[8,100 Words]
Polaris hadn't planned to stop anywhere—he was on his way to the library.
He hadn't stopped thinking about what the Grey Lady had said, how could he? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her pale gaze fixed on him like she'd already decided something — and worse, like he was meant to agree.
It wasn't curiosity anymore. It was closer to a hum in his blood. Like something waiting to be uncovered. Like the wand in his hand was drawing him forward with more than instinct.
He needed to know what she meant. And he wasn't going to stop until he did.
The corridor ahead flared with sudden light and the sharp echo of shouted spells.
" Obscuro! "
The voice was unmistakable: Sirius.
Polaris stopped. Not out of fear—just wariness, and something else too.
He stepped carefully toward the edge of a wide, abandoned classroom, half-concealed by the open door. Inside, shadows danced with light as two figures moved fast across the floor—one Sirius, the other a boy Polaris didn't recognize. A Gryffindor, judging by the red on his jumper, tallish with soft brown hair and a cautious posture that contrasted Sirius's easy swagger.
The duel was already underway.
He hadn't spoken to his eldest brother in what felt like a while. Still, it wasn't hard to spot Sirius in the halls. Or to hear him laughing from around a corner, his voice unmistakable—bright, careless, full of something Polaris could only describe as freedom .
It made sense, Polaris supposed. Why Sirius rarely came home for the holidays. Why he'd stopped coming back at all during Yule. Why in the summer he only stayed for a few days—just long enough to collect his things or appease their mother with a forced dinner before vanishing back to Hogwarts or wherever else he went.
So different from home.
At Grimmauld Place, Sirius had been silent or snarling. Angry in the brittle way of someone constantly baited, constantly blamed. But here—at Hogwarts—he was like another version of himself entirely. Alive in a way that didn't seem to need anyone's permission.
Sirius had made it look easy—slipping away from Grimmauld Place like it was just a building, like the walls didn't press in on him the way they pressed in on everyone else. And their parents, for all their talk of duty and legacy, hardly even tried to make him stay. Not really.
Polaris had tried once—twice—to spend more than a night away from home. Even with a proper invitation. Even when it was another pure-blood family. And every time, it had been nothing but rejection and tight-lipped complaints: it's inappropriate,it's not done,you belong at home with your own blood.
Maybe it was different because Sirius was older. The eldest. The heir.
But Regulus had tried, too, and Walburga hadn't allowed it either. Not even for a few days. Not unless she could control every detail, and even then, there were conditions. Always conditions.
Sometimes Polaris wondered if Sirius even realised. How often he got away with things. How often their parents simply looked the other way . Not because they didn't care—Polaris knew they did, in their twisted, heavy-handed way—but because they'd grown tired. Sirius had done it so often, so loudly, that now even his defiance was met with silence.
Maybe that was a kind of special treatment. Whether Sirius wanted it or not.
And maybe that was what Polaris resented most—that Sirius had carved out the right to be free, while the rest of them were still expected to sit and behave in the drawing room like ghosts.
It was strange. And it hurt a little. And Polaris couldn't look away.
Sirius flicked his wand with a flourish, dramatic as always, as if putting on a show for an invisible audience. " Obscuro! " he called again, voice rich with theatre.
" Finite Incantatem, " the Gryffindor said smoothly, his wand tracing a tight counter-loop through the air. The blindfold conjured by Sirius's hex vanished instantly from his eyes.
Polaris narrowed his gaze. He knew Obscuro —they'd covered it in Defence and practiced it again during the first Dueling Club session. But seeing it wielded mid-duel, cast with that kind of fluid timing and precision, was something else entirely. His own wand sat lightly in his hand, unraised but ready, as if some small part of him wanted to learn by imitation.
The movement. The rhythm. His own wand hung loose in his hand, as his gaze tracked the beat of their duel like it was a language. Because it was. A language of magic, layered with theory, intent, timing.
He liked magic. Not just the idea of it—but the feel of it, the way it responded. The way it made sense. In classes, especially Charms and Transfiguration, spells often clicked on the first try. Maybe it was because he'd practiced the wand movements long before Hogwarts, tracing them into the air until they felt like muscle memory. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe it was because his wand didn't feel like a tool. It felt like an extension of him. Like it understood him in a way people didn't. All he had to do was want something enough—and magic moved.
Sirius swept back dramatically, grinning. "You've got to let it land, Moony, otherwise how am I supposed to see how long it lasts?"
"That's not how testing spells works," the boy—Moony?—answered evenly, tone patient. "You want feedback, not performance reviews."
Sirius snorted, flicked his wand. "What's life without a little showmanship?"
He pivoted slightly as he said it, and that's when he caught Polaris's eyes through the half-open door. He froze. Then his grin widened like a flare of sunlight on wet stone.
"Well, well, if it isn't little Mister Ravenclaw," Sirius called, voice echoing faintly off the walls. "Come to watch the masters at work?"
Polaris hesitated. He should leave. He knew he should leave. But his feet didn't listen, and neither did his hand, fingers still curled loosely around his wand.
"I was heading to the library," Polaris admitted. Then, more confidently, "I heard the incantations."
Polaris stepped inside the empty classroom, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
Sirius was still grinning. Not the smug kind he wore around adults, but something more genuine—like he was surprised Polaris had actually walked in.
Remus, standing off to the side now, looked politely unreadable, though there was a faint flicker of amusement in his expression.
The first thing Polaris noticed when the Gryffindor turned slightly toward him was the scars. Pale and uneven, they stretched across his cheek and down toward his jaw, too many to be easily hidden—even if he tried.
Polaris' scar was nothing compared to his .
He wondered—briefly, involuntarily—if his father had done that to him too.
Polaris's eyes lingered on Sirius's wand, then flicked back to the space between them. "That was Obscuro, wasn't it?"
Sirius grinned. "Spot on."
"You made it look... sharper. Cleaner than when we practiced it."
Sirius gave a lazy shrug, though he looked pleased. "Takes flair. And timing."
"Did you practice that before Hogwarts?"
"Not really," Sirius said, spinning his wand between his fingers before catching it. "Started with the basic blinds, then modified the counter curve to hold longer. James and I were trying to figure out how to use it in close-quarters duelling. Works better than a Stunner sometimes—more annoying, harder to throw off if they panic."
Polaris was nodding, already thinking it through. "But it's slower to cast, right? You need a full loop."
Sirius blinked. "You've been reading."
Polaris shrugged. "A bit." Then, quick and quiet: "Are you in the Duelling Club?"
Sirius's grin widened into something brighter, something proud. "Course I am. Signed up immediately when I heard it was being brought back. We meet Tuesdays. You've got Mondays with second years don't you."
"I know," Polaris said, then added without thinking, "My first one was on the 25th."
Sirius gave him a slightly surprised look—like he wasn't expecting his little brother to volunteer anything that personal. "And?"
"It was good," Polaris admitted. "They paired us up by skill. My partner barely knew how to hold a wand, but Professor Kettleburn said I had 'uncommon poise under pressure.'"
" Uncommon poise , huh?" Sirius repeated, mock impressed. "Look at you. First year and already stealing my spotlight."
Polaris rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small flicker of pride in his chest. "Will you go to the Friday sessions too? The mixed-year ones?"
"When I can," Sirius said. "Remus probably won't unless I drag him."
"I like watching more than participating," Remus said mildly. "Sirius enjoys getting dramatic bruises."
"They're badges of honour."
"They're reminders you don't know how to block properly."
Polaris half-smiled at that, then turned back to Sirius, rapid-fire now: "What's the best spell you've learned so far? Did you already know Shield Charms before third year? How do you counter Petrificus Totalus if you're already frozen? Is there actually a counter curse for the Slug Vomiting Charm or is that just a rumour?"
Sirius blinked, then laughed—a real one this time, delighted and surprised. "Bloody hell, you're worse than Moony."
Remus gave a small, long-suffering sigh. "He's curious , Sirius. That's a good thing."
Polaris glanced at Remus, then shrugged, eyes cool. "I like knowing how things work." His tone was flat, unapologetic.
Sirius looked at him more seriously for a moment. "Don't stop, then." A pause. "You want to learn some stuff before your next meeting?"
Polaris looked up, cautious but interested. "Depends on what you mean by 'stuff.'"
"Shield Charms, basic disarms, maybe a hex or two if you don't rat me out to anyone."
Polaris gave him a flat look. "I'd rather duel the Bloody Baron."
Sirius snorted. "Good answer."
Then, quieter, more honest: "I want to be an Auror, you know. After school."
Polaris blinked. "Really?"
"Yeah," Sirius said, suddenly serious. "There's a lot of people I'd like to hex into next week. Might as well get paid for it."
Remus gave him a pointed look. "Or maybe help people, Sirius."
Sirius waved that off. "That too."
"Yeah, and stealth, and—ugh—paperwork," Sirius said, grimacing. "But duelling's the core of it. Gotta know how to defend yourself. And others."
Polaris tapped the end of his wand against his fingers, considering that. "I thought Aurors had to be good at Transfiguration."
"They do," Sirius said, then paused, eyes widening slightly. "Merlin, I forgot—right. I haven't actually introduced you two."
He gestured with his wand hand, careless and dramatic. "Polaris, this is Remus Lupin. My friend, roommate, master of calm judgment, and unofficial mother hen."
Remus gave a small huff of amusement but nodded politely. "Nice to finally meet you."
Sirius turned to Remus with a half-smile that was warmer than his usual smirk. "Remus, this is Polaris. My littlest brother—"
"I'm not little ," Polaris cut in flatly.
Sirius raised his hands in surrender. "Youngest, then. Slightly taller-than-expected and very pointy about semantics."
Remus quirked an eyebrow. "He's sharper than you."
"I know ," Sirius said proudly. "It's infuriating."
Polaris, meanwhile, studied Remus for a moment. Not rudely—but with the kind of quiet assessment he used for spells he didn't understand yet. "So," he said slowly, eyes narrowing just a bit, "you must be one of the filthy half-bloods and blood traitors our mother shouts about."
There was a pause. Not long—but long enough for the dust to settle, for the charge in the air to prickle just faintly.
Remus blinked, something unreadable passing through his expression. Not hurt, exactly—just cautious. Familiar with the words, perhaps. Familiar with being studied like this.
Sirius let out a sharp bark of laughter. "You've been listening in at the drawing room door again, haven't you?"
Polaris didn't smile. "She's not exactly subtle."
Remus shrugged, tone mild. "I've been called worse."
"That's not the point," Polaris said, gaze still fixed on him. "She only saves that tone for the people Sirius actually likes."
That surprised Sirius into silence for a breath. Then he grinned again, lopsided. "You've got me figured, have you?"
"Mostly," Polaris said. "Still working on how your brain survived that much hair gel."
"I don't use gel! " Sirius said, scandalized.
Polaris gave him a look that said he very much did not believe that.
Remus watched the exchange, the faint tension slipping from his posture. He turned slightly toward Polaris. "You're not much like your brother."
"Good," Polaris said immediately, but not unkindly. "I'd rather be insufferable in my own way."
Sirius laughed again, full-throated this time. "Oh, you're a Black, alright."
Polaris looked back at him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "You still want to teach me those counter curves or not?"
Sirius stepped forward, eyes glinting. "Absolutely. Moony, clear the floor. We're making a duelling prodigy."
"I'll keep the hospital wing on standby," Remus murmured.
Polaris's wand was already in hand. He didn't smile, not quite, but the edge in his voice softened as he added, "Try not to show off too much."
Sirius gave him a theatrical bow. "Wouldn't dream of it, little brother."
Polaris narrowed his eyes.
"Sorry— younger brother."
The space between the desks had cleared, and Sirius was already rolling his sleeves up like he was about to wrestle a troll rather than demonstrate upper-year spell work.
"Alright," Sirius said, cracking his knuckles theatrically. "You want to see the good stuff, yeah? Not the boring first-year fizzles?"
Polaris stood to one side, wand loose in his hand but attention sharp. "I can already cast Shield, Disarm, and Stunning. You're not going to impress me with Aparecium ."
Sirius gave an exaggerated gasp. "Insulting and ambitious. Merlin, you really are a Ravenclaw." He turned toward Remus with a smirk. "Right then. Moony, you're up."
Remus sighed but stepped forward without protest, already moving his bag out of the line of fire. "Just don't try to get creative this time."
"Where's the fun in that?" Sirius lifted his wand with a practiced flick and turned to Polaris. "Okay. This one's fifth-year. Watch the timing."
He took a sharp step forward and slashed his wand down in a loose spiral. " Fulgari! "
Golden ropes burst from the tip of his wand and lashed toward Remus, who sidestepped calmly, raised his wand, and snapped, " Expello! " The ropes shattered into harmless wisps before they could catch.
"Binding hex," Sirius said casually, lowering his wand. "Nonverbal's more impressive, but Minnie says I'm too dramatic to shut up."
Polaris blinked. "Who's Minnie?"
Sirius blinked back at him. "McGonagall."
"…You call her that?"
"Well, not to her face," Sirius said, grinning. "She'd transfigure my teeth into beetles. But she loves me, really."
Polaris looked vaguely horrified. "You're insane. "
"And you're the only Black who doesn't flinch when spells are flying, so maybe you've got a bit of me in you after all."
Polaris didn't respond right away. He was still thinking about the spell, not the compliment—though something in his shoulders twitched like he wasn't used to hearing Sirius say anything kind about him, not without a punchline.
Sirius went on, still casually flicking his wand in the air. "Anyway, Minnie said you've got talent for Transfiguration."
Polaris blinked again. "She did?"
"Yeah. Mentioned it after class last week. Something about 'clever wand articulation and excellent theoretical retention'—I wasn't listening that closely, I think James was charming our desk to bark."
Polaris frowned. "Why would she say that to you ?"
Sirius shrugged. "I think she was surprised we were related."
Polaris looked away, unsure what to do with that—unsure what to do with the knowledge that someone had spoken about him when he wasn't in the room. That Sirius had remembered it. That he'd repeated it, to him .
Sirius didn't seem to notice the pause. "Alright, next one—watch the footwork this time."
He pivoted, wand flashing upward. " Ardens Praesidium! "
A shimmering wall of amber-gold flame roared up in front of Remus, who jumped slightly, then narrowed his eyes.
"That one wasn't part of the deal," he said, irritation mild but pointed.
"It's controlled flame, you baby," Sirius said, waving the fire away with a casual sweep of his wand. "Stops curses cold if you time it right. Took me a month to get the curve consistent."
Polaris's mouth twitched into something almost like a smile. "You know you're not supposed to learn that one until sixth year."
Sirius shrugged, clearly pleased with himself. "And yet, here we are."
He turned, wand still in hand, but held up both palms. "Don't worry, I'm not going to throw anything at you . Remus is legally required to tank my spells."
Remus gave a long-suffering sigh. "Only because I've built up an immunity."
Polaris tilted his head, studying the space where the flame had flared up and vanished. "How did you keep it from catching anything?"
"Modified containment ward, right before the cast," Sirius said. "Took the idea from how Slughorn protects the cauldrons in advanced Potions. You've gotta layer the intent—if your mind slips, it either fizzles or burns everything in the room down. "
Polaris stared. "You're better than you act."
Sirius winked. "Don't tell anyone. It ruins the mystique."
Remus coughed pointedly. "Also ruins the furniture."
Polaris looked between them—his chaotic, rule-breaking, show-off of a brother and the quiet Gryffindor who seemed entirely unbothered by the constant madness—and felt something shift. Not quite ease. But curiosity, now edged with something warmer.
"I want to try the binding hex," he said suddenly.
Sirius tossed him a grin. "Thought you might."
Remus sighed and rolled up his sleeves again. "Fine. Just avoid the face this time."
Sirius slung an arm dramatically around Polaris's shoulders. "Right, before you get too ahead of yourself—just a reminder. This spell's fifth-year standard. You're a firstie. You got, what, a five-second look at it?"
Polaris shot him a sidelong glare. "Seven."
Sirius grinned. "Okay, seven . Still, don't be too disappointed if you end up setting his shoes on fire or tying your own legs together."
"Very reassuring," Remus muttered from across the room, adjusting his stance. "Glad to know I'm being volunteered for magical experiments."
Sirius gave him a thumbs-up. "You're sturdy."
Then to Polaris, dropping the dramatics just a fraction, "Seriously, though—give it a go. You've got good control, but if it fizzles, that's normal. Just try not to kill him. I like this one."
Polaris stepped forward, wand raised, brow furrowed in concentration. "If I mess it up, you're the one who taught it to me."
"Oh, I'll take credit either way," Sirius said cheerfully, leaning back against a desk.
Polaris inhaled through his nose, feeling the weight of the wand in his hand—not heavy, but expectant. Then, with a slow step and a twist of his wrist, he slashed a tight spiral through the air.
" Fulgari! "
The ropes that shot from the tip of his wand weren't golden like Sirius's had been—more of a pale, silvery thread, thinner, less force behind them. They whipped toward Remus and caught—just barely—looping awkwardly around his upper arm before dissolving like smoke before they could tighten.
Polaris frowned. "I did the arc right."
"You almost did," Sirius said, eyes bright. "It came off your wrist too early—you need more tension before you release. But that was really close."
Remus flexed his arm. "Didn't even sting. Better than some of the second-years."
Polaris let his wand drop to his side; lips pressed into a thin line—but not in frustration. In focus. "Can I try again?"
Sirius gave him a proud little smirk. "You're bloody right you can." Then added, for Remus's benefit: "Brace yourself, Moony. He's about to make you a scarf."
Remus sighed, long and steady. "At least scarves are seasonal."
Polaris stepped back into position, brow furrowing. He wasn't rushing this time. He could still feel the shape of the spell in his muscles—the spiral, the release, the timing.
But more than that, he could feel his wand in his hand. Feel it, in the way people talked about in books but that he rarely experienced outside flashes of instinct. The holly wood was cool against his fingers, but not cold. Alert. Like it was listening.
He tightened his grip slightly. Focused. He visualised the ropes—not the ropes Sirius had cast, golden and dramatic—but his own version. Cleaner. Sharper. Efficient. He pictured them catching, not flailing. Contained magic, under control.
He stepped forward, traced the shape Sirius had shown him with precision.
" Fulgari! "
This time, the ropes shot out with force. Thicker than before, silvery-gold, and fast. They snapped through the air and wrapped around Remus's torso, arms pinned tight against his sides in one clean motion. No slack. No flicker.
Remus staggered slightly, eyes widening. "What the—?"
Sirius's jaw dropped. "Bloody—he actually —?"
Polaris stood there, breathing a little harder than he meant to, wand still raised, eyes locked on the ropes binding Remus like he half expected them to vanish or fray. They didn't.
His lips twitched. He didn't smile—not really—but something quietly smug settled across his face. He tilted his chin up, like he'd known it would work all along.
Remus was still staring at the ropes. "You said it was above his level."
Sirius was staring at Polaris . "It is above his level. I only got it consistent a few months ago. That was—Merlin, that was textbook."
Polaris finally lowered his wand. "I read the textbook."
Remus gave a short, startled laugh. "That's not normal."
Sirius was now circling Polaris like he'd just discovered a magical creature nobody had catalogued yet. "Right, I take full credit."
"You didn't even teach him properly," Remus said.
"I inspired him," Sirius said, beaming like a lunatic. "There's a difference."
Polaris crossed his arms, ropes still holding Remus neatly in place. "You said it wouldn't work."
"I was motivating you ," Sirius shot back. "Clearly worked. Look at this!"
He gestured at Remus, who was wriggling experimentally and finding no give in the bindings.
"I'd like to not be tied to a bookshelf all afternoon," Remus said dryly. "Impressive or not."
"Oh—right, yeah." Sirius gave a short flick of his wand. " Finite Incantatem. " The ropes vanished instantly, as if they'd never been there. Remus flexed his arms and gave Polaris an assessing look.
"That was excellent control," Sirius spoke.
Polaris didn't know what to do with that. He just looked away, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. "It was alright."
Sirius laughed again, pride glowing behind his grin. " Alright , he says. That was bloody brilliant. You're doomed now, you know. Professor Kettleburn's gonna adopt you as his new favourite."
Polaris tried very hard not to beam. And failed. Just a little.
Time slipped by without much notice—light shifting across the dusty panes.
They went through three more spells, two countercharms, and a quick shielding sequence Sirius called "completely impractical in a real duel but fun for flair." Remus had eventually insisted on sitting down, claiming he wasn't built for being hexed repeatedly by prodigies.
Polaris didn't sit. Not right away. He stayed standing, wand still in hand, as if reluctant to break the rhythm that had briefly made him feel like he was part of something.
Sirius flopped onto a desk, legs swinging off the edge, and studied him with a squint that was half amused, half... something else.
"So," he said, drawing out the word. "How are you actually finding it? Hogwarts. Not the classes. Just—everything."
Polaris blinked. "What do you mean?"
Sirius shrugged, rolling his wand between his fingers. "You've been here, what, over a month now? You like it? Or are you just pretending so Mum doesn't sense weakness through the walls?"
That earned the ghost of a smile. Polaris crossed his arms, wand still loosely held in one hand. "It's different than I expected."
"Good different?"
"Mostly."
Sirius arched an eyebrow. "You know, you're allowed to say when something's awful. It doesn't make you weak. It makes you normal."
Polaris hesitated, then looked away. "It's not awful. It's... a lot. But I like the work."
"Of course you do," Sirius said. "You're you." He leaned back theatrically. "And what about people? You making any friends outside the usual suspects?"
Polaris's brow furrowed. "What suspects?"
Sirius gave him a flat look. "Don't play dumb. You practically live at the Slytherin table. I've seen you. You're always with Corvus Avery and that sullen Yaxley boy. Honestly, are you trying to give me a stroke?"
Polaris bristled—just a little. "They're my friends."
"Merlin help us all," Sirius muttered. Then, louder: "Corvus is a snake, even by Slytherin standards. You know who his cousin is, right?"
"I do."
"Heir Avery," Sirius said with a roll of his eyes. "I'd rather spend a week locked in a room with Snape and his hair grease collection."
Polaris didn't laugh; he narrowed his eyes. "You don't even know Corvus."
"I know enough," Sirius shot back. "He's clever, sure. So is a basilisk. Doesn't mean I'd bring one to tea."
Polaris sighed. "Not everyone in Slytherin is evil, Sirius."
"I never said everyone ," Sirius replied. "I said them . Specifically."
There was a pause.
"And don't get me started on Bastian," Sirius added. "He's just Corban Yaxley with a less punchable face."
Polaris looked away again. "You don't have to like them."
"I don't. But I do have to look out for you, don't I?"
The words hung there for a second too long, like Sirius had surprised even himself by saying them. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced toward Remus, who was now leafing through a borrowed Defence textbook with half an ear still tuned in.
"You ever talk to your own housemates?" Sirius asked, less teasing now. "Or do they just not measure up to the glamour of future Death Eaters?"
There it was—that Sirius Black charm. Tossing accusations like they were harmless, like they didn't land with weight. Polaris turned to face him fully, expression unreadable but eyes sharp.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he said.
Sirius raised a brow. "Don't I?"
"I do talk to my housemates. Senna Greengrass. Sylvan Fawley. And there's a Gryffindor, Nathaniel Sayre. Not that you'd bother remembering their names—you're too busy sneering at whoever sits near me like proximity is proof of guilt."
"That's not what I—"
"Yes, it is." Polaris's tone didn't rise, but it cut cleaner than a shouted curse. "You think you're so different because you're louder about hating them. But sometimes you sound just like them —deciding who matters and who doesn't based on blood and name and who they eat lunch with."
Sirius looked like he'd been slapped. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
"You say things and then act surprised when they land," Polaris said, quieter now. "But maybe you like it that way. Easier to be angry when you don't have to look too closely."
Behind them, Remus flipped a page with suspicious concentration, the way someone did when they were absolutely eavesdropping but wanted plausible deniability.
Then Sirius muttered, "That was a low blow."
Polaris just looked at him. "So was yours."
Then he turned, wand still loose in his hand, and walked out the door without another word.
The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, one after the other, steady but clipped.
For a moment, no one said anything.
Remus let out a soft breath through his nose and flipped a page in his book again—deliberately. Sirius shot him a look.
"You're not even reading that," Sirius muttered.
"I was," Remus said mildly, still looking down at the page. "Then your mouth started moving."
Sirius flopped backward across the desk, arms outstretched. "Alright, fine. I put my foot in it."
Remus didn't answer right away. He closed the book slowly, placed it on the desk beside him, and finally looked up. His expression wasn't annoyed—it was thoughtful in that quietly surgical way Remus had when he was working through a problem, he didn't like the shape of.
"You know," he said after a pause, "for someone who says he doesn't want to turn into your parents, you do a decent impression of them sometimes."
Sirius sat up straight. "Ouch."
"I'm not saying it to be cruel," Remus said evenly. "I'm saying it because I don't think you realise how much weight your words carry. Especially with him."
Sirius scoffed under his breath, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "He's friends with Avner Avery's little cousin and Corban Yaxley's little brother, Moony. What do you want me to say? Well done, I'm so proud? "
"I want you to stop assuming he's them," Remus replied. "Or that he'll turn into them just because he doesn't shout as loud as you do about what he hates."
Sirius stared at the floor.
Remus softened. "Look. I know you care. Obviously, you care. But Polaris isn't you, and he's not Regulus either. You can't just bulldoze your way through to someone like that. Especially not with jokes that hit too close."
"He's still a kid, he needs me to guide him," Sirius muttered. "He shouldn't have to navigate all this alone."
"Then don't make him feel like he is."
The room fell quiet again.
Sirius didn't answer, but his shoulders slumped slightly, like the words had settled somewhere deep, whether he liked them or not.
Remus leaned back and opened his book again, this time actually reading. "You don't have to fix it today. But maybe next time, try listening before you start flinging accusations. You'd be surprised how much easier it is to be a brother when you don't sound like a judge."
Sirius sighed. "Yeah. Alright."
"Good." Remus turned a page, calmer now. "Now if you're done emotionally destabilising the youth, maybe we can review Protego Maxima —you still keep flaring it wide like you're trying to shield an entire Quidditch pitch."
Sirius exhaled, rubbing his temples ignoring the comment. "Every time I open my mouth, I make it worse."
Remus gave a dry hum. "If it helps, James tried to cheer up his sister by saying Slytherin might've been a sorting hat malfunction. At least he thinks he was trying to cheer her up if anything his tone annoyed her."
Sirius blinked. "Oh no."
"She hexed his ink bottle. Right in his bag."
"Bloody hell."
"Black ink everywhere. Transfiguration essay looked like a Rorschach test."
Sirius laughed despite himself, quiet but real. "Merlin. We're all just... wildly underqualified for this, aren't we?"
Remus gave a noncommittal shrug. "That or being a brother just means failing creatively and apologising better the next time."
— ❈ —
Several hours later, the castle had quieted in the way only afternoons after classes could manage—sunlight drowsing through high windows, corridors stretching long and lazy with the hush of collective study or escape. The library was near silent, save the occasional creak of parchment or the whisper of pages turning.
Polaris was currently sat deep in the quiet of the library, nearly swallowed by a ring of stacked books that had formed a sort of paper barricade around him. Titles on magical theory, wandlore, ghosts, rituals, souls, and obscure branches of necromantic philosophy rose in uneven towers, encircling his seat like a fortress. From the outside, it looked absurd—an eleven-year-old barricaded by volumes half his height, all opened to half-read chapters and bookmarked with scrap parchment and frustration.
He didn't notice the stares he was getting—some curious, some bewildered, some mildly concerned. A few Ravenclaws passing by muttered to each other, half in jest, "Is he actually going to read all that?" Another whispered, "Maybe he's cursed to—like that story about the scribe who couldn't stop copying."
Polaris didn't hear them. Or rather, he didn't care.
He turned the next page of the book in front of him with a little more force than necessary.
Dividing the Essence: An Introduction to Post-Mortem Soulwork , the cover had read, embossed in dull gold lettering. He'd thought the title promising—finally something not written like a bedtime story or a metaphor-riddled historical reimagining.
But the contents had quickly revealed themselves to be shallow. Safe. Sanitised. The chapter he was currently enduring— " The Ethical Considerations of Theoretical Fragmentation" —was filled with vague moralizing, obvious warnings, and the same surface-level definitions he'd seen repeated in four other texts already.
"...and though fragments of the soul are theoretically possible in extreme magical conditions, any attempt to explore this further is considered not only dangerous but irresponsible. See Appendix 4: Ministry Regulations on Experimental Magic, 1824 Revision."
Polaris stared at the paragraph, jaw tight, eyes scanning every word as if sheer willpower might uncover something hidden beneath the ink.
Nothing. Again.
He resisted the urge to slam the book shut, but only just.
His fingers twitched slightly as he turned another page, slower this time, even though he already knew it would be useless. The writing was clean, polished, and entirely bloodless . Sanitised for a school audience. He could practically feel the layers of censorship.
He didn't bother sighing anymore. Just turned the next page like a machine.
Then— A sound. Or… a shift.
A soft tap .
He paused. His frustration stalled like a misfired spell.
His heart spiked.
The wand, resting beside his book, had moved.
Not rolled — shifted .
He stared at it, unmoving, as it slowly rotated on the table. No breeze. No bump. Just a quiet, purposeful turn.
It stopped.
Its tip now pointed—not at the page, not at the light, but straight toward the arch of the Restricted Section.
Polaris didn't breathe for a moment.
Very carefully, he reached out and nudged the wand a few degrees to the left. Waited. Counted.
It shifted again. Slowly. Unerringly. Back—to the same direction.
He stared at the direction it had realigned itself to. His brow's furrowing.
Toward the gate. Toward the rows of locked knowledge and banned theory.
The wand lay still now. Completely still. As if it had never moved at all.
Polaris's fingers hovered just above the handle.
His brain was struggling to comprehend what just happened before his attention was grabbed—
"Um. Black?"
The voice came from just behind him—quiet, careful, and uncertain. Polaris didn't jump, but his shoulders stiffened slightly.
He turned—too slow. Eyes a fraction too unfocused.
Rafiq Mirza stood there, hunched and hesitant, hands tucked into his sleeves. His eyes flicked between Polaris and the fortress of books, not quite settling on either.
Polaris blinked at him, trying to switch mental gears. It took longer than usual.
"Sorry," Rafiq mumbled, glancing around as though afraid Madam Pince might swoop down on them for the mere sound of his whisper. "It's just—um— Magical Flora of the British Isles ? By Beatrix Borage? Madam Pince said you had one of the copies. For the Herbology essay."
He said it all in one breath, as if rehearsed. Then stood there, awkward and pink and trying to look smaller than he was. Like he expected Polaris to bite.
Polaris stared at him a beat too long.
He wasn't annoyed — just disoriented. Still half caught on the way the wand had moved without his hand. Still wondering why .
Rafiq shifted, clearly bracing to be snapped at. Polaris glanced vaguely at the nearest stack, pulled out the green volume, and handed it over without ceremony.
Polaris was genuinely surprised he'd spoken to him at all. Rafiq had been quietly avoiding him for weeks, and Polaris… well, he hadn't exactly gone out of his way to fix that. He hadn't apologised, either. Not properly. He still wasn't sure if he was going to. Especially after that talk with Regulus.
Still…
"Here , Magical Flora of the British Isles ," he confirmed flatly, handing it over without ceremony.
Rafiq took it gingerly, as if the book might burn him. "Er—thanks."
Polaris didn't answer. He was already staring at the wand again, as if it might shift a second time — as if it had only paused, not stopped.
Then Polaris finally gave the boy his attention again.
"I didn't mean it, you know," he said abruptly, not quite meeting Rafiq's eyes. "That word. I thought it was just… another way to say it. No one told me it was supposed to be an insult."
He said it plainly, like he was reciting facts. The closest he'd come to an apology in his life outside his parents' drawing room.
Rafiq blinked, caught off guard. He looked like he was trying to figure out whether Polaris had just insulted him again or not—but somewhere in that tangle of words, there had been a "didn't mean it." Maybe even a sorry, hidden in the shape of the explanation.
"Oh," Rafiq said. Then, awkwardly: "Right. Um… can I sit?"
Polaris paused, looked at the other chair beside his book fortress, then gave a single, small nod.
Rafiq sat down gingerly, careful not to knock over any of the towers of books.
For a few moments, the silence returned tense, but not unbearable. Polaris flipped a page without really reading it.
Then, suddenly:
"I… I should say sorry too."
Polaris looked up, eyebrows lifting. "For what?"
Rafiq looked like he immediately regretted saying anything. His hands fiddled with the edge of the book in his lap, and he stared down at the table, mumbling, "I might've… said some things. About you. To other people."
Polaris tilted his head slightly. "What sort of things?"
Rafiq winced. "Just stuff like… how you think you're better than everyone. That you act like a king. And that Muggleborns are just—just your servants, or something."
He glanced up, clearly bracing for a reaction.
Polaris blinked. "Do I?"
Rafiq blinked back. "Do you—? I mean…" He shrank a little more into his chair, his face now nearly as red as his house tie. "I don't know. You just… you said that thing. And then ignored me. It kind of felt like you thought I wasn't worth talking to."
Polaris looked faintly baffled, not offended—more like someone trying to process a complicated riddle with missing pieces.
"I didn't mean to ignore you," he said slowly. "I just got distracted."
Rafiq gave a weak laugh. "Right. Yeah. You just distracted your way through being an arse."
Polaris raised an eyebrow.
Rafiq's face flamed again. "Sorry. That was petty. I'm just—I don't know. Dramatic, I guess."
He gave a hopeless little shrug, then went back to pretending to read the title of the book like it might rescue him from the floor swallowing him whole.
Polaris stared at him for a long moment.
Not saying anything. Just staring.
It wasn't overtly cruel—just blank, unreadable, the kind of look that made it entirely unclear whether he was judging Rafiq or trying to decide whether he'd just encountered a new species of beetle.
There was a beat too long of silence.
Then Polaris blinked once, as if coming to a decision, and turned back to his book without a word.
He angled the page slightly, fingers drumming once at the margin, and resumed his reading like nothing had happened at all.
Rafiq swallowed hard and opened Magical Flora of the British Isles .
Neither of them said another word for a while.
Eventually, the words began to blur again.
Polaris had reread the same sentence three times and still couldn't make himself care about the ethical stance of a 17th-century Belgian necromancer. His eyes burned. His temples ached. Enough.
With a quiet sigh, he closed the book in front of him with a soft thump .
Then he stood, stretching his arms overhead until his spine gave a faint, satisfying crack. A hand drifted to the back of his neck, rubbing absently as he surveyed the paper fortress he'd built and now had no patience to dismantle by hand.
He flicked his wand into his grip with a practiced motion.
" Wingardium Leviosa, " he murmured.
The books rose gently from the table, hovering in neat stacks. With a subtle turn of his wrist, Polaris directed them toward the return cart stationed at the end of the row. The volumes glided off, one after another, slotting themselves onto the wooden trolley with muted, orderly thuds.
He watched the last of them settle into place, then lowered his wand and exhaled through his nose.
Rafiq, still watching from his seat, blinked as if unsure whether to say something—or just get out of the way.
"Black," Rafiq whispered suddenly, just as he passed by the end of the table.
Polaris paused, one brow rising in quiet suspicion. He turned back, expression unreadable as always, and returned to the table. He hadn't expected Rafiq trying to talk to him again. He thought they'd resolved things—or at least, reached whatever passed for neutral. Was there something else the boy wanted him to apologise for?
He couldn't imagine what. And if there was , well—he hadn't done anything worse, as far as he was aware.
Rafiq sat there, fidgeting with the corner of a parchment as if trying to fold it into nothing. His voice was low, awkward. "So… are we… alright, then?" He cleared his throat. "I mean, you're not annoyed? About me talking behind your back. Or—whatever."
Before Polaris could respond, Madam Pince's head appeared over the far shelf like a banshee ready to hex someone for misplacing a footnote.
"Shh!"
They both flinched like schoolboys caught plotting arson. Polaris's eyes flicked toward the librarian with the calm of someone memorising her patrol pattern for later. Then, wordlessly, he sat back down across from Rafiq.
He leaned in slightly, voice a cool whisper.
"I don't waste energy caring what people think of me," he said, "when they don't actually know me. That would be exhausting." He tilted his head faintly. "What you did was rather snakey—" he said the word like it belonged in an academic critique, polished and clinical, "—but I'm not particularly wounded."
Rafiq opened his mouth, then closed it. There was a brief, fumbled silence, then:
"You wouldn't—want to… I mean, if you're not busy, maybe you could help me with the Herbology essay?" he asked, attempting nonchalance. "Just the formatting. Or—I don't know. The bit with the spore counts."
It was not a very good lie. Or a very good excuse. But it was something.
Polaris blinked slowly.
"I haven't started it," he said. Not curt but not inviting either. Just… factual. "It's not due until Wednesday. I don't know when I'll do it. Possibly the hour before."
"Oh." Rafiq sat back, a little stiff. "Right. Of course."
A pause.
"Let me know when you do," he said quickly, then looked down at his book like it had just reminded him it existed.
Polaris stared at him.
Why would he want to know that?
It wasn't a group assignment. They weren't paired. There was nothing mutually beneficial about the timing of Polaris's essay writing, unless—
No. That didn't make any sense.
He didn't ask.
Instead, he simply stood. Whatever flicker of curiosity had passed over his face vanished just as quickly. He reached for his bag and slung it over one shoulder with quiet efficiency.
He was done with books. And conversation. And whatever this was.
If anything, he needed a nap. The morning had started far too early, and the weight behind his eyes had been building all day like a slow, dull pressure.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the library doors, his steps silent, precise, and not once looking back.
Rafiq watched him go, biting the inside of his cheek, then muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Brilliant start."
— ❈ —
The grass behind the North Courtyard was cool beneath him, slightly damp.
Polaris sat with his knees pulled to his chest, his chin resting lightly on folded arms. His bag lay discarded at his side.
In front of him, on the ground, lay his wand.
It hadn't moved.
Not once.
He'd placed it there five minutes ago. Perfectly still. Angled in the direction he remembered from the library — just in case it needed orientation. He'd nudged it. Waited. Left it alone.
Nothing.
Polaris sighed—not frustrated, just thinking. He sat back, adjusting his position until he was settled again, head tilted slightly.
Maybe it needed proximity to something. A magical field? A certain environment?
Or maybe it didn't like grass.
He looked at the wand for another moment, then down at the dirt beneath it. A slow breath escaped him.
It was odd.
That was the part he couldn't shake. It hadn't reacted to something—it had directed . With intent. With certainty.
He didn't know what lay beyond the Restricted Section shelves. Just that the gate had been shut, the books chained, and Madam Pince's glare enough to stop even the older students from drifting too close.
And now his wand had pointed there. Like it knew something was inside.
That wasn't normal.
He let his eyes close for a second.
He wasn't trying to break rules. He wasn't trying to be clever. He just wanted to know what had happened—and why. What was it about that place, that corner of the library, that had made the wand move?
Polaris opened his eyes.
He'd need a reason to be let in. A good one.
Something more than "my wand twitched."
He didn't know what yet.
But he would.
He shifted his eyes away—just for a second—when he heard the footsteps.
Quick. Loud. Uneven. Grass crushed beneath running shoes. And then—
"I told you, it's not that illegal—"
James Potter's voice, mid-argument, echoed around the corner like a burst of morning wind.
Polaris tensed instinctively.
"So, then McGonagall says, 'You're confusing Transfiguration with Transfixiation,' which—if we're being honest—isn't even a real word, and I swear to Merlin, Peter, she looked like she was trying not to laugh."
Polaris didn't look up right away. He recognized the voice instantly.
James Potter. Loud as ever. Walking like he didn't know what quiet was.
A second voice followed, higher-pitched, breathy, barely keeping pace. "Right, yeah, but—I mean—you did try to transfigure your tie into a talking quill mid-question."
"I succeeded, Wormtail," James corrected proudly. "It whispered, 'help me,' but still."
Polaris didn't move. Maybe they'd keep walking.
They didn't.
"Oi—look who it is!" James's voice brightened, and Polaris finally lifted his head to see the two boys standing at the edge of the grass.
Peter Pettigrew hovered slightly behind James, almost hidden by his friend's presence. His robes looked a little too big, his hair slightly damp at the fringe like he'd run to catch up. His eyes darted around like he was waiting for someone to call him out for breathing.
James, meanwhile, strode forward with his usual breeze of self-assurance, hands shoved in his pockets, squinting down at Polaris like he'd just spotted a misplaced broomstick.
"You all right, Black the Youngest?" he asked cheerfully. "Planning to hex the grass, or just brooding at it until it surrenders?"
Polaris raised an eyebrow. "Neither."
"That's a shame," James said, plopping down into the grass without waiting for an invitation. "Missed opportunity. I think it was starting to feel guilty."
Peter hesitated, then sat beside him—closer than needed, shoulders angled in like he didn't know how to sit unless he was attached to someone else's shadow.
Polaris didn't move to stop them, but he also didn't shift to make space. His body stayed tight, folded into itself—like proximity was permission he hadn't granted.
Polaris watched the two of them warily. "I'm thinking."
"Oooh, serious business," James said. "Contemplating the nature of magic? The mystery of time? Whether Snivellus's hair has ever seen shampoo?"
Polaris didn't answer.
James didn't need him to.
He had the kind of voice that could fill up an entire space without any help at all.
Peter nodded along with everything James said, even when he looked confused about it. He was fiddling with the hem of his sleeve now, sneaking glances at Polaris's wand in the grass but never asking about it.
Polaris tilted his head. "Are you always like this?"
"Charming? Yes," James said instantly.
Polaris gave him a long, quiet stare.
James didn't flinch. If anything, he looked pleased.
Peter, clearly trying to make himself smaller, muttered, "He's always like this. It's… not always funny, but—he means well."
Polaris blinked, that one seemed much quieter, he wondered if he was one of those half-blood friends too.
James completely ignored what Peter said, he had already launched into another story—this time about a third-year who tried to summon toast from the kitchens and ended up pelting the Fat Friar with a loaf.
Polaris let it wash over him.
He wasn't part of the conversation. He wasn't sure he wanted to be.
But he was listening.