[9,065 Words]
October 6th, 1975, Monday
The late afternoon air drifted in through the high windows, cool and sharp, tugging at the edges of their robes as the three boys made their way down the corridor toward the Duelling Club chamber for the second time that term. Their house colours clashed like poorly coordinated uniforms—blue, green, and red all in one scruffy, half-awake cluster.
Corvus was in full rant mode.
"I still think it's absolutely ridiculous," he said, gesturing broadly as the green lining of his robes flared behind him. "You'd rather waste your time rotting in the library, reading rubbish no one's cared about since before Merlin had a beard, than do something actually exciting—like open Duel Card packets with me and Bas."
Polaris adjusted his satchel higher on his shoulder. "They're not rubbish," he said mildly, without looking up. "They're just… sanitised and intentionally unhelpful."
"Exactly," Corvus said, jabbing a finger at him like he'd made the point for him. "Which means you're not going to find what you're looking for. And you're still going. For what? The atmosphere ?"
Polaris exhaled slowly through his nose. "Curiosity, mostly."
Corvus groaned dramatically, shoving open a side door with his shoulder.
Nate, keeping pace just behind them, perked up. "Wait, did you say Duel Card packets?"
Corvus blinked, looking over his shoulder. "What, you collect them?"
"Course I do." Nate's grin brightened. "My cousin sends me a packet every time I write home. I've got two Epics, one Limited Edition from the Warlocks' Invitational series, and a cursed one that made me hiccup flame for two days."
Polaris actually glanced at him, mildly intrigued.
Corvus stopped mid-stride. "Hold on. You've got a Warlocks' Invitational card?"
Nate nodded proudly. "Yup. Faustus Grimglade. Foil-stamped. Won it off a fourth-year."
Corvus scoffed. "Grimglade? Seriously? He's completely overrated. No stamina, his ward-breaking's a joke, and he's weak to mirror charms."
Nate's eyes narrowed. "He's literally the only duellist to land a hit on Mireille Duprée in the French circuit finals."
"By accident," Corvus shot back. "He sneezed mid-spell. The wand jolted. Don't romanticize it."
"Oh, come on—"
They were off, voices rising and feet nearly tripping over each other as they argued down the hall. Names, rarities, tournament strategies, and heated declarations of superiority volleyed back and forth like spells in a duel of their own.
"…and you're mad if you think Grimglade could hold his own for more than ten seconds against Cassia Virelli," Corvus snapped, spinning on his heel as they reached the corridor outside the Duelling Club.
Nate threw his hands up. "She's flashy, that's it! Grimglade's got better control, better stance, and actual tactical range ! Cassia just makes sparks and smirks."
Polaris had just stepped up beside them when Corvus turned sharply toward him.
"Pol," he declared, arms crossed, "settle this. Cassia Virelli versus Faustus Grimglade. One duel. No interference. Who wins?"
Polaris blinked, caught mid-step, his expression somewhere between put-upon and patient. "That depends on the conditions—"
"No conditions. Just talent. Power. Natural duelling ability."
Nate leaned in, eyes wide with urgency. "Don't listen to him—Virelli's all show. Grimglade's the real deal. Strategy over sparkle."
Corvus scoffed. "Please. He wants you to back him, what, because you talked once last week ?"
Nate's mouth opened in offence. "We're friends!"
Corvus arched a brow, sharp and smug. "Right. And I'm the one who learned how to fly with him when we were five. Same day. Same broom. I've known him since before he could tie his own shoes straight and only complained about the logic of it. I don't need to ask—he already knows who's right."
Polaris sighed through his nose, visibly reconsidering all his life choices.
"Honestly," he said dryly, "they're both mediocre compared to Ashanti Pell."
Corvus paused mid-smirk, processing.
Nate blinked. "Wait— who ?"
Polaris was already moving toward the Duelling Club doors, robes swishing. "Only duellist in the 1961 World Juniors who disarmed three opponents with one spell. Look it up."
Corvus frowned, following. "That sounds like a tournament myth."
"It's not," Polaris called back, deadpan.
Nate gave Corvus a long look. "Now look what you did."
Corvus just shrugged, unbothered and still a little smug. "Still didn't take your side."
Polaris had just reached for the handle when the door shoved inward.
The edge of it clipped his shoulder—not hard, but enough to make him pause, brow knitting.
"Oh—sorry," a voice said quickly, followed by the scuff of boots.
Aurelia Potter stepped back a pace, brushing her messy fringe out of her face. She started to turn away—then caught sight of who she'd run into.
Her mouth flattened. "Oh. It's you."
Aurelia Potter. Her tone made it sound like someone had tracked mud onto her soul.
Polaris just looked at her, expression unreadable.
Then Nate appeared over his shoulder, grin already forming. "Hey, Aurelia."
The change was instant. Her posture shifted, the corner of her mouth lifted. "Hi, Nate," she said, like nothing had happened. "Willow's here too."
Willow Smyth strolled up behind her, arms crossed, chin tilted up like she was daring someone to make a comment. Between the two of them, they looked like a living Gryffindor-Slytherin flag in reverse.
Corvus' smile dimmed slightly when Willow stepped up beside Aurelia. He didn't look at her, but the shift in his posture—arms loosely folded, mouth quirking—noted her presence like a splinter in his boot.
Aurelia was decked out in every shade of green imaginable: forest-green tunic, emerald scarf, dark green boots, and—Merlin help her—a ridiculous hat with a leafy ribbon wrapped around the base. Willow, true to the bit, wore clashing scarlet layers with no coordination whatsoever: crimson boots, maroon gloves, a red hairclip shaped like a lion's paw.
Polaris blinked slowly.
Nate lit up. "Hey! I thought we were going together —" He glanced at Willow. "Well, you and me. But I guess… I guess changing into that was more important."
Willow grinned, unrepentant. "We had a point to make."
Corvus gave her a slow, assessing look. "And that point was... eye strain?"
Willow narrowed her eyes at him. "No, that was a bonus."
"We look amazing," Aurelia said.
Polaris tilted his head and looked at them both, eyes flicking between red and green like he was diagnosing a potions mishap.
"You look like a pair of sentient house banners," Polaris continued, entirely unfazed. "Or a poorly budgeted school production of The Founders: A Tragedy in Four Acts ."
Aurelia stared at him like he'd just insulted her lineage. "Excuse me?"
Corvus burst out laughing behind them. "Merlin's beard, he's right ."
Nate rubbed his forehead. "Pol—"
Willow narrowed her eyes. "That's rich coming from someone who wears their tie like it's choking them out of principle."
Polaris glanced down at his perfectly aligned tie. "It's meant to sit at the collar."
"You're meant to not sound like a textbook," Aurelia snapped.
He blinked, confused. "I'm trying to be honest. I just said you looked ridiculous."
" Exactly! " Aurelia said, throwing her hands up.
"See?" Corvus doubled over, laughing. "He's not even trying to be rude, and it still sounds like a dissertation on why you shouldn't be allowed near fabric."
Willow folded her arms tighter, muttering, "He's lucky he's friends with Nate."
Aurelia muttered something about "tone-deaf Ravenclaws" under her breath, then continued. "But in case you were wondering—yes, I wore green on purpose. My brother's still throwing a fit about me being in Slytherin. Might as well give him something to look at."
Polaris blinked. "Why would that help?"
Aurelia gaped at him. "It's called being petty."
"Oh."
Nate, meanwhile, had rubbed a hand over his face in a half-laugh, half-apology. "He's not doing it on purpose. He just—says things."
"Oh, I know," Aurelia said with tight sarcasm. "He's just naturally charming."
Polaris was already turning toward the door again. "Are we going in, or are we debating textile ethics in the corridor all evening?"
Corvus clapped him on the back. "Merlin help us if you ever try to be mean."
As the group filtered into the chamber, Willow nudged Aurelia with her elbow.
"You know what we should do?" she whispered, eyes glittering with mischief. "Start a rock band."
Aurelia blinked at her, then let out a delighted, incredulous laugh. "Oh my Godric, you're so smart sometimes."
"Obviously," Willow said smugly, tossing her red-streaked braid over one shoulder. "We'd be brilliant. Utter chaos."
Aurelia was still giggling. "I call lead vocals. You can play—what? Magical drums?"
"No, I want the cursed lute," Willow said. "You know, the one that occasionally bites."
"I love you," Aurelia wheezed. "You're insane."
Corvus made a face like he'd bitten into something sour. "Please tell me this is a joke."
"It's a vision ," Willow said, twirling a nonexistent cape.
"It's a cry for help," Corvus muttered.
"You're just jealous," Willow replied sweetly, then added under her breath, " Some Slytherins, have no taste."
"Coming from someone who thinks a Gryffindor hairclip counts as 'styling,' that's rich," Corvus said without looking at her.
Nate had drifted back toward them, catching just enough of the conversation to grin. "Wait—hold on. You're starting a band without me?"
Willow gave him a pointed look. "Can you play anything?"
Nate placed a dramatic hand over his chest. "No. But I'm amazing at ad-libs. You've never heard someone yell background vocals like I can."
Aurelia snorted. "Oh no. He's got frontman energy. We'll never hear the end of it."
"I'll have a stage persona," Nate said proudly. "I'll wear a cursed eyepatch and scream things like 'TOADS IN THE DUNGEON' during every bridge."
"That's not ad-libbing," Polaris muttered from where he'd already settled on a bench near the wall. "That's just shouting nouns."
"Exactly!" Nate called back. "You get it."
Polaris didn't respond. He was already flipping open the clasp of his satchel like this conversation had passed into ambient background noise.
"Look at him," Willow muttered. "Probably off to write a treatise on why laughing is inefficient."
"More likely writing a list of people to hex in alphabetical order," Corvus said breezily, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "Guess who's under W."
Willow glared at Corvus, while Polaris raised a brow.
Aurelia completely focused on the whole "rock band" thing grinned. "I like this plan. Willow's the angsty one, Nate's the chaotic hype man, and I'm obviously the icon."
Willow shrugged, smirking. "Obviously."
Nate struck a dramatic pose. "Every band needs a bit of flair. I'll work on my stage twirls."
And then—unfortunately—they started singing.
Loudly. Off-key. Something about banshees in velvet capes and a cursed bass line that ate your soul.
The look on Polaris' face said it all.
Corvus leaned in beside him, voice low.
"We should move," he muttered. "They're ruining our street cred."
Polaris didn't reply, he already had his satchel in hand. As much as he wanted to pretend he was above this, the second-hand embarrassment was… creeping in.
He stood, smooth and wordless.
Corvus grinned. "Knew you had a survival instinct."
Together, they retreated to the opposite end of the room, leaving the impromptu band rehearsal to echo freely into the vaulted ceiling.
Behind them, Aurelia hit a particularly high note with enough force to make Madam Pince weep in the next building.
"Ah—excellent projection, Miss Potter! Though I daresay we're not auditioning for the Hogwarts Choir today."
Several heads turned. A few students snickered. Others gave the trio a series of curious, amused, or judgmental looks—whispers flickering like candle flames between them. One Ravenclaw near the front was still mid-incantation, wand raised, but even he paused to glance over at the disruption.
Professor Kettleburn, leaning heavily on his carved cane, ambled into the centre of the room. His coat was patched in five different colours, his boots were mismatched, and his eyes sparkled with the kind of tired mischief only long-term survival in Hogwarts could produce.
"Much as I'd love a performance, I believe we're here to duel , not debut a concept album," he said with a wide grin. "So unless your battle tactic involves distracting your opponent with interpretive rock ballads, I suggest we get started."
Aurelia muttered something under her breath. Willow was trying not to smile. Nate had both hands dramatically pressed to his heart like he'd just been praised and scolded in the same breath.
Kettleburn turned, raising his voice. "Welcome back, everyone! Last time we worked on casting form and safety—admirable, if slightly dull. This afternoon, we're pairing up for light sparring."
A collective stir went through the group. Wands were straightened. Stances shifted. Some students looked suddenly very alert. Others visibly tensed.
Kettleburn continued, "Nothing too flashy yet—controlled spells only, nothing above third year level unless you'd like to explain to Madam Pomfrey why someone's eyebrows are missing. Again."
That earned a fresh round of laughter—and a few wary glances.
"Wands out, everyone," Kettleburn called cheerfully, clapping his hands together. "And let's see if anyone remembers anything I taught last week."
"Now we're talking," Corvus muttered.
It has been roughly 10 minutes, they were elft to practice what was taught in the previosu session and to ask for help when needed.
Corvus spun on the spot with theatrical flair, wand raised. "Expelliarmus!"
Polaris deflected it with a precise flick of his wrist, his stance minimal but balanced. The spell glanced off his shield charm and vanished into the air with a harmless spark.
"You're getting predictable," Polaris said calmly, lowering his wand.
Corvus groaned. "I'm getting dramatic . Big difference."
They reset positions, circling one another in the cleared practice space. Around them, the Duelling Club buzzed with movement—wands flashing, voices rising in excitement or dismay, Professor Kettleburn occasionally stepping in to correct a stance or redirect a flying wand.
Polaris and Corvus had just resumed when a voice spoke up nearby.
"Er—excuse me. Sorry—would it be alright if I joined for just a moment? I wanted to ask something."
Polaris turned. His wand lowered slightly, but he didn't speak right away.
A Hufflepuff girl stood a few feet off, her expression open but careful. Her robes were neat, though her thick, dark curls had started to frizz at the edges in the humid air. The light caught the tight coils as they framed her face—curls that stopped just at her shoulders and made her look like she carried a storm of starlight with her. Her skin was warm-toned, freckles scattered lightly across her cheeks, and her eyes—deep brown, steady—held his gaze just a second longer than expected.
She was pretty.
Polaris didn't realise he was staring until Corvus cleared his throat.
"I'm Nia Cadwallader," she said, straightening a little. "First year. Hufflepuff."
Corvus blinked, then snapped his fingers. "Cadwallader! That's a Welsh pureblood name, right? Think my uncle played Quidditch against a Cadwallader once—beat him, if I recall."
Nia smiled, more amused than offended. "Sounds about right."
Polaris, meanwhile, had tilted his head slightly, listening. Her accent was soft, but noticeable.
"What part of Wales are you from?" Polaris asked before thinking much about it.
Nia's expression lit up. "Carmarthenshire! Small place, middle of nowhere, really. We've got hills and sheep and not much else. But the skies are always clear there—perfect for stargazing."
Polaris nodded once, something flickering behind his eyes. "That sounds nice."
Corvus grinned. "Merlin, you two can talk about the stars while I slowly perish of boredom. What did you need help with, Cadwallader?"
Nia shifted her wand in her hand. "I was watching your disarming spell—both of yours, actually. You're not just shouting the incantation and hoping it works. There's a rhythm to it. And your grip's different from how we were taught. I wanted to ask how you're doing it. If you don't mind."
Polaris glanced at Corvus.
Corvus shrugged. "Sure. Long as you don't mind being flung halfway across the room for practice."
Nia laughed, already stepping closer. "I'll risk it."
Polaris shifted slightly to make room for her, unsure whether the heat in his face was from the duelling or something else entirely.
It had only been ten minutes.
Maybe eleven, if one counted the short break they'd taken to breathe after the fourth round of practice drills. But something about the time felt… odd. Stretched and weightless.
Nia had made it feel easy—like they'd always trained together.
She was bright without trying to prove anything, focused without being rigid. She laughed at Corvus's ridiculous commentary and didn't flinch when Polaris corrected her foot placement with a muttered, "You'll lose your balance if you plant your heel like that."
And now, while they sat at the edge of the duelling circle catching their breath, she was mid-tangent. Completely animated.
"I mean, obviously everyone talks about phoenixes and hippogriffs and whatnot, and yes , they're amazing, but clabbert spotting is severely underrated," Nia was saying, gesturing with her wand like it was a pointer and they were in a classroom. "They live in trees and go completely still when scared, but their boil glows bright red if they sense danger nearby—it's like nature's own alarm system."
Polaris blinked. "You've seen one?"
"In my nan's orchard," she said proudly. "We had to put up a Muggle-Repelling Charm because they kept setting off when the neighbours' cats wandered in. Poor things thought Armageddon was coming every time a tabby passed the fence."
Corvus snorted. "Bet that made fruit-picking a right adventure."
Nia grinned. "Half the pears had scorch marks."
Polaris… smiled.
He didn't realise he had until Corvus turned to stare at him like he'd grown a second head.
"You good?" Corvus asked, brows raised. "You look like you're trying not to say something snarky. It's weird."
Polaris blinked again, caught mid-thought. "What? No. I was listening."
Corvus gave him a slow, suspicious squint. "You never just listen . You usually listen, judge, then pick apart their sentence structure."
"I don't—" Polaris started, then stopped. His fingers twitched at the hem of his sleeve. "I was interested. That's all."
Nia looked between them, amused. "Is that a bad thing?"
"No," Corvus said, still eyeing Polaris. "Just rare. Like a mooncalf sighting. Or a Ravenclaw who doesn't correct your pronunciation."
Polaris shot him a look, but it lacked its usual sharpness.
Nia tucked a curl behind her ear, brown eyes warm. "Well, if you ever want to go clabbert spotting, my nan's still got the orchard. Just bring goggles and a fireproof jumper."
Polaris opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. "I… don't have a fireproof jumper."
Corvus snorted so hard he choked.
"Right, that's it," he said, waving a hand. "Who are you and what have you done with my emotionally repressed duelling partner?"
Nia laughed, the sound soft and genuine, and Polaris stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.
He hadn't blushed. Not really . Just… overheated from the drills. Probably.
Definitely.
It had definitely just been the drills.
Polaris tugged at the edge of his sleeve, willing his thoughts back into neat, ordered rows. Across from him, Nia had turned to say something to Corvus, which gave Polaris exactly five seconds to recalibrate his entire brain.
Unfortunately, he only got three.
"Right, that's enough giggling and spell-flinging for now!" came Professor Kettleburn's booming voice as he clapped his hands twice for attention. "If we keep practicing without direction, someone's going to end up hexing a shoe off. Again."
A few scattered laughs. A few guilty glances.
Polaris straightened, tucking his wand into his sleeve.
"I think we'll move on to duels," Kettleburn continued, striding into the centre of the room with a cheerful sort of wobble. "Proper ones. Two at a time. Light rules—no harmful jinxes, standard safety spells in place. You're free to challenge whoever you like, and I'll supervise the pairings. Protego is allowed."
He turned to the group and gestured broadly. "Any brave volunteers to start us off?"
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
"I'll go!" Aurelia Potter stepped forward, already pulling her wand from her pocket like it had missed the attention.
Willow groaned from the edge of the group. "Of course you will."
Kettleburn beamed. "Excellent! Who's your opponent?"
Aurelia didn't hesitate. Her wand arm swung toward a very specific point across the room.
"You," she said. "I challenge him ." She pointed straight at Polaris.
Corvus made a low "oooh" sound under his breath.
Polaris looked up, unamused. "Why?"
"Because," Aurelia said, stepping into the duelling circle like it was a stage, "you insulted my wardrobe, my voice, and my entire existence in the span of ten minutes. I'd like to return the favour magically."
Corvus turned to Polaris with an unhelpful grin. "Sounds fair."
Polaris exhaled through his nose. "I'm not interested."
"Too bad," Aurelia replied sweetly, taking her place. "This is a club. You joined it."
Polaris looked at Kettleburn. "Can I decline?"
Kettleburn gave him a steady look, one brow raised. "You joined this club to practice defensive and offensive technique in a controlled setting. That's precisely what you're being offered. Declining's your right—but don't expect pity if the room remembers."
Aurelia gave him a wicked grin. "Unless you're afraid of the hat."
He looked her up and down.
"All right," Polaris said flatly, "I'll duel the walking potted plant."
Aurelia's mouth fell open. " Excuse me? "
There was a sharp gasp. Then a chorus of snorts and half-choked laughter from the surrounding students.
Aurelia blinked, visibly affronted. "I beg your what ?"
Polaris was already stepping forward, adjusting his sleeves. "You heard me."
Corvus leaned toward Nia, whispering, "We're going to need a stretcher for someone. No idea who yet."
Aurelia pointed her wand with dramatic flourish. "I hope you know I'm about to embarrass you in front of everyone."
Polaris rolled his eyes. "You already did. The hat."
Kettleburn clapped once. "Wands ready! Let's see what you two first years can do."
Professor Kettleburn raised his cane like a conductor's baton. "Wands ready. Bow."
Aurelia dipped low with theatrical grace. Polaris barely inclined his head. The contrast couldn't have been sharper.
"Begin."
Polaris moved first—conservative, calculated.
"Flipendo."
Aurelia deflected it with a quick Protego , feet sliding neatly into stance.
"Predictable," she muttered, wand already darting.
"Rictusempra!"
He sidestepped, raising a crisp shield. The laughter-jinx fizzled off it harmlessly, but his eyes narrowed.
She was fast.
He tested her reflexes again, adjusting the tempo—two staccato Flipendos , then a feint with Lumos to throw her focus, his wand angling quick and sharp.
She didn't fall for it. Instead, her mouth quirked like she'd been expecting the trick.
Polaris pressed forward. "Expelliarmus!"
She ducked, Protego flashing again. "You really think I didn't train for that one?"
The crowd murmured, watching them circle. This wasn't the wild flailing of typical first-year duels—this was a chess match in spellwork.
Aurelia broke the pattern first.
Polaris had just cast Protego to block a well-aimed Petrificus Totalus when she whipped her wand downward, low and fast.
"Flipendo Maxima!"
The modified spell slammed into his shield with enough force to crack the echo around the circle. He staggered backward, the shield splintering like glass. His heel caught on the flagstone, balance tipping.
Gasps rang out as Polaris flung a spell at the floor— "Levicorpus!" —suspending himself in mid-air before impact. His robes billowed as he twisted upright mid-float, landing on his feet with surprising grace.
"She used a third-year variant!" someone whispered.
"Did he just counter while airborne ?"
"That's not even on the syllabus…"
They locked eyes. Aurelia was grinning, flushed with adrenaline. Polaris was breathing harder, brows furrowed. His wand hand shifted slightly.
"You look annoyed," she called across the circle.
"You look ridiculous," he replied. "Still."
Her grin widened. "Let's change that."
She flicked her wand in a spiral. "Rictusempra Motum!"
It was a jinx—but modified. Polaris staggered, not laughing, but disoriented. His vision blurred briefly, wand arm faltering—
Too much. He didn't like losing control.
His expression hardened. No more hesitation.
"Aguamenti—Protego—Expelliarmus—Flipendo—"
A four-beat sequence, rapid-fire.
The water blast hit first, soaking Aurelia's boots and sending her stumbling.
The shield charm flared up mid-cast, blocking a reflexive jinx from her wand.
Then— "Expelliarmus!" —struck just as she regained her footing.
"Flipendo."
The final spell hit her full in the chest, clean and efficient. Her wand flew from her grip and she hit the mat with a thud, flat on her back and breathless.
The room went silent .
Professor Kettleburn stepped in quickly. "Enough! Duel concluded—wands down, both of you."
Polaris stood where he was, breathing steadily. His robes were askew, his hair slightly mussed.
Aurelia sat up, blinking, and muttered, "Ow."
Kettleburn gave them both a long look, eyes sharp despite the tired gait. "That," he said slowly, "was either a disaster or impressive, depending who you ask."
Scattered laughter.
"Miss Potter, Mr Black—your technique was beyond your year level. But so were your spells ."
Aurelia pushed to her feet with Willow's help. "Didn't mean to go that far, Professor."
"Neither did I," Polaris said coolly, adjusting his sleeve.
"No more Maxima variants or custom jinxes unless they've been cleared ahead of time," Kettleburn said, raising a finger. "Clear?"
They both nodded.
Then the whispers began.
"If it were anyone else, He'd take points off. But because she's a Potter and he's a Black—"
"Don't make this about bloodlines. This is about rules."
"Everything's about bloodlines. You just don't want to admit it."
"He still won. That's what matters."
"No, what matters is that they both broke the rules and got praised for it."
"They're gonna run this school by fourth year, aren't they?"
In the circle, Polaris retrieved Aurelia's wand and held it out to her.
She eyed him warily. "That a truce?"
Polaris tilted his head slightly.
Then, just as she reached to take it—
He let it slip from his fingers.
The wand clattered to the floor between them.
Aurelia blinked.
Polaris arched a brow, voice completely neutral. "Oops."
Corvus audibly choked back laughter from the sidelines.
Willow let out an offended scoff. " You —"
Aurelia, jaw tight, crouched to snatch up her wand. "You're insufferable."
"I know," Polaris said, already turning away. "But I won." he said simply, already brushing past the circle's edge.
Aurelia made a noise like she was considering homicide.
Before he could fully retreat, a soft voice behind him cut in—
" That was brilliant spellwork. "
He turned slightly. Nia Cadwallader was standing near the edge of the crowd, brown eyes warm, a curl escaping behind her ear as she tucked her wand away. Her expression was easy—genuinely impressed, no dramatics.
"You chained four spells," she went on, quieter now. "Without flinching. Most people can't manage two without tripping over their stance."
Polaris blinked at her.
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
"...Oh," he said eventually. "Thanks."
It came out flat. Too flat. His brain picked that exact moment to go blank.
Nia smiled, like she could hear the malfunctioning silence in his head and chose to be kind about it. "Seriously. That was textbook clean. Even Kettleburn looked impressed—and he's usually asleep with his eyes open."
Polaris adjusted the strap of his satchel. "I just… practiced," he mumbled.
Corvus, walking up behind him, leaned in with a smirk. " He's blushing. "
"I am not."
"You are. And you dropped Aurelia's wand on purpose. Cold-blooded."
Nia frowned slightly. "Wait—you dropped it?"
"It slipped," Polaris said, too quickly.
Corvus just laughed harder.
Polaris inhaled through his nose, face perfectly blank—except for the fact that the tips of his ears were very, very red.
It was only an hour later when the session was finally over, the student filling out of the rom, Polaris was one of the first ahead, he was in need of a nap, his headache was worse in the dungeon, and he had no reason to stay any longer.
"Oi, Black."
He's heard that one before, let's see where it leads this time.
He stopped walking taking a glance only to meet Aurelia's glare, arms crossed. Still dressed like a walking Slytherin mascot, Polaris gaze looked over her.
He sighed through his nose. "You realize you broke at least two rules in under five minutes."
Aurelia tilted her head. "Funny. I thought you'd lead with 'well duelled, Aurelia' — but sure, let's start with a lecture."
Polaris gave a slow, cold smile. "'Well duelled' implies you followed the rules. You didn't. That modified jinx wasn't standard — not for us."
She shrugged. "And? You still won. Are you complaining about that, or just insecure I made you work for it?"
He stepped closer. His voice was quiet, but each word hit with surgical precision.
"If you need borderline illegal spells to stay in the game, maybe you're not as good as everyone thinks."
Aurelia's mouth curled, sharp as a blade. "And if you need the rulebook to feel superior, maybe you're not as clever as you think."
A tense beat. The air between them crackled. Neither moved. Neither blinked.
Then Polaris, voice clipped and low, said, "People like you always think bending rules is brilliance. It's not. It's just arrogance with better PR."
Aurelia actually laughed—one breath, bitter and amused. She leaned in just slightly, eyes glinting. "Coming from a Black ? That's rich. Aren't you all about bending things — people, expectations, history?"
Polaris didn't flinch. But something behind his eyes darkened.
"Difference is," he said softly, "I know where the line is. You cross it without even looking."
Her grin vanished.
She uncrossed her arms; tone suddenly stripped of the fire — steel instead.
"Yeah, well. Lines are easy to follow when you're not the one getting boxed in by them."
That landed.
Polaris's lips parted slightly, but whatever he was about to say caught in his throat.
Aurelia exhaled through her nose, pushing past him with a muttered, "You're lucky we were supervised."
Before either of them could move, a third voice chimed in—light, clear, and entirely uninvited.
"Merlin's beard," the girl said. "That was practically dialectical foreplay."
They both froze.
Polaris blinked, slow and suspicious. "What does that even mean?"
Aurelia squinted at the older girl, clearly not sure whether to be offended or flattered. "Is that... a compliment?"
"Yes," the girl said brightly, unbothered. "Just not one I'd recommend repeating to a professor."
A seventh-year Hufflepuff stood a few feet down the corridor, leaning casually against the wall with a heavy-looking stack of books hugged to her chest. Her robes were adorned with at least three academic pins and a gleaming prefect badge. Her honey-brown curls were piled up in a messy bun, and there was ink smudged along the side of her hand — the kind of person who looked like she annotated for fun.
She stepped closer, eyes alight with some strange mix of admiration and analysis.
"Sharp logic, strong emotional subtext, and you stayed mostly on topic. Not bad. Needs refining, though. You need structure. Rebuttal, evidence, clean cross-examination. That thing about the PR line? Black, was it? It could sing if you rooted it in an actual historical comparison. And you"— she pointed at Aurelia— "you've got great presence, but you get cornered when someone out-cools you. Rely on facts. It cuts louder than flair."
Aurelia blinked. "...What?"
Polaris furrowed his brow. "Who are you?"
"Cassandra Rowley, seventh-year, Hufflepuff prefect, two-time finalist of the Silver Tongue Cup, and head of The Concordium — Hogwarts' debating society." She beamed, utterly unfazed by their stunned silence. "Make sure you come this Thursday at 5pm; you can get more info then. Classroom 3C, the old Arithmancy hall. Still has the charm acoustics from the duelling tournaments in '43 — excellent for projection."
Then, cheerfully, "This is me basically extending a formal invitation to both of you."
Polaris blinked slowly, as though trying to process being recruited mid-fight.
Aurelia looked her up and down. "Are you serious?"
Rowley shrugged. "Deadly. You two argue like it's an art form. You just need somewhere better to do it than in public hallways between classes."
A beat passed.
Then Aurelia and Polaris glanced at each other—just for a second. They were both completely and utterly thrown.
Polaris cleared his throat. "...I'll consider it."
"Do," Rowley said brightly. "And bring nuance. It's been ages since I saw first-years argue like that without flinging hexes."
She turned and walked off, humming cheerfully, leaving silence in her wake.
The Concordium.
An official club, led by a seventh-year prefect, with access to Hogwarts resources — and, more importantly, argument-based assignments. Research-based rebuttal. Formal documentation.
His fingers twitched absently at his side.
A debating society would need reference material. Original source texts. Historical precedent. Especially for topics like magical ethics, regulation, and ancient legislation.
The kind of texts stored behind locks.
In the Restricted Section.
Polaris didn't smile. But something in him settled.
He didn't need to sneak in. He just needed permission to prepare .
And if Cassandra Rowley wanted him to bring nuance—
He'd bring nuance sharp enough to unlock a gate.
Aurelia raised an eyebrow. "Did we just get recruited into an academic death match?"
Polaris muttered, "I think we were just praised."
Aurelia wrinkled her nose. "Ugh. Don't make it weird." she said before marching away.
He muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the corridor to catch it. "Trust me. You're not that special."
He didn't like arguing. Not really. People assumed he did, because he was good at it. Because he didn't flinch or back down or raise his voice. But Aurelia? She seemed to thrive on friction. Like she woke up each morning and picked chaos off the shelf like it was part of her uniform.
He was so tired of her. She was annoying, it had to be a Potter thing because her brother was just as annoying in his own interesting way.
Ever since they got paired in Herbology, it was like the universe had decided to test his patience in a slow, grinding way. Elbow to elbow with someone who couldn't sit still, couldn't shut up, couldn't go a single class without some stupid comment under her breath just to see if he'd react. She'd practically rearranged their entire chart last week— without asking —because, apparently, she thought "her way looked better."
At least she was good at herbology. Her only good quality.
October 9th, 1975, Thursday
When Polaris stepped through the arched doorway, the first thing he noticed was how the space had been restructured—not into rows of desks, but a kind of amphitheatre . The centre of the room had been cleared, sunken just slightly into the stone, and in the middle of that shallow bowl stood two narrow podiums, facing each other like duelling platforms. A circle of chairs—old, mismatched, and enchanted to resist student tampering—rose in gradual tiers around them, curving all the way to the back wall in a wide semi-dome.
It looked less like a classroom and more like a courtroom. Or an arena. Or both.
Already, it was halfway full.
Students sat scattered throughout the circular seating, robes half-opened, quills in hand, parchments spread across knees and laps. Some scribbled notes. Others whispered between turns. A few leaned forward with the quiet intensity of spectators at a Quidditch match—not eager for blood, but for logic.
Polaris slipped into a seat near the edge, saying nothing. No one turned to greet him, but a few eyes flicked in his direction—recognition, perhaps, or curiosity. He didn't acknowledge them.
At the centre, the debate was already underway.
A tall Ravenclaw girl stood at the left podium, dark braids swept over one shoulder, voice clear and clipped:
"If Hogwarts is bound by Ministry oversight, and if its students are affected by legislation passed in the Wizengamot, then we—students—should hold at least partial voting rights by age fifteen. The precedent exists: the magical community allows underage witches and wizards to work part-time jobs, carry wands, and face legal sentencing. If we can be punished by law, we should be allowed to participate in shaping it."
Across from her, a Slytherin boy in a perfectly pressed vest frowned thoughtfully. He adjusted his spectacles, then responded:
"Except we're not citizens in the same way. Voting isn't just about being affected—it's about demonstrated investment and legal maturity. If we lower the age, where do we stop? Thirteen? Eleven? Do we ask first-years to weigh in on international policy? The issue isn't inclusion—it's thresholds . There's a difference between exposure to power and responsibility for it."
Polaris watched, unmoving, eyes sharp. The arguments weren't flawless, but they weren't amateur either. The girl's delivery was confident, her tone clipped and well-paced, though occasionally rushed in her eagerness to prove a point. The boy, meanwhile, countered with calm restraint, occasionally glancing down at a parchment tucked discreetly under his hand—evidence, or maybe just bullet points.
They spoke with the kind of conviction Polaris recognized—half genuine, half performative. Not passion for the topic, but for the act of argument. It wasn't about winning. Not yet. It was about shaping the battlefield.
A bell rang softly from somewhere near the back.
Cassandra Rowley stood up—Polaris recognized her instantly, even from behind. She hadn't spoken once during the debate, but the room shifted toward her without needing instruction.
"Time," she said simply. "Open discussion permitted. No interrupting the presenters unless invited. You know the rules."
The tension snapped like a string. Instantly, the formal posture dissolved into casual movement. Students leaned sideways to whisper, others scribbled furiously. One girl from Hufflepuff let out a sharp breath and muttered, "That was brutal," to the boy next to her.
The two presenters met near the front, halfway between their podiums, still mid-discussion.
"I need to bring in that 1789 clause next time," the Ravenclaw girl said, brushing her braid back. "It kills my point if I don't address the parental proxy counter."
The boy nodded, pushing up his glasses. "Your delivery was solid, though. And that thing about wand licensing? That could tie in really well if you root it in magical rights cases."
She gave a small, thoughtful grunt. "Still needs work. This draft's too heavy on feeling, not enough legal framing."
"That's what the next round is for," he said. "We've got a week."
Their conversation trailed off into the hum of the room—quills scratching, chairs scraping, parchment being exchanged like battle maps between alliances. Polaris, still seated near the edge, kept his expression blank. He caught the edge of a sentence here, a half-formed argument there. The place buzzed with intelligence. Controlled chaos. A room full of people who liked knowing things—and proving it.
Then a voice called out, clear and warm with that strange mix of authority and ease:
"Before you all disappear into your own theories and tangents, a moment—please."
Cassandra Rowley stood at the centre of the room now, arms loosely crossed, a parchment tucked under one elbow. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. Conversation quieted like a spell had dropped, and attention turned.
"We've got two new additions today," she said, smiling as if it were a matter of course. "You might've heard them arguing in the corridor earlier this week—loudly, and with exceptional flair."
There were a few amused glances, a chuckle or two.
Rowley went on, "Normally, we don't allow late entries—timing matters in structured space. But I made an exception. I think you'll find they bring something valuable to the floor."
Her gaze flicked up—toward the right side of the amphitheatre.
"Aurelia Potter," she announced. "Slytherin. Strong cadence, sharp instinct, questionably aggressive hand gestures."
Aurelia, seated in the third row, slouched deeper into her chair with an exaggerated sigh. "Brilliant. Love the spotlight. Cheers."
A few people laughed softly. A few others whispered knowingly—her surname had done its own work before Rowley had opened her mouth.
"And over there," Rowley continued, turning toward the opposite end of the circle, "Polaris Black. Ravenclaw. Possibly allergic to human error and already planning rhetorical strategies mid-debate."
Polaris blinked, slow and unreadable.
More laughter, a ripple of interest—and one whispered, "That's the Black in blue ," from a fifth-year near the back.
"Come down, both of you," Rowley said, beckoning them forward like a judge summoning witnesses. "Don't worry. You're not being sacrificed. Just… initiated."
There was a beat. Then Aurelia stood, muttering something under her breath—probably about theatrics—and made her way down the side steps. Polaris followed with less fuss but slower steps, expression carved from stone.
When they reached the front, Rowley stepped between them and turned to address the group one last time:
"Everyone else—take ten. Continue your outlines, run through your counters, prep your next motion. We'll reconvene in fifteen for rebuttal drills."
The room broke into motion again—just loud enough to provide privacy, not so loud that attention wandered entirely.
Rowley clasped her hands behind her back and gestured at the chamber like she was unveiling a stage performance.
"Welcome," she said, voice low enough to be private but no less clear. "To the Concordium. Hogwarts' oldest and most selective debate and diplomacy society—rebuilt, restructured, and hexed into order by yours truly."
She flashed a grin, then nodded to a nearby student. "And not just me."
From the benches nearby, three other seventh-years stood up, forming a rough semicircle around her.
"Allow me to introduce the High Council," Rowley said with theatric grandeur. "Elected each year—one per house. We handle moderation, topic selection, training, and, unfortunately, parchmentwork."
She gestured first to the boy beside her—a tall, dark-skinned Gryffindor with sharp cheekbones, gold-rimmed glasses, and a smile like he'd read your flaws before you walked in the door.
"This is Zion Daramola. Gryffindor. Head of Diplomacy and Public Relations. He's the reason the Council doesn't get hexed weekly."
Zion dipped his head, voice smooth. "I draft the external charters and settle most of our inter-club disputes. Also handle liaising with the Headmaster and the Ministry's Youth Engagement Office."
"Which," Rowley muttered to Polaris and Aurelia, "mostly means he's very good at sounding harmless while making sure no one shuts us down."
Next, she nodded to the Ravenclaw rep—an elegant girl with silver rings on every finger and a braid that wound over one shoulder like a rope of ink.
"Sabine Lay, Ravenclaw. Strategic Director. She oversees argument design, curriculum flow, and trial debate coordination."
Sabine's smile was polite but distant. "And I write the monthly themes, so don't complain when you're asked to argue something morally inconvenient. That's the point."
Aurelia blinked, clearly unsure whether she liked her or not. Polaris had already decided she was probably competent.
Lastly, Rowley gestured to a short Slytherin boy whose expression was so deadpan he might have been carved from salt.
"And that delightfully sunlit creature is Caelan Mulciber. Slytherin. He handles scorekeeping, policy enforcement, and House-vs-House records."
Caelan didn't move. "Don't cheat. Don't shout. Don't embarrass me."
Polaris almost respected it.
Rowley turned back to them, stepping in to reclaim the moment. "As for me—Cassandra Rowley, Hufflepuff, and current Head of the High Council. I moderate all high-level debates, oversee inter-year mentorship, and coordinate Hogwarts' delegation to the Grand Concordium Summit."
She gave them both a once-over. "If you stay, you'll be assigned mentors within your house. You'll study argument structure, rhetorical enchantment, and magical ethics. You'll debate weekly. Topics range from domestic law to international magical conflict."
Then she added, smoothly, "We meet four times a week. Thursdays and Mondays after classes—five to six-thirty. Saturdays and Sundays, mornings only, usually for three hours. The weekend sessions are longer for a reason—they're where we really train. Mock debates, case critiques, strategy drills."
Aurelia smoothed a hand over her sleeve, tone breezy. "I've got Duelling Club on Mondays."
Polaris gave her a look—mild, unimpressed, the kind that clearly said seriously?
She flicked her eyes toward him, barely turning her head. "What?"
He didn't answer that. " We've got Duelling Club on Mondays," he said, more evenly, to Rowley.
Rowley didn't blink. "That's fine. You won't be expected to attend every Monday. We accommodate cross-society commitments—as long as you're consistent on the others."
Aurelia raised an eyebrow, halfway amused. "Sounds… intense."
Rowley's grin sharpened. "It is. We compete internationally. Seven students per school—one per year. Selection trials happen mid-winter. Hogwarts sends its best to the Grand Concordium Summit each spring."
Polaris stilled slightly at that. Something about international competition pinged the obsessive part of his brain like a spell rebounding off glass.
Rowley stepped closer.
"If you want to stay," she said, lowering her voice just enough that it didn't carry, "you'll need to select a topic with your mentor today or tomorrow. Sabine oversees trials."
She tilted her head. "We don't tolerate mediocrity. But we do train promise."
Then louder, "Alright—everyone back in!"
The room came alive again—students returning to benches, parchment reappearing, a low thrum of intellectual electricity stirring beneath the stone.
Polaris blinked once, then finally looked at Aurelia. She was already staring at him like she expected him to say something smug.
He didn't.
Instead, he looked back toward the two elevated stands in the middle of the room.
He wanted to stand there.
Eventually.
A few minutes later, as the chatter resumed around them and students filtered back into groups, a voice spoke from just over Polaris's shoulder.
"Welcome. I'm Hector Linwood—your assigned mentor."
He turned to find a tall Ravenclaw boy standing beside him—sixth year, judging by his build and the confident ease with which he carried himself. His dark hair was neatly pulled back at the nape, and he wore his house colours like they were tailored into him—sharp navy robes, clean lines, no embellishments. A pale silver pin in the shape of a quill glinted on his lapel.
"Pleasure to meet you, I'm Polaris Black as you already know."
"Oh, do I and don't worry. I don't bite unless goaded." Hector gestured to one of the alcove benches lining the chamber. "Come on. We'll talk while the others prep for second round."
They sat. Polaris noticed Hector's bag was already half-filled with parchment, colour-coded tabs peeking out like plumage. Efficient. Ravenclaw.
"Cass gave me the quick notes—Rowley, I mean," Hector said, adjusting the strap across his chest. "Apparently, you debated a Potter and didn't combust, which she considers a sign of resilience. You're in."
Polaris raised an eyebrow. "Was that the requirement?"
"For her? Sometimes, yes."
Polaris leaned back slightly. "So what exactly am I expected to do?"
"Short version? Think. Speak. Win." Hector gave him a faint grin. "Long version? The Concordium trains magical rhetoric—formal debate, political theory, the works. Each week, we cycle through topics—some topical, some historical, some moral. You'll be expected to research, prepare arguments, and eventually compete."
"Can you tell me more about the whole competing thing?" Polaris asked, tone sharpening with curiosity.
"Here, first. Internal matches, House versus House. But the real goal—" Hector lowered his voice slightly, "—is the Grand Concordium Summit."
"Makes sense."
"Good," Hector said, visibly pleased. "The Summit's held every spring, rotating between the major magical schools. It's the single most prestigious student debate tournament in the wizarding world. Seven students per school—one for each year."
"Chosen how?"
"Internal trials. Debates judged by faculty, alumni, sometimes even Ministry observers. Top student per year earns the delegate slot. Hogwarts has won the Silver Laurel four times. Last time was twelve years ago."
Polaris nodded slowly, absorbing that. "And the topics?"
"High stakes. Last year, Mahoutokoro's first-year had to argue whether curse-breaking should be mandatory for all diplomatic personnel. The seventh-years tackled the ethics of time-turner preservation laws."
He paused, then added with a wry smile, "Beauxbatons brought veela tea to bribe the judges. Still didn't win."
Polaris's eyes were alight now—not with arrogance, but hunger. "And Hogwarts?"
"Placed fourth last year. Sabine—Ravenclaw, you met her—she's captain this year. She'll be choosing the internal topic flow until spring."
Polaris nodded, thoughtful. "And if you win?"
Hector gave a half-shrug. "You get a Laurel. Ministry attention. Departmental fast-tracks. Internships with the International Magical Cooperation office—you know, the ones who handle foreign policy and magical treaties. Some get invited to train under diplomatic envoys or placed with high-tier law firms like Malpas & Crowley. It opens doors. If you're good enough."
There was a beat.
Polaris leaned forward slightly. "And what's your role in all this? As my mentor."
"I'm here to make sure you don't humiliate either of us," Hector said, smiling easily. "We train together once a week, I review your arguments, and you can ask me whatever you need. Structure. Style. Spell-backed persuasion. I've seen every trick in the rhetorical handbook."
Polaris blinked slowly. "Alright," he said at last. "I'm interested."
"I know," Hector said, standing. "That's why I picked you before Sabine could get her claws in."
Polaris stood too. "Do we start now?"
Hector tilted his head. "You want to?"
Polaris looked again at the two stands in the centre of the room, where another pair of students were already beginning a new match. The energy in the air was different here—sharpened, focused, purposeful. Not chaos. Not shouting. Just words, honed like blades.
"I want to know how it works," Polaris said.
Hector smiled like he'd just been handed a brand-new puzzle.
"Then come on, Black. I'll show you the scaffolding beneath the spectacle."
The next half hour passed in a blur of movement and method.
Hector led him through examples—past debates catalogued in enchanted folios, old recordings from prior Summits flickering across floating projection panes, annotated breakdowns of legendary arguments color-coded by technique. It was overwhelming, in the way that Polaris liked. He was used to chaos. This was something else: constructed, layered, sharpened to precision.
At one point, Hector tossed him a parchment of practice prompts—topics ranging from troll rights to time-turner regulation—and Polaris had barely read the first one before asking:
"Do any of these ever require research from the Restricted Section?"
Hector paused, thoughtful. "Sometimes. Depends on what angle you take. If you're leaning on historical precedent, legal nuance, or obscure spellwork—maybe. But it's rare, and you have to justify it. The High Council only grants access if your approach demands it."
Polaris said nothing, but something behind his eyes clicked quietly into place.
So choose something difficult, he thought. Something others wouldn't risk arguing. Something that needed more than the surface-level sources.
That's how he'd get in.
That's how he'd learn what they were keeping out of reach.
Hector nudged him with the back of his hand. "Don't worry. We'll find your lane. But first—mock debate, next week is really nothing big it's just basically getting you comfortable with the draft people have written up. You'll be doing the same debate the week after but this time with a final draft. I'll handle your placement. You just come ready."
Polaris nodded once. "I will be."
He glanced again at the stands in the centre, the curved seating around them, the quiet storm of intellect and strategy turning beneath every word exchanged there.
And for the first time in weeks, he felt something shift in his chest.
Not relief. Not hope.
Hunger.
Hector motioned him over to a side alcove where several scrolls floated midair, slowly rotating like a display of curiosities. Each one was sealed with a different coloured band, marked with tidy calligraphy:
Year One Trial Topics — Term Start Rotation.
Hector flicked his wand. The scrolls stilled.
"First-years don't get full creative control yet," he said, a little apologetically. "You pick from a set of trial topics—four, this term. It's a rotation system, first-come, first-claim. Once two people take a topic, it's closed off for the mock round. Once you select it, you're locked in—no swaps."
Polaris raised an eyebrow. "Only two?"
"Yep. One for, one against," Hector said. "You get paired automatically. Keeps things clean."
He gestured to the scrolls, which now hovered at eye level. Beside each title glowed two narrow bands. One was lit; the other dim.
"Three topics already have someone signed up. Only two choices left. So, you don't really much of a choice."
Polaris stepped forward. The scrolls hovered eye-level now, glowing faintly at the seams. He read:
Should magical portraits have legal standing in wills and property transfers? _ X Are spectral familiars ethically acceptable in magical duelling? X X Do first-years deserve equal say in house governance decisions? X X Should students with known cursed objects in their lineage report them to the school? X _
Only the first and last still had openings. And of those, only one interested him.
He could already see the angles. Inheritance law. Curse ethics. Magical concealment. Probative tracing spells. The sort of topic that might lead directly into darker territory. Restricted, complicated territory.
Hector watched him closely. "It's better if you pick now, I'm pretty sure Potter is the other last pick." he offered.
Polaris didn't look away. "That last one," he said. "The cursed object debate."
Hector tilted his head, assessing. "Going straight for the throat, are we?"
"I want something worth researching," Polaris replied.
A slow grin tugged at the corners of Hector's mouth. "Alright, then. That'll be a hard one. But if you pull it off, they'll remember your name by the second session."
Polaris didn't care about them remembering. Not really.
He cared about knowing.
And if this route took him closer to the Restricted Section—to the deeper questions no one wanted to answer—then so be it.
Polaris stepped closer to the final scroll. Two slim bands of silver hovered just beneath the title—one glowing softly, the other still dim. Tiny script hovered beside each, slightly curved with enchantment:
For Mandatory Reporting:Vivienne Lowley
Against Mandatory Reporting:—
His eyes narrowed on the empty space beneath Against .
A slow, thoughtful breath.
"Someone's already claimed the 'for,'" Hector said casually, watching him. "Lowley. You'd be going up against her."
Polaris glanced at the name, absorbing it without visible reaction.
"Not the easiest opponent," Hector added. "Did the trial debate last week—took down a fifth-year's recycled argument without blinking. Impressed the High Council enough to earn a seat in the club on the spot."
Polaris touched the scroll with his wand. The second band— Against —lit up.
A new name scrawled itself in glowing ink beneath the first:
Against Mandatory Reporting:Polaris Black
He stepped back.
It was done.
"That's going to be a vicious pairing," Hector said, sounding far too pleased. "But you'll learn the most from that kind of pressure. Invitation or not, you just threw yourself into the deep end."
"I prefer it there," Polaris replied.