[12,309 Words]
October 31st, 1975, Friday
Two members of the Marauders had been planning it since the start of October — sneaking, scheming, and brewing in secret. Lacewing flies stewed in an unused cauldron tucked behind a crumbling suit of armour on the third floor. Fluxweed picked under moonlight. One hair stolen from a jumper left in the great hall. Another nicked off a scarf that was left lying around in the Gryffindor common room.
By Samhain, the Polyjuice Potion was ready. And so were they.
In the low flicker of wandlight, deep in a forgotten storage alcove behind the kitchens, the two fifth-years stood shoulder to shoulder, grinning like they were ten seconds from setting fire to the castle — which, historically, wasn't far from the truth.
"I still say this is mental," James muttered, though he was smiling. "Willow's got opinions . What if I say something out of character and she hexes me when this wears off?"
Sirius rolled his eyes, plucking a hair from the stolen jumper in his pocket. "Then she shouldn't have left her scarf on the banister for three days. Rookie mistake."
James snorted, then held up his own vial — hair swirling in the cloudy potion. "Here's to healthy sibling paranoia."
Sirius clinked his own vial against it. "And to spying on brothers who never talk."
They drank.
The effect was immediate. Flesh rippled. Bones shrank with a sickening crunch. Limbs twisted, shoulders sloped inward. Their robes, still oversized and hanging off their smaller frames, flopped awkwardly as the transformation finished.
Both of them staggered a bit, gasping.
Corvus Avery, blue-eyed and sharp-featured, tugged stiffly at his sleeves. "Ugh." Sirius muttered, brushing curls from his new face.
James — now Willow Smyth — poked at his lips with mild horror. "Why are they so dry ? Does she not own a single moisturiser?"
Sirius shot him a look. "You're wearing her face , Prongs. Maybe tone down the slander."
James wrinkled Willow's nose. "Hard to, when it feels like parchment. " He then gave his sleeves a tug. "Ugh. Robes are massive."
Sirius flicked his wand. " Adstringo Vestimenta. "
The fabric shrank and reshaped itself around their smaller frames with a faint crackle of magic.
"Better," James said, inspecting the fit.
They stared at each other for a beat — one now a smug little Slytherin, the other a pinched-faced Gryffindor with dry lips and no patience.
Then they burst out laughing.
— ❈ —
...Meanwhile…
A wand smacked uselessly against the wooden door. Corvus kicked it hard enough to make the hinges rattle.
"Merlin's rotting knickers, let me out! " he shouted, voice echoing around the cramped space.
From the other side of the closet, Willow huffed. "Maybe if you screamed a bit louder, it'd break the charm. Or maybe you'll just deafen me and save me the agony of listening to your voice."
Corvus spun on her, furious. "You think I enjoy being trapped in a cupboard with you? This is actual trauma. I should be awarded compensation."
"You should be awarded a personality," Willow shot back. "Or at least a second facial expression."
"Why are you even here?" he sneered. "Didn't Gryffindor have some honourable, idiotic dare for you to lose at?"
Willow folded her arms. "I heard something strange, which I followed. You were already slinking around being suspicious and weird."
"Slytherin reflexes. Something you wouldn't understand, half-breed."
Willow's eyes narrowed. "Say that again. Go on. I dare you."
Corvus bared his teeth in a smile. "Half. Breed ."
Willow lunged for him, and he swerved sideways just as she slipped on a pile of cloaks and went crashing into the door. She groaned dramatically.
"Oh, I'm dramatic ?" she snapped, untangling herself. "You've spent the last ten minutes growling like someone burned your family tree."
"I come from a long line of people who've started duels over shoes , so try me." Corvus snapped.
Willow stared at him, deadpan. "...That's not the defence you think it is."
Corvus ran a hand through his soft brown curls, which had begun to stick to his forehead. "I'm going to hex someone into next year."
"You already said that."
"I meant it twice. "
Willow leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Hope you're comfortable. You reek of privilege and stale potion smoke."
"And you smell like moral superiority and Muggle shampoo."
A silence followed — not peace, just a detente while they each stewed in loathing.
Then Corvus muttered, "I swear, if I die in this cupboard, you're going first."
Willow didn't look at him. "Good. I'd rather haunt you than spend another second alive with you."
...Back to the imposters...
James-as-Willow twirled a strand of brown hair around his finger with unsettling ease. "Do I look like a threat?"
Sirius-as-Corvus just grimaced. "You look like someone who'd write a heartfelt poem about a kitten, then stab someone for stepping on your shoes."
James beamed. "Perfect."
Sirius rolled his shoulders. "Alright. Let's go see what baby brother is up to."
"Race you," James said, ready to spy on his sister.
"Bet I spy something awful first."
"Loser has to write the apology letters."
They darted off — two impostors in borrowed skin, walking straight into the lives of their younger siblings with all the subtlety of an oncoming storm.
— ❈ —
Somewhere far from their noise, the morning was quiet near the Ravenclaw Tower.
Not everywhere, of course — the grounds nearer the Great Hall still echoed with preparations and half-laughed ghost stories drifting on the breeze.
The stone path leading back from the edge of the Forbidden Forest was half-swallowed in mist, the cold clinging to Polaris's sleeves as he pulled his cloak tighter. The spirit altar stood at the farthest edge — further than the others — quiet and hidden, where the air felt thinner somehow. No one ever came that far. Not this early.
He hadn't said much. Just stood there a while. Lit the candle. Whispered her name.
Aunt Cassiopeia.
It still didn't feel like enough.
His eyes ached. He'd gone to bed late, sleep dragging its feet, and woken before the sun — like his body had forgotten how to rest properly.
The flower he'd left wasn't real — not in the way most people meant it. He'd drawn it by hand, carefully, on thick, charm-treated parchment, layering colour with enchanted inks that shimmered faintly when touched by light. He'd traced every petal from memory, trying to capture the way it tilted toward the sun, the softness of its curve.
It didn't look right. Not to him.
It felt too stiff. Too clean. Not like the real one she once showed him, blooming quietly near the edge of the manor gardens — the kind of flower, she said, that only appeared when the world was quiet enough to hear its silence.
He'd spent an hour on the veins of the leaves. Another half-spell to make the ink lift just slightly, give the edges a curl. It still didn't feel like enough.
But others had called it lifelike. Beautiful, even.
He didn't believe them. Polaris just felt tired.
He just hoped she'd recognise it anyway. That somewhere , she'd know it was meant for her.
Now, as he crossed the slope back toward the castle, his mind flickered toward the runes again. The ones with the curling joints and intersecting crescents — but no spell he tried had done anything. Just wand movements and silence.
He hadn't expected success. Not really.
But he hadn't expected to feel stupid about it, either.
It wasn't just that nothing happened. It was the way he'd stood there, alone in the dark, waving his wand like a beginner — cheeks hot, hands too tight, hoping something would spark. Hoping he'd feel something.
Try again properly tomorrow, he'd told himself last night. Pretend it didn't bother you. Pretend you weren't one mistake away from snapping your wand in half.
Well. It was tomorrow now.
And he still didn't understand it.
He hated that. Hated finding things difficult. Hated that his brain felt slow and tangled. Hated that the more he tried to understand, the more useless he felt — like the answers were just out of reach, laughing at him from behind a locked door.
He was nearly to the Ravenclaw entrance staircase when a voice called out behind him.
"Polaris! Wait up."
Polaris paused mid-step and turned.
'Corvus' jogged toward him, curls slightly windswept, green-trimmed robes crisp and somehow more Slytherin than usual.
Polaris's voice came a beat late. "…Weren't you headed to breakfast with Bas?"
Corvus — or the version of him standing there — shrugged a little too casually. "Changed my mind. Didn't fancy the company. You looked like you were out brooding, so I thought I'd… brood adjacent."
That was odd. Corvus didn't say things like "brood adjacent." He was sarcastic, yes, but not that self-aware. That sounded more like something Bastian would say.
Probably was.
They'd been spending more time together since getting sorted into Slytherin. Of course they had.
Polaris narrowed his eyes slightly, still walking. "You already knew I wasn't coming to breakfast," he said evenly. "We spoke. I told you and Bas I was busy. You argued. Loudly."
Fake-Corvus blinked, just once. "Right… right, I forgot. Thought maybe you changed your mind."
Polaris didn't respond not straight away. He slowed his pace just slightly.
Of course he didn't change his mind.
"And you changed your mind," he echoed, "because you ' didn't fancy the company.' "
He tried to keep it dry — matching the tone he assumed was sarcasm — but the words landed heavier than he meant.
It didn't sound like a joke when Corvus said it. It sounded… honest.
Polaris glanced sideways, just briefly. Had Bastian said something? Or done something? Had he ?
Or was he just imagining it — reading too much into one sentence because he already felt a little out of place?
"Yeah," said not-Corvus, too quickly. "Figured I'd hang back. Not in the mood for Bastian's chewing or Euphie's questions about that Charms essay."
Polaris turned to look at him full-on.
"…Who's Euphie?"
For a moment Corvus looked genuinely confused. "What?"
"You said Euphie. I don't know who that is." Polaris frowned slightly. "I don't remember you ever mentioning someone by that name. Are they… also a Slytherin?"
Another pause — just slightly too long.
Then not-Corvus shrugged, all forced nonchalance. "Maybe. You know how it is — names blur together. She's in our year. Probably."
Polaris's frown deepened. "Are you... alright ?"
Another pause.
Sirius looked at him — really looked at him, now. Expression flickering between caught and curious.
"Alright, fine," he said, before Polaris could demand anything else. "Let's talk about something else."
Polaris raised an eyebrow. Not high, just a slight tilt — restrained suspicion masked as curiosity. "Like what?"
"Like…" The voice shifted — lighter, almost hesitant. "Do you ever think about your brothers? Like, properly?"
That made Polaris blink.
"…What?"
"I mean," Sirius said — still wearing Corvus's face, but letting something quieter slip into the voice, something too honest to be casual, "they're older. Off doing their own thing. You're here. Sometimes I wonder if you even care about that."
Polaris stared at him, confused and suddenly very still.
"Where is this coming from?"
He wasn't being defensive — not exactly. He just didn't understand the question. You're here. What did that even mean?
He'd missed them, of course he had. Back when Regulus and Sirius were both at Hogwarts and he was still stuck at home, counting down the years like it made a difference. But it hadn't felt like this kind of missing — not lonely , not exactly. Not that he'd admit it out loud.
Sometimes I wonder if you even care about that.
About what? That they'd moved on? That he was left behind? That now, finally being here, he still wasn't in the same place as them?
"I don't know," Sirius said, eyes narrowed slightly, searching him. "Maybe I'm just trying to figure you out."
Polaris tilted his head, very slightly.
"…You're acting weird," he said at last.
Not accusing.
Just tired.
Just confused.
Fake-Corvus huffed, but it sounded more like a sigh. "Maybe I am. Just—" He glanced away, then back again, more careful this time. "Forget the name thing. That's not important. I'm just wondering... don't you ever think about them? Your brothers."
Polaris' eyes narrowed, just a touch. "You already asked me that."
"Yeah. But I mean... properly think about them. About... I don't know. Which one you're more like. Which one you... get along with."
Polaris gave him a slow, sideways look. "That's specific."
Fake-Corvus shrugged, trying for casual. Failing. "Just curious. I mean, you and Regulus... you seem close. Closer than with Sirius, anyway."
That made Polaris's steps falter.
He didn't stop — but he did pause long enough for the moment to stretch.
"I don't talk about them much," Polaris said eventually, his voice careful. "That doesn't mean I don't think about them."
"No, I know," said not-Corvus, too fast. "I didn't mean— I just..." He trailed off.
Polaris glanced at him. Really looked.
And for a flicker of a second, something about the expression didn't sit right. Not just the words — the shape of them, the weight behind them. The way 'Corvus' wasn't meeting his eyes the same way he usually did. Too restless. Too interested.
Polaris's brow furrowed slightly.
"Why are you asking me this?"
Fake-Corvus hesitated. Then, voice softer: "Do you like him more?"
Polaris stopped walking.
"What?"
"I mean Sirius," not-Corvus said. "Do you like Regulus more than him?"
Polaris just stared at him, eyes unreadable. "That's a very strange question."
"I know. I know," Sirius said — slipping, now, emotionally more than verbally. "Just... he's so— tidy. And he always knows what to say. And your parents—" He broke off, shook his head, tried again. "I'm just wondering if you ever feel more like his brother than Sirius's. That's all."
The silence after that was thick enough to bite through.
Polaris went still; his heart was beating faster than normal getting the words around his head.
He wasn't angry. But something behind his eyes had gone distant. As if the words had landed somewhere deeper than either of them expected.
And then—slowly—he said unsurely, "You're not Corvus."
Sirius's mouth opened. Then closed.
"…What?"
Polaris didn't respond right away. His gaze stayed fixed, sharp and unreadable.
It wasn't just the words.
It was how they landed. The shape of the questions. The space between them.
Corvus asked things when he meant them — usually clumsily, sometimes dramatically, but never like this. Never this… intentional . Corvus didn't press for answers. He didn't fish .
And when things got too real — when Corvus spiralled about his family, or felt like he didn't belong at home, like he was some cracked stranger to a name that didn't quite want him — he didn't ask for validation. He just said the thing, and Polaris listened.
This—
This felt more like someone trying to get something out of him .
Polaris's eyes flicked briefly to the other boy's robes.
"…Did you change?" he asked suddenly.
Fake-Corvus paused—just slightly too long. "What?"
"Your robes."
Polaris's voice stayed calm, but there was a new tension in it — thin, coiled wire. "That's not what you were wearing earlier. You had ink on the cuff. I remember because you kept fidgeting with it while Bas talked about his owl."
Another beat of silence.
Polaris stepped back half a pace. Clear uncertainty in his gaze.
"…Are you actually Corvus?" he asked softly, like he was trying the words on for size. They sounded stupid out loud. Paranoid. Like something a tired mind might conjure up after too little sleep and too many half-translated runes.
But he kept going.
"Because if you are... you're being weird. Not just annoying or overthinking — weird. You're saying things that don't sound like you, and you're looking at me like... I don't know..."
His brow creased.
"And I know Corvus. I know how he asks things when something's wrong. I know how his voice gets tight when he talks about his family, and how he only says the important parts when he thinks no one's really listening."
Polaris's voice dropped.
"You're not asking to understand in the way Corvus would."
The wind picked up, curling around them. Polaris's hands stayed at his sides, but they'd gone rigid. His grasp around his wand tighter.
And then, quieter:
"…You're not Corvus." He said once more.
The silence stretched.
Then, slowly — like deflating — the other boy exhaled. His shoulders sagged, his mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite guilt and wasn't quite apology.
"Alright," he said softly. "You got me."
Polaris just stared.
He didn't speak. Didn't move. The mist clung to the space between them like insulation — damp and ghostly and too still.
"You're—" Polaris started.
There was a pause as if he was trying to comprehend what he was trying to say.
"You're Sirius."
The other boy nodded. Still in Corvus's skin. Still with Corvus's face. But now it looked like a mask — too stiff in places, too heavy around the eyes.
Polaris blinked. Once. Slowly.
"…Is this supposed to be a prank?"
Sirius winced. "Not exactly."
Polaris tilted his head, eyes narrowed not in suspicion, but in confusion . "So, what was it, then? You pretended to be my best friend so you could — what, interrogate me? See if I'd say something awful about you? Or Regulus?"
"No— I wasn't—" Sirius faltered. "It wasn't about catching you out. I just— I don't know, alright? I wanted to know what you'd say. What you think. I thought maybe—"
He broke off again. The silence that followed was somehow louder than shouting would've been.
Polaris didn't fill it. Just studied him. Eyes narrowed. Lips slightly parted like he wanted to say something but hadn't found the right shape for it.
After a pause, he asked:
"Polyjuice?"
Sirius nodded, almost sheepish.
Polaris frowned faintly. "That takes a month to brew."
"It does."
"You used a whole month's worth of effort and potion to pretend to be Corvus for—"
He checked the sun's position vaguely — like he was mentally doing the math —
"...for what, fifteen minutes of very weird conversation?"
"It wasn't supposed to go like this," Sirius muttered.
Polaris stared. "You stole his hair?"
Sirius hesitated. " Borrowed . Off a jumper. Technically."
Polaris didn't laugh. Didn't even smile.
His brow furrowed faintly as he looked Sirius over again, gaze flicking across familiar features rendered unfamiliar. "It's strictly timed. You can't undo it early."
"Yeah."
"So, you're going to stay looking like him until it wears off."
"Yeah."
Another pause.
Polaris's voice, when it came, was quieter than before. "Where's the real Corvus?"
That made Sirius falter.
Polaris didn't miss it.
"…You didn't hurt him."
"No," Sirius said quickly. "He's fine. Bit locked in a cupboard though."
Polaris looked at him sideways.
"You locked him in a cupboard ?"
"It's not as bad as it sounds?"
Polaris just stared at him.
Sirius shrugged — or tried to, though the guilt around his shoulders made it more of a twitch. "He's got company."
Polaris's brows drew together. "Company?"
"Willow."
Polaris's eyes narrowed. "Why... would Smyth be locked in a cupboard with Corvus?"
Sirius cleared his throat. "Because James took her appearance. Polyjuice, you know. He's doing the same thing with his sister."
Polaris went very still.
He stared at Sirius — still wearing Corvus's face — for a long, baffled moment.
"So just to be clear," he said slowly, "you and the Potter heir brewed an incredibly complicated potion for over a month, locked up two first years, and assumed their identities..."
"Yes."
"To spy on your younger siblings."
"…Yes."
Polaris nodded once, slowly, like he was trying to decide whether he was still dreaming or if his brain had actually melted from runes overload.
He exhaled through his nose.
"Well," he said dryly, "surely there were better ways to spend your morning. But I suppose trapping people in closets and existential identity theft are close contenders."
Sirius winced. "Look, I said it wasn't supposed to go like this—"
Polaris didn't stop. His voice had shifted from stunned to sarcastic — not sharp, but bone-deep tired in that particular Polaris way .
"And I bet," he went on, "that you didn't even bother lighting a single candle for the alters, did you?"
Sirius hesitated. "…Huh?"
Polaris stared at him. "It's Samhain."
Sirius made a face. "Ah right, I'm not big on talking to dead people."
"They're our family."
"Exactly." Sirius muttered, too fast.
Polaris sighed. "You're a nightmare."
Sirius grinned. "A charming one."
Polaris looked at him — still wearing Corvus's face — and shook his head slowly. "You didn't need to do all this, you know. If you thought, I hated you or something—"
"I didn't think you hated me."
"—then you could've just asked."
Sirius fell quiet.
Polaris's eyes dropped to the hem of his cloak, fingers twitching against the fabric. "You don't need to become someone else to talk to me, Ris. It's weird . And exhausting. And sort of morally concerning."
"I know." Sirius scratched at the back of his — well, Corvus's — neck. "I just... I guess I didn't know how else to ask. You're hard to read, alright? Sometimes it's like talking to a brick wall with excellent vocabulary."
Polaris didn't respond. He didn't need to. His unimpressed expression said it all.
Sirius rubbed his face with both hands and muttered, "Merlin, this is the worst apology in history."
Then, lowering his hands again, he said more clearly, "I'm sorry. Really. For all of it. No hard feelings?"
Polaris was quiet for a moment. Then: "...That depends. Are you going to keep impersonating my friends?"
Sirius held up his hands. "Swear on my wand."
Polaris arched an eyebrow. "Your wand is usually the problem."
Sirius chuckled, and before Polaris could step away, he reached forward and ruffled his hair — gently, annoyingly, like a big brother who knew he could get away with it for about three seconds before being hexed.
Polaris ducked out of reach, scowling as he smoothed his hair back down — just as two older Ravenclaws passed by, heading in the direction of their common room. One of them glanced over briefly, then away again without a word.
"I hope you get stuck like that," Polaris muttered.
"Honestly, same. At least then I could get into the Slytherin common room and see what Reg's been hiding."
Polaris rolled his eyes.
Sirius hesitated. Then, more hesitantly: "Hey — I was owling Uncle Al the other day."
Polaris glanced up, surprised. "You write to him?"
"Sometimes." Sirius shrugged. "He sent me a biography on Muggle-born wizards who revolutionised magical theory. Absolute catnip for Minnie, and stuff Walburga would set on fire just for existing in the same house."
Polaris didn't laugh, but there was a flicker in his expression — the smallest hitch at the corner of his mouth. Something like curiosity. Or disbelief.
Sirius continued, "Anyway — he said he sent you an owl after you got Sorted, didn't he? he mentioned you never wrote back. Thought maybe you were angry."
Polaris looked away, then back. "I wasn't angry. I just... didn't know what to say."
Sirius nodded. "Fair. He only started writing to me once I came to Hogwarts too. Before that, radio silence. Guess Father thought he'd 'corrupt the heir' or whatever theatrical nonsense he's always spouting."
Polaris tilted his head. "You are the heir."
Sirius gave a crooked smile. "Exactly. And apparently, the family's last hope and greatest disappointment all in one."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Polaris didn't move. Didn't blink. Just looked at Sirius like he was trying to decide whether the older boy was joking or not — and maybe wishing he was. Then he looked down, his fingers curling slightly against the stone ledge between them. His voice came quiet. Dry. Not unkind — but careful, like a step taken in the dark.
"You said that like it's a joke."
Sirius scoffed under his breath. "Isn't it?" he echoed, like it was obvious. Like it was funny.
Polaris didn't answer right away.
He looked ahead — not at Sirius, but past him. Past the corridor. Past the portraits with their nosy eyes. Just past. His throat worked once, like he was swallowing something he wasn't ready to name.
Then:
"They don't mourn the disappointments," Polaris said simply. "They forget them."
It wasn't bitterness. It wasn't pity either. Just truth — quiet and devastating in the way Polaris always delivered it, like he was reporting the weather after a storm had already swept through.
Sirius shifted uncomfortably haven't expected to hear that. "Well — I mean — they haven't erased me yet, have they?"
He nudged Polaris with an elbow, a grin creeping back onto his face like a shield. "If they can stomach me , I think you'll be fine. Honestly, you're probably their favourite now. You've got the brain, the poise—Regulus-level polish but without the snobbery. What more could they want?"
He meant it as a compliment. A strange, Sirius kind of compliment — unpolished, sideways, barbed and soft all at once.
But Polaris's shoulders went still.
Because what more could they want?
Another Slytherin.
That's what.
What they'd always wanted. Expected. What his mother had so strongly emphasised before his departure.
What he hadn't delivered.
Polaris didn't say anything. But his mouth opened slightly, just for a second, like something nearly slipped out — and then didn't.
His satchel hung heavy at his side. The strap had creased into his collar. He didn't fix it.
Sirius kept going, unaware he was stomping right over broken glass. "Reg always says the Sorting Hat's a glorified hatstand anyway. So, what if it put you in Ravenclaw? Still counts. You're clever, you'll do fine. Just charm Walburga with a bunch of good grades and—boom. Favour restored."
Polaris flinched. This time visibly.
Not a big motion. Just a blink. But too slow. Too full.
His voice came thin. Careful. "Don't say her name like that."
Sirius looked taken aback. "What? I was—"
"It's not a joke," Polaris cut in, eyes still not meeting his. "It's two months until Yule. She'll have had time to prepare something by then."
That shut Sirius up.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. The grin had fallen away now, like a spell broken mid-cast.
Polaris still didn't look at him. But there was something in his face — something fragile and fierce and barely held — like his eyes might spill if he breathed too deep.
He didn't. He kept the breath shallow.
Sirius, for once, seemed to register the damage. Like he could feel it hanging between them as he glanced around to see if anyone was coming, no one was.
"…I didn't mean to make it worse," he said.
Polaris finally looked at him. His expression unreadable.
"You didn't. You just reminded me."
And with that, he adjusted the strap of his satchel — too roughly — and turned to step away but Sirius stepped in front of him.
Not brash, not loud. Just… there. Blocking the corridor like it was a battlefield he didn't mean to cross but would stand on anyway.
His voice, when it came, was softer than usual.
"She won't touch you," Sirius said with conviction.
Polaris stilled.
Sirius pressed on, eyes fierce now. "I mean it. I'll be there for Yule. I'll come home this time. You won't be alone with her. I won't let her—"
He swallowed hard. Words caught. Still, he forced them out.
"I won't let her hurt you."
There was a kind of desperate sincerity to it — the kind Sirius didn't show often. Not because he didn't feel it, but because he didn't know how to say it without sounding like he was joking.
This time, he wasn't joking.
"I swear it, Pol," he said. "I swear it."
And for a second, just a breath of a second, Polaris looked at him — really looked — and he wanted to believe him. Wanted to take the words and wrap them around himself like a shield. Like a charm. Like hope.
But Sirius didn't stop. He couldn't. He mistook the silence for uncertainty and continued speaking.
"I'll talk to Father if I have to. I'll stand in the bloody doorway if that's what it takes—"
"Do you remember how it felt?" Polaris interrupted.
Sirius faltered. "What?"
Polaris raised his head. His expression didn't shift, but his voice had taken on that steady, deliberate calm he used when he was scared and trying not to sound it.
"When she punished you. I remember the sounds. I remember the wall shaking. But not what spell she used. Or how long it lasted. Or how it felt."
He paused.
"I want to be ready."
Sirius — Sirius's hands clenched at his sides.
"I already told you I'd stop her." His voice was tight now. Fierce. Too fast. "Why are you asking that like it's already going to happen? Like it's supposed to?"
He stepped closer, frustration bleeding into his words — not at Polaris, but at the sick, stupid shape of their family.
"You don't have to prepare, alright? You don't have to brace for anything. That's the point. That's why I'm coming home. That's why I said I'd be there."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Not because he didn't want to—but because he didn't trust what might come out if he did.
Because something about Sirius's certainty — that reckless, blinding conviction — made his chest ache. Made his jaw clench.
It wasn't that he didn't want protection. It wasn't even that he didn't believe Sirius could try.
It was that he wasn't sure anyone could stop her.
And worse: some part of him didn't think he deserved to be saved.
Not when he'd failed before even leaving the Sorting stool.
Not when he'd been a disappointment before he'd had the chance to prove anything at all.
He hated that he was thinking this. Hated it even more that Sirius was looking at him like he still believed in him.
It made him feel seen in a way that wasn't comforting.
Then Polaris looked away — not with anger, but with a strange, quiet blankness. His breath shuddered once, so softly it might've been mistaken for a sigh.
He took a step back.
"I'm tired," he said. His voice was flat.
"Polaris—"
"I woke up too early today."
Sirius moved forward again, hand half-raised. "Just wait a second, alright? I'm trying to—"
But Polaris was already turning.
Polaris left with quick pace. He didn't look back. He was focusing on the fact; his heartbeat was too loud in his ears. Too fast. Too much.
He didn't want to talk about this anymore.
He didn't want to admit anything more than he already had.
He didn't want to be scared.
And yet—he was.
"Pol," Sirius called after him, sharp with something like panic. "Don't just walk away."
But Polaris didn't answer.
He didn't turn.
He didn't stop.
Because if he did—he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep his voice steady. And he couldn't afford to break. He kept his eyes low and his pace fast, moving on muscle memory alone.
— ❈ —
By the time he reached the door to his dorm, he could barely feel anything at all. Just the exhaustion pulling at his bones.
He just wanted to reach his bed. Just once , he wanted the room to be empty. No voices. No expectations. Just silence and the dark and the kind of stillness that didn't ask questions.
But of course, the room wasn't empty.
Rafiq sat cross-legged on his bed, a squat pumpkin in his grasp, its surface already marked by uneven, half-finished cuts. A dull knife rested awkwardly in his hand, and every so often, he squinted, angling it like he wasn't entirely sure what he was doing. The whole thing looked clumsy — not dangerous, just stubbornly manual. He wore a hoodie over Muggle jeans, wand tucked behind one ear like a pencil. When he noticed Polaris, his face lit up with hesitant cheer.
"Oh—hey," Rafiq said, sitting up straighter. "Did you go out to see the lanterns?"
Polaris paused. Just inside the doorway. His hand tightened on the strap of his satchel.
He was too tired for this. Too full of silence, of frustration, of almost-crying. And Rafiq's tone — light, ordinary, untouched by anything Polaris had carried through the day — felt like a slap.
Lanterns?
No. He hadn't gone out to see them. He'd been lighting a candle for a dead woman in the forest and being spied on by his brother who was impersonating his best friend and trying not to break in front of anyone.
And now this boy — this boy who wore jeans in their dorm and tried too hard and called his Muggle-born Halloween "Samhain" like he knew what it meant — wanted to talk about lanterns .
Polaris took a deep breath trying to calm himself down, but even then, his tone was still edge with annoyance.
"No, I wasn't out celebrating. I was busy. With things that matter ."
Rafiq blinked. "Oh. I didn't mean—"
"Of course you didn't," Polaris snapped, dropping his satchel a little harder than needed. "You never do. You just ask the first thing that comes to mind and hope it turns into a real conversation; it's starting to get annoying."
Rafiq looked stung. "I was just trying to—"
"To what? Be friendly ?"
Rafiq's jaw tightened, but whatever he meant to say got lost somewhere behind his teeth.
Polaris turned away, began unbuttoning his robes with stiff, jerky movements. His throat burned. Not from yelling — he wasn't yelling. He never yelled. But from the sheer force of not crying and trying to not feel whatever he was feeling cause right now he was absolutely unsure.
Rafiq didn't move.
He sat there, awkwardly cross-legged on the bed, the half-carved pumpkin loose in his arms. His knife no longer in his grasp, now sat beside him on the duvet forgotten.
He swallowed. The silence felt heavier now — not tense exactly, but... sour. Off . Like walking into a room and finding something rotting beneath the floorboards.
Polaris Black wasn't nice, sure. But he wasn't mean either. Not really. Just closed off — a little too still, a little too careful with everything he said. Rafiq had never taken it personally at least he tried not to. Some people were like that. Some people just needed time.
But this?
This was personal.
And what made it worse — what made it sting in a way Rafiq didn't want to admit — was that it wasn't even an explosion . Polaris hadn't shouted. He hadn't even raised his voice. He'd just said it. It felt dismissive.
Like Rafiq was background noise. An inconvenience.
He'd thought maybe they were getting somewhere. Thought the silence between them had been shifting. Thought, maybe, eventually, Polaris would stop calling him Mirza like it was a teacher doing roll call and not the person who slept six feet away.
But no.
Still Mirza.
Still Black.
Still that stiff little pause when Rafiq walked into the room, like Polaris was recalibrating himself.
It was the way he spoke to the others that made it worse. Charlie, Felix, Elias — all of them got Polaris . Got eye contact. Inside jokes. Quiet little nods in the hallway that meant I see you . They called him Polaris, and he let them. Called them by name. Listened, even when he didn't talk much.
But Rafiq?
No jokes. No names. Just distant formality and that same unreadable look.
He'd tried not to assume the worst.
He'd really tried.
Told himself Polaris was just uncomfortable with people. That it wasn't about him being Muggle-born. That he was probably just... hard to get to know.
But now?
Now, watching Polaris fold his robes like the act alone was holding him together, back turned and shoulders tight, Rafiq felt that old bitterness bubble back up — low and hot in his chest.
Maybe it is about that , he thought.
Maybe it always was.
He didn't mean to say anything. Not really. But the words slipped out, he was annoyed. How could he not?
"Bloody hell. You are the human equivalent of an automated phone menu."
Polaris froze.
Rafiq's mouth twisted, like he hadn't meant to say it out loud. Then he shrugged. "Press one to pretend we're fine. Press two to get glared at. Press three to be reminded I'm not your problem."
There was a pause.
Something in Polaris's chest folded inward. A practiced numbness. A door clicking shut behind his ribs.
His fingers resumed folding the robe in his lap — one edge, then the next. Slowly. Like it mattered more than the words that had just hit him.
Then Polaris — robe still half-folded — turned just slightly, frowning. Not offended, exactly. More... puzzled. Like he'd just been insulted in a language he mostly understood.
"An… auto... Uh? phone what?"
Rafiq stared. Then snorted under his breath. "Exactly."
Polaris narrowed his eyes faintly, confusion cutting through the fog of exhaustion. "That was... meant as an insult."
"Correct."
"I gathered from the tone."
"Well done, Sherlock."
Another pause.
Polaris looked puzzled. "Who's Sherlock?"
Rafiq rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Bloody hell, you people are exhausting."
Polaris looked faintly affronted. But also — weirdly — a little more present . His shoulders had loosened, just slightly. Not relaxed, not at ease — but the sharp edge of that earlier breakdown had dulled. Just a fraction.
Rafiq caught it. Didn't comment. Just calmly picked up his carving knife and resumed work on the pumpkin, like he hadn't just called the Black scion a malfunctioning call centre.
Then far too casually, Rafiq spoke again.
"You're lucky, you know. At least you don't have to deal with call waiting."
Polaris blinked. "I don't know what that is."
"Right," Rafiq said, carving a slow crescent into the pumpkin's cheek. "Forgot you grew up in a castle."
Polaris narrowed his eyes slightly but didn't reply.
"Or a dungeon. Or a manor. Or whatever it is posh wizard children get raised in. Probably had a nursery with a tapestry instead of wallpaper. That tracks."
Polaris folded the rest of his robes and sat on the edge of his bed, he didn't say anything. He just stared.
Rafiq didn't look up.
"You ever even been to the Muggle world?" Rafiq asked, like it was a passing curiosity, nothing more. "Like properly? Sat in traffic? Travelled on a plane? Used a payphone?"
"I don't know what half those words mean."
"Figures," Rafiq muttered, not unkindly this time — more like someone letting the bitterness cool just enough to speak without burning.
Silence fell again. Not the angry kind from earlier. Not comfortable either. But... something in between. Tired. Frayed. Breathing space, maybe?
Polaris sat with his hands in his lap, staring down at his folded robes like they might rearrange themselves if he waited long enough. A crease near the hem refused to flatten. His thumb rubbed at it, again and again.
Then, quietly Polaris spoke. "I wasn't... trying to be uh... mean."
Rafiq didn't respond right away. The knife moved in slow arcs, careful. "Right."
Polaris glanced up as he spoke again, "I mean it."
Rafiq looked over, eyebrow raised. "That's supposed to be an apology?"
Polaris frowned, stiff. "I didn't say that."
"No. You didn't."
A beat. Polaris's fingers twitched against the fabric.
"I was... tired," he said, and it came out like the words had been examined beforehand, selected from a shelf labelled 'Excuses That Might Work.' "And the forest wasn't— It was a long day. And you caught me... off-guard."
Rafiq gave him a long look. "So that's why I got the auto-menu treatment?"
"I don't know what that means," Polaris muttered.
Rafiq snorted. "Yeah. You said."
Polaris shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to snap. Not like that. I just... didn't want to talk. To anyone."
"That include me specifically, or just humanity in general?"
Polaris hesitated.
And that was answer enough.
Rafiq nodded slowly, set the pumpkin aside, and leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Okay. Real question, then."
Polaris went still, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
"Why do you treat me different from the others?"
The words landed like a weight between them. Not shouted. Not demanding. Just... direct.
Polaris froze.
And for once, no clever reply came. No dry, too-formal quip. He just sat there, like someone had thrown him into a maze and he'd only just realised there were walls.
"I don't—" He started, then stopped. "I mean, I didn't think—"
Rafiq raised an eyebrow.
Polaris's throat worked. "It's not like that."
"Feels like that."
"I don't— I treat everyone the same."
"No, you don't."
Silence. Again.
Polaris stared at the floor, jaw tight. His hands fidgeted with the edge of the duvet, picking at an invisible thread.
"It's not—" he started again, then dropped the sentence like it had betrayed him halfway through.
Rafiq watched him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "Is it 'cause I'm Muggle-born?"
Polaris flinched. Not dramatically. Not like a blow. Just... a blink. A pause. A breath that didn't come out.
That was enough of an answer too.
Rafiq leaned back slowly. "Yeah," he said, voice quieter now. "Thought so."
"I didn't mean—" Polaris said, quickly. Then again, more carefully: "It's not that I think less of you."
"Really? 'Cause it kind of feels like you do."
Polaris looked up, eyes sharp. "I don't."
"Then what is it?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
Not because he didn't want to — but because he didn't know .
Polaris sat there, caught in the stillness, feeling like something inside him had slipped off its axis. He stared down at his hands like they might hold the answer, as if this would be easier if he could just see it.
What is it?
Rafiq's words echoed, and Polaris turned them over in his head like puzzle pieces that wouldn't fit.
What was it?
Why did it feel so much harder with him ?
Not because his name was Rafiq. Not because he carved pumpkins in jeans and used words Polaris didn't understand. Not even because he was loud and infuriating and pushed when he should've backed off.
It was because—
Polaris swallowed.
It was because Rafiq was Muggle-born .
Not something sorted into Houses. Not a Hogwarts thing. A Black thing.
He could hear the voices in his head even now, a clear warning.
"Be careful who you let near you," Uncle Cygnus had told him over dinner, elbows neatly folded on a starched linen tablecloth. "Some people will want things from you just because of your name. Others won't want anything from you — because of it."
There had been a pause. The clink of a goblet set down. A glance over the rim, accessing his reaction.
"Muggle-borns," Cygnus had said then, tone low but deliberate. "They don't understand what it means to be us. They never will. That doesn't make them dangerous, necessarily. But it does make them unpredictable."
And Polaris had nodded — not because he understood, but because nodding was expected. It was always expected.
Polaris had taken those words and folded them away like instructions in a rulebook. Had measured people against them. Had told himself it wasn't about disliking anyone — it was just... caution. Just tradition. Just a necessary filter.
And yet.
Here was Rafiq. Staring at him with eyes that were too sharp, too open, too tired of being explained away.
Here was Rafiq, who carved stupid pumpkins and talked too fast and said things that left Polaris confused at times — and Polaris still hadn't been able to stop listening.
He pressed his hands together, hard. Thought of all the times he'd been judged for being Polaris Black — not a boy, not a student, but a name. A legacy. An expectation.
People looked at him and saw what they wanted: a prince, a snake, a disappointment, a prodigy. He was never just Polaris .
He hated that feeling.
And yet here he was, doing it to someone else. Sitting in silence because Rafiq had been born in a world without wands and castle hallways and family trees in tapestries — and Polaris didn't know how to be normal about it.
He hated that too.
Polaris's voice came out quiet, almost like he didn't mean for it to be spoken aloud.
"It's not because you're... less." He paused. "It's not even really about you ."
Rafiq raised an eyebrow but didn't interrupt.
Polaris went on, slower now — like walking through fog, unsure of what might be ahead. "It's because I don't know how to not treat you differently. I was raised in a house where Muggle-born wasn't just a word. It was a warning . A line."
He inhaled sharply through his nose. "You were the one thing I was told to stay away from."
Rafiq looked like he wanted to say something—but didn't. Just watched him.
Polaris looked up. "You think I don't like you because you're Muggle-born." His eyes flicked away. "And maybe... maybe I acted like that."
Another pause.
"But it's not that I dislike you." A swallow. "It's that I was taught not to trust you. Not because of who you are — but because of where you came from. Because you weren't born with this. You got it. Like it was given to you and not earned ."
His voice faltered.
"I know that's wrong. I know it. But that's what they said. And when they tell you things it's hard to forget."
A long, quiet beat.
Then Polaris added, almost shamefully. "You confuse me. You make me question things I was supposed to be certain about."
Rafiq looked at him for a long time.
He wasn't angry, if anything he was trying to understand. And trying not to take understanding as a concession.
"Do you want to be certain?" Rafiq asked.
Polaris stared.
"I don't know," he answered, honestly.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The knife was still in Rafiq's palm.
Then Rafiq cleared his throat, voice light in a way that sounded deliberate .
"So, uh." He scratched the back of his neck. "Can I call you Polaris?"
The words caught Polaris off guard more than they should have. He blinked — once, twice — and his whole posture went faintly stiff. Like the question was a door he hadn't expected to open and now wasn't sure if he was allowed to walk through.
"Why?" he asked, before he could stop himself. "I mean... why do you want to?"
Rafiq frowned faintly. "Because it's your name?"
Polaris hesitated. "You already have a name for me."
"Yeah," Rafiq said. " Black. Like we're in class. Like I'm not supposed to know you. Must I remind you we're roommates?"
He looked up. Not pushing. Not pleading. Just asking .
Polaris opened his mouth. Closed it again.
His chest was tight — not from anger. Just... the weight of something shifting. Something loosening that had been wound around his ribs since before he knew what questioning felt like.
"I don't..." he started, then exhaled. "I don't know what to say."
"That's alright," Rafiq said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I'll just keep asking until you figure it out."
Polaris looked over.
Not quite meeting Rafiq's eyes.
His expression didn't shift much. Just a flicker of something unreadable, like a thought he wasn't sure he was allowed to have.
Something unsettled curled in his gut — the kind of discomfort that came from being seen too clearly.
His lips parted like he meant to say something else — something honest.
But nothing came.
Just a breath. A nod.
Not surrender. Not apology.
Just… an opening. Something small. Something unguarded.
Then, without a word, Polaris reached for his journal from the nightstand and took one more glance at Rafiq.
— ❈ —
Eventually, Rafiq left — arms full, his bag slung awkwardly over one shoulder, and his small pumpkin cradled in the crook of one arm like it might topple at any moment. He juggled a few loose scrolls under his chin, muttering something under his breath as he edged sideways through the door. It was obvious he didn't plan on coming back soon. The latch clicked gently behind him, and just like that, Polaris was alone.
Finally. He was glad Rafiq had left — not out of irritation, just... relief. Space. Quiet. He pushed his journal aside and started clearing his desk with one hand, brushing away parchment, feathers, and the half-folded page of a rebuttal he wasn't going to finish. The ciphered notes were still at the centre — untouched since yesterday. Without hesitation, he pulled them closer. It was time to get to work.
He sat
His hands dragged through his hair, fingers curling near his scalp — and when his right hand pushed up, it scraped the edge of the scar on his temple. The skin was faintly raised under his fingers. A memory, as always.
He stayed like that for a moment. Allowing his mind to wonder.
Then, slowly, he reached for his wand that he had set beside him on his desk.
He began.
The runes he'd been working on were arrayed in careful columns — symbols from the Elder Futhark, each paired with a small number and an underlined variant. They weren't gibberish — just twisted. He knew that now.
He'd been looking at them as standalone glyphs. That was the mistake.
But those numbers — 3, 9, 24 — they repeated everywhere in the notes. Not part of the message itself, he realised, but a key to the message. Maybe index values. Or shifts.
He flipped to the back of his notes, where he'd written the full rune sequence: 1 through 24. A Caesar cipher. Simple, in theory — each rune shifted forward in the sequence. A step, or multiple steps.
He tested it.
Take Thurisaz — the third rune. If 3 is the shift, then Thurisaz becomes Ansuz .
Next, Hagalaz — rune number 9. Shifted by 9 places: it became Eiwaz .
Then Othala — the 24th. Shifted 24 forward, it looped back to the start: Fehu .
The pattern was working. The numbers weren't part of the translation — they were the method of translation.
He lifted his wand and traced Thurisaz in the air — sharp lines, curved edge, triangle. The silver shimmer it left pulsed once, then vanished.
He blinked — once, then again, as if grounding himself.
Had that—?
Again — Hagalaz, the jagged crack of a rune. This time, the shimmer lingered — trembling faintly, like a breath held midair.
Then Othala. A diamond, curling lines at its base — legacy, inheritance.
This time, the silver shimmer held .
Not long — a second, maybe less — but enough.
He didn't dare breathe too loud as he watched it fade.
That was real.
That happened.
His heart kicked hard in his chest — not from fear, but something next to it . He looked down at his wand like it had said something in a language only he could feel.
He couldn't help the small huff that left him. Almost a laugh. Almost not.
His left hand twitched, hovering above the parchment — uncertain, wanting.
Then it settled on the edge of the desk. Not flat. Just his pinkie resting lightly on the wood, anchoring him. The other fingers began tapping — not rapid, nor frantic.
Ring. Middle. Index.
Pause.
Ring. Middle. Index.
A rhythm. A thought he wasn't saying out loud. One that needed to move through muscle to keep from turning to static.
He stared at the wand again, his lips parted just slightly.
"Okay," he murmured under his breath. "All right."
Something had responded. It wasn't enough yet, not close — but it meant he wasn't imagining it.
He felt close.
Polaris lowered his wand and looked back at the text he'd rearranged the night before. He'd translated the ciphered runes to the best of his ability, rearranging them into what felt like a logical phrase — but when he'd traced that phrase earlier, nothing happened.
Now, he tried again. He traced the phrase in the air — the one he'd pieced together from shifted runes.
Nothing.
A faint line of silver trailed behind his wand, but it died too quickly.
Had he mistranslated it? Rearranged the order wrong? All that time hunched over, combing through dusty indexes, only to fumble the syntax? His head pounded dully — a tension building just above his right eye, sharp as pinpricks. He pressed a hand to his face, elbow digging into the desk.
He was sick of runes .
Sick of numbers and patterns and bloody parchment that smelled like mildew. He needed sunlight and food and probably a day without touching anything remotely attached to runes and ominous.
But he didn't stop.
Because he couldn't.
He exhaled through his nose. Gripped his wand tighter.
What if... what if the runes weren't the starting point?
Maybe they were the trigger .
This time, he changed the order.
First, he traced the three runes — Thurisaz, Hagalaz, Othala — the same ones that had shimmered before.
Then, the phrase. The sentence he'd rearranged and shifted.
Still nothing.
He almost dropped the wand. Almost gave up.
But then—he tried it the other way around.
Ending with the three runes.
Thurisaz.
Hagalaz.
Othala.
This time, he wasn't rushing.
As he drew the final rune — Othala — a pulse of silver shimmered brighter than before. The rune held.
And then — slowly — the symbols he'd drawn before began to glow again. Faint, then steady.
And then—
They shifted .
The traced symbols, hovering in silver inked light, twisted in midair — lines bending, curling, reforming. Runes melted into letters. Letters into words.
Polaris leaned forward, barely breathing.
The message appeared, scrawled in air like fire without heat:
'If you're reading this, the wand has found resonance. Not with you exactly — but with what moves through you.'
The words hung there, humming faintly in the stillness.
He stared at it.
His breath stalled, shallow in his chest.
His fingers were trembling — just slightly. He swallowed, throat dry.
The phrasing snagged on something in him. That choice of words. Careful. Intentional. Not you , but what moves through you.
He sat back slowly, his hand still resting on the desk, pinkie anchored, other fingers tapping that familiar rhythm — ring, middle, index. Again.
His mind was a mess of thoughts, trying to slow them down.
He expected someone to find it.
Someone who would carry the wand.
Someone it would recognise.
His fingers stopped their tapping suddenly. Then in quick succession he shuffled the pages, realigning them, suddenly too aware of how exposed they looked — all his frantic attempts at understanding spread out in the open like a confession. He stacked them carefully. Pressed the edge flat, then slipped them into the bottom of his trunk shoving it underneath his bed.
He stood there now, there was a slight tremor in right hand, his gaze slowly moving towards his wand.
The man who had written of a presence the world had not yet named.
The Grey Lady. She had led him to the book. She said many strange things.
Polaris exhaled as he moved towards his desk, hands tightening around the edge of the desk. His breath felt too thin. His thoughts too loud.
What had Vass seen? Was he a Seer?
He must have been. It only seemed logical, when he thought about what The Grey Lady had said. Then the notes he clearly left as if knowing someone would one day find them.
What had the man seen, did it really involve Polaris? Had he seen him in visions?
His eyes flicked again to the wand. A part of him wanted to pick it up again, demand it explain itself — what did you recognise? What am I not seeing? What did he see in me?
But he didn't move.
Didn't reach for it.
Just stared.
He didn't feel chosen.
He felt found.
And that wasn't the same.
He was still staring when the knock came — three firm raps against the study door that made him flinch hard. He pushed himself off the table.
His heart faltered. Breath snagged. He stopped without meaning to.
He didn't answer right away. Just stared at the door, silent.
Then slowly, quietly, he gathered what composure he could, tucked the wand back into his sleeve, and crossed the room.
He'd deal with whoever it was.
Later, maybe, he'd find the Grey Lady again. Maybe .
And maybe — if he was brave enough — he'd ask her what else she knew.
Because this?
All of it, felt ridiculous. Maddening. He wasn't sure he wanted to keep going anymore.
The knock came again, just as Polaris opened the door.
Sylvan stood on the other side, cloak already fastened, a faint breeze clinging to his shoulders like he'd only just come down from the tower.
"Oh," he said. "You're in. Wasn't sure if you'd vanished into your notes again."
Polaris straightened slightly. "No."
There was a beat. Then Sylvan went on, like he hadn't noticed the stiff set of Polaris's shoulders or the slightly-too-wide eyes.
"I'm heading to the Owlery. Letter to my mother — he gets testy if I don't write before major holidays." A small shrug. "Was going to stop by the Hall afterward for the feast. Figured I'd ask if you wanted to come."
Polaris opened his mouth to say no.
He'd planned to. It was right there, the excuse. He had a thousand reasons — notes to revise, theories to cross-check, more messages to decode.
But what came out instead was—
"Yes."
It came too fast. Too eager. The word landed like it didn't belong to him. The kind of answer you gave when you were running from something and didn't want anyone to ask why.
Sylvan raised a brow, not unkindly. He just didn't expect it.
"…Really?" he said. "Was half-expecting something about being busy. You're always busy when you're not in classes."
Polaris gave a vague shrug, already stepping out and pulling the door closed behind him. "It's about time I used my owl anyway. Haven't sent a single letter since I got here."
He didn't look back.
Sylvan tilted his head. "Orpheus, right?"
Polaris nodded once.
"I assumed you were saving him for dramatic effect. Or political blackmail."
"That too."
They started down the corridor, boots echoing softly against the stone. For a few steps, Sylvan didn't say anything.
Then: "You alright?"
Polaris didn't flinch — but he did hesitate.
His fingers twitched once at his side, then smoothed the strap of his satchel instead. "Fine," he said. Too quickly again.
Sylvan didn't call him on it. Just looked at him sidelong, one brow still faintly raised — like a question half-asked.
Polaris forged ahead before he could press.
"I haven't even touched the Owlery since arriving. Felt... silly. Like I'd be sending words to people who wouldn't read them. Or worse, would."
Sylvan huffed — not a laugh. Just breath pushed through his nose.
"That's not silly," he said. "I've been putting it off for weeks ."
Polaris looked at him, surprised.
Sylvan shrugged one shoulder, eyes forward. "Feels like every sentence I write is a trap. Like if I don't get the wording just right, I'll hand my father another reason to—"
He cut himself off, jaw tightening. Then tried again, more lightly, "Let's just say he doesn't like being disappointed. And I'm tired of proving I'm not, especially with him wanting me to be a Slytherin."
Polaris didn't say anything right away.
The corridor turned, and the light slanted just so across the floor — long shadows stretching ahead like they were walking toward something larger than the castle.
Sylvan went on, quiet and dry:
"Being a Lord's son is exhausting."
That made Polaris stop.
Only for a second — just a shift in his steps, a breath held too long.
Then: "Yeah," he said softly. "It is."
Sylvan gave a short hum of agreement — low, almost bitter.
Neither elaborated. They didn't need to.
After a few more steps, Polaris said, almost offhandedly, "Mirza wants to be my friend."
It was the kind of sentence that could've been sarcastic, dismissive — but it wasn't. It sounded like an admission. Like something Polaris wasn't quite sure what to do with.
Sylvan didn't look surprised. In fact, he snorted faintly, breath fogging in the cool air of the stairwell.
"Of course he does," he said. "He talks like he's inviting himself into our conversations at times. Like we've already agreed on something he forgot to mention."
He half-turned as he spoke, walking a few steps backward with casual balance, the edge of a grin playing at his mouth — not amused, exactly, but aware. Then, as if losing interest in the subject, he pivoted forward again and continued climbing.
Polaris almost smiled. Almost.
Sylvan's voice sharpened just slightly as they ascended the next flight of stairs. "What did you say to him?"
Polaris hesitated. "Nothing. Not really. I was tired. I said things."
That was all he gave. It was all Sylvan needed.
"Hm." Sylvan didn't press. Instead, his hand skimmed the curve of the banister briefly before dropping again. He tilted his head back, eyes tracing the high, cold arches above them — like he was checking for something unseen or just thinking.
Then, more deliberately, "My father says Muggle-borns can be worthwhile — if they're useful."
Polaris didn't react right away.
Sylvan continued, now with a calm, detached rhythm, as if reciting a lesson drilled into him over too many dinners.
"They have to offer something. Magical skill, intelligence, connections — something… measurable." Sylvan flicked his hand as if sorting words in the air. "Otherwise, they're just… liability. One-sided loyalty only benefits the other side, and eventually, they'll use you for it."
His tone wasn't cruel. Something learned, passed down. A polished thought that didn't belong to him but had been drilled into place — like many things among the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
"My father has a friend . A Muggle-born. From his Hogwarts year. Brightest in their class, supposedly. Top marks in everything. But no one would take him on after graduation. Blood status — you know how it goes."
Polaris didn't respond. He did know how it went.
Sylvan was a step ahead again, one hand tucked into his robes, the other loosely gesturing as he spoke — not for drama, but for emphasis, like he couldn't help illustrating the shape of his thoughts.
"My father — he, um — he pulled strings. Called in favours. Got him a Ministry placement. Told the Department of… International— no, wait— yeah. International Magical Cooperation. Said the bloke was indispensable."
He glanced at Polaris briefly, lips twitching like he was annoyed with himself, then looked forward again.
"They believed him. Gave him a junior position. Now he's respectable. Has a title. Security. A seat at a table he… wouldn't've gotten on his own."
He didn't slow, didn't ask for patience. But his pauses weren't for drama — they were small hurdles, smoothed over by the fact that he knew exactly what he wanted to say. It just didn't always come easily.
"In return," Sylvan said, "he owed my father a favour."
He glanced sidelong at Polaris.
"They still speak. Not friends, exactly — but loyal. Mutual benefit. My father calls that the best kind of alliance."
Another pause.
"Use, Polaris. That's the point. You give something. You get something. If you can't... well. That's when things start to feel unequal."
They reached the next landing in silence.
Polaris didn't answer. But the words echoed — give something, get something — and for a moment, they made sense.
Of course they did.
That was how he'd been raised.
Connections weren't just encouraged — they were constructed. Carefully. Intentionally. Weekends spent at Black-hosted functions, playing chess and exchanging pleasantries with children he didn't like, all under the knowing looks of parents sipping firewhisky and whispering about future potential . Future usefulness.
He'd been told which names to remember. Which family crests to respect. Which children were "respectable enough" to sit beside at dinner and which weren't.
So yes — use made sense.
But Muggle-borns? No one had ever mentioned using them. Not in the same breath as alliances. Not in the same breath as anything useful.
The idea hadn't even occurred to him before now.
He glanced briefly at Sylvan, who was already looking away, eyes fixed on the spiralling stone steps ahead.
Maybe it was possible — in some families. Some pure-bloods might see the worth in talent, even without heritage.
But not his mother.
Walburga Black didn't believe in use. She believed in blood. In purity. In culling weakness before it could take root.
She spoke of Muggle-borns the way Bellatrix did — with venom and disgust, like their very existence was a stain on magic itself.
No. Polaris doubted his mother had ever used a Muggle-born.
She wouldn't have touched one.
Let alone owed one anything.
The wind sharpened as they reached the Owlery.
It wasn't exactly cold, but the high stone perch opened wide to the overcast sky, and the air had that biting edge that said winter was coming early. The scent of straw and feathers mingled with the must of ancient stone and fresh droppings — sharp, earthy, and alive in a way the rest of the castle rarely was.
Polaris stepped inside first, boots crunching over scattered bits of straw. Sylvan followed close behind, already pulling his letter from his cloak — folded with precision and sealed with a dark blue crest.
Dozens of owls shifted and murmured above, perched in alcoves and rafters, feathers rustling like dry parchment in a breeze.
Then — a low, unimpressed screech from the right.
Orpheus.
A tall, sharp-eyed black owl stepped down from one of the middle perches, feathers sleek as oil and gaze unmistakably annoyed. He flared his wings once before settling them tight against his sides and gave Polaris a look that could only be described as judgmental .
Polaris exhaled slowly. "Yes, I know. I've neglected you."
Orpheus clacked his beak.
"Don't be dramatic," Polaris muttered, stepping forward. "It's not like I had anything worth sending."
The owl turned his head slowly — so slowly — and then hopped to the edge of the perch, letting out another short, sharp screech that echoed off the stone.
"He's going to bite you," Sylvan said mildly, from where he was fastening his letter to his own owl — a pale barn owl with speckled wings and a ruffled, nervous posture.
Polaris didn't look back. "He wouldn't dare. We've had an arrangement since I got him, well I think ."
Orpheus ruffled his feathers in clear offense. The arrangement, evidently, had not included six weeks of silence and no letters to deliver.
Polaris sighed and reached into the small side pouch of his satchel. "Here. Don't say I never do anything for you."
He offered a treat — dried field mouse, charm-wrapped to stay fresh. Orpheus took it with a swift snap of his beak and an air of reluctant forgiveness.
Only then did Polaris unfasten his satchel fully and pull out a folded scrap of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink sealed with a strip of wax that bore a faintly cracked Black family crest.
He laid everything out on the flat stone ledge beneath the window. The wind tugged lightly at the parchment's edge, but Polaris flattened it with his hand and began writing.
To Narcissa, he knew what to say.
He'd start by apologising for the delay — he'd frame it as the usual chaos of first term, the demands of coursework, the occasional lateness of the Owlery, anything that sounded respectable. Then he'd list the compliments. Professors praising his work in Transfiguration. Charms. Astronomy especially. He knew which ones she'd care about.
He'd mention a few names — not too many. A Slytherin here, a Ravenclaw there. A careful portrait of social success without sounding boastful.
It was easy, with Narcissa. Not because he trusted her — but because he understood her . The performance had rules, yes, but more than that: she had rules. Predictable ones.
She'd always been the kindest of the Black sisters — not warm, exactly, but poised in a way that made room for gentleness.
She knew all his favourites. The fact he hated pumpkin juice — then again, that wasn't hard to notice if one was paying attention. But she had noticed. Just as she knew how he liked walking without direction, how he drew when he thought no one was watching, how he preferred stories with inevitable tragedies — the kind that didn't end happily, but truthfully.
She paid attention to the little things — not because she had to, but because she did.
She was his favourite cousin for a reason.
And Polaris, if nothing else, knew how to write within the lines.
The second letter he decided to write as well sat untouched for longer.
He stared at the blank parchment. Dipped his quill once, then paused.
To Uncle Alphard.
He wasn't sure what to say.
With Narcissa, expectations were clear. With Alphard... the silence between them was different.
What could he say?
Ravenclaw's fine. No one hexed me yet. I've made exactly like three new friends. I think I insulted someone for breathing too loud during one of my lessons. Also, I may have found a secret code, and my wand happens to have once belonged to a long-dead seer who left a message just for me which is kind of worrying me right now. How's your week been?
His quill hovered. Still no ink touched the page.
He stared out at the cloudy sky instead, ink drying slowly in the well of the nib. Orpheus gave an unimpressed clack behind him, as if to say you're not going to make me carry an empty page, are you?
Polaris didn't answer. He just rubbed the edge of his thumb along the page, thinking.
Eventually — slowly — he wrote:
Uncle Al
Dear Uncle Alphard ,
Dear Alphard Black ,
I meant to write sooner.
Guess what? I didn't die on my first day . I was just somewhat surprised you've only made contact now. A lot of time has passed. since
The ink bled a little at the edge of the page where his quill hesitated. He stared at the words a moment longer, then set the quill down and flexed his fingers once, as if shaking out something heavier than cramp.
What else was there to say?
He couldn't even remember the last time he saw Alphard. Five? No — maybe four.
Polaris tapped the quill against his thumb, then added under the first line:
Do you still support Puddlemere, or have you betrayed them like you betrayed bothering to check in on me after all these years?
He paused. Considered scratching it out. Didn't.
Instead, he wrote a final line, flat and unbothered.
I'm fine.
That was it.
He folded the parchment, sealed it without ceremony, and turned to Orpheus, who gave a disapproving flutter of his wings as if to say about time.
"Don't look at me like that," Polaris muttered.
Polaris attached both letters — Narcissa's with crisp edges, Alphard's slightly smudged — and held out his arm.
The owl stepped up with dignity and launched into the grey sky a moment later, wings slicing clean through the mist.
For a moment, watching that shape shrink into the sky, he wondered whether owls ever returned heavier than they left.
"Are you ready?" Sylvan asked from behind him.
Polaris didn't look away from the clouds.
"Yes," he said quietly.
A pause.
Then he turned clearing his thoughts. The feast waited.
— ❈ —
Elsewhere, peace was in short supply.
"DON'T TOUCH ME—"
"IT WAS YOUR KNEE, YOU LIMPET —"
Out staggered Willow, hair wildly askew, shoving Corvus ahead of her like he was toxic waste. He stumbled out after her, red-faced, still brushing dust from his sleeves, muttering darkly under his breath.
"Finally," Willow snapped, whirling on the now-open door. "I thought we were going to die in there."
"You were in there for—what, an hour?" James said casually, leaning against the stone wall like he hadn't forgotten about them entirely. "Some people pay for that kind of bonding experience."
Willow's eyes narrowed. "You locked us in ."
Sirius raised both hands in mock surrender. "Whoa. Accusations already? We just got here."
"Oh, how convenient," Corvus drawled, eyes flicking between them. "The cupboard magically unlocks the moment you two show up. What a miraculous coincidence."
"Miraculous things happen at Hogwarts all the time," James said easily, nudging Sirius. "Especially around Samhain."
Sirius gave a slow, shit-eating grin. "Must've been Peeves. He loves a good prank."
"Peeves didn't hex the door shut," Willow snapped. "I checked . I nearly broke a nail."
"You're welcome for rescuing you, by the way," Sirius said, folding his arms. "Real gratitude, that."
Willow looked like she might deck him.
Corvus rolled his eyes. "Spare me. This entire ordeal was idiotic."
"Oi," James said, mock-offended. "We prefer festive . It's tradition."
"Your traditions are deranged ," Willow muttered, brushing cobwebs off her jumper. "And if I catch either of you near my things again, I will hex your eyebrows off ."
"Oh no," James gasped, clutching his heart. "Eyebrow threats. She's gone full Gryffindor."
"Actually," Sirius said smoothly, casting a glance at Corvus, "you should be thanking us."
Corvus raised a brow. "For what, exactly?"
Sirius's grin widened, all teeth. "For giving you a chance to reflect on your manners. Locked up with a half-blood — imagine the character growth."
Corvus stiffened and muttered under his breath. "You're a disgrace to your name."
The grin on Sirius' face didn't vanish — not immediately — but it faltered. Just slightly.
Sirius's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "If you're going to insult me, little Avery, at least be original."
Then, with a sharp clap to Corvus's shoulder — not friendly, not cruel, just final — Sirius turned and walked off with James who whispered something in his ear. The two fifth years burst out into laughter.
Willow huffed and stomped after them, still muttering under her breath.
Corvus lingered a moment, brushing dust from his sleeve one last time. His eyes trailed after Sirius with a look caught somewhere between loathing and resentment.
Then he turned on his heel and stalked off toward the dungeons — robes flaring, pride intact, and utterly convinced this school was full of lunatics.