohs from the audience.
Caelan Mulciber arched a brow.
Vivienne narrowed her eyes. "Are you saying being honest is oppressive now?"
"I'm saying forcing people to tell everything only ever happens to the ones people already don't trust. And that line—who's safe and who isn't—is usually drawn by whoever's holding the quill." Polaris said calmly.
A low hum rippled through the benches.
Zion Daramola leaned forward, tapping a quill against his knee. "Miss Lowley, in your model, who would decide what qualifies as a 'known cursed object'? Is it the item's history, or its current magical behaviour?"
Vivienne faltered. "Well—ideally both, but the family's record—"
"So legacy, not actual danger," Polaris cut in.
"Some legacies are dangerous," she snapped, turning on him. "You of all people should understand that."
The words landed with a hush.
Even the scribes paused.
Polaris stared at her. Not angry. Just… tired.
"And I do," he said, softly. "Which is why I'd never give a system the right to decide which of us deserves to carry our names."
Cassandra shifted slightly, one boot tapping the wood in rhythm.
Sabine Lay asked next, voice like velvet over a blade: "Mr. Black — what protections would you offer instead?"
"Education," Polaris said instantly. "Mentorship. Supervision with consent. Empowerment, not surveillance."
Vivienne scoffed. "That's idealistic."
"And yours is paranoid," he replied, voice still level. "You fear what magic can become. I fear what fear becomes when it wears robes and writes rules."
Gasps. A few scattered claps — quickly hushed by prefects.
Cassandra's mouth twitched. "That's time."
They were now in the closing statements.
Cassandra gestured. "Miss Lowley."
Vivienne stepped forward, lips thin.
"We do not fear students," she said, cold now, all poise stripped to steel. "We fear the silence around the dangerous few. If your great-grandfather left you a basilisk egg or a cursed blade, we deserve to know. Hogwarts is a place of learning — not of hiding."
She stepped back sharply.
"Mr. Black."
Polaris stepped forward.
He didn't speak at first.
He looked at the crowd. The faces. The tension.
Then:
"There's a phrase in Arithmancy. Curse Heuristics. The logic behind how we classify a curse."
A beat.
"It's never about the object. It's about intent. Context. History. Emotion."
His gaze lifted to the Council.
"To report a cursed object is to reduce a memory to paperwork. A trauma to data. A legacy to suspicion."
His voice remained soft.
"We do not make schools safer by building confession boxes. We do it by giving students the tools to wield their pasts — not fear them."
Another pause.
Then, almost quietly:
"I'd rather share a dormitory with someone holding a cursed object... than with someone who thinks they should have to apologize for it."
He stepped back.
Dead silence.
Then—
Applause. Real this time.
Someone whistled. A few others joined. The noise grew — not overwhelming, but definite. Students leaned toward one another, whispering. Even a few older years nodded, surprised and maybe a little impressed.
Corvus, back in the crowd, gave a low, dramatic bow in his seat. Bastian was leaned forward on the desk completely invested.
Nate was on his feet. Clapping.
Vivienne stood still, jaw clenched.
At the panel, Caelan Mulciber's quill had stopped mid-scroll.
Sabine Lay's fingers were steepled under her chin, eyes unreadable but fixed on Polaris.
Zion Daramola leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly like he'd just watched a piece fall into place on a very large board.
Cassandra Rowley tapped her wand once against her palm. "Thank you, both. Results will be posted after the Council confers. For now—first years who participated today, please remain. Everyone else including the debating members, you're dismissed. Thank you for attending."
Chairs scraped and murmurs swelled as the crowd began filtering out. A few students shot glances back at Polaris — some curious, others cautious. Corvus gave him a double thumbs-up behind a wall of departing second-years. Nate gave him a wink before being swept away with Willow, who made an exaggerated swoon gesture as she passed Aurelia.
Within moments, the room had thinned, leaving only the First Years and the High Council.
Amongst the first years, there was eight in total — one from each house, two each. The ones who had stood in the circle and argued, dissected, challenged.
From Ravenclaw, there was Agnes Pennyfeather — quiet, bright-eyed, with a way of framing arguments like clockwork blueprints. Not forceful, but persistent. Polaris has only spoken to her once, that time her and a few others apologised.
Slytherin with Aurelia Potter , of course — all sharp corners and fire, capable of commanding attention by sheer presence alone. And Alexander Waters , who never raised his voice but knew exactly how to twist an opponent's logic back on itself.
Gryffindor had Vivienne Lowley, then there was Jasper Finnigan , who strutted into debates like they were duels, half-improvised and full of fire. Chaotic, but somehow effective.
And Hufflepuff: David Ayo , whose quiet empathy made him unexpectedly devastating. He grounded his points like a healer — gentle, but with surgical insight. And Ella Addams , who barely spoke above a whisper. Thorough. Relentless. Easy to overlook until it was too late.
Vivienne Lowley approached first — tentative, lips pressed in an uncomfortable line. "Hey, um…" she rubbed the back of her neck. "About what I said. The… legacy thing. That was out of line."
She didn't look flustered — just tired, and sharper around the edges than she'd been before.
Polaris glanced at her, unreadable. "It's fine," he said, voice even. "People assume things about my family all the time. Some of them are right. Some of them aren't. Doesn't change anything."
He meant it. There was no sting in his tone. Just fact.
Vivienne's eyes fluttered in momentary confusion. Words gathered, then scattered before she could speak.
She backed off quietly. Aurelia had perched herself on one of the long tables nearby, arms crossed, one leg swinging idly. Her eyes were narrowed at Polaris like he was a particularly difficult riddle she hadn't cracked yet.
He caught her staring.
He raised an eyebrow faintly. "No costume today?"
Aurelia scoffed. "It was never a costume."
Polaris tilted his head. "Pity. I half-expected you to duel me in a wreath."
She didn't miss a beat. "Didn't want you to have another magical fit and mistake it for a divine omen."
Polaris blinked.
There was a pause—just long enough for the words to land, teeter on the edge of too much .
Ella Addams made a faint choking noise. Agnes looked absolutely horrified .
Aurelia just shrugged, unapologetic.
Polaris stared at her for a long moment.
He didn't laugh.
Didn't smile.
But something in his eyes flickered—just slightly. Like a smirk tried to surface and was forcefully shoved back down.
Behind the blank expression, he was dangerously close to cracking.
Because it was funny.
Ridiculous. Awful. Unfiltered.
Exactly the kind of joke that would get someone hexed — or knighted, depending on the audience.
He composed himself.
Then, coolly: "Creative."
And he turned away without another word.
He wasn't giving her the satisfaction of knowing he was about to laugh.
He didn't get far; Agnes Pennyfeather stepped cautiously into his periphery.
"Black," she said gently, as though testing the water. "I just wanted to say—your speech was... sort of extraordinary. The way you worked in the Macnair Confiscation Acts and reframed the central assumption—well, it was—"
He glanced at her, with that faint, unreadable tilt of the head that often said more than words.
Whatever she was about to say next snagged in her throat.
Polaris didn't mean to be cold. But he'd already left the moment behind. His mind had turned inward again — toward the pacing of his logic, just how his debate went in general.
Agnes shifted awkwardly, smoothing a hand over the cuff of her sleeve.
And then—
A hush fell.
The High Council had gathered in a loose semicircle, heads bent close, speaking in hushed tones. Their words didn't carry, but the shape of them did — quick, clipped, deliberate. Zion said something that made Cassandra's brow lift faintly. Sabine tapped her wand twice against her boot. Caelan glanced sideways — straight at Polaris — then back again without a word.
Finally, Cassandra Rowley turned, stepped forward, and addressed the circle of First Years with the even, carrying voice of someone used to being heard.
"All of you," she said, "demonstrated skill today. Some more visibly than others. But what matters most is that you stood here and argued with clarity, conviction, and control."
Her eyes swept the group. "Those are not small things. And they will be remembered."
A pause.
"Judging was based on four primary criteria: clarity and logic; magical accuracy and citation; rhetorical tone and persuasion; and the ability to anticipate and dismantle opposing points."
There were nods — from David, from Jasper, even from Ella, who stood with his hands folded neatly in front of him like he was about to be cross-examined.
Cassandra went on: "We won't release individual scores. This isn't about competition—yet. But for those of you considering further involvement —"
Another pause.
"—you should know that Hogwarts selects its Grand Concordium Summit Delegation next year in April."
That got a reaction.
Vivienne straightened. Aurelia narrowed her eyes. Even Alexander Waters looked marginally interested for the first time all evening.
Cassandra's tone didn't shift. "Each school selects one student per year to represent them. Debates are international. The judging panel includes Ministers of Magic, foreign dignitaries, and Wizengamot observers. Winning students receive the Silver Laurel — and the attention of every major law institution in Europe."
Then, more quietly:
"The Concordium is not a game. It's a legacy. If that matters to you—start preparing now."
And here— here —her eyes landed, just for a moment, on Polaris.
Not long enough to be called out.
But long enough to be unmistakable.
Polaris didn't move. Not even when Cassandra turned away.
Eventually they were allowed to leave, finally . Now he could go back to his dorm and try figure out what he's working with in what Emeric Vass left behind.
Corvus and Bastian were already waiting. They'd claimed a spot beneath the long windows just outside the chamber, both leaning against the wall like they owned it — which, knowing them, wasn't far from how they felt.
Bastian was grinning. "Well," he said, arms crossed loosely, "that was a delight. I knew they'd let outsiders watch these eventually, but I didn't expect a front-row seat to a Black family thesis."
Corvus rolled his eyes. "It was fine. Bit long. They all sounded like they swallowed a copy of The Art of Magical Rhetoric ." He straightened as Polaris approached, brushing imaginary dust off his robes. "I only paid attention when it was your turn. The rest of it felt like watching goblins file tax disputes."
Polaris gave him a dry look but didn't argue.
Bastian leaned in. "You were good. Sharp. Didn't even look like you were going to faint." A pause. "Which I assume was part of the charm."
Polaris ignored that. "I wasn't going to faint."
"You never know with you," Bastian said cheerfully.
Before Polaris could reply, another voice cut in — a few steps away, warm and familiar.
"Oi, Polaris."
Nate. He was walking over from the left corridor, quick-stepping to catch up, hair slightly mussed and a wide grin on his face. Willow lingered where he'd come from, arms folded, chatting with someone and not looking especially interested in joining.
Nate came to a stop beside them and clapped Polaris lightly on the shoulder. "You were bloody brilliant in there. Proper duel of logic. I mean—" He gave a theatrical shiver. "That last line? Gave me chills. Almost wanted to stand and salute or something."
Polaris shifted slightly, gaze flicking away. "It wasn't that dramatic."
But his ears were a little pink.
Nate looked between Corvus and Bastian briefly, polite but distant. He knew them, but they weren't friends — not like he was with Polaris. He's barely talked with Bastian and Corvus well he mostly argues with him which Nate finds quite amusing.
"Didn't expect you to come," Polaris said.
Nate shrugged. "Willow insisted. But I'm glad I did. Felt like I got a glimpse of future Wizengamot robes in the making." He gave a low whistle. "The summit thing, though. You aiming for that?"
Polaris shrugged, nonchalant. "Maybe."
He was. He wanted it — the Concordium, the Silver Laurel, the future it hinted at. But saying it aloud made something seize in his chest. Like naming it might make it smaller, or worse, real enough to lose.
Nate didn't press. He just smiled a little, like he knew anyway.
Before Polaris could think of anything else to say, the door creaked open behind them. Aurelia stepped out, her presence as effortless as ever, chin lifted, and wand tucked neatly at her side. She didn't look at them — just headed straight for Willow, who was now lounging against the far wall surrounded by a few Gryffindor girls and a Hufflepuff boy.
Their conversation was low, but filled with that particular rhythm — half-laughter, half-barbs. Aurelia leaned in, said something that made Willow snort. The group began to move, drifting toward the far stairwell.
Willow called back over her shoulder. "Nate! We're going!"
Nate gave Polaris a quick grin. "Guess that's my cue." He tapped the side of his nose, then turned to jog after them, his footsteps echoing lightly in the corridor.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Corvus muttered, "Still don't get why you're friends with Sayre."
Polaris didn't look at him.
Corvus clicked his tongue. "His family's practically swimming among Muggles. Bunch of bleeding-heart reformers. Bet they'd marry a toaster if it had a sob story. Only thing decent about him is that he's pure enough."
Polaris's jaw twitched. Just slightly. Not enough to start a fight. But enough to feel it.
Bastian didn't say anything. He stretched his arms behind his head like he hadn't heard, then casually changed the subject. "Aren't we meant to meet the others? Out by the clocktower lawn? Something about practicing that temp-whisper charm Nott's obsessed with."
Corvus groaned. "Right. He's convinced it'll shave ten seconds off a duel."
Bastian glanced at Polaris. "You coming?"
Polaris shook his head. "Can't. I've got something important."
Corvus raised an eyebrow. "More important than a group hex-athon? You feeling alright?"
Polaris hesitated, then looked at Bastian. "I found what I was looking for."
A pause — then Bastian's eyes narrowed, thoughtful.
Polaris continued. "It's encoded. Runes, codes, hidden marginalia — buried under layers. I need to start copying it tonight before the book has to go back."
Bastian let out a low whistle. "You actually found it."
Corvus looked baffled. "You're choosing looking at a book over hexing with Nott?"
Polaris just raised a brow.
Which had Corvus have a go again.
"You can do it later."
"No, I can't."
Bastian frowned. "Pol. Come on." He tilted his head, voice edging just slightly into concern. "You're always doing something. First the whole 'haunt the library' thing, now this. I get it — you've got some secret Ravenclaw quest, fine — but just… let it breathe for one night?"
Polaris didn't respond right away. His gaze had drifted — not out of rudeness, not intentionally.
He'd just seen her.
Nia Cadwallader was crossing the far corridor, walking at a diagonal that cut across his field of vision like someone sketching a line straight through a page. She was mid-conversation with two friends — that tall Hufflepuff who always wore mismatched socks, and a first year Gryffindor girl Polaris vaguely recognised from Study Hall.
Nia laughed at something one of them said. Not loudly, not showy. Just one of those quick, bright laughs that felt like it belonged outside, on a warm day. Her hair was braided back today, with a silver charm tucked behind one ear that glinted when she turned.
She didn't see him.
Of course she didn't. Why would she?
He watched without realising he was doing it — eyes tracking her like gravity did the work for him. Not staring. Not exactly. Just... noticing.
The way her hands moved when she talked. The way she tilted her head, curious, like the world was something worth leaning into.
It wasn't conscious. It wasn't even deliberate.
And he had no idea why his chest felt tighter.
"Pol?"
Bastian's voice tugged him back.
His eyes flickered; he looked away.
"What?"
Bastian gave him a look. Not unkind — just baffled. "You spaced out."
Polaris shook his head once. "I'm fine."
"You're not. You haven't been. You're chasing something and you don't even know where it leads."
Polaris glanced at him. "That's the point."
Bastian sighed. "You're impossible."
But he didn't press.
Corvus had already turned to leave, muttering about how ridiculous it was that "the bookworm chose footnotes over fun." Bastian lingered a moment longer, then gave Polaris a short nod — equal parts resigned and loyal.
"We'll be at the lawn. If you change your mind."
Polaris didn't answer.
He waited until they were gone, then turned on his heel, heading in the opposite direction.
He didn't look back.