[13,118 Words]
November 15th, 1975, Saturday
The November wind tore through the stands, snatching at scarves and tugging banners loose with cold, impatient hands. Blue and bronze blurred against gold and black, a tangle of colour and noise.
It was cold out—mud in the grass, fog hanging low —and somewhere beneath it all, the bitter trace of broom polish. Up above, the players darted and spun like startled birds, cloaks flaring, hair flying, a storm of movement and curses and cheers thrown upward from hundreds of throats.
Ravenclaw vs. Hufflepuff.
And Hufflepuff, to the increasing dismay of the Ravenclaw stands, was winning .
Polaris sat stiff-backed on the bench, shoulders tight, gloves still, although the cold wasn't the problem. His wand rested in his lap, clutched between both hands—not drawn, not raised, just there. A habit. Something to hold.
He kept his eyes on the sky or tried to. The blur of movement—the endless circling of Chasers, the sudden dives, the way the Quaffle cut through the air like a stone skipping water—set off something behind his eyes. His stomach turned. He swallowed once, twice. Count the breaths.
Beside him, Elias groaned loudly as another goal went to Hufflepuff.
"Are they blind?" Elias muttered. "What are we—sixty points behind now? They're not even marking their bloody Keeper—what's Montford doing?"
Polaris didn't answer. His jaw was tight, and he was pretty sure if he opened his mouth, nothing useful would come out. He wanted to care. He did care—he wanted Ravenclaw to win, he really did—but the noise, the motion, the way the cold wind cut through his robes like it knew he was unravelling—it was getting harder to fake that he was just quietly watching the match.
Not far down the bench, an older Ravenclaw boy suddenly shifted in his seat. He pressed a hand to his forearm through his robe, grip tightening. His eyes darted toward the pitch, then away again—pale, unsettled. For a second, he looked like he might stand, but he didn't. Just sat there, breathing shallowly, one hand clenched as if holding something in place.
"Bludger left!" someone shouted above him.
Polaris jerked his head up just in time to see a Ravenclaw Beater spiral sideways, bat flailing. The crowd gasped. Another whistle shrieked. The Hufflepuff stands roared as one of their Chasers caught the rebound and barrelled forward, broom tilting aggressively downward.
The shot was quick—too quick for Ravenclaw's Keeper, who missed it by inches.
Another goal.
Gold and black scarves flew into the air. Hufflepuff banners flapped violently in the wind. The ground seemed to thrum with their noise, and Polaris felt it rattle in the back of his skull.
He exhaled slowly, trying not to grimace. The nausea sat low and steady beneath his ribs. Not enough to draw attention—but it didn't feel ordinary. It wasn't the cold. It wasn't the match.
His wand pulsed once in his grip. Not with magic. Just heat. Like it was remembering something he didn't.
"Oi—didn't Sayre hex someone yesterday?" someone said, a few rows behind.
The voice was loud, cutting through the cheers, but Polaris didn't turn. He didn't have to. His shoulders tensed without asking.
"Something about a Muggle-born?" another added. "Bit dramatic, wasn't it?"
He didn't hear the answer.
Because just then, a streak of motion caught his eye: high above the pitch, a Ravenclaw Chaser clipped a Hufflepuff's broom as they looped too close to the goal hoops. The Hufflepuff player swerved, shouted something Polaris couldn't catch, and suddenly the two were locked in a shouting match mid-air—brooms circling like wolves, their teammates hovering nearby in uncertain formation.
The crowd howled in response, half with outrage, half with glee.
A whistle blew three times, shrill and furious.
Polaris flinched again, head snapping sideways like it echoed inside his skull.
He stood.
Didn't say anything to the Ravenclaws beside him. Didn't make an excuse. Just tucked his wand into his cloak and began walking, the cheers folding over behind him like waves.
"Can't blame you," Elias called after him, not loudly, but loud enough for Polaris to hear him.
Polaris didn't stop walking, as he glanced at Elias. "Tell me if we score again. I'd like to die knowing we managed two."
"I'll stay and suffer through the rest," Elias added, voice trailing into something more resigned. "Maybe we'll get a miracle. Merlin knows we need one."
He needed another potion.
— ❈ —
Polaris sat on a window ledge between two tall archways.
His knees were drawn up slightly, one gloved hand resting loose against his side, the other curled—again—around his wand.
The potion had helped. A little.
Madam Pomfrey hadn't even asked this time. Just handed him the vial with a tight smile and a muttered, "Don't wait until it gets worse next time."
He stared out through the fogged glass, where the sky was pale.
His breath fogged faintly. For a moment, the ache in his head had dulled to a hum.
Then—
"Oh," came the voice. "There you are."
"Merlin," he muttered in disdain.
Myrtle hovered just ahead of him, dripping water in slow, deliberate trails that vanished before they touched the floor. She was smiling.
"Ohhhh, I knew I'd find you sulking." she said brightly, already drifting closer. "You've been avoiding your usual routes."
Polaris didn't bother looking at her.
"I wasn't aware I had 'usual routes.'"
Myrtle grinned, ignoring the flatness of his voice. "You do. You like the upper stairs past the Astronomy wing. I always notice when you stop walking near the mirrors. And I never see you near the courtyard on Sundays. Isn't that strange?"
"Not really," he muttered.
She kept coming. Of course she did.
"Why are you sulking?" she asked, curiously.
"I'm not sulking."
"You're sitting alone in a corridor with that face on. That's sulking."
"I have a headache."
"Well, you look like a headache," she replied breezily, already floating closer, robes dripping water in transparent trails that vanished before they hit the floor. "Honestly, if you wanted to be alone, maybe don't feel like such a—" she paused to wave her hands dramatically, " emotional foghorn. It's exhausting."
Polaris blinked at the window, not honouring her with a response.
"It's strange to me," she said, "but maybe that's just because I'm dead and have nothing better to think about."
Polaris exhaled, eyes closing for just a second. "You could think about staying in your bathroom."
"That's rude," Myrtle pouted. "Besides, I only come out when I feel something. I don't do it often, you know. It's just you. You're always so... loud. "
He opened his eyes at that, finally looking at her — just long enough to give her a warning glance.
"Not sound -loud," she clarified, flicking her fingers as if waving off the implication. "You feel loud. It's annoying. My ears ring when you're nearby, and ghosts don't even have ears that work."
Polaris leaned back against the wall again. "Then go away."
"I can't," she chirped. "I go where I'm needed. Or at least where people are sad and mysterious and brooding like you."
"I'm not brooding."
"Mm-hm," Myrtle said, nodding like she didn't believe him for a second. "Sitting all alone, staring into space like someone just told you chocolate frogs were extinct."
Polaris rubbed his temple.
"Do you ever stop talking?"
"I could!" she chirped. "But then you'd have to talk, and we both know that's not going to happen, don't we?" She tilted her head at him, pigtails swaying. "Besides, you like the sound of my voice."
He gave her a sideways look so flat it could've peeled paint.
"No, I don't."
"You don't dislike it," she countered. "You haven't told me to leave yet."
"I literally did!"
She seemed to take pride in ignoring that.
"You look awful," she added cheerfully. "Just like your father did when he pretended, he wasn't crying."
His eyes seemed to widen at that.
Myrtle grinned wider.
"I knew that'd get a reaction."
Polaris slowly turned his head toward her. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said," she repeated, more slowly now, "you look like your father when he was trying very, very hard not to cry. It's in the mouth. That little twist. Like the emotion's getting stuck in your molars."
"My father doesn't cry."
"Oh please," Myrtle huffed. "They all cry eventually. Even the scary ones. Especially the scary ones."
Polaris's gaze drifted away, jaw tight. He said nothing.
She circled lazily again, voice singsong.
"It was after that girl died. His girlfriend or something. Some Slytherin girl, clever, always wore perfume. She died in an accident — or maybe it was a duel? I've forgotten. I was alive back then, you know. Before my own dramatic, tragic end."
He glanced at her, disbelieving. "You're making this up."
"I'm not! He sat outside the hospital wing for hours. Didn't move. Didn't speak. But his shoulders shook like—" she wobbled midair, miming, "like a cold kettle. It was very poetic, actually. I liked him better when he was miserable."
Polaris turned back to the window.
"That wasn't him."
Myrtle didn't argue. She just hovered closer.
"You don't believe me now," she said, more lightly. "But you'll see. You Blacks — you all come from the same iron. Brittle when it matters."
Silence stretched out between them.
Then, softly:
"You make ghosts worse, you know."
Polaris's hand tightened around his wand. He didn't look at her.
"Don't say things like that."
Polaris closed his eyes for a long moment. He knew better than to ask what she meant. He'd tried that before—more than once—and Myrtle never gave answers because she didn't know.
She never said anything useful.
She just talked .
"Ugh, fine," Myrtle huffed. "Can't say anything around you. Everything's a thing. You know, I was trying to nap. But no—there you were again, all tense and gloomy. Honestly exhausting."
The unimpressed look on his face told her everything she needed to know.
"I bet you'd be less weird if you cried more. Or yelled. Or, I don't know, broke a teacup or something. You're too quiet—it's not healthy."
She sighed dramatically as she continued. "Well, I'm tired now. You drain the haunt right out of a girl."
Polaris stared ahead, jaw tight.
"Is there a point to any of this?" he asked flatly, finally turning to look at her.
Myrtle blinked at him, surprised. Then she smiled—thin and unreadable.
"Only that you don't scare me," she said, a little too pleased with herself. "And that should probably scare you."
With a flick of her pigtails, she drifted backward through the wall, trailing droplets like fading ink behind her.
Polaris stayed where he was. After a moment, he let out a slow breath and ran a hand over his face, dragging his palm down to his chin. His skin felt cold.
Eventually Polaris was graced with the outcome of the Quidditch match.
Final score: Hufflepuff 260, Ravenclaw 130.
Elias had plenty to say about it—loudly, dramatically, and with a vocabulary that grew more colourful the faster he paced around in the common room.
"They play like they've just met," he declared, arms folded as they walked. "I mean, do they even practice ? Montford can't guard a hoop to save his life, our Beaters swing like they're charming furniture, and don't even start on the Chasers—"
Polaris wasn't surprised. Not even disappointed. He'd watched them play. Watched them miss. Watched them argue mid-air. He knew when he left the match that no miracle was coming.
He hadn't expected one.
They were lucky to have scored once.
Tomorrow, at least, there'd be real Quidditch to follow.
Puddlemere United was playing away against the Ballycastle Bats. Polaris had been planning to follow the score all week. There would be a wireless charmed ready to pick up live commentary. Proper strategy, actual skill—assuming Puddlemere didn't collapse like Ravenclaw just had.
He exhaled through his nose.
They'd better not. He wasn't sure he could survive two teams embarrassing themselves in a row.
November 16th, 1975, Sunday
The Great Hall was unusually subdued for a Sunday.
Most students were still at breakfast — toast crusts, marmalade jars, and steaming kettles scattered across long tables — but a knot of first years had claimed a corner of the hall for something far more important than breakfast.
"Legendary Duellists: The Auror Archives," Corvus read aloud, squinting at the foil-edged packet in his hand. "Limited edition. Yes."
He opened it fast, like he couldn't stand waiting another second.
It had been Corvus's idea to open them—of course it had. He'd even managed to talk one of his cousins into picking up extra packs during the last Hogsmeade visit, on the condition he'd actually try on his midterms. A work in progress, that.
Polaris, seated beside him with his arms folded on the table, watched without much emotion. He didn't make a habit of growing his collection—not unless Corvus made it impossible not to with his relentless enthusiasm and encyclopedic knowledge of every limited print and magical misprint.
On the other side of Corvus, Bastian was already sorting cards into neat piles with practiced ease.
A cascade of freshly opened cards fanned out across the table — gleaming portraits, miniature animations of wand flourishes, tiny sparks leaping from inked spell names.
Loki, Corvus's sleek black cat, was sat on his lap. His long tail twitched occasionally, more bored than annoyed, and his pale green eyes tracked every glittering card with regal disinterest.
"Another Godric bloody Gryffindor," Corvus groaned. "That's my fifth. Who cursed me with Gryffindor luck?"
Kalen Nott, seated across from them with his sleeves pushed up and his deck spread out in front of him, didn't look up. He flicked through a handful of cards, expression unreadable. He responded quick enough, "your attitude ."
Corvus tossed the duplicate onto the discard pile with flair as he rolled his eyes at Kalen's comment. "At least let him duel properly next time. They always animate him disarming some poor medieval idiot."
"Because he did disarm medieval idiots," Bastian said mildly, showing Polaris a rare spell card. "This one's useful — Counterfluxus Hex. High-level deflective. Duel score modifier's six."
Polaris glanced at it. "Rare?"
"Third-tier. But good in play."
He nodded once. He didn't mind the cards. They could be fun — in small doses. Corvus, on the other hand, treated them like sacred artefacts.
Not far off, on Kalen's side of the table, Elora Parkinson and Eliza Burke sat with their breakfast tea and a stack of glossy parchment, deep in what looked like a strategy meeting for some future event Elora hadn't yet bothered to explain. Eliza looked faintly amused. Elora looked like she was preparing to reorganize the entire House from scratch.
Every so often, one of them would glance over—never long, never kindly.
"Honestly, I don't know why you all waste time with those," Elora said, not even looking up. "It's just animated cardboard with a price tag."
"They're printed on charmed parchment," Corvus corrected, wounded.
"And charmed parchment is still parchment." Her tone was airy, dismissive. "At least collect something with taste."
"Like your endless lace ribbon collection?" Corvus retorted. "Very intimidating."
"I happen to be cultivating a personal aesthetic ," Elora replied, lifting a brow. "You're hoarding enchanted sweets wrappers."
"Better than hoarding lip gloss and judgment," Corvus muttered, turning back to his deck.
Eliza didn't look up, but Polaris saw the corner of her mouth twitch. A smile. Possibly. Maybe.
"Here," Bastian said suddenly, holding up a holographic card. "New one—Berta Jorkins. Seventeen duels, twelve wins. Famous for outsmarting a whole department in a prank war that lasted three months. Tactical rating's eight."
Corvus whistled. "They gave her an eight? That's above Muldoon, and he invented reverse-bind hexing."
"Yeah, well," Bastian said, grinning. "She was clever. And completely unhinged."
Kalen glanced up at that. "Sounds like half the Ministry."
Polaris snorted, quiet but unmistakable.
Kalen's eyes flicked to him for a second before he returned to his deck.
Corvus shifted, nudging a pile aside with one finger. "I don't even like that one," he muttered. "The card's got weird energy."
"I still want a Gellert Grindelwald first edition," Corvus sighed, rifling through his duplicates. "He had the highest strategy rating in the original print. And his Signature Spell card's literally banned from tournament play. That's iconic."
"You'd collect Morgana herself if they released a line," Polaris said dryly.
"I have Morgana," Corvus replied. "She's in the Gothic Legacy Set. Signed."
Of course she was.
A rustle to Polaris's right — someone brushing past — and then Aaron Flint dropped onto the bench beside Kalen, opposite Polaris, Bastian and Corvus. He didn't even glance at the cards.
"Oi," he said, tone low but eager. "Did you lot hear about the Sayre thing?"
Bastian glanced up vaguely. "What happened?"
Polaris went still, the movement of his hands over his deck halting mid-sort.
Flint leaned in, grinning like it was something worth celebrating. "Second-year Hufflepuff. Blood status row. Sayre sent him flying halfway across the corridor. Left a scorch mark on the floor, I heard."
"That's not exactly what happened," Polaris said, voice low.
Flint leaned back slightly, eyeing Polaris with a new kind of scrutiny. "Didn't say it was. Just passing it along."
Corvus made a dramatic groan, still not raising his eyes. "If I hear the word Sayre one more time, I'm setting my cards on fire."
"Would improve your chances of pulling Grindelwald," Elora muttered dryly, flipping a page of glossy parchment with one perfectly manicured finger. She and Eliza were still halfway through their colour-coded brainstorm of the next social event — tea sets, seating charts, and which house was currently 'hopelessly underdressed.'
Eliza didn't look up, but her quill paused in its margin scribbles. Just for a second.
Flint ignored them. "You're mates with him, though, aren't you?" He said it casually, like an afterthought — but it wasn't.
Polaris didn't answer. Just kept sorting his cards, slower now.
"He's a bit off, that one," Flint went on. "Always spouting off in Charms like he's teaching the class. Going on about fairness and all that rot. You'd think he was raised by Muggles the way he talks."
Loki lifted his head, ears twitching. His eyes locked on Aaron. The faintest hiss escaped his throat.
Aaron frowned at the sound, narrowing his eyes at the black cat.
Bastian gave a shrug, half-agreeing. "He is a bit much sometimes."
Kalen shrugged, voice barely audible over the shuffle of cards. "He gave me chocolate once."
"I just don't get it," Flint continued, not dropping it. "You—" he gestured lazily at Polaris, "—you're a Black. And he's—well. You've heard him."
"I've heard a lot of people," Polaris said coolly. "Doesn't mean I agree with them."
Flint raised his eyebrows like he wasn't convinced. "Still. Bit odd, isn't it? You sitting with him all the time. Thought you'd have better taste."
Polaris finally looked up, eyes cold. "Do you usually comment on things that aren't your business?"
Flint rolled his eyes. "It's only conversation."
Corvus looked up now — not alarmed, exactly, but aware the tone had shifted. He closed his deck with a clap and said, "Alright, if we're done dissecting everyone's social calendar, some of us are two cards from a perfect pull."
But Polaris was already gathering his cards.
"Right," he said shortly. "Enjoy the sermon ."
He stood up, sliding his cards into his pocket.
"Where are you going?" Corvus asked, frowning.
Polaris didn't look at him directly. "Regulus said he might have a spare Puddlemere jersey. Figured I'd see if he's found it."
Corvus blinked, caught off guard by his tone. "Oh. Right. For the match."
There was a slight shift in the group. Bastian glanced up, briefly meeting Polaris's eyes before looking away. He didn't say anything, but his fingers tapped restlessly against the table.
Flint leaned back, a slow, crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
There was a long enough silence afterward that even the deck seemed to hesitate.
Then, Flint piped up once more, voice too loud. "Bit touchy, isn't he? Doesn't even say goodbye half the time. Wouldn't catch me trailing after some muggle loving Gryffindor like it's—"
Corvus didn't even look up. "Aaron," he said flatly, "shut up."
Aaron blinked. "What? I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying," Corvus snapped, sharper now. "That's the problem."
Bastian made a low noise in his throat — something between a sigh and a scoff — and resumed shuffling his cards, a bit rougher than before.
Aaron huffed, shifting on the bench. "Merlin, someone's moody."
Corvus slammed his deck down, finally looking up. "You ever think maybe he's tired ? Or that not everyone wants to hear your opinions on who people sit with? Just go bother someone else, Aaron. I'm not in the mood."
Aaron hesitated, visibly thrown. His mouth opened like he was about to reply, then closed again. He stood slowly, awkwardly, and muttered something under his breath as he stepped away from the table.
Bastian was watching him with a faint frown. When he looked back at Corvus, there was something unreadable in his expression.
"What?" Corvus asked, his voice still clipped.
Bastian didn't answer, just shook his head slowly. His fingers tapped against the tabletop in thought.
Corvus exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "You know, Polaris hadn't really been spending much time with us. Now he actually does, instead of always being busy . And of course, Aaron has to open his mouth and drive him off."
Across the table, Kalen didn't say a word. He sat very still, chin resting lightly on one hand, his eyes sharp behind the fringe falling into them. He hadn't shuffled his cards once since Polaris left.
— ❈ —
He hadn't planned to go get the jersey from Regulus this soon in the day but anything to stop himself from saying he regretted.
There haven't been many times Polaris had gone down to the dungeon for something other than going to potions. Everything always felt different down there and his footsteps echoed more than he liked.
It wasn't even what Flint had said that annoyed him, rather it was the silence.
He didn't expect much from Aaron Flint — all smug grin and shallow swagger, wearing his family name like it did the work for him. That sort of posturing was easy to tune out. But Corvus? Bastian?
Neither of them said anything, not really. Corvus was more interested in the stupid cards and Bastian well he spoke like once and it was to agree with Flint of all people.
Maybe it was easier not to say anything — wasn't that what Polaris did, most of the time? Let things pass. Let people talk. If you don't name it, it doesn't stick.
But it did stick. It lingered. Quiet as poison.
So that's how it is.
His friends thought Nate Sayre was the wrong sort. Maybe not in the way Aaron did, not with that sneer — but something in them agreed with the principle.
Sayre's name made people shift. Made conversations flicker, fade, fold into something else. It was just like what Regulus had said the first month into his first year.
And maybe—maybe they weren't entirely wrong. Sayre was loud, opinionated, reckless with how he thought things should be. He didn't watch his tone, didn't weigh his words. Walburga Black would've taken one look at him and called it a shameful waste of robes.
Polaris exhaled through his nose and shook the thought off.
That was better. There were compartments for this. Places in his head where things didn't reach. He folded himself into one.
He was nearing the Slytherin common room entrance — a shadowed curve in the corridor wall — when the echo of boots announced another presence.
A tall figure stepped into view. Clean robes, crisp collar, and an expression that looked like it had been set at birth: unimpressed. Caelan Mulciber.
One of the senior Concordium members. Top of his year. Heir to Lord Mulciber, who he was named after.
Polaris slowed slightly.
Mulciber's gaze flicked toward him, then narrowed in recognition. "Black."
"Mulciber."
They exchanged brief nods, acknowledging each other.
"I was looking for my brother," Polaris said. "Regulus. Is he inside?"
"He is," said Mulciber, hands behind his back. "Finishing some Arithmancy. I'll let him know you're here."
Polaris nodded once. "Thanks."
But Mulciber didn't move just yet.
"I saw you're debating Potter later this week," he said mildly. "Topic's a good one."
Polaris didn't reply at once. He didn't need to ask what the topic was — it had been posted in the Concordium's schedule days ago. He'd chosen his stance early — carefully, deciding to argue for, before the deadline.
What he hadn't expected was to find her name across from his the next day.
Aurelia Potter. On the opposing side.
He didn't know if she'd done it to provoke him, or if she was simply interested in arguing the reverse — because of course she would be. Because she could.
"Should be an easy win," Mulciber added, voice just this side of friendly. "You've got a clearer head. She'll appeal to sentiment. Weak ground."
Polaris tilted his head slightly. "I'll manage."
"I'm sure." Mulciber's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just remember which side history rewards. Clarity. Not softness."
And with that, he turned, stepping through the entrance without waiting for a reply.
Regulus appeared a few minutes later, a bundle of navy blue and gold fabric slung over one arm.
"You're lucky I'm generous," he said by way of greeting, holding up the jersey. "This one's my backup."
Polaris took the jersey and unfolded it and held it up once. It was clearly too big — the sleeves hung long and the hem nearly to Polaris's knees, the number stitched on the back bold and gleaming: #3, BLACK . A customised version.
Regulus gave a short laugh under his breath. "You'll grow into it."
Both Regulus and Sirius were tall — annoyingly so — and the jersey had clearly been made with that in mind. The number wasn't random either; three was Regulus's favourite number.
Polaris didn't answer, but the edge of his mouth turned slightly — a flicker of something near gratitude.
Regulus's gaze narrowed. "You're still not answering mother's letters, are you?"
Polaris didn't bother pretending to misunderstand.
"She's written enough," he said flatly. "Half of them probably say the same thing anyway. I burnt most of them just to make room for the next ones."
Regulus let out a sharp breath, part frustration, part disbelief. "She keeps asking me about you. Who you're spending time with, what you're doing, whether you're ill or being dramatic. She wants me to make sure you respond next time."
"I'll find out whatever she wants to say soon enough," Polaris muttered, "I don't need her letters spoiling my mood before then."
There was a beat of silence.
"And besides," Polaris added, almost as an afterthought, "I've been writing to Uncle Alphard."
Regulus blinked at that, his brows drawing together. "Since when?"
"Since Samhain," Polaris said simply.
Regulus squinted at him, still processing that, but then his eyes flicked upward—toward Polaris's fringe.
"You're going to start looking like Sirius if you let that keep growing," he said dryly. "You'll be quoting Marius Blackmoor and brooding in mirrors by Yule."
Polaris blinked. "The poet who hexed his own reflection?"
"Exactly."
Polaris rolled his eyes, brushing a loose curl back with the side of his hand. "You already know I'm not cutting it short."
"I'm not saying shave your head," Regulus replied, amused. "Just—trim the sides, maybe take a bit off the top. The front's practically in your eyes."
"It's not that bad," Polaris said, though he checked the tag of the oversized jersey with a faint frown. "You know why I keep it like this."
Regulus didn't argue. He glanced briefly at the right side of Polaris's face but didn't mention the scar. He didn't have to.
"Fine," he muttered. "Just don't come crying to me when you wake up looking like our idiot brother."
Before Polaris could fire back, the voices came.
Low and easy at first, the kind of careless laughter that belonged to boys who'd never been told no in a way that stuck.
"—and then she gags, like I've handed her a bloody bezoar," Evan Rosier was saying, voice rich with amusement. "I ask if she's ever done it before, and she goes, 'Not like this.' "
Barty Crouch Jr. barked a laugh.
"That's what you get for flirting with a half-blood . They've read all the books and still haven't got a clue what to do with their mouths."
Polaris blinked, not quite catching the joke. The words landed — bezoar, half-blood, something about a girl — but the meaning slithered past him.
He cast a glance toward Regulus as if to see if Regulus got it.
Regulus didn't raise his voice, but his tone landed like a cold slap
" Evan , Barty . Could you not ?"
The other two halted, blinking like they'd walked straight into a frost spell. Evan's gaze dropped. He hadn't noticed Polaris until now.
"Oh," Evan muttered. "Didn't see him there."
Barty was grinning. "In his defence, the first years this year are small. Practically vanish in the torchlight."
"You're not funny," Regulus said, though his tone was mild.
Polaris was already slipping the jersey over his head. It hung like a flag on him, sleeves past his knuckles, hem brushing his knees. He adjusted it without comment.
"Honestly," Evan went on, attempting nonchalance, "if you're going to talk about matches, the real one's coming up."
Polaris stilled.
"Oh?" Regulus prompted.
"The debate," Evan said. "Everyone's going on about it. A Potter and a Black, arguing Dark Arts? Can't not attend."
Barty's eyes gleamed. "Dark Arts, then? Lovely. Wish we'd been allowed to learn properly. None of this 'theory-only' bollocks. No edge in theory."
Polaris's head tilted slightly. He knew what "theory-only" meant — especially when it came to the Dark Arts. Pages of warnings and diagrams, but no wandwork, no real understanding of how it felt. He didn't disagree with Barty's frustration.
Regulus ignored both of them. He turned to Polaris, smoothing the collar of the oversized jersey absently — a rare gesture.
"You'll do well," he said simply. "Better if you know we're there."
It wasn't a question. Not a suggestion, either.
Polaris forced a nod. "Of course."
Regulus studied him for a moment longer, then added, "Mulciber said he saw your name on the list for the debate. Should Hogwarts Teach the Dark Arts, wasn't it?"
Polaris met his brother's eyes, shoulders squared. "That's the one."
"How far have you gotten with your argument?"
The answer, if he were being honest, was nowhere. Not a word on parchment, not a single idea fully formed. Just scattered thoughts he hadn't dared slow down long enough to sort through. But none of that showed on his face.
"Nearly there," Polaris responded steadily. "I have an angle."
Regulus gave a faint nod, as if that settled it — as if he hadn't seen through the bluff at all.
The weight of it pressed a little harder in his chest — not from Regulus, exactly, but from the rest of them. From the way they were already deciding what the outcome should be.
Evan stretched, throwing an arm around Barty's shoulder. "We'll be front row."
"Oh, I wouldn't miss it," Barty said with a grin. "Still not sure how she ended up in Slytherin — maybe the Hat was bored. If she argues anything like her brother, it'll be loud, self-righteous, and barely on topic. Should be fun."
Regulus didn't say anything. He just looked at Polaris, there was a flicker there, it was brief. Not a nod this time, but something else entirely. Pride, maybe. Expectation dressed in approval.
A Potter and a Black.
As if that was all it was. As if it had already been decided.
Evan caught the look and gave a low chuckle. "At least one promising Black brother, eh?"
Polaris's eyes narrowed, just a little. His hand twitched at his side.
"That's not—" he started, ready to defend Sirius.
Regulus's hand landed lightly over his mouth, cut him off, smooth and low. "It's a joke."
That landed heavier than it should've.
Evan had meant it. Perhaps not with malice, but with that smug certainty that came from knowing how the world worked. How families worked. How the Black family worked. That Regulus apparently had one promising brother. Singular. As if Sirius had already been written off. As if Polaris's loyalty to him was just another youthful misjudgement. A phase. Something he'd grow out of.
His jaw clenched. He didn't even realize he was holding his breath until Regulus's fingers lifted away.
A joke .
Polaris opened his mouth again.
He wasn't even sure what he was going to say. Something about how it wasn't funny, how Sirius wasn't some cautionary tale, how he was tired of people acting like loyalty was a flaw to be outgrown.
But he didn't get the chance.
Regulus, without even looking, reached out and clamped a hand gently but firmly over Polaris's mouth once again like he knew Polaris would try again.
The kind of move that said I've done this before, and I'll do it again.
Polaris made a muffled noise of protest, eyes narrowing.
Regulus didn't flinch. "Don't," he said smoothly, still facing forward. "You're about to say something righteous and exhausting, and I don't have the energy to listen to you spiral about it for the next three hours."
Barty let out a snort.
Evan, meanwhile, blinked—then laughed, low and amused. "Merlin, that's familiar."
He glanced at Barty, then back at Polaris with a grin. "My little sister's the same. Always has to get the last word. Once gave a whole speech about goblin rights at breakfast. I had to cover her mouth halfway through—was giving me a headache."
Regulus arched an eyebrow. "Sounds like a nightmare."
"Oh, she is," Evan said fondly. "But she means well. Just like this one." He gestured at Polaris, who was now glaring at him over Regulus's hand.
Regulus finally let go, brushing his hand off like Polaris had sneezed on it. "There. Crisis averted."
Polaris exhaled sharply, "You're insufferable."
"And you're predictable," Regulus replied, tone light but not unkind.
Barty leaned back against the wall, smirking. "Honestly, I was kind of looking forward to the speech."
Evan chuckled. "Same. But I respect the tactical shutdown."
— ❈ —
The sky had shifted by the time Polaris met Corvus again. Pale grey, like the castle had exhaled all its colour. The match wouldn't start for another half hour — and most students were still changing into scarves and jerseys or making bets.
Today's headline fixture in the British and Irish Quidditch League was Puddlemere United (Away) versus Ballycastle Bats (Home), and already students were crowding around enchanted wirelesses, tweaking dials for a clearer signal or scribbling last-minute predictions into notebooks. The match hadn't kicked off yet, but the energy was building — some were eager to catch every moment live, others more focused on when their own teams would be playing later in the week.
They met under the side cloister near the viaduct, just out of the wind. Corvus had his cloak pulled tight and a folded tartan blanket tucked under his arm. A shrunken wireless poked out of his pocket.
Corvus shifted, scuffing the toe of his boot against the flagstone like he was bracing for something. Then, too casually:
"I'm not friends with Aaron anymore."
Polaris blinked. His gaze didn't shift. "That so? Why?"
There was a pause — too long, too careful. Like Polaris was deciding how much to let himself believe it. His expression didn't move, not really, but something unlatched behind his eyes. Surprise, maybe. A flicker of quiet relief.
Corvus shrugged with one shoulder, overcompensating with dramatic boredom. "Yeah. I dunno. He's dull. Doesn't get my jokes. Bit of a slug, honestly. And you weren't exactly thrilled when he opened his mouth — don't give me that blank look. You had that face. The 'I'd-rather-duel-an-acromantula-than-sit-here' face."
Polaris exhaled through his nose — barely a sound — and let the corners of his mouth twitch, just once. "I don't make faces."
Corvus scoffed. "You have dozens . That one just happens to look like passive disdain with a touch of homicidal urge."
"I don't disdain Aaron," Polaris said mildly. "He's… consistent."
Corvus was insistent on listening to the game outside for some reason.
"Consistently boring," Corvus muttered, then kicked off the wall. "Come on. Before someone takes the good spot. Not to mention how Loki hates him. Which is fair — Aaron hasn't liked Loki since the first night. Probably afraid of getting outsmarted."
They fell into step without discussing it. The walk toward the far edge of the pitch was brisk, wind tugging at Corvus' cloak, the grey light smudging their shadows across the flagstones. Polaris kept his hands in his pockets. His breath fogged faintly in the cold.
After a moment: "You're sure?" he asked.
"About Aaron? Rye, please." Corvus rolled his eyes. "He doesn't even know the difference between satire and sarcasm. You'd think sharing a dorm with me would've taught him something."
Polaris glanced sideways. "What about Bastian and Aaron?"
Corvus didn't answer right away.
"They get along, I guess. Sometimes feels like they're the same person, the way they go on in the dorm. Finishing each other's sentences. Complaining about me in tandem."
Polaris tilted his head. "They complain about you?"
"Only when I breathe wrong." Corvus gave a theatrical shrug. "I mean, maybe I imagined it. Wouldn't be the first time I hallucinated betrayal."
Polaris made a quiet noise — not quite a laugh, but close. "Dramatic."
"Tragic," Corvus corrected, placing a hand to his chest. "Unloved. Outcast. Forced to support the Ballycastle Bats without emotional backing."
Polaris's eyes dropped to the hem of Corvus's cloak, where just a hint of red and black showed through. "You wore the jersey."
"Obviously."
"In public."
"I'm brave."
"You're asking to be hexed," Polaris said, glancing at the splash of red and black under Corvus's cloak again. "You know Puddlemere's supporters are deranged."
"Deranged," Corvus said with exaggerated scandal. "Rye, please. They're just insecure. Anyone would be, knowing they'll never beat the Bats twice in a row."
Polaris hummed, unimpressed. "Didn't we beat you twice last season?"
"Allegedly," Corvus sniffed. "Some would say that second match was rigged. International conspiracy. Possibly dark magic."
Polaris raised an eyebrow. "Yes. The only logical conclusion."
Corvus shot him a look, then, in one sudden movement, yanked Polaris into a loose headlock. "Blasphemy against the Bats must be punished."
Polaris let out a startled breath but didn't resist—much. Instead, he twisted just enough to jab his fingers into Corvus's side, right beneath his ribs.
Corvus yelped. "Rye—! Don't—" He squirmed instantly, trying to pull away, laughing breathlessly despite himself. "That's a war crime, Rye—tickling is a war crime! You swore never to use that knowledge against me—"
"I lied," Polaris said, calm as ever — though he couldn't quite hide the grin as Corvus half-stumbled trying to escape.
The moment lasted only a few seconds, but when they broke apart, brushing off sleeves and dignity, they were both a little more at ease.
Corvus let out a breath, still grinning faintly, but the silence that followed stretched a little longer than usual — not heavy, just thoughtful, like he was lining something up in his head.
His tone shifted — not awkward, exactly. Just a little too casual. "So, uh. Speaking of logic. Or lack of it. That research thing. You still…" He waved a vague hand, like the shape of the word was hovering somewhere between them. "...doing that?"
Polaris stilled, just slightly. His thumb had been brushing along the seam of his sleeve — it stopped.
He didn't look up right away. "No," he said eventually. "Not really."
Corvus blinked. "Wait, what? I thought you were—" he gestured again, this time more insistently. "You were dragging me into the library like a man possessed. I assumed you'd cracked it by now."
Polaris exhaled softly, rolling his wand slowly between his fingers. "Didn't get anywhere. Turns out... it wasn't that important."
Corvus noticed the motion but didn't push him. Just watched him a moment too long. "Tragic. All that self-inflicted exile for nothing."
"I wasn't exiling myself."
Corvus made a face — the kind that involved both eyebrows and disbelief. "Sure. And I don't dramatically sigh when someone interrupts my monologues."
Polaris huffed through his nose.
— ❈ —
Later that evening, he would take out his journal with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for war memorials and untimely deaths, and ended his entry for the day, with:
Puddlemere United, in whom I placed my trust, my devotion, my very identity, have brought disgrace upon me. They had been ahead. Dominant. Unstoppable. And then—
(here he underlined it twice)
—they let the Bats catch the Snitch. The Ballycastle Bats. The most theatrical, overrated, insufferable team in the league. Of all the losses to suffer, it had to be them. Luck. Pure luck.
— It's a crime so humiliating it should be punishable by Azkaban.
We were ahead. We were better. And then some reckless idiot in red saw a flash of gold and ruined everything.
Corvus will not let me breathe. He was already insufferable. Now he's insufferable with evidence, already parading around like he caught the Snitch himself.
May Merlin smite the Bats. Preferably with bludgers.
— Signed with profound disappointment, The Victim of Injustice
November 19th, 1975, Wednesday
Aurelia Potter paced a tight line behind one of the long tables, notes clutched in one hand, half-eaten toast abandoned on a plate beside her bag. Her scarf was askew, her curls slightly frizzed from sleep, and a single deep red rose was tucked behind one ear, slightly wilted from how many times she'd adjusted it. Her mouth moved silently before she finally spoke aloud.
"Okay," she said, snapping her fingers and turning. "Tell me if this sounds smug or brilliant. 'Teaching the Dark Arts doesn't make students safer — it just makes cruelty part of the curriculum.' Be honest."
Willow didn't look up from her bowl.
Steam curled from her porridge, untouched. Her fingers rested near the rim of the bowl, not holding the spoon—just there, like she was unsure whether she still meant to eat at all. Her hair was half-plaited, half-forgotten, and there were smudges under her eyes that hadn't been there the weeks before.
They'd found an unused classroom on the second floor.
Aurelia stopped pacing. "Will?"
Willow's spoon clinked against the side of the bowl, just once, before she finally muttered, "Do you really think it matters?"
Aurelia faltered mid-step. "What?"
Willow didn't look up at first. When she did, her voice was low and bitter. "They'll cheer for him anyway. Because he knows how to look clever and not care who he steps on. It's not about what sounds brilliant. It's about who sounds like they already won."
Willow's words hung in the air — sharp, bitter, and just a little too rehearsed. Aurelia let out a slow breath, her fingers tightening around the edge of her parchment.
"You're still mad about him," she said softly. "About Nate."
Willow didn't answer right away. Her jaw tensed, like she was trying to swallow something she'd rather spit out.
"I'm mad," she said finally, "that he didn't even try. That I was the one who had to ask him to choose. That it felt like I was asking him to pick between me and... nothing ." She shook her head. "And I'm mad that I still miss him."
Willow only paused for a few seconds until she continued. "And yeah, I'm mad that he won. That Black didn't even have to do or say anything — and that was enough for Nate not to choose me ."
Willow's spoon clinked again.
"And now, something actually happens—he hexes someone in the middle of a corridor—and I don't even get to ask him why."
Her voice caught for a second. "I would've. I would've asked. Before."
Aurelia's fingers stilled on her parchment. Then, carefully she responded. "I know what happened."
Willow looked up, startled. "What?"
"He told me. Not everything—but enough." Aurelia's voice was thoughtful. "He was with his friend Keene, the ginger one. The Muggle-born."
Willow nodded knowing who she was on about, he was also a Gryffindor.
"They passed a second-year — Hufflepuff — who started something. Blood status, slurs. Nate tried to stop it, to walk away."
She paused. "Then the boy said something about Nate defending Muggle-borns — but he didn't use those words. He used that word. Right to his face."
Her voice dropped slightly. "That's when Nate hexed him. Sent him flying. Nate was lucky to get off with just a warning."
Willow was quiet for a beat too long. Then, voice low she asked. "He told you?"
Aurelia hummed, but her tone didn't change. "No. Not at first. I asked."
Willow's brow twitched. "Why?"
Aurelia shrugged, "Because the rumours didn't line up. Half the school thinks he attacked someone for fun. The other half thinks he started a duel over a Chocolate Frog. I wanted to know the truth."
Willow gave a small, bitter laugh. "Of course you did."
Aurelia caught the edge in her tone. "I wasn't prying for gossip, if that's what you think."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." Aurelia set her parchment down; fingers still curled at the edges. "Look, I get it. I'm not trying to replace anything. I just—"
Willow cut her off. "It's fine." But her eyes didn't quite meet Aurelia's.
Aurelia stared at her for a moment. "He didn't go to me, Will. I went to him."
Willow didn't answer.
But the silence dragged a little too long. Her spoon scraped faintly against the side of the bowl — then stilled.
When Willow finally spoke, her voice was quieter. "Sorry."
Aurelia studied her for a second.
Willow didn't look up. "I know I'm being... prickly. I just—" She shook her head, like she couldn't quite finish the thought. "Never mind."
Aurelia didn't press. She just moved toward the bench across from her, sitting without rustle or flourish. She looked down at her notes — then let them fall into her lap.
"I want to win," she said. Not in a boastful way — not like she was trying to sound impressive. "Not just the debate. I mean win. Best Speaker. The Summit slot. All of it."
Willow glanced up.
Aurelia gave a faint, crooked smile. "You know what they see when they look at me? A Potter in green. A weird footnote. Like I'm in the wrong house. Like I got lost on the way to Gryffindor and never left."
"You are a bit of a menace," Willow muttered.
"Exactly," Aurelia said, with more force. "So, this — this matters. If I beat him, it won't just be about cleverness. It'll be proof. That I belong where I am. That being me is enough."
She paused, thumb brushing the edge of her parchment, before she continued.
"I know he's not doing it to show off. That's the worst part. He's just so... steady. Like he always knows everything and doesn't think it's worth telling you. You start to argue and halfway through you're not even sure if he's ignoring you or if he already won and just forgot to mention it."
Willow snorted. "Yeah. That's him. Always so certain he's right, you start to wonder if maybe you are the idiot after all."
Aurelia's grin cracked through, briefly. "Well, now I want to win just out of spite."
Willow looked at her for a moment — really looked this time. And something in her expression shifted. Less closed-off. Less emotional. Like she'd remembered who she was talking to.
"Alright," she said, finally straightening. "Say the line again."
Aurelia blinked. "What?"
"About cruelty. Say it again. This time, try not to sound like you're quoting a textbook."
Aurelia grinned wider. "You helping me now?"
"If you don't win, I'm hexing someone," Willow said, leaning on the table. "If you do win, I'm hexing someone more dramatically."
"That's the energy I need."
For the next few minutes, they traded lines, banter, critiques. Willow didn't smile exactly, but she focused — really focused. And Aurelia, in turn, stopped fidgeting with her parchment. The words started to land better, clearer. Their rhythm synced again.
Eventually, Aurelia sat back, running a hand through her curls. Her voice was softer now. "You'll be okay."
Willow didn't reply. Not directly. Just picked up her spoon at last and gave her porridge a half-hearted stir.
Then, after a beat: "Don't let him win."
Aurelia met her gaze, steady and bright. "I won't. Not just because he's a Black. Because he's wrong."
Willow nodded once, then dug her spoon in. Her porridge was cold by now.
But at least she was eating.
November 20th, 1975, Thursday
Polaris was packing slowly — too slowly. His notes were already in order, but he kept double-checking them. Straightening the corners. Re-aligning the parchment edges so they sat flush. He adjusted the clasp of his robes, then smoothed the hem of his sleeve — twice.
"You're stalling," Hector said from the doorway.
Polaris glanced up. "I'm being thorough."
Hector stepped inside, arms folded, voice level. "Polaris."
He didn't respond, just kept his hands busy — a crease in his sleeve that wouldn't lie flat.
"I'm not worried about your argument. I'm not even worried about your delivery. You've done the work. You're ready."
Still nothing. Just a faint shift in his posture.
Hector sighed, softer this time. "What I am worried about is how you'll handle the crowd."
Polaris looked up.
"People don't always listen to what you say," Hector continued. "They hear what they want to hear. If they've already decided you're dangerous, every word out of your mouth becomes a threat."
Polaris blinked.
"Be clear. Be calm. Don't try to please them — try to make them think. "
There was a moment of silence before Polaris gave a single, tight nod.
Hector reached out, briefly squeezed his shoulder. "And remember — you're not the first person who argued for something no one wanted to hear."
Polaris let out a breath. "You make that sound reassuring."
"I meant it to."
— ❈ —
The chamber was full.
More than full.
Students packed the benches in rising rows, shoulders pressed close, breath fogging slightly in the chill of the old stone room. There weren't enough seats. Some had taken to the floor, sitting cross-legged on the stairs between levels. A few stood pressed against the walls. The air buzzed with quiet conversation — not loud but charged.
Polaris kept his eyes fixed on the podium in front of him.
He wasn't surprised the debate had drawn attention — the topic was dramatic enough — but this? This was more than the usual curious upper-years and overeager first-years. This felt like half of Hogwarts. The atmosphere felt swollen, heavy with expectation.
He adjusted the parchment in front of him again, though he'd already straightened it twice. His fingers rested on either side, too still to look natural. The weight of his wand tucked in his sleeve was suddenly too noticeable.
He didn't look up.
Not yet.
He didn't need to — he already knew his brother was here. Regulus had told him he would be. Probably had a front-row seat, flanked by Rosier and Crouch, smirking like they were watching a play they'd already read the ending to.
That wasn't the part that twisted his stomach.
It was the other presence he hadn't expected.
Sirius.
Polaris forced himself to glance up.
There he was. Middle row. Slouched between Remus Lupin and James Potter like he belonged nowhere and everywhere at once. Peter Pettigrew was to Remus's right, talking too fast. James was grinning — not at the debate, but at something Sirius had said.
Polaris stared for a beat too long.
Was he here for Aurelia? Or—
He looked away.
Regulus and Sirius were seated on opposite sides of the room. Opposite rows. Opposite lives. Opposite everything. Polaris could feel the space between them, stretched like wire through the centre of the room. And he was standing right in the middle of it.
Aurelia hadn't looked up either.
She stood behind her podium on the opposite side, shoulders squared, but her gaze was fixed on the surface in front of her. Her hands were clasped behind her back. Every few seconds, she took a slow, even breath. Then another. Then again.
Polaris could tell she hadn't expected this either. He could tell because her jaw was tense in the same way his was.
At the judges' bench, the High Council were sat, only four of them. Draped in House colours but united in posture, elevation, and influence.
Zion Daramola flipped through a slim sheaf of parchment with the idly through his golden-rimmed glasses.
Sabine Lay, ever alert, rested her chin on one hand, her eyes landed on a knot of older Slytherins near the leftmost bench, something in her mouth tightened.
Caelan Mulciber sat to her left, leaned back with his arms folded and his eyes closed — not sleeping, but listening. Entirely still, except for the faintest tilt of his head. Every now and then, his lashes twitched.
And at the centre, commanding the eye without effort, sat Cassandra Rowley, the Highchair, and the voice that would decide when silence became expectation.
She lifted her wand. Tapped it once against the edge of the bench.
A clear chime rang out.
The audience — already fidgeting on too-cramped benches and overpacked stairs — fell quiet.
"Order in the chamber," Cassandra said, her tone calm but final.
The room obeyed.
She glanced once across the crowd — and paused, ever so slightly, at the sheer number gathered. Normally, Debate Club drew a few dozen. Tonight, the Great Chamber was overflowing. Students filled every bench. Others lined the walls, sat shoulder to shoulder on the staircases, leaned forward on the railing of the upper level just to catch a view.
Cassandra didn't comment. But Polaris caught the quick arch of her brow — a flicker of surprise before she returned to form.
She raised her voice, clear and ringing.
"The first debate of the evening: Should Hogwarts teach the Dark Arts as part of magical education? "
Another ripple of noise stirred — muffled gasps, a few quiet murmurs. Cassandra didn't pause this time.
"Arguing in favour," she continued, "Polaris Black, Ravenclaw."
A few heads turned. Polaris didn't flinch — but his grip on the side of the podium tightened. He could feel it in his wrist: the tension blooming up his arm like something alive.
"Arguing against," Cassandra finished, "Aurelia Potter, Slytherin."
That drew more than a few whispers.
Cassandra gave one final glance around the room — at the crowded rows, the hushed anticipation, the tangled web of allegiances written in scarf colours and last names — before she gave a slight nod.
"Opening statements—begin."
Aurelia went first.
Her robes shifted slightly with her movement, house-green trim catching the light. For a moment, she didn't speak — just stood there, hands folded neatly on the edge of the podium, her chin high.
"The Dark Arts are dangerous. That's not up for debate. They're called that for a reason. Curses designed to harm. Magic built to control, to corrupt. To kill."
A few students fidgeted at that word. Aurelia continued.
"If we teach them — even for the sake of knowledge — we risk making them feel… ordinary. Like something you can study, master, and move on from. But the truth is, some magic wants to leave a mark. It doesn't just change the target. It changes you. "
She glanced toward the judges' bench, briefly, then back at the room.
"Learning shouldn't cost us our conscience. And education shouldn't be an excuse to turn something dark into something acceptable."
Aurelia took a single step back from the podium — nothing dramatic, just enough to show she was done.
Her hands stayed clasped in front of her and glanced once at her notes on the table.
Then all eyes turned to Polaris.
He exhaled through his nose once. His hands didn't shake — not visibly.
Then Polaris started, his heart racing for some reason, "I understand why people are afraid of the Dark Arts."
He paused — not for effect, but to gather himself. His gaze stayed fixed on the judges.
"They've done terrible things. They can do terrible things. But so can all magic. It depends on who uses it — and how."
He paused only for a moment.
"The problem isn't the spells. It's what we don't teach about them. What we don't explain. Fear grows in silence. In what's left unsaid . In pretending something doesn't exist, and hoping that's enough to keep people safe."
He kept his voice steady, every word carefully put.
"I don't think ignorance makes us safer. I think it makes us vulnerable. If we understand the Dark Arts — how they work, how they really work — then maybe we'll be better at defending against them. Maybe fewer people will be tempted to use them in the first place."
He let the pause sit.
"I'm not saying we should use them. I'm saying pretending they don't exist doesn't make them disappear."
Then, quieter he added. "Knowledge is power. It's how we survive. And pretending otherwise… won't protect anyone."
Cassandra Rowley nodded once from the centre of the judges' bench.
"You may proceed to core arguments. Miss Potter — begin."
Aurelia stepped forward again, this time with a touch more fire behind her words. The opening was calm, but this had to mean something.
"The problem with teaching the Dark Arts isn't just that they're dangerous — it's that they fascinate people. Especially young witches and wizards who don't always know better."
Her eyes flicked, briefly, to the crowd — to the older students watching, the ones who'd clearly come not just for the argument, but for the spectacle of a Potter versus a Black.
"Some spells don't just do harm. They ask for it. They want it. And pretending you can teach those spells 'responsibly' is like giving a child a dragon and saying just don't provoke it. "
"During Grindelwald's rise, half the spells used to torture prisoners weren't even documented. Why? Because the people who cast them were former students. People who once studied 'harmless theory.'"
She looked back at the judges, then took a quick glance at her notes.
"I'm not saying we shouldn't know how to defend ourselves. We should. But that's why we have Defence Against the Dark Arts. That's why it's been taught for centuries. Because understanding how to fight darkness doesn't mean inviting it in."
She turned slightly toward Polaris now, speaking to him directly.
"Knowing the steps of a killing curse doesn't make you stronger. It makes you closer to something we're meant to stand against."
She stepped back again, chin lifted.
Polaris's shoes made no sound as he returned closer to his podium.
For a second, he didn't speak. He tapped the edge of the podium with one finger — once — then folded his hands again, staring at her.
"The issue with that," he began, voice steadier than before, "is that it assumes students are stupid ."
A flicker of reaction stirred through the crowd. Polaris didn't acknowledge it.
"If the argument is that we can't be trusted — that we're too young to learn anything without misusing it — then why are we learning magic at all? We're taught how to cast jinxes. We're taught how to fly — fast, dangerous, sometimes deadly. But we trust students to learn those things because we believe the knowledge will guide them, not corrupt them."
He looked to the High Council briefly. "It's not the magic. It's the motive."
Aurelia took a step forward. "It is the magic, actually."
Her voice stayed low, but every word was pointed. It wasn't her turn, but Polaris didn't call her out. He let her take it.
"There's a reason certain spells are classified as Dark. Not just because of what they do — but how they work . They draw on intent. Emotion. Willingness to harm. That's not about trust — that's about how magic responds to the caster."
She turned back to the judges briefly.
"It's not just a matter of teaching. It's a matter of exposure. You don't teach first-years how to brew Polyjuice — not because they aren't clever enough, but because there's a risk that outweighs the reward."
Then she finally turned back to Polaris.
"Not all knowledge makes us stronger. Some just makes it easier to do harm."
Polaris took that as his cue, then responded.
"And some knowledge saves lives."
He nodded once, not at her, but at the logic she used.
"I read the case of the Haversham Hex," he said. "1891. A village under siege by a curse that couldn't be broken — not by the Ministry, not by St Mungo's, not even by curse-breakers from Egypt. It was a student from Durmstrang — who'd studied the structure of Dark curses — that recognised the framework and dismantled it."
He looked toward the council.
"It took someone who understood the language of the Dark Arts to undo them. Because that's what they are. A language. If we don't teach students how to read that language, we're not protecting them. We're making them illiterate in a war they might not get to opt out of."
Aurelia's brow furrowed, her voice tightening with it.
"Durmstrang also teaches blood magic and magical torture," she countered. "Is that next?"
A few students in the crowd murmured at that, even as she continued.
"Teaching those spells doesn't make you immune to them. It makes them easier to excuse. Easier to reach for. We keep talking about 'understanding' the Dark Arts like they're some ancient riddle—but what about understanding the people they hurt ?"
She looked only at him now. Her amber-hazel eyes locked with his grey ones, unblinking.
"You think curiosity makes it safe? It doesn't. You think you're stronger for learning it? I think it just means you've never seen what it does up close."
Polaris drew in a breath, as if trying to make sense of her logic before answering.
"I never said it was safe," he replied calmly. "I said it was necessary. "
Then, he added:
"And I think fear makes people forget the difference."
"I —" before Aurelia could retaliate, he didn't let her, he spoke over her rude interruption. He allowed it once; he wasn't letting it to happen again.
"You talk about what the Dark Arts do to people," he said. " So, let's talk about that."
He turned slightly toward the judges — not to appeal, but to give weight to what came next.
"There's a case — the Greaves Inquiry, 1947. A string of disappearances in northern Scotland. Ten victims. The Ministry had no leads until one of the examiners noticed a pattern in the magical residue — fragments of a hex no one could quite place. They brought in a curse theorist, someone who'd studied Dark frameworks — not to use the spells, but to identify them."
His voice stayed even, but his grip on the podium had shifted — more grounded now, less defensive.
"That theorist didn't just name the curse. She linked it to a variation last seen in Eastern Europe during Grindelwald's rise. That knowledge didn't make her dangerous. It made her useful. She helped stop a serial killer."
Polaris's eyes swept briefly across the chamber — not to the crowd, but to the students sitting silently on the steps, to the first-years pressed against the walls, listening.
"That's what I'm arguing for," he said. "Not permission to cast Dark spells. Not a free-for-all in classrooms. But structured, ethical education that teaches us how this magic works — so that if we do face it, we're not helpless. So that the only people who understand it aren't the ones using it."
He paused, jaw tightening for half a second, not out of pride — but clarity.
"You said some knowledge makes it easier to do harm," he added, eyes flicking back to Aurelia. "Maybe. But not knowing anything? That makes it impossible to stop it."
Then came the murmurs — scattered at first, then growing in waves.
Some heads nodded, especially among the older students and a few of the more serious-looking judges. A Ravenclaw seventh-year near the back muttered, "He's not wrong," and another voice answered, quieter, "Still sounds too close to a defence for it, if you ask me."
A group of Hufflepuff prefects exchanged wary glances. "He's got a point," one whispered, "but it still feels— I don't know. Wrong."
"But he's not advocating using it," came a voice from the Gryffindor side. "He said ethical study—"
"He said Dark Arts ," someone else snapped. "There's no ethical version of that."
Cassandra Rowley tapped her wand twice against the bench. It made a crisp, echoing sound that snapped across the room like a firecracker.
" Order ," she said, loudly.
Aurelia blinked once, drawing in a breath like she'd forgotten to for a second. Polaris's gaze slid back toward the judges' bench. He didn't flinch. But he didn't look back at her, either.
Cassandra gave them both a long look — not unkind, but expectant. Then:
"We will now proceed to rebuttals. Mr. Black, you may begin."
Polaris nodded as he continued. Aurelia furrowed her brows as she glanced at Cassandra wondering why she wasn't the one to start the rebuttals.
"My opponent says that fear should be a reason to limit education. I say fear is why education matters."
He glanced at her — a flicker — then back to the crowd.
"She used an analogy about dragons . I'll use a different one. You don't throw a student into a duel and tell them not to panic — you teach them how to defend themselves, hex for hex, shield for shield. Because knowledge removes panic. It replaces fear with choice."
Then, toward the council again:
"She says some magic wants to harm. I think magic reflects the caster. The same way a knife can carve a sculpture or a body — it's not the knife that chooses."
He paused. "And yes. There are lines. Of course there are. But how can anyone know where those lines are if we never show them the map?"
He stepped back.
Cassandra nodded once. "Miss Potter?"
Aurelia's rebuttal came fast — like she'd been sharpening it the whole time he spoke.
"I don't think fear is the reason we limit education. I think wisdom is."
She turned to the room, trying to convey her opinion.
"We don't teach first-years how to apparate nor do we give them Love Potions and say 'use responsibly.' There's a reason why some knowledge is advanced. Because it's meant for people who understand the cost. "
Her gaze was back on Polaris.
"And if you really believe all magic reflects the caster, then you should be more careful about which spells you admire."
Then Polaris answered immediately at her audacity.
"I admire control ," he said. "Not cruelty."
His voice didn't rise, but there was something heated in it. Clearly defensive.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
"Was that about him—?"
"Sounds like she meant—"
"I told you—"
Then—
Crack.
Cassandra Rowley tapped her wand sharply against the bench.
"I will remind you all," she said, voice ringing out like a spell itself, "this is a formal debate, not a corridor argument. You are guests in this chamber. Act accordingly."
Cassandra's gaze swept the room once more, then settled — not unkindly — on the two students at the podiums.
"You may proceed."
Aurelia didn't wait for the silence to settle fully. She continued her chin lifted as if she had already won the Silver Stag pin for the term.
"You keep calling it control," she said, looking straight at Polaris now. "But control isn't neutral. Especially when it's over other people. That's how it starts. That's how it always starts. With the idea that if you just understand enough—if you're careful enough—it won't change you. "
She let that hang for a breath, then continued, quieter:
"But that's the lie. It always changes you."
Polaris was practically glaring at her at this point.
"And you think ignorance keeps you clean?" he asked, low. "I think not knowing the edges of a thing doesn't make you safer. It just makes it easier to fall over them without realising."
He wasn't angry, per se, but he was definitely annoyed.
"I'm not asking anyone to use those spells," he said. "I'm asking them to understand them. To know what they're choosing not to become — which is what I've been saying, if you were actually listening, you'd know."
Aurelia gave a tight, brittle laugh, the kind that didn't touch her eyes. "Merlin forbid anyone mistake you for humble, Black. Of course you'd assume disagreement means deafness. Or perhaps you just enjoy the sound of your own—"
"Time," Cassandra said, firmly, tapping her wand once more. The sound was duller this time, but final. Her gaze didn't shift from Aurelia.
Polaris blinked — then smiled, clearly amused at her reaction. His lips twitched like he was trying not to laugh, and the effort only seemed to make it worse. Aurelia's expression soured immediately, cheeks flushing with restrained fury.
"That concludes rebuttals," Cassandra continued, her voice level. "We will now proceed to the open questioning period. You may begin with questions for each other."
Silence.
Polaris didn't move to speak. Neither did Aurelia.
Cassandra waited a moment. Then another. Her lips pressed together, but she didn't look surprised.
"No questions?" she confirmed, just slightly arching an eyebrow.
Neither of them spoke.
She gave a slight sigh — not annoyed, but brisk. "Very well. We'll move to audience participation. Questions will be permitted from the floor, directed at either participant. They must be concise and relevant — no speeches, no provocations. Anyone who violates that will be dismissed from the chamber. The High Council reserves the right to interject or redirect at any time."
She tapped her wand once more, softer this time. "We will now take a short recess — five minutes — after which questioning will begin."
A few students sat up straighter. Others glanced between one another — as if weighing what could be said aloud, and what couldn't.
Up in the stands, Sirius slouched low in his seat, legs stretched out, expression unreadable. He eyes were focused on his youngest brother — until it flicked toward Regulus, seated a few rows down opposite him, deep in conversation with a few smug-faced Slytherins.
Sirius let out a low breath. "Merlin," he muttered, almost to himself. "He's actually… good at this."
Beside him, James Potter gave a crooked grin. "Yeah." He said, his voice low with something close to pride. "So is Rell."
Sirius didn't argue. His gaze flicked from Polaris to Aurelia, and back again. "Yeah," he said eventually. "It's just—he sounds so sure."
James tilted his head. "He is sure. That's what makes it work."
Sirius didn't answer right away, eventually he did. "Still feels strange. Hearing it out loud like that. From him."
Remus, seated on Sirius's other side, spoke for the first time in a while. He looked pale under the lights, dark circles shadowing his eyes, the wrapper of a chocolate bar folded neatly in one hand — finished, but recently.
"It was an interesting debate," he said. "And he argued it well. I just hope no one holds it against him."
Sirius glanced at him. "Why would they?"
Remus's brow furrowed faintly. "Because of the side he argued. Because of his name."
James frowned slightly, but nodded — just once, in agreement.
Remus went on, still calm. "Someone had to take that side. It doesn't mean he believes everything about it. It means he was willing to stand in that space, make the argument, and try to do it right. That shouldn't be condemned."
Sirius didn't respond right away. He stared down at the floor of the chamber again, at Polaris.
That thought — that his brother might be judged not for what he said, but for who he was — hadn't crossed his mind.
James let out a slow breath and leaned back in his seat. "D'you remember when we joked they'd end up friends? Another Potter and Black pair." he said quietly.
Sirius gave a small, humourless smile. "Yeah. We thought it was funny."
Then Peter, who had been unusually quiet, gave a short laugh — just a little too forced to sound casual.
"Right. Because nothing's more iconic than a Potter and a Black," he said, attempting levity. "Bit hard for the rest of us to compete with that."
James glanced at him, eyebrows lifting — not quite sure if it was a joke or not.
Remus turned toward Peter slightly, brow creasing — not in judgment, just confusion.
A Hufflepuff girl in yellow stood first, one hand lifted halfway.
Cassandra nodded.
The girl turned slightly toward Polaris, polite but wary. "My question is for Mr. Black. Do you think there should be any limits at all? On what we're allowed to study?"
Polaris straightened slightly. "Yes," he said, careful. "But limits should be based on understanding consequences, not avoiding them."
The girl nodded, slowly, but her eyes narrowed just a little.
Another hand rose — a Ravenclaw this time. Older, Polaris had seen him a few times in the common room, a third year if he was correct.
"For Mr. Black. Do you think learning the Dark Arts makes you more powerful?"
Polaris hesitated — only for a second — before answering.
"I think knowledge makes you powerful," he said. "The more you know, the more you understand what to resist. What to prepare for."
"But not use?" the Ravenclaw pressed.
Polaris nearly rolled his eyes.
"No," he drawled. "Not use ."
A third hand shot up before Cassandra could even nod. This time, a Gryffindor.
"Then would you say the alleged Dark Lord is just… misunderstood? Uh, for Mr Black."
A ripple went through the crowd. Polaris blinked. Just once. He wasn't too sure if the question was allowed but no one form the High Council interjected.
Cassandra's brow twitched — a flicker of warning, but she didn't call the student down.
"I wouldn't say that," Polaris said coolly.
"But you'd say he's powerful." The Gryffindor added, unnecessarily.
Another wave of shifting on benches. Mutters beneath breath.
Cassandra's eyes narrowed slightly. "Limit your question to the argument, Mr Dingle."
But the damage was already done.
A Gryffindor girl stood next, staring at Polaris. "Do you even care about what he's doing? To Muggle-borns?"
The audacity of the question.
Caelan straightened at the bench; his brows scrunched in confusion at the idea of them thinking that was actually an appropriate question. "That's—"
Polaris spoke over him, he stared at the Gryffindor girl who'd asked it, in genuine disbelief at the question.
"Well, I wasn't planning to send him a thank-you card."
A few scattered laughs — uneasy, unsure if it was sarcasm or something worse.
Though Polaris wasn't smiling if anything he was glaring at the Gryffindor as he continued.
"I just don't think outrage is a strategy."
A pause — too short to seem uncertain, too long to feel kind.
"Is that a satisfactory answer, or would you like me to cry about it too?" He knew it was too testy, but something bitter had slipped through before he could catch it.
In the middle row, Sirius let out a sharp breath — the kind that might've been a cough, if not for the way his shoulders shook.
James elbowed him, barely holding it together himself. "Merlin," he muttered under his breath, grinning. "He's worse than you."
Before the mummers could get too loud, Cassandra interrupted, looking to the benches again.
"One final question," she said. " Directed to Miss Potter."
A Second-year Hufflepuff raised her hand. "If someone had to learn the Dark Arts, would you trust them more if it were taught in school, or outside of it?"
Aurelia took a slow breath before answering.
"I'd trust them more if they chose not to," she said. "But if it had to happen… I'd trust someone who questioned themselves the whole way through. Not someone who admired the spells."
Her eyes didn't move — but the implication sat between them anyway.
Cassandra tapped her wand once more.
"That concludes the questioning period. You may now prepare your closing statements."
Students leaned toward each other in whispers. A few began scribbling in notebooks, already predicting how the points would be judged.
Near the back, someone muttered, "He sounded like he meant it."
"Told you," another answered. "He's just another Black."
Polaris frowned.
He could hear them — not the words exactly, but the tone , the weight of it.
His heart was beating faster than it should've been. Not from nerves. Not quite.
On the middle row, Sirius stood.
For a second, Polaris thought he might be shifting, stretching his legs. But then Sirius stepped fully out of his row, eyes fixed on the floor and slipped quietly from the chamber without looking back.
Polaris didn't watch him go. He looked away too quickly — as if not seeing it would make it matter less.
He stared ahead, forcing his fingers not to fidget.
Aurelia had already begun her closing — her voice steady, thoughtful, impassioned — but he didn't hear her. Not really.
He was too distracted, his thoughts too loud.
His thoughts were too loud.
Why had Sirius left?
Had he said something wrong? Or… no. Maybe it wasn't even about him. Maybe it was. Maybe—
His headache flared. It always got worse when he let himself drift like this. It was easier to ignore usually.
But right now, everything felt loud .
He tried to focus on Aurelia's words, but he couldn't. He needed to concentrate — to push the headache aside — but his breathing was shallow, and everything felt distant.
Someone tapped him.
It was one of the judges. It was Sabine, she nodded towards his podium.
And suddenly, Polaris was completely aware of the attention.
Every eye on him.
His throat felt dry. He opened his mouth — and for a second, no sound came.
It wasn't stage fright. It wasn't shame.
It was something different.
A fault line, barely visible, running straight through him.
And something inside had started to crack.
His fingers curled against the podium.
He inhaled — slow, shallow — as if anchoring himself to the act of breathing.
Then, with a faint nod, he began to speak.
Sirius waited until the door had closed behind him before glancing back. He let out a breath.
He actually wanted to hear the whole thing. He thought Polaris was brilliant, even if he wouldn't say it. But he figured Polaris didn't care whether he stayed or left.
It was just a debate, right?
Besides, Sirius had requested extra tutoring, and McGonagall had only one available slot — right during the debate.