[11,255 Words]
Polaris sat at the Ravenclaw table for the first time in weeks. He was used to sitting with the Slytherins.
The Hall buzzed around him—heat, sound, and flickers of movement bleeding into one another, too fast to follow. Laughter rolled in waves from the Hufflepuff end, where someone had enchanted their pumpkin pasties to float like golden balloons.
At the far end of that table, Callum Doyle leaned in toward his friends, voice pitched just loud enough to be heard over the general noise. "Look who's finally decided to slum it with the Ravenclaws again," he muttered, jerking his chin towards Polaris. "Bet he's only there 'cause the Slytherins ran out of compliments."
One of the Hufflepuff girls snorted as they glanced over at the Ravenclaw table. "He's not even eating."
Doyle smirked. "Probably thinks he's too important for roast potatoes now. Or maybe he feeds on homework praise. Jaysus, you know Professor Sinistra called him 'exceptional' last week? Exceptional," he repeated, mock-gagging.
Only a little further down the bench, Nia's fork clinked a little harder than necessary against her plate. Her eyes flicked to Doyle's group. She'd seen the way one of them had pointed right at Polaris, laughing.
"Just because he's good in classes, doesn't mean he thinks he's better than everyone" she said sharply, twisting in her seat to face them.
Doyle raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised someone had called him out. "He doesn't even talk to anyone unless it's in long words," he said. "He made me look like an idiot in Charms—"
"You probably made yourself look like an idiot," muttered a stocky third-year Hufflepuff sitting between them with a friend. He didn't even glance up from his treacle tart. "Give it a rest, Doyle."
Doyle flushed but didn't argue. One of his friends let out a weak laugh, but it faded quickly.
Gryffindors were louder still, hurling sugar quills like javelins between bites of roast chicken. Even the Slytherin table had its share of gleaming smiles and half-hidden smirks.
And for some unfathomable reason, several Muggle-borns were in full costume — paper crowns and plastic fangs and one girl dressed as a broomstick. No one had explained why.
At the far end of the Slytherin table, two older pure-bloods leaned in, clearly in agreement.
"Honestly, dressing up like that here? It's disrespectful."
"They don't even know what half our traditions mean," one muttered. "After the Samhain altars—have they no sense of respect?"
The other scoffed. "They were giggling near the water shrine earlier. Heard Rosier mentioning how one of them said 'Happy Halloween' to the fire altar. Honestly. Do they even know what the veil means ?"
Their voices weren't loud, but they weren't whispering either. The scorn was deliberate, their annoyance clear.
"Tradition means nothing to people with no roots."
Polaris sat with his elbows on the table, hands over his face, fingers digging lightly into his temples. His head throbbed with that same stretched, echoing ache that had followed him since leaving the Ravenclaw Tower. The noise didn't help. Nor did the candles swinging just slightly overhead, or the chatter that dissolved into overlapping static. The world felt three seconds ahead of him, like he was catching up in pieces.
His mind was struggling.
He just wanted to be enough .
From birth, he'd been taught that stillness was strength. That calm was control. That feeling too much was dangerous. The noise in his head — the whispers, the symbols, the way his wand knew things before he did — none of that felt like magic. It felt like something slipping through his fingers. Like a fracture widening inside his ribs.
He'd told himself he was fine. Told others too. Even if his hands were shaking under the table.
Across the Hall, Sirius wasn't listening to a word Peter was saying. Peter had been talking for minutes — something about Honeydukes, or a prank, or maybe Flobberworms — but from anyone else's perspective, it looked like he was talking to a stone wall.
Because Sirius's eyes kept darting past the Hufflepuff table. Past the floating jack-o'-lanterns. Past a particularly obnoxious third-year waving sparklers out of her hat.
To the Ravenclaw table.
To his brother, Polaris.
Sirius sat straight, tense. His hand drummed lightly on the edge of his plate as if it might anchor him. Because that morning he'd spoken to Polaris, it hadn't gone well. At all. The conversation clung to his shoulders heavily, and he couldn't shake the feeling that his brother hated him now.
He couldn't blame him. But he also couldn't stop watching.
"Mate," James muttered, dragging his attention back. "Did you hear what I said?"
Sirius' brows furrowed. "What?"
James exhaled, pushing mashed pumpkin around his plate. "Never mind. Was just wondering how many Chocolate Frogs it takes to buy forgiveness. From, you know. A sister."
Peter looked up, blinking a little too innocently. "On a scale of one to hexed eyebrows, how annoyed is she exactly?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Remus dryly, not bothering to glance up from his goblet. "Only enough to hex his broom to spin every time he goes near it."
James groaned. " That was her?"
"Gee, I wonder why she's mad," Remus added with exaggerated thoughtfulness.
James scowled. "Alright, alright, I get it."
"No, I don't think you do," Remus said, setting down his goblet and turning to face him properly. "Because instead of just apologising like a normal person, you're now scheming up another ridiculous plan to win her over with sweets and sentimental nonsense—"
James opened his mouth.
"—which will definitely backfire," Remus added before he could speak, "and somehow make her more furious. Which I didn't think was possible, until this morning."
Peter looked between them, a bit too interested. "So... no to the musical apology owl?"
" Absolutely no to the musical apology owl," Remus said flatly.
James grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "killjoy" and stabbed a roast potato.
Sirius hadn't said a word, but his fingers were still drumming.
Remus turned his eyes on him next. "Same goes for you, by the way Padfoot."
Sirius stilled.
"You've been staring at him all night like you're waiting to be struck by lightning," Remus said, not unkindly. "Just talk to him. Not as someone pretending to be one of his friends. Just you."
"That went so well this morning," Sirius muttered.
"Yeah, well. That wasn't talking. That was you deflecting, then sulking when he didn't take the bait."
Peter winced. "Bit harsh."
"Bit true," Remus replied. He looked at Sirius, more gently now. "You already messed up. You can't Polyjuice your way into fixing it."
There was a pause. Sirius's fingers stopped drumming.
James looked down at his plate. "...So what can I do?"
"Try honesty," Remus said. "You've both tried everything else apparently."
"I just need to give him time," Sirius muttered as he pushed his plate away, appetite gone. "That's all."
Remus twisted his mouth, visibly baffled. He didn't say anything — just looked at Sirius like he wanted to, then shook his head slightly and went back to his drink. He was friends with idiots.
Before James could offer another half-formed plan or Peter could ask what "honesty" actually entailed, the candles above them dimmed. The jack-o'-lanterns flickered low, their carved faces casting strange shadows across the enchanted ceiling.
At the centre of the staff table, Professor Dumbledore rose. His expression was not unkind — but it was grave in a way that silenced the last of the chatter like a charm.
His voice, when it came, was calm. Unassuming. But it carried.
"Tonight, as the veil thins, we gather not only to honour the past, but to listen to it."
Across the Hall, heads turned.
"There are names we speak aloud in remembrance. And there are names we carry in silence — not because they are forgotten, but because they were taken too soon."
"This year, we have lost more than we expected."
A few glances flickered between students. Some sat straighter. Others looked away.
"Some of those losses were distant. Some were closer than we care to admit. And while I will not speak of speculation, I will say this: when harm is done in the name of fear, it is not tradition. It is not strength. It is not justice."
He paused — only briefly.
"It is cowardice."
At the Slytherin table, a few students stiffened.
"There are those who believe that silence is safety. That if we do not name a thing, it cannot touch us. That if we do not speak of cruelty, it will pass us by."
"But silence is not safety. It is only the absence of sound."
Professor McGonagall's expression was unreadable, but her eyes were sharp. She didn't look at Dumbledore. She looked at the back of the room — at the portraits. At the walls. At the places power listens from. Her mouth tightened slightly.
"You are young. But you are not without power. Every choice you make — every word you speak, every hand you extend or withhold — shapes the world you will inherit."
Professor Merrow's face was stone. He did not clap. He did not blink. He did not look surprised.
"So tonight, as you place your offerings, I ask you to remember not only those you have loved — but those who were not given the chance to be loved."
"Remember the ones who were not protected. The ones who were not believed. The ones whose names are not written in family trees, but who walked these halls all the same."
Dumbledore's gaze passed lightly across the Hall — but when it reached the Ravenclaw table, it lingered for a second too long. Right where Polaris sat, head bowed, hands still pressed to his face.
"And ask yourself: what kind of magic do you want to leave behind?"
"May your spirits walk gently."
The Hall remained still for a breath longer than it should have. No applause. Just the whisper of flames.
Professor Slughorn cleared his throat. Not loudly — not enough to draw attention — but enough to feel like a return to the ordinary. His hand twitched toward his goblet, then stopped. He sat with his back slightly straighter than usual; face composed in a polite sort of neutrality. But his eyes — darting, unsettled — flicked first to Dumbledore, then to the Slytherin table.
Professor Merrow leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed on Dumbledore with a look that said: I see what you did.
But Dumbledore only sat again, folding his hands with mild solemnity, eyes twinkling just enough to cast doubt over whether he'd said anything controversial at all.
Then, tentatively, someone clapped — a Ravenclaw girl near the front, unsurely.
A few others joined in. The applause spread, uneven and uncertain, like a charm losing momentum before finally catching.
At the Hufflepuff table, two second-years leaned toward one another, baffled.
"Didn't he already do a speech at the start?" one whispered.
"Maybe he forgot?" the other offered, genuinely puzzled.
Further down the hall, older students knew better. They had heard the tremor beneath Dumbledore's words — the way he had chosen them like spells. And how, when his gaze passed over the Slytherin table, it hadn't lingered — but it had meant something.
And at that table, they noticed.
Regulus sat flanked by his closest friends, unmoving, untouched plate before him. His posture was perfect — upright, composed — but there was a deliberateness to it. Like someone performing the idea of calm.
Opposite him, Evan gave a quiet, derisive chuckle. "Subtle, wasn't he?" he said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin he hadn't used.
"Barely," Barty muttered beside Evan. His fingers toyed with the stem of his goblet; eyes still fixed on the space Dumbledore had just vacated. "He might as well have spelled our House name into the pumpkin fog."
"Mm," Evan mused. "Do you think he practises that tone in the mirror? The whole I'm not pointing fingers but you all know exactly who I mean thing?"
"It's his favourite spell," Barty said, low and bitter.
Regulus didn't speak at first. His fingers traced the curve of his spoon, slow and idle, but his gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the floating jack-o'-lanterns. Finally, with a quiet edge, he said, "He's always used that tone. That's how he controls the school — not through rules, but morality theatre. "
Evan gave a soft laugh, genuinely amused. "You know, Regulus — technically your brother's still the heir, but you wear the crown better."
Regulus's spoon paused mid-stir. A breath passed — not quite a sigh, but close. "Someone has to wear it, if he refuses to."
Barty snorted but didn't interrupt.
A few seats down, Avner Avery — surrounded by a loose cluster of older Slytherins — had been following their conversation with interest. He hadn't looked up from neatly carving his roast pheasant, though the fingers of his left hand flexed once, sharp and brief, as if cramping. Then, with casual arrogance, he raised his voice just enough to be heard across the divide.
"Bit dramatic for a dinner speech, don't you think?" he drawled. "That whole 'veil thinning' business. Would've gone better at a funeral."
The trio didn't immediately respond. Evan arched a brow, amused. Barty's smirk tightened. It wasn't an interruption they resented — not exactly. The Avery heir was older, and cruel in a way they understood. There wasn't friendship between them, but there was recognition. Mutual respect, perhaps, or at least tolerance bred from shared bloodlines.
"Dramatics' his whole thing," Evan said lightly, glancing over without warmth. "And since when are you bothered by theatrics, Avery?"
Avery grinned, unfazed. "Oh, I'm not. I just think it's funny how he stares down our table like he's expecting ghosts to rise from the carpet and confess their sins."
"He wants us to squirm," Barty said, not looking at him. "He always does."
Avery's eyes flicked lazily to Regulus. "And you, Black? What's the family line on tonight's sermon?"
Regulus didn't blink. "The family line doesn't applaud speeches designed to guilt us into forgetting who we are."
That earned a snort of approval from The Avery heir, who turned back to his conversation without another word.
Evan leaned in slightly, voice lower now. "You really believe that?" he asked Regulus. Not mocking — just curious.
Regulus took a slow sip of his drink before answering.
"I believe Dumbledore has never once said what he means," he said. "And people keep acting like that's wisdom instead of cowardice."
Beside him, Severus shifted but didn't speak. He hadn't said a word since the speech, though he sat close enough to catch every thread of it. His eyes flicked briefly to Regulus — lingered just long enough to betray a flicker of curiosity — then back to his plate.
Evan tilted his head, voice dripping with mock-casual. "You're quiet, Snape."
Regulus looked sideways too, just enough to signal this wasn't a throwaway question.
Severus' fingers tightened slightly on his fork. Then he said, barely audible, "Some people trade grief like Galleons and call it virtue."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Evan barked a laugh — sharp, sudden, genuinely entertained. " Merlin's arse, " he wheezed, slapping the table. "And here I thought you were just collecting dust over there, Snape."
Barty snorted but didn't look away from his goblet.
Severus dragged his fork through the pasta, slowly, not acknowledging the reaction, but his mouth twitched.
Evan leaned lazily towards Regulus, still grinning. "You really do collect the strangest strays," he said, as though Severus weren't sitting like two feet away. "Is he yours now? Like a grim little project?"
Regulus didn't rise to the bait. He barely even blinked.
"I prefer friends who can form complete sentences," he said coolly, and picked up his goblet.
Evan placed a hand over his heart in mock-affront. "Ouch. That's practically affection, coming from you."
Barty didn't miss a beat. "Give it a year, he'll be knitting Snape a scarf with 'Property of the House of Black' stitched in blood."
That broke the Rosier heir. He lost it completely, doubling over with laughter and nearly smacking Barty off the bench. "Oh— Sweet Morgana —imagine him in a little silver collar—"
Even Regulus faltered, a breath escaping on a sound that was almost a laugh. He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, but the grin was already there, tugging at the corner of his lips despite himself.
Severus barely reacted. Just slowly set down his fork.
"I'd rather be collared by wolves than followed around by barking lapdogs," he said flatly.
That only set Evan off again, practically folding over the bench.
The laughter imploded. Barty actually hit Evan, wheezing like he'd been cursed. Evan was gasping for air, curled sideways in his seat, one hand over his ribs.
Regulus covered his face with his hand, shoulders shaking in silent betrayal.
Even the nearby Slytherins had turned to look now — not to join, but to watch the chaos with raised brows and the grudging amusement.
At the Ravenclaw table, Polaris' hands hadn't left from his face, fingertips curling into his hair. Eyes covered. Breathing steady. Count the inhales. Ignore the tremor in your limbs. Don't draw attention.
His plate was barely touched — just a few uneasy bites — and even those sat heavy in his stomach, curdling like something already spoiled.
The nausea had crept in slowly, as it always did at times... when he was sensitive to magic as the professionals liked to say.
"Polaris?" Senna's voice was low — just enough to be heard between the chatter. Worried, not dramatic. "Are you—?"
She didn't finish. She didn't have to. His untouched plate had already said enough. So had the fact that he hadn't spoken once since the Hall dimmed.
He didn't answer.
Senna's mouth tugged uncertainly to the side. She glanced toward Sylvan, who was watching Polaris with a furrow between his brows — not sharp, just concerned in that cautious, careful way he always was when something didn't make sense.
Sylvan didn't say anything either. Just reached without comment and nudged Polaris's goblet an inch closer across the table.
"Maybe a drink," he murmured. "Black Rose Brew helps when you're sick, doesn't it?"
Polaris didn't move. But his fingers tensed — enough to show he'd heard.
Neither of them pushed. Senna bit her lip and turned back to her plate, unsettled.
A beat later, the girl beside her leaned in, voice pitched low and curious.
"Is he alright?" she asked, eyes flicking toward Polaris with a mix of concern and nosiness. "He looks pale."
Polaris recognised the voice, he didn't need to look — soft, a little singsong. Thalia Vane. Senna was almost always with her lately. Ash-blonde hair usually tucked behind one ear, dark blue eyes too sharp to be as gentle as her voice. He'd grown used to hearing them whispering in corners or laughing by the window.
Senna hesitated; fork paused halfway to her mouth. Then she shrugged.
"He gets like this sometimes," she said quietly. "I think he's fine."
The girl frowned, glancing again at Polaris's hunched posture and covered face. "Should he go to the Hospital Wing?"
Senna shook her head, still watching him. "If it was that bad, he wouldn't be sitting here."
The girl didn't seem convinced, but she didn't press. She went back to her meal, and Senna sat quietly beside her, chewing without tasting — still watching Polaris out of the corner of her eye.
Then, after a moment, Thalia spoke again. "So… you were telling me what Elora said this morning? Before breakfast?"
Senna blinked, pulled halfway out of her thoughts. "Oh — right. Just that she thought I was trying to replace her or something." She rolled her eyes, stabbing a bit of squash. They'd been nearly inseparable before the Sorting — but Elora had ended up in Slytherin, and Senna in Ravenclaw. Since then, things had shifted in quiet, uncomfortable ways.
The girl raised her brows. "Seriously?"
Senna nodded. "Like, I'm not even doing anything. She barely even talks to me anymore — and when she does, it's like I'm supposed to apologise for existing It's not even that I care — it's just… she used to tell me everything."
The girl frowned. "But hasn't she been spending all her time with... what's her name?"
"Eliza." Senna said flatly. "Well, Eliza Burke," Senna clarified, with a small sigh.
"Ohhh. Her. "
Senna rolled her eyes and stabbed a carrot. "Yeah. That Eliza. They're practically joined at the wand these days, but somehow, I'm the one being disloyal."
The girl made a face. "That's rich."
"Right?" Senna huffed, then lowered her voice. "And honestly, if she likes Eliza so much, fine. But don't make me feel guilty for something she chose first."
She trailed off, the words hanging in the air for a moment.
Meanwhile, at the Slytherin table—
Avery, mid-sentence, paused. He shifted in his seat, frowning faintly, and rubbed at his left forearm under the table — casual, like a stretch, but his fingers dug harder than necessary.
"Something bite you?" Mulciber joked from beside him.
Avery smirked or tried to. "Old injury," he said smoothly, though he frowned when no one was looking. He flexed his fingers beneath the tablecloth. The Mark didn't hurt, not exactly. But it felt agitated — irritated. Like it was reacting to something it couldn't name.
— ❈ —
Polaris had slipped from the Great Hall unnoticed by most, save for a few Ravenclaws who exchanged uncertain glances and said nothing. Senna had leaned toward him, whispering if he was alright. Sylvan, more subtly, had asked if he wanted company. Polaris had only shaken his head, murmured, "It's fine," and stood. No one stopped him after that. No one needed to. He walked with the same unassuming stillness that always made people look past him, even when he was unravelling.
Now, he sat on the stool beside Madam Pomfrey's worktable, spine straight, feet hooked loosely around the legs as if anchoring himself there. One hand lifted briefly to his hair, fingers raking through it — not to fix it, really, but for something to do.
Madam Pomfrey clucked her tongue softly as she worked, grinding a handful of dried peppermint leaves.
"You've eaten today?" she asked without looking up.
Polaris hesitated only for a moment.
"…Treacle tart," he said after a beat. "Earlier."
She gave him a look — not angry, just unimpressed in that quietly professional way that made even the most defiant seventh-years sit straighter.
"That's not a meal , Mr. Black."
He didn't argue. Just glanced away, eyes trailing across the tidy rows of neatly labelled vials on the shelf.
Pomfrey added crushed ginger root to the mix, muttering under her breath as she tilted the bowl and stirred in a swirl of silvery syrup.
"You've been feeling it again? The sensitivity?"
Polaris gave a slight nod. "Yeah."
"Hmph." She poured the mixture into a small copper pot and began to heat it with a simple wand flick. "All the enchantments layered in that room during a feast — it's no wonder. Sensitive magical systems pick up on things the rest of us don't. Yours is like a jittery Sneakoscope — always spinning, even when no one else notices."
She turned back to him and set the warming cup on the side table. "Sip that slowly."
He took it, careful with the heat. The scent rose first — sharp and minty but undercut with honey and something floral. It smelled strange.
"Are you sure you don't want to sleep here for the night?" She asked.
"I don't need to stay," he said after a moment. "I'm fine with the potion."
"Are you," she said dryly, watching him. "You haven't eaten properly, your hands are still shaking, and you look like you've been hexed by a sleep-boggart. But no — of course, you're fine."
His lips twitched, almost a smile. "I'd rather sleep in the Ravenclaw Tower."
Pomfrey muttered something that sounded suspiciously like typical Ravenclaw nonsense but didn't push the matter. Instead, she picked up a bundle of clean linens and began folding them with practised efficiency.
Polaris sipped the potion. It coated his throat, warm and tingling, easing the tightness in his chest inch by inch. His shoulders dropped a fraction.
He watched her for a while, silent. Then—
"Did you always want to do this?" he asked, voice quieter than before. "Be a healer, I mean."
Pomfrey paused mid-fold, surprised. She glanced back at him, then resumed her work.
"No," she said simply. "Not at first. I thought I wanted to be an Auror."
His eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face.
"What changed?"
She shrugged one shoulder. "Realised I didn't like hurting people. Even when they deserved it. And I was more useful putting bones back together than breaking them."
She placed the folded linens on the shelf, then turned back to him with a raised brow.
"What about you? Have you figured it out yet — what you want to be?"
Polaris looked down into the dregs of his potion. The warmth was still in his chest, but heavier now. Not uncomfortable — just thoughtful.
He swirled the cup slightly, watching the residue cling to the sides like melted silver.
"I suppose if I don't figure it out," he said, voice slow, "there's always professional Quidditch."
Pomfrey paused, her back to him as she stacked a set of bandage tins. "Is that so?"
He nodded, deadpan. "Not to be arrogant or anything, but I imagine I'd be the most valuable asset any team's ever had. A first-year prodigy they weren't allowed to recruit."
That earned him a soft snort. She turned, arms crossed loosely, brow arched. "And what position would our underage legend be playing?"
Polaris tilted his head, pretending to consider it seriously. "Doesn't matter, really. Seeker, Chaser, Keeper. I'd probably be brilliant at all three. Terribly inconvenient for the rulebook."
Pomfrey gave him a look that hovered somewhere between fond and exasperated. For a moment, her hands stilled on the linens. Then—
"Well, I hope you'll send me a signed broomstick when you're famous."
"I'll have them owl it straight to the infirmary," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Eventually he set the cup down on the table.
"Thank you," he said again, quieter this time.
Pomfrey gave a small nod, then narrowed her eyes at him in mock warning. "If you're not going back to the great hall, to bed with you. And tomorrow, try eating something that isn't ninety percent sugar."
"Yes, Madam Pomfrey."
He stood, steadier now, and made his way to the door. As he reached it, he paused — just for a second — then glanced back over his shoulder.
"If you change your mind about the broomstick," he said, "you'll have to write your own endorsement. The fame will probably go to my head."
Pomfrey waved him off with her rag in hand. "Out."
A crooked smile tugged at his mouth as he turned away, something dry and faintly amused glinting in his eyes. He didn't say anything else — just let the grin linger as he slipped through the door.
What he didn't expect was company.
Nate was standing just outside, back to the stone, kicking gently at a crack in the floor with the toe of his boot.
Nate looked up at the sound. Froze. Then straightened too fast like he'd just remembered what he was doing.
Polaris slowed, the amusement draining from his face.
"…Hi," Nate said.
Polaris stared at him, uncertain. "Hi."
"I—" Nate scratched the back of his neck, then dropped his hand. "I wasn't waiting. I mean. I kind of was. But not like… weird-waiting."
Polaris tilted his head, expression unreadable. "Okay."
A pause. Nate looked like he was trying to find words in midair, then finally landed on. "Happy Samhain."
That threw Polaris off more than anything else had. "You too," he said, after a beat, unsure if he sounded sincere or just surprised.
"I wanted to say sorry," Nate added quickly, like he was afraid Polaris might vanish before he could get the words out.
Polaris frowned. "Why?"
"For ignoring you. After… what happened and stuff? I didn't mean to, it just—got weird. And I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything."
"Oh." Polaris glanced down. There was a scuff on the toe of his shoe — faint, but obvious now that he'd seen it. He hadn't noticed it before. He quite liked these shoes.
For a brief second, he wondered if he ought to get them replaced. Then, catching himself, he shook the thought away.
"It's fine," he said.
"But it's not," Nate said.
Polaris didn't have a chance to answer.
"I mean—" Nate huffed, already talking too fast.
He pushed off the wall like it offended him, hands fluttering at his sides before he shoved them into his pockets and dragged them back out a second later. "I was trying to say something else, and now it's coming out all wrong, which—surprise—is a thing I do. Like a lot. I just— oh, for Circe's sake, okay."
He blew out a breath, barely paused.
"I didn't mean to be weird about everything. I was just trying to get my head around something, I guess, and I made it worse. And I didn't want you to think—" He broke off, grimaced, then kept going.
"I didn't want you to think I hated you. Or that I was only talking to you because Willow stopped talking to me or something, because that's not it. That's not it at all."
He was barely breathing now, the words tumbling like he couldn't stop even if he tried.
"She doesn't even look at me anymore. I tried, y'know? A few times. At the Gryffindor table. In the common room. Nothing. It's like I stopped existing, and I get it, I do, I just…" His voice faltered for a moment, then picked back up again before Polaris could speak.
"I don't even want to talk about her. That's in the past. I'm done with that. I am ."
He ran a hand through his hair; more fidget than fix.
"I just—I missed sitting beside you in class. And walking to breakfast. And being around you, which sounds—ugh—needy, doesn't it? Probably. But I don't care. I like being around you. You're… you. And I missed it. And I didn't know if you wanted me around anymore."
He finally stopped, breath catching like he'd run full speed into silence.
Polaris stared at him.
Not in shock, exactly — more like he'd been handed a puzzle in the middle of a storm and told to solve it before it blew away. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. Words hovered, scattered, none of them the right shape.
He didn't feel guilty. Not even a little. If anything, he was glad—relieved, even—that Nathaniel wasn't still tethered to her. Willow Smyth, with her loud certainty and narrow world, had always drawn lines Nathaniel didn't think to question. Maybe now, finally, he would.
"I…" He looked down, then back up, visibly flinching from the pressure of having to say something true . "That's—um."
He shifted his weight. Why was it suddenly hard to stand still?
"I didn't think you hated me," he said finally, voice thin, almost unsure of itself. "I just thought… you stopped."
He didn't explain what that meant. He wasn't sure he could.
"I don't mind sitting with you," he added stiffly, as if it were a concession instead of the closest thing to affection he knew how to give. "You're not… annoying."
Which, coming from Polaris, might as well have been a declaration of loyalty.
"I guess I just didn't think you'd still want to be friends." He said it like a fact, not a feeling. And then, quietly, before he could talk himself out of it: "But you were a capable friend. Before. So, I didn't mind."
His ears were pink.
There was a pause — brief, awkward — and then Polaris cleared his throat, barely meeting Nate's eyes.
"We should go back. The feast's probably still going."
For a second, there was nothing — then Nate let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh of relief. "Merlin, you're terrible at talking sometimes."
Polaris blinked, straightening. "I'm what ?"
"You are!" Nate grinned now, the whole thing spilling out of him again like he couldn't help it. "You say things like 'capable friend' like we're in some sort of job interview. It's weird."
"I'm not weird," Polaris said stiffly, bristling. "And I didn't say it like that."
"You did," Nate said, laughing. "Like exactly like that."
Polaris's jaw tensed. It wasn't the first time someone had called him that. Weird. Like there was something off about him he couldn't quite see but everyone else could. "You don't have to come with me," he muttered, already starting toward the stairs.
"Hey." Nate caught up in two strides, still grinning but gentler now. "I didn't mean it like that. I like that you're weird. It's a good weird. Better than everyone else trying to be the same."
Polaris didn't answer, but he slowed down just enough that they fell into step beside each other.
"Besides," Nate added, nudging his shoulder, "you totally missed dessert."
Polaris snorted, quiet and reluctant. "Tragic."
"You're lucky I saved you a treacle tart."
"You didn't."
"I could have ."
"You didn't."
"…No. I didn't."
And just like that, they were walking together — not the same as before, maybe, but closer than they had been in weeks. Felt like something starting over.
"…then we made a fort in the Gryffindor dorms. Actual sheets and everything. Piled up books, used my trunk, nearly knocked over Micah's desk." Nate was saying as they turned the corridor toward the main staircase.
Polaris wasn't really listening. He'd started to, at first — half-smiling at Nate's dramatic retelling, the way he talked with his hands like the story might lose balance without them. But then—
He saw her.
The Grey Lady drifted silently across the far end of the hall, pale and gliding, as though the air itself bent politely around her. Her face was turned forward, unreadable, eyes distant like she was already halfway to somewhere else.
Polaris stopped walking.
He thought, for a moment, about calling out. Asking her. He didn't even know what the question was yet — only that it had been building in the back of his throat since morning.
One part of him said go .
The other said don't .
His fingers twitched at his side. His mouth opened — then closed again.
He stayed where he was.
Just watched her pass — like watching a chance slip between fingers he hadn't quite curled. When she disappeared through the far wall, he exhaled slowly, jaw tight, and turned away.
Nate had gone a few steps ahead before realizing Polaris had stopped. "You alright?"
Polaris caught up. "Fine."
"Anyway," Nate continued, oblivious to the ghostly presence they'd just passed. "Micah said it was the best idea I've ever had, which is a lie, because the best idea I ever had was charming all the Gryffindor pillows to smell like cinnamon for a week—"
Polaris let the words wash over him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes as he walked on, a little straighter now.
The Grey Lady had passed.
And he'd let her go.
Some things could wait. For now, he was choosing the living.
November 10th, 1975, Monday
Professor Flitwick stood atop his usual teetering stack of spellbooks, wand raised like a conductor about to cue an orchestra.
"Today we'll be learning Spongify , the Softening Charm!" he announced, voice bright with enthusiasm. "This spell is used to make hard surfaces soft and bouncy—very useful for cushioning falls or creating safe landings."
He tapped a stone tile at the front of the room with a neat flick. Thwip. The tile gave a visible wobble and rippled like jelly, drawing a collective "Ooooh" from half the class.
"The incantation," he continued, "is Spon-ji-fye . With a light jab of the wand, like so. Focus not just on softening, but on the idea of bounce . Of give ."
Then he paused and added, almost as an afterthought, "And Ravenclaws—if you could stay behind for just a moment after class, I'd like a quick word before you go. Nothing dire, I promise."
Quills scratched immediately. Polaris glanced down at his notes, writing in his usual slanted script. Softening charm. Texture change. Focus: bounce. Simple enough.
To his right, Sylvan leaned in. "If this works on staircases, I might survive Astronomy tomorrow."
Polaris smirked faintly but didn't answer. He was too aware of Nia on his left—how she leaned past him to whisper something to her friend across the desk, how her sleeve brushed the side of his arm in the process.
"Bet it works on chairs," Nia murmured, grinning sideways at her friend. "We could turn all of them bouncy for History of Magic. Imagine Binns trying to float through that ."
The girl on her left—Amaya, with yellow ribbons woven into her braids—giggled. "You're unwell," she said fondly.
"Thank you, Banana Belle," Nia said brightly. "That means a lot coming from you."
Amaya rolled her eyes but didn't stop smiling.
Polaris didn't laugh. He wasn't even sure what was supposed to be funny—Professor Binns was a ghost; he'd float regardless. The charm wouldn't affect him. But Amaya was laughing again, and even a boy across the aisle cracked a grin.
As Flitwick demonstrated again, Polaris eye's drifted towards the edge of Nia's notebook, where a half-sketched creature sprawled across the margin—shaggy, horned, with too-big eyes and a crooked tail that curled into the corner. The lines were loose but confident, even if they looked like doodles.
She nudged it toward Amaya under the desk.
"Kneazle-y or too goat-ish?" she whispered.
Amaya squinted at it. "What even is that meant to be?"
"A Mooncalf crossed with an existential crisis."
Amaya stifled a laugh in her sleeve.
He glanced down at his parchment again, though he couldn't remember what he was trying to write. His quill hovered above the half-finished word texture , the ink beginning to pool.
The drawing had looked vaguely like a Mooncalf, though he wasn't sure what an existential crisis had to do with crooked tails or oversized eyes. He assumed it was meant to be funny.
He made a note in the margin of his parchment: Mooncalf = sad looking? Existential = ???
Then, as if embarrassed by it, he crossed it out.
Across the room, Agnes Pennyfeather raised her hand after adjusting her collar. "Professor, can it be used on people?"
Flitwick's eyebrows nearly vanished into his hairline. "Absolutely not! Spongify is meant for surfaces, not living tissue—far too unpredictable."
Idris Chang asked next, curious as ever. "Can it be reversed?"
"With a simple Finite , yes. Though you'll want to act quickly before your floor starts behaving like a trampoline in a hurricane."
And then, of course—
"I once fell from the rooftop of a castle," Gilderoy Lockhart began, drawing groans before he could finish. "Spongify saved me, naturally. Perfect landing. No broken bones."
"Bet it was a bush," Sylvan muttered under his breath.
"Or a very forgiving ego," Polaris said dryly, not glancing up from his parchment.
Sylvan snorted. Nia laughed—bright, unexpected.
She caught him looking a second too late and smiled again—this time at him .
Polaris turned sharply back to his notes, jaw stiff. Wrote texture: soft like jelly and underlined it three times.
Sylvan nudged him. "You alright?"
"Ça va," Polaris muttered, eyes fixed on his parchment.
There was a pause, then Sylvan let out a low, surprised chuckle. "What, are we being continental now?"
Polaris didn't answer. His quill scratched at the corner of the page, though he wasn't writing anything. It was an expensive thing — black-feathered Vanishing Point model, tip chased with silver, far too fine for a first-year. A previous Yule gift from Uncle Cygnus, who called him his favourite nephew. He didn't like Cygnus, not really. But Polaris was good at pretending. And the quill was still his favourite.
Sylvan leaned back, grinning as he stared at the ceiling idly. "You're so odd."
Nia glanced over, curious. "What did he say?"
Sylvan glanced over Polaris and translated with an exaggerated accent, "He said ça va , like he's just returned from holiday in Nice and doesn't speak peasant anymore."
"I didn't know you spoke French," Nia said, sounding vaguely impressed as she focused her gaze on Polaris.
Polaris shrugged. "I don't. Just bits."
Which wasn't entirely true. He spoke more than bits—reading had come first, then the rest followed—but he didn't like the attention. Especially not from her .
Nia's eyes lingered for a second longer than necessary. "Still. That's cool."
Cool. Polaris had been called a lot of things in his life—"clever," "peculiar," "sharp like his grandfather"—but cool was a new one.
"All right, everyone," Flitwick called, clapping his hands for attention. "Pair up! One of you will cast, the other observe and offer feedback. Then switch!"
There was the usual shuffle of chairs and bags. Sylvan was snapped up almost immediately by Oliver Llewellyn, his roommate, who had been sitting just in front of them and clearly had no intention of working with anyone else.
Just beside them, a tall Ravenclaw girl leaned across the aisle toward Amaya. "Partnering with me, right?"
Amaya opened her mouth—clearly about to say she was with Nia—but the girl was already tugging her up by the sleeve and dragging her off.
Nia blinked after her, a touch thrown.
Before Polaris could glance around—
"Want to pair?" Nia asked, already half-turned toward him, wand in hand.
Polaris hesitated. His eyes flicked around the room—Senna was already leaning in to speak with Thalia, their heads bent close. Elias who was currently stretching, had teamed up with Charlie. Felix looked vaguely available, but a Hufflepuff girl had just stepped into his path, wand already raised in invitation.
He glanced back at Nia. "…Alright," he said, not quite meeting her eye.
She paused for half a second too long. "Right," she said lightly. "I'll go first."
They each picked a worn, grey practice brick from the box Flitwick levitated to the front of the room. Nia set hers on the desk, furrowed her brow, then gave her wand a jab. "Spongify!"
The brick trembled. Not much, but enough. When she poked it, the surface gave a little—like a stiff pillow. Not bad.
"Hmm," she muttered. "Soft-ish. But not bouncy."
"Your incantation was close," Polaris said, studying the brick. "But I think the jab was too abrupt—it forced the spell to the surface instead of letting it sink in."
Nia tilted her head. "So what should I do?"
Polaris looked at the brick, then at her hand. For a moment, he said nothing.
He was used to questions— How did you do that? What did Professor Slughorn mean? Can you check mine?
People assumed he always knew. And usually, he did.
Not because it came effortlessly, but because he made it make sense—took things apart in his mind until they fit. He liked understanding when something was interesting.
He stared at the dull grey of the brick and tried to turn instinct into language.
"Try aiming like you want the magic to land inside the brick. Like you're filling it from the centre out, not coating it."
She raised an eyebrow. "You make it sound like painting."
Polaris gave a small shrug. "Kind of is. Just… with bounce?"
Nia glanced at him sideways. "That's a weirdly good way of putting it," she said, half-grinning. "Do you always think like that?"
He didn't answer right away—just looked at her brick again, calm, like he wasn't sure why she'd even asked. Then, "usually."
She rolled her eyes in mock defeat and turned back to the desk. "Alright, bounce painting, take two."
Another jab. "Spongify!"
The brick shifted slightly—less stiff this time, but still not right. She frowned, tried again. Still not enough.
Nia glanced sideways at Polaris, as if expecting him to say something—another pointer, a nudge in the right direction.
But he said nothing.
His eyes were drifting over the classroom, unfocused, like he was already done with this part. Not impatient, exactly — just distant, like he'd mentally moved on. Like watching her try again wasn't particularly interesting.
She shifted, wand still in hand, and looked at the brick.
"Spongify."
This time, the brick gave a satisfying wobble and bounced once, a little more confidently than before.
She smiled despite herself. "There it is."
Then she glanced at his brick. "Your turn, brick whisperer."
Polaris blinked, like surfacing from underwater. He glanced quickly at her brick—just enough to register the improvement—then cleared his throat and then shifted his brick on the desk.
Focused. He always felt a faint hum when his wand fit right in his hand like this—balanced, responsive, like something alive.
"Spongify."
The brick bounced.
It leapt from the desk with a cheerful boing , landed on the stone floor, and bounced once more before settling with a wobble.
A moment of silence, then Flitwick clapped from the front of the room.
"Excellent work, Mr. Black! Ten points to Ravenclaw, for getting it first try!"
Scattered applause followed, a few murmurs from other desks.
At the front of the class looking back, two Hufflepuffs leaned in over their shared desk. Doyle slouched low in his seat, picking at a loose thread in his sleeve, yet to get the spell right.
"Ten points? Jaysus, for that? he muttered to no one in particular. "Flitwick's head of Ravenclaw—sure he'd give the lad a medal for breathing."
His friend shrugged, focused on trying to get the brick to bounce.
Doyle then rolled his eyes. "House bias. I'd sneeze and get docked five."
Nia laughed as the brick bounced again from where it had landed near her foot. She looked back at Polaris.
"Of course you got it first try," she said, nudging it back with her toe. "I'm not even surprised—you're always good in Duelling Club."
Polaris faced her, caught off guard. She was smiling at him, genuinely impressed.
"Thank you," he said, a beat too formally and then, somehow with a curiously serious expression, "I like bricks."
Her smile faltered, just a little.
"They're reliable," Polaris added, tone matter of fact. "They're solid and useful. Good structural components.
He paused, as though realizing how that sounded, but instead of backtracking, he adjusted course—slightly.
There was a small silence.
"I read a book on historic manor enchantments once," he continued, almost as if talking to himself now. "Some older wizarding homes—particularly in the north—charm their bricks for insulation. Keeps out the damp. Stone's less effective."
A dry cough.
He turned up and realized three desks nearby had gone quiet. A Hufflepuff girl was whispering something behind her hand, barely hiding a laugh. Across the aisle, Thalia Vane had paused in her practice to stare, one eyebrow arched. Somewhere, someone muttered, "Black's funny ," with the kind of tone that meant weird more than amusing.
Polaris's mouth clamped shut.
He stared at the desk, wishing he could cast Spongify on himself and bounce clean out the window.
Nia blinked, then—mercifully—laughed. Not unkindly. Just warm, like it was somehow the best part of her day that someone had gone on a ramble about bricks.
"You're a bit mad, Black," she said, and nudged his shoulder with hers.
Before he could dwell on it, the professor clapped her hands and called for cleanup. Wands were drawn, bricks floated back into crates, and chairs scraped across the stone floor as students bustled about, chatting over the clatter. The usual post-practical shuffle. A reminder that this was school, after all. No matter how strange the lesson—or the company.
Polaris bent down to pick up the brick that had bounced under the desk. As he straightened, Sylvan was right there beside him, barely containing himself, hand half-covering his face as his shoulders shook.
"What?" Polaris muttered warily.
Sylvan leaned in, breathless with laughter. " I like bricks? "
Polaris's ears burned. "Shut up."
"I heard you, mate. You went on for ages . I thought you were going to propose to one."
Polaris's ears burned. "I panicked."
Sylvan snorted. "You panicked and declared your undying love for building materials."
"Drop dead."
"Oh, I will," Sylvan said, mock-serious, "but only if you promise to bury me under something nice and structural ."
Polaris groaned but couldn't stop the small smile tugging at his mouth. He flicked his wand at their desk— Tergeo —and the leftover chalk marks vanished.
Sylvan was still chuckling when they joined the other students at the front, adding their bricks back into the crate. But as the crowd thinned, a trio of Hufflepuffs lingered—Bram Thistlewood, Maisie Doyle, and Tariq Patil.
Polaris didn't know them, not really .
He knew their names. Knew Tariq had good aim in Duelling Club, and Maisie had laughed too loud the day Lockhart got stuck to a sticky chair. But that was it.
But they were just familiar shapes across a classroom, not people he expected to speak to.
"Hey," Bram said cheerfully, nodding at them as if they'd all grown up together. "Nice spellwork, Black. You practically launched that thing."
Polaris blinked. "Thanks, I guess."
Maisie plopped her brick into the crate with a thunk . "This is way better than those foam mats we had in P.E. back home."
Polaris tilted his head, frowning. "P.E.? Is that a spell?"
Sylvan perked up slightly beside him, intrigued despite himself. "Sounds like a curse." Sylvan added.
Tariq laughed. "No, it's like... Muggle exercise class. You run around, do push-ups, jumping jacks—"
Polaris glanced at Sylvan, then back at Tariq, narrowing his eyes. "Jumping jacks?" he repeated slowly. "Is that a Muggle dance?"
Bram burst out laughing. "No, mate. It's just flailing your arms and legs like a lunatic. Up-down, side-side, like this—" He flapped both arms and legs in an exaggerated demo.
Polaris stared at them all, genuinely disturbed. "Muggles choose to do this?"
Maisie snorted. "Yeah. And we had to wear these awful shorts. Bright orange. Real fashion tragedy."
Polaris recoiled, genuinely appalled. "That sounds like a punishment."
Maisie doubled over, wheezing with laughter, and Tariq nudged Polaris's arm with the back of his hand. "You're not wrong , honestly."
Polaris shifted his weight, resisting the urge to brush his sleeve where Tariq had touched him. He didn't even know why it bothered him—it hadn't been rude. Just casual. Too casual.
They were still smiling, still laughing, still acting like he was part of the joke. Like he'd said something funny .
He cleared his throat. "Well. I suppose it's... good you survived it, then."
His voice had gone colder than he intended.
Maisie blinked, her laughter catching in her throat. Bram's grin slipped a little, and Tariq's easy expression faltered into something quieter. Less open.
The silence stretched just long enough to sting.
Polaris didn't notice. He bent to tighten the strap on his bag that didn't need adjusting and added briskly, "Come on, Sylvan. We'll be late for—whatever's next."
Sylvan shot him a sideways glance but followed without comment glancing at the Hufflepuffs as he slipped into step next to Polaris.
"Patil and Thistlewood," Sylvan said, low and thoughtful. "They're half-bloods, right?"
Polaris kept his eyes ahead. "I think so. Patil, definitely. Don't know about Thistlewood, but he talks like one."
Sylvan hummed again. "Raised in the Muggle world, you think?"
"Obviously." Polaris's tone was sharper than he meant it to be, but he didn't correct it. "Did you hear them?"
"I did," Sylvan said. "I'm still recovering from the image of orange shorts."
Polaris gave a single dry exhale of amusement—almost a laugh—but his posture didn't relax. "Why would anyone choose that?"
"They seemed happy about it," Sylvan said, more curious than judgmental. "Like it's a fond memory or something."
Polaris made a face. "That's what's strange."
They had drifted to the far side of the classroom now, where a loose knot of Ravenclaws had begun to form. Flitwick had asked them to stay, and most had done so without complaint, chatting quietly as the last of the Hufflepuffs filtered out. Some hovered in twos and threes, already mid-conversation. Others stood awkwardly apart, clutching their bags and looking vaguely like they weren't sure if they should linger or bolt.
Polaris, Sylvan, Senna, Thalia, and Felix had naturally gathered near one another, forming a rough circle by the windows. Senna had claimed the edge of a desk like a throne, legs crossed and posture casual, while Thalia leaned beside her, idly twisting the strap of her satchel. Felix stood opposite them, arms folded and a faint trace of amusement on his face, as though he were enjoying the current of conversation without needing to steer it.
Polaris hovered just beside Sylvan, the tips of his fingers grazing the spine of a closed textbook on the nearest desk. His gaze flicked up once toward the windows, then back to the floor.
"I still don't get why they clap after everything," Senna said idly, flicking dust from the hem of her sleeve. "Even if it's awful. Especially if it's awful."
"It's like they're rewarding failure," Sylvan agreed. "Encouragement through denial. Very Muggle."
"They're... just used to noise, I think," Thalia offered, trying to sound casual. "My mum says some of them even clap at the end of films. Whatever those are."
"That sounds like a cry for help," Felix said cheerfully. "Speaking of which—did you hear Lockhart's petitioning to start a new club?"
Senna raised an eyebrow. "What now, the League of Hair-Care Excellence?"
"No, worse. 'Muggle Cultural Appreciation Society.' He's already planned an introductory seminar on 'microwave ovens' and denim ."
Sylvan blinked, thoughtful. "What is a microwave?"
"A particularly unstable charm or a creature?" Polaris asked under his breath.
Felix grinned. "Pretty sure it's some muggle contraption. Either way, Lockhart's calling it 'cross-cultural enrichment.' I call it an elaborate cry for attention."
"He just wants an excuse to show off in a new costume," Senna said. "Watch—he'll show up in trainers next, demanding we all do 'jumping jacks.'" She quoted what Sylvan had told them a moment ago when Polaris and himself had encountered wildmuggle-borns, as he called them.
Sylvan slapped his hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing.
On the edges of the room, a few first-years lingered more uneasily. Freddie Coates stood alone near the back, eyes scanning the room as if hoping someone might draw him in. Two other Ravenclaws— Agnes and Oliver —sat on the shelves of books near the far wall, legs swinging, whispering to each other between occasional glances at the rest of the group. Their conversation didn't include anyone else. It didn't look like they wanted it to.
Then Flitwick cleared his throat, and the soft hum of chatter dissolved.
"Thank you for staying behind, everyone!" he called, his voice as chipper as ever as he stepped off his stack of books and moved to the centre of the room. "I'll be brief, I promise."
He clasped his hands together. "As you know, Ravenclaw is currently tied with Slytherin for second place in the House Cup standings, only a few points behind Gryffindor. That's quite impressive for our first-years especially—you've been earning steady marks in nearly every class."
A murmur of interest passed through the room. Polaris's eyes didn't lift from the floor.
"I want to especially commend Mr. Black," Flitwick added cheerfully, beaming. "Mr. Black has earned points in nearly every lesson this term. Excellent practical work, sharp theory, and thoughtful questions—even if he's rather quiet about it."
Several pairs of eyes turned toward him. Polaris's stomach dropped.
He didn't move, but the muscle at the edge of his jaw twitched. His face gave nothing away—except, perhaps, to the ones who knew him better.
Senna, watching from her perch, raised an eyebrow at the expression he made. Her smile was slow, dry, amused.
She leaned into Thalia and whispered, just loud enough for the group to hear, "You'd think he'd won the Triwizard Tournament, not answered a few questions and bounced a brick."
Sylvan snorted. "Hero of the hour," he murmured under his breath.
Polaris's eyes flicked sideways. "I hate you both."
"You say that," Senna said sweetly, "but you do have the best track record for opening the door. You should charge a toll."
"Or a riddle tax," Sylvan offered. "Answer two and you get a coupon for five minutes of uninterrupted silence."
Felix chuckled. "We'd all go broke."
Flitwick, still smiling as if he hadn't noticed any of this, continued brightly. "So! Let's keep the momentum going, shall we? If you've been unsure in class or hesitant to speak up—don't be! Ravenclaw thrives on curiosity and courage of the mind. Ask questions, challenge ideas, and don't be afraid to be wrong now and then. That's how we grow."
There was a small round of polite nods and the rustle of shifting robes. Some of the students looked encouraged. One or two looked quietly anxious. Polaris just wished people would stop looking at him.
Flitwick waved his wand once, and the crates of bricks zipped themselves back into order with a satisfying clack .
"Now then," he said, tucking his wand away with a little flourish. "Next week, the details of specific date and time will be up in the common room by tonight. We'll be doing something a bit different. A thinking hike —a Ravenclaw tradition, though sadly forgotten in recent years."
A few students perked up. Others looked vaguely alarmed.
"We'll be taking a walk along the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest—don't worry, we'll keep to the edges," he added quickly, catching the twitch of concern on several faces. "The goal isn't physical exertion, but mental clarity. Observing magical ecosystems, identifying naturally occurring spell markers, and learning how nature itself can teach us if we're quiet enough to listen.
He paced lightly as he spoke, voice rising with energy. "Why does this tree grow twisted while that one grows tall? What magical properties might you infer from fungi blooming in shadow? What makes a place feel enchanted —and what makes it feel cursed ?"
"Will we be graded?" someone asked warily from the back.
"No grading," Flitwick said cheerfully. "But I do expect attentiveness. Bring your sketchbooks and your wits."
Senna immediately looked pleased. "Finally," she murmured, already fishing through her satchel for her charmed notebook.
Sylvan leaned toward Polaris. "Twenty Sickles and a lemon drop she wanders off to bond with a rock."
"She'd win," Polaris said without looking at him.
Then Flitwick clapped his hands together. "Off you go! And well done today, all of you."
As the students began to file out in clumps and pairs, Sylvan leaned close to Polaris and murmured, "Will you eat lunch with us today?" he asked, too casually for it to be entirely casual.
Polaris blinked. "...Alright."
Sylvan stared at him. "Wait, seriously?"
"I haven't eaten at the Ravenclaw table since Samhain," Polaris said, adjusting his bag strap. "Suppose I'm overdue."
"You think ?" Sylvan muttered, but he was grinning now and clearly pleased with himself.
They stepped into the corridor, the crowd thinning ahead of them. Sylvan glanced over. "So—Transfiguration next, yeah?"
Polaris nodded. "With the Gryffindors."
"Mind if I sit next to you?"
Polaris gave him a sidelong look. "You don't have to ask."
"I kind of do," Sylvan said, scratching the back of his neck. "You always sit with Sayre, and the two-seat desk thing…"
Polaris frowned faintly. "So?"
"So—last time I got stuck with Oliver again and he melted his matchstick into the desk. I'm not doing that twice."
A pause. Polaris's brow furrowed deeper. "You're afraid of pairing with Oliver, so you're asking me for help?"
"Yes," Sylvan said flatly. "And I'm not ashamed."
Polaris exhaled through his nose. "Fine. We'll sit somewhere else."
"A touching agreement." Sylvan folded his hands in mock solemnity. "Our next noble quest: not failing Transfiguration before Yule."
Polaris arched an eyebrow. There was the faintest spark of dry amusement behind his voice when he said, " You might not. I'll be fine."
Sylvan snorted. "Look at you—confidence before noon, not to mention you actually look like you sleep now. Who are you and what have you done with the real Polaris Black?"
"He was busy," Polaris replied. "I volunteered."
They rounded the corner together, the sounds of footsteps and shifting bags growing fainter behind them—
—until a blur of motion swept by. Rafiq and Idris thundered past, nearly colliding with a suit of armour as they raced each other down the corridor.
" Move! I called dibs on front left!" Rafiq shouted over his shoulder, laughing breathlessly.
"Only if you outrun me , you cheat!" Idris hollered back, grinning like a madman.
Rafiq nearly clipped a suit of armour at the turn and skidded sideways, calling, "Sorry, Sir Ironpants!" without missing a step.
The armour gave a metallic groan of protest.
Polaris blinked after them. "Should we be concerned?"
"No," Sylvan said at once. "But I am betting Chang faceplants before the stairs."
Polaris tilted his head, watching as Idris weaved precariously through the crowd, half-sprinting and half-tripping over his own robes. It was, frankly, a toss-up. Idris Chang had once collided with a noticeboard so hard he'd brought it down with him—and looked surprised it hadn't moved out of his way. They were lucky he hadn't taken someone with him.
Polaris considered. "Five Galleons on the suit of armour instead."
Sylvan smirked. "You're on."
For once, Polaris didn't look like he was chasing something just out of reach. He didn't feel better—just a little less alone.
— ❈ —
Later that afternoon, with the last of their classes behind them — including a surprise Transfiguration quiz that McGonagall had sprung without mercy — the corridor thinned as they approached the stairwell leading toward Ravenclaw Tower.
"I'll catch up," Polaris said, shifting his satchel higher on his shoulder. "I need to drop this off."
Sylvan gave a lazy salute. "Don't let your tower eat you."
Polaris rolled his eyes and turned up the stairs.
Charlie Moon was just ahead of him, walking in the same direction, quietly preoccupied. He was picking at the skin around his thumbnail, gaze flicking down, unfocused. His robes were straight, pressed, and entirely unremarkable except for the faint scent of some potion or herbal tincture that always seemed to cling to him.
They didn't speak — not out of animosity, just... inertia.
Polaris was a step behind when they turned onto the landing, only for a voice to call from behind them:
"Mr Black! Mr Moon!"
They both turned.
Professor Sprout, windblown and slightly muddy at the hems, bustled toward them with a clay-smudged smile.
Professor Sprout, windblown and slightly muddy at the hems, bustled toward them with a clay-smudged smile.
"Would you mind helping me for just a moment?" she asked, already reaching into her pocket. "I need someone to fetch two trays of Lumishade seedlings from Greenhouse Two — and bring them to Greenhouse Four. I'd do it myself, but I've got to meet Professor Kettleburn in five minutes, and you both look strong and sensible."
Polaris hesitated. His fingers tightened slightly around the strap of his bag.
"Sure," Charlie said, already shifting direction. "Not a problem."
Polaris exhaled through his nose. "Alright."
Sprout beamed. "Thank you, boys. And mind your step — they react to sudden temperature shifts, so don't go taking the long route."
With a cheerful wave, she disappeared down the hall.
Charlie glanced at Polaris as they changed course. "You always this generous with your free time?"
Polaris gave him a flat look, not at all impressed he was given a task. "No."
Charlie grinned. "Well, don't strain yourself. It's only ten minutes of mild inconvenience."
They passed a huddle of first-year Gryffindors sprawled on the stairs. One of them did a dramatic voice, imitating something, then said "Moonbrain" loud enough to carry. The rest burst out laughing.
Polaris's eyes flicked toward them. It was obvious who they were talking about.
Charlie didn't look over. Just kept walking, hands in his pockets, like he hadn't heard — or had decided not to.
They cut through the lower corridor toward the greenhouse path.
Charlie scratched behind his ear. "Anyway. Later tonight, Rafiq's apparently teaching me some Muggle game. Said I could invite others to join. Interested?"
"No," Polaris said without missing a beat.
Charlie blinked. "I haven't even told you what it is."
"You probably don't even know what it is," Polaris said. "And I have Duelling Club."
Charlie made a small, thoughtful noise. "Fair."
Polaris stepped in just behind Charlie, eyes adjusting to the bluish half-light that settled through the glass — not quite dark, but already thinning, like the last breath of daylight before evening took hold.
And paused.
Aurelia sat on the far bench with her sleeves rolled to the elbow, fingers deft and slow as she trimmed a bonsai tree no larger than a dinner plate. Each snip of the shears was careful, almost meditative — clean, confident strokes that said she'd done this before. A small bowl of clippings sat beside her like evidence of a ritual. She didn't look up when the door opened.
Opposite her, lounging with his back against the glass frame, sat Andrew her fellow Slytherin.
One leg stretched long, the other propped loosely on the bench. His school tie was off, collar crooked, and a faint purple bruise bloomed around his left eye. He didn't bother to hide it.
He was watching her — not lazily, but attentively — as she worked, nodding now and then to whatever she was saying, voice too low to catch.
They hadn't noticed the door open.
Or they had and simply didn't care.
Polaris's eyes lingered, first on Aurelia's careful hands, then on the strange symmetry of them: the Potter girl, confident and unapologetic, and the disgraced Slytherin bastard, comfortable in exile.
He wasn't surprised. If Aurelia Potter had a Slytherin friend, it would be him.
Andrew looked up.
His eyes met Polaris's. He was watching him. It wasn't curiosity.
If anything, it felt like a challenge.
Polaris didn't look away. Held the stare a second too long, chin tilted just slightly higher. There was no hostility in Andrew's face — and that made it worse. His expression was calm, and certain. Like he'd already assessed Polaris once before and was now checking to see if the verdict had changed.
He remembered that courtyard, he'd stepped in when no one else had. Not for thanks — but still. The audacity of Travers had to look at him like he was the one being weighed?
The arrogance of it.
Polaris looked away first not before narrowing his eyes.
Charlie, oblivious, moved toward the back shelf and knelt beside a crate of seedlings. His tongue poked out between his teeth — a habit Polaris had clocked weeks ago, usually when Charlie was trying not to break something delicate. "Here we go — Lumishade trays," he said, brushing off a stray vine curling along the crate's edge. "She grows these in shifts. Something about needing a moon cycle to stabilise their light intake. Honestly? I think she talks to them when no one's around."
Polaris didn't reply. His gaze flicked back to the bonsai. One of its branches was already bending into a new arc.
Charlie looked over his shoulder glancing at Aurelia. "She's always in here. Think she's adopted half the plants."
That earned the faintest tilt of Polaris's head — only for a moment — before he turned and picked up the lighter tray while Charlie hefted the other.
Neither Aurelia nor Andrew looked up as they left.