[10,370 Words]
November 21st, 1975, Friday
Polaris hadn't really slept. At best, he'd managed a shallow four hours — and not in one stretch. When he finally rose, his roommates were already gone, their beds empty, the dorm quiet.
He hadn't missed breakfast, not technically, but he'd skipped the thought of it. He felt both sluggish and overstimulated, the kind of disoriented that made every sound grate and every glance feel heavier than it should. His mind hadn't stopped re-running the debate: what he'd said, what he could've said better, how Aurelia tried to counter him.
He still didn't understand why it had caused such a stir.
It wasn't even a personal argument. It was theory. A structured thought exercise. But the whispers hadn't stopped when the debate ended, and more than a few were muttering that she'd won.
As if it was a duel and not a discussion.
As if any of them knew a damn thing about debate — actual debate. Not who sounded more righteous. Not who smiled at the right moment. They didn't know the format. They didn't care about the argument.
They only heard what they wanted to.
Polaris exhaled, sharp through his nose, and adjusted the strap of his satchel over one shoulder. He was halfway to the common room fireplace when he slowed — drawn by the sight of a small crowd gathered near the noticeboard.
That was unusual.
He half-expected another update from Professor Flitwick—perhaps another change to the schedule for the nature walk, which had already been pushed to Saturday. Honestly, he hoped there wasn't one; he'd been looking forward to going tomorrow. Maybe it was just a correction to the spell theory homework. Polaris shifted his satchel over one shoulder and drifted closer, curiosity mild, idle. Then he noticed the hush.
People were turning to look at him.
Not just glances — full-bodied, hesitant turns.
The crowd began to part without a word, clearing a narrow, reverent path to the noticeboard as if on instinct.
It was strange. Ridiculous, almost. Polaris stepped forward.
And saw it.
BLACK THE BUTCHER screamed the title in jagged silver ink across the top of the parchment, large enough to dominate the board. Beneath it: a grotesque caricature. His face stretched and exaggerated until it no longer belonged to a real person — black pits for eyes, a grin pulled too wide, red glowing irises charmed to flicker demonically. Horns curled from his temples, and from his mouth spilled a looped speech bubble, charmed to animate with a rotating quote:
"We should stop pretending the Dark Arts are bad."
Below the drawing, more were scrawled in dramatic print:
"I admire control over others."
"We can't let emotion cloud magical education."
"Anyone who doesn't learn Dark Magic deserves to be powerless."
-First year, Polaris Black.
He said it himself. Ask your Muggle-born friends how safe they feel.
Blame the victim, not the curse. Classic Butcher.
He stared.
It was only his silence that spoke — deep, complete, almost clinical — the kind that made the laughter and chatter around him taper off to something quieter, less certain. Polaris didn't react. Didn't tear it down. He just looked at it, as though studying a creature in a jar.
He was too tired for this.
Whatever this was.
Someone had clearly gone to a lot of trouble — and quickly. The debate had been yesterday . Breakfast wasn't even over yet.
He pushed a hand through his hair and sighed, more out of habit than emotion. His thoughts still felt damp and unfinished, like papers left out in the rain.
And now this. This idiotic crowd.
They were looking at him.
Some like they expected him to explode. Others like they knew he wouldn't — his year mates, mostly — watching with dull, practiced wariness, as if they'd already calculated the odds of a dramatic reaction and bet against it.
But a few still looked hopeful. Curious. As if they might get something more interesting than silence this time.
They didn't know him at all.
A third-year cleared his throat somewhere near the front. "They, uh… really gave you the full Inferius treatment, didn't they?" he said, gesturing vaguely to the poster's sunken eyes and fanged grin. "You've got a sort of… unholy glow."
Polaris turned his head just slightly. Just enough to look at him—flat, unimpressed, and with all the quiet judgment of someone who'd been expecting better and received exactly this instead. Nothing needed to be said. His look did all the heavy lifting.
The boy's grin faltered. "Right. No. Not the time." He backed away a step in the crowd. "I'll just… let myself out."
"What is going on?" Another voice cut through.
Marissa Higgs. Head Girl.
She pushed her way through the knot of students, robes slightly rumpled, hair still damp at the ends like she'd just come from the showers. A textbook was tucked under one arm, and her head girl badge gleamed like it was daring someone to be stupid.
She stopped abruptly when she saw the poster.
" What —" Her eyes scanned the letters, the flickering charmwork, the caricature. Her mouth pulled tight. "You've got to be kidding me."
Polaris watched as she stared at him then —
"We are in the middle of midterm assessments," she snapped, turning to the group at large. "And someone — some Ravenclaw, apparently — spent their free time doing this ?"
A murmur swept through the crowd, uncomfortable and brief.
"I don't care what your opinion is on yesterday's debate," she went on, voice rising. "You do not take someone's words out of context, slap horns on their head, and plaster them on the common room wall like a joke. We are Ravenclaws. We stick together. We debate — we disagree — but we do not humiliate each other. That's beneath us. I'd expect this sort of idiocy from prank-happy Gryffindors. Not here ."
Polaris was staring at the poster, at the twisted imitation of himself, mouth slightly parted like he might speak — but didn't.
His fingers itched to tear it down. Not from shame — he wasn't ashamed — but from the sheer absurdity of it. The laziness. The way fear tried to pass for truth.
Students were taught to transform bones, split minds in duels, even levitate each other — but say Dark Arts and suddenly it was evil.
Behind Marissa, Robin Cadogan — a Seventh-Year prefect — stepped forward, his expression hardening. He reached up and tugged the parchment free from the noticeboard, folding it once with distaste.
"I've seen copies of this in the lower stairwells," he said, addressing the room. "And near the Great Hall. Professor Flitwick will be made aware. This isn't just a prank. This will be taken seriously."
Polaris frowned.
So, it wasn't just in Ravenclaw Tower. Not just a house joke or some bitter backlash.
Someone had been very busy.
He was past outrage. Past surprise.
— ❈ —
The posters hadn't been pinned to the main notice board — not even Slytherins would've been that stupid — but they were there. Tucked near the arch to the entrance, stuck half-crooked beside the study tables, one charmed to flutter faintly against the lampshade near the hearth.
They weren't as many as in other places, but they didn't need to be.
The effect was the same. Slytherins were gathered around them, not laughing — staring. Quietly baffled. Disdain tightening their mouths, not confusion.
One girl crossed her arms. "Nothing he said was even wrong, though."
"Not to us," someone else muttered. "But you know how the half-bloods get and the mudbloods. Pretending they understand everything, then cry foul when you say something true."
Evan stepped between them, his mouth thinned, eyes narrowed. He ripped one of the posters clean off the stone and turned on the room.
"What is this idiocy?"
No one answered. They just looked at each other, shifting, uncertain, gauging who'd laugh, who'd snitch.
Evan strode forward, ripped one down another.
"Who put these up?" he barked. "Anyone?"
A few shook their heads. No one answered.
Evan turned slowly, eyes locking on a tall fourth-year boy leaning against the stair rail — Rowle. The look he gave him wasn't a question. "You?"
Rowle straightened. "What? No—" He shook his head, frowning. "Why would I do that? I agree with him."
Evan stepped forward. "You sure? Last I checked, you were still sulking from September."
"I wouldn't bother with half-sanitized insults," Rowle said defensively. "This lot can't handle what he actually said. That's not even how he phrased things. It's too Gryffindor- ish ."
There were a few dry chuckles, but no one seemed particularly amused.
"I'm just saying," Rowle added, more irritably now, "if I wanted to insult someone, I'd at least do it right. Not twist his words and shove them on a wall like a coward." Which was ironic coming from the boy who tried to bully a first year.
"Helpful," Evan muttered, then ripped the next poster as he stared at Rowle.
"I saw one near the Great Hall this morning," a fifth-year girl added. "By the second arch." — Dropping onto one of the green leather sofas she continued. "And another one on the Hufflepuff table before I had breakfast."
There was a general murmur of disgust.
"So, they're in the open now," Evan said. "Wonderful. Filthy little heroes making it a school event."
A low muttering of agreement passed through the room. A few of them got up and began pulling down the others—burning them, tearing them. Bastian crumpled one in his fist with a muttered curse, "It's messed up if someone actually thought this was funny. They're more cursed than the Dark Arts they're crying about."
Without a word, he turned and headed for the boys' dorms, clearly intending to rouse Corvus.
Across the room, Andrew Travers stood still in front of one of the posters, staring at it like it had grown teeth. Not reading—studying. Like he wanted to know who had made it by sheer willpower alone.
A balled-up paper flew and hit the side of his head.
"Oi, Travers," jeered a stocky third-year. "This your work? Bit bold for a halfbreed bastard like you. Trying to start a bloody uprising?"
Travers didn't so much as tense. He just turned slowly and met the boy's eyes.
The third-year's expression twisted. "What, you gonna stare me to death?"
The older boy then proceeded to raise his wand at Travers.
Before he could say anything, Aurelia stepped between them.
"Put it away," she snapped.
The third-year's eyes flicked down at her, then back to Travers, but he didn't lower the wand.
A ripple passed through the room—Slytherins beginning to notice, heads turning.
Someone muttered from the couch, loud enough to be heard: "Bet it was her. Would make sense really. She is Potters sister."
Another voice, sharp-edged and smug: "She's just annoyed someone got to it before she could."
Aurelia drew her wand.
"I didn't do it," she said, voice rising. "I wouldn't waste time on something this stupid."
The third-year shifted his wand, now pointing at her.
Travers stepped forward and raised his own.
Then, a new voice cut in—low, clear, commanding.
"That's enough."
Regulus Black had just stepped through the common room arch. He hadn't shouted nor did he need to.
The third-year faltered, his wand dropping a few inches. The tension broke with it, like a charm snapped mid-cast.
Regulus crossed the space with slowly, eyes on the younger boy.
"If you're looking to duel over playground gossip, I suggest you try the first and second-year slot," he said coldly. "Otherwise, put your wand away before I report you to Slughorn myself. "
The boy swallowed, lowered his wand. Aurelia did the same, tense jaw and stiff shoulders not relaxing.
Travers slipped his wand back into his sleeve.
Regulus didn't look at either of them.
He walked past like they weren't there, walking towards Evans who seemed disappointed his entertainment had ended.
— ❈ —
There were mixed reactions from the Hufflepuffs who'd seen the posters. Not many had the grounds to defend him—they didn't know Polaris, and few had even gone to the debate to hear what he'd actually said. Some laughed like it was nothing more than a joke, loud and careless. Others looked uneasy, unwilling to laugh at someone else's humiliation—even if it was a Black. And a few, quieter still, were unsettled. Black the Butcher didn't sound like a prank—it sounded like a warning.
— ❈ —
The corridor outside the Gryffindor quarters was a mess of raised voices and rustling parchment. At least a dozen students—mostly second and third years—had clustered near the Fat Lady's portrait, holding up crumpled posters, waving them around like battle flags.
"He actually said this?" one boy asked, voice half-outraged, half-thrilled.
"He must've. Why else would someone go through the trouble printing them?"
"Figures. Typical Black, innit?"
"You mean the older one?"
"No, the other one. The rude one. Looks at you like he's wondering when you'll stop breathing."
A second-year girl was theatrically reading out loud, "' I admire control over others. — ' Honestly, how is he still at Hogwarts after saying this?"
"Bet he thinks we're all beneath him."
From behind them, a sixth-year rolled his eyes and strolled past toward the Great Hall. "You lot need a hobby," he muttered.
Another seventh-year followed, yawning. "Tell me when there's a duel."
Nate pushed through the crowd with a tight jaw, snatching the parchment out of one of their hands. "Polaris didn't write this."
"Oh yeah?" the girl scoffed. "You in love with him or something?"
Nate didn't rise to the bait. "I know him. He wouldn't say something that thick-headed and obvious. Especially not in a debate. "
Someone else muttered, "You sound like one of those people who writes letters to Azkaban prisoners."
Frank Longbottom appeared at the top of the staircase, fastening his badge onto his cloak as he approached the commotion. "What's going on here?"
Nate stepped forward, holding out the crumpled poster. "These are everywhere right now. Someone's put out a load of these about Polaris Black."
Frank took the parchment with a frown, eyes scanning the printed words. He sighed — the long, weary sort of sigh that came from knowing you were now responsible for fixing whatever this was.
"Right," he said, voice firm. "Enough. Everyone calm down. Arguing in the corridor like this just makes it worse. You shouldn't believe everything you read or hear."
"But Frank—"
"I said enough. " Frank raised his voice. "If you've got a concern, bring it to your Head of House or a prefect, even me as head boy. Otherwise, go have breakfast and stop acting like the Prophet sent you on a special assignment."
A few younger students mumbled half-hearted apologies and backed off. Others pretended to suddenly remember they were late for something.
Nate turned to go. "I'm going to help take the rest of these down."
"I'll come with," said Keene, stepping out from the back of the group to stand beside Nate.
He was tall and lanky, all elbows and sharp shoulders, his ginger hair sticking up at odd angles like he'd rushed out without checking a mirror. He tugged his crumpled jumper down over his Gryffindor tie, then scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, glancing at the others like he wasn't sure if he was about to get laughed at.
"I mean… if someone's spreading this," he said, with a quick nod at the poster in Frank's hand, "they shouldn't get to see it hanging everywhere like some badge of honour."
A third-year wrinkled her nose. "You're a Muggleborn. Why on earth would you help Black? He literally hates your kind."
Keene shrugged. "I don't think he does. Once in Transfiguration, I forgot my ink. He gave me his spare and told me to keep it."
A snort came from somewhere to the left. "Yeah — probably couldn't bear touching it after a Muggleborn touched it."
Nate stiffened. "Say that again—"
He'd already stepped forward, fists curled and mouth drawn tight, when Frank flicked his wand.
"Incarcerous."
Ropes snapped into place around Nate's wrists, halting him mid-step.
" Absolutely not, " Frank said sharply. "We are not brawling in the corridors. Do you want detention, or can you cool off?"
Nate glared at the boy who'd mocked Keene but didn't say anything. Frank gave him a look, then flicked his wand again to release the ropes.
"Go take the rest down if you want," Frank said, quieter now. "Just stay out of trouble while you're at it. You don't need to worry too much, I'll be making sure the professors are aware of this."
Nate nodded once, briskly, and Keene followed him down the hall. Behind them, the voices of the younger Gryffindors started up again.
Frank stayed a moment longer, pinching the bridge of his nose. Merlin help him—he hadn't even had breakfast yet.
A shuffle behind him. Then—
"Boo."
Frank didn't even flinch.
"You're getting worse at that," he said, not turning.
Alice Moore huffed, stepping around to his side with arms crossed, her expression a mix of irritation and affection. "You used to be so jumpy. I miss those days."
"I'm conserving energy. You lot have driven me to despair."
She squinted at him. "You okay?"
"Not particularly."
She followed his gaze to the torn-down poster still clutched in his hand, her face tightening. "Another one?"
"Every stairwell, apparently. At least three in this hall." He sighed, fingers tightening slightly around the parchment. "Sirius mentioned them first thing this morning—stormed past me ranting about how ridiculous it was, like I hadn't noticed them in the common room already."
Alice's brow furrowed. "That's rich, coming from him."
Frank gave a tired shrug. "I think it hit a nerve. He saw people laughing at Polaris. Didn't say it outright, but…" His mouth flattened. "You can tell."
She went quiet, watching him.
"I didn't think they'd be outside Gryffindor Tower too," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "It's not even lunchtime, and they're everywhere. Jokes are one thing, but this—" He looked down at the poster. "This is just mean."
Alice leaned slightly closer, her voice softer now. "Do you think they'll trace who did it?"
He gave a short laugh with no humour in it. "Eventually. But probably not before someone else adds another dozen."
She frowned, and her hand brushed his. "Do I have to duel someone, or are you still pretending to be the responsible one?"
"I'm still clinging to the illusion." His tone was dry. "Barely."
She leaned in to kiss his cheek—then paused as his eyes flicked to her hair.
"You cut it again."
Her eyes gleamed. "You noticed."
"It's shorter than yesterday."
"Not that short."
"You've taken off at least an inch."
She stepped back with a flourish and spun once on the spot, chin tipped up. "So? Do you like it?"
Frank blinked. "Yes. But I'm also convinced you're going to keep cutting it until there's nothing left."
"Maybe I am."
"At least let me help next time, so I'm not startled every time you show up with a new haircut."
Alice grinned, clearly pleased with herself. "You'd be terrible with scissors."
"I'm excellent with scissors."
"You think you are."
They stood there a moment longer—her leaning lightly against the stone wall, him still holding the poster in one hand like it weighed more than it should.
"Come on," she said gently, nudging his arm. "Let's get you something to eat before you curse a first-year by mistake."
Frank exhaled, finally letting himself smile.
"Fine. But I'm watching your hands the whole way down the staircase."
"Afraid I'll push you?"
"No. That you'll pull out shears."
They'd only made it halfway down the corridor when they were ambushed.
"Oh my Merlin, " came a squeal from around the corner. "I told you they were holding hands!"
Frank immediately dropped Alice's hand like it had burned him.
A cluster of second-year Gryffindor girls stood near the staircase, half-hidden behind the suit of armour that rattled uncomfortably as they leaned against it to gawk. One of them clapped both hands over her mouth, while another elbowed her with glee.
"I knew it! Frank and Alice, sitting in a tree—"
" K-I-S-S-I-N-G! " another sang.
"Ignore them," Alice said serenely, lacing her fingers deliberately back through Frank's with a smug smile. "They feed on embarrassment."
"First comes duelling," one of the girls chimed in, skipping toward them, "then comes Head boy duty, then comes—"
Frank gave her a flat look.
"—uh, weekly patrols," the girl finished innocently, though she was clearly suppressing laughter along with the others.
"Did you lot do any homework last night," Frank asked, dry as sand, "or have you been rehearsing this all morning?"
"Rehearsing," one girl answered proudly.
Alice tried not to laugh and failed.
Frank, meanwhile, was rubbing the space between his eyes again.
"Go eat breakfast," he said, gesturing with the rolled-up poster in his hand like it was a wand. "You need food. Clearly."
"We're just saying," the first girl grinned, backing away, "you two are adorable. It's like watching a muggle slow-burn novel in real life."
Frank groaned audibly as the girls skipped off, giggling all the way down the staircase.
Alice looked positively radiant with mischief. "I like them."
"You would."
She leaned closer. "I don't remember you complaining when we were kissing behind the Quidditch shed last week."
Frank coughed. " Alice. "
"What? They're gone."
"You're impossible."
"And you love it."
He gave her a beleaguered look but didn't let go of her hand. "Come on. Breakfast. Before I get publicly serenaded by third-years."
Alice gave him an exaggerated bow. "As you command, Head Boy Longbottom."
He groaned again, and she grinned all the way to the Great Hall.
— ❈ —
The stares hadn't stopped, even after the posters were all taken down.
Not even when Professor Flitwick stood up at lunch and gently but firmly denounced the incident, adding that "Hogwarts values dialogue, not distortion." Even when he charmed the final remaining scrap to dust mid-sentence.
Polaris walked with his satchel slung low over one shoulder, shoulders loose, gaze steady. If it bothered him, it didn't show — not on his face, not in his posture. If anything, the only sign of strain was the soft cadence of his steps, just a fraction too slow, as though the day itself were made of lead.
They'd all ended up walking in the same direction somehow — like bits of metal pulled by the same invisible magnet."
Corvus was at his side, of course, arms crossed behind his head, talking loudly enough for anyone within fifteen feet to hear. "If I find out, who did it, I'll pin them to the bloody bulletin board myself. With silver pins. Through the hands."
"You won't," said Bastian flatly. "They'll deny it and disappear like cowards always do."
"That's why I said pins, Bastian. For the staying in place. "
Nate, walking just a little behind them, gave a dry chuckle. "Lovely imagery for post-lunch conversation."
Corvus shot him a crooked grin. "Hey, Sayre. Enjoy slumming it at the snake table earlier?"
Bastian gave Corvus a sidelong look—not quite surprised, but not sure what to make of it either.
"Immensely," Nate replied, breezy. "You lot have better Pumpkin Pasties. And fewer people throwing hexes under the table. Usually."
"I saw you trailing after Polaris like a particularly loyal Kneazle," Sylvan remarked from the other side, adjusting the strap on his book satchel as he gave Polaris a brief glance. "Didn't realise we were all forming clubs now."
Nate just smiled like it was a compliment. "I like to check in on my friends."
Polaris gave him a side glance but didn't say anything. Corvus, however, let out a delighted noise and leaned in.
"Oh, friends again, are we? That was quick. First you ignored him for days, now you're crashing lunch with the snakes like a lovesick poet. Was shocked you guys made up, y'know?"
Kalen strolled alongside them with the sort of loose, amused posture that suggested he wasn't technically part of the group — but also wasn't leaving. He was trailing just behind Bastian, hands in his pockets, head tilted like he was watching a play unfold.
"So," Kalen drawled. "Is no one going to ask the actual question?"
"Which is?" Bastian asked without turning.
"Whether Polaris is going to kill someone. Or if he's just letting the slow dread marinate."
Polaris's voice was mild. "Not today."
"Right," said Kalen cheerfully. "Good to know."
Corvus cracked his knuckles theatrically. "Not today yet. "
Before anyone could respond, the sharp clatter of hurried footsteps cut through the corridor.
"Nox's bloody teeth, you walk fast," Nia huffed, skidding slightly as she jogged up to them. "Polaris!"
Behind her, Amaya was already catching her breath, one hand on her chest, brown eyes wide.
Polaris turned, curious. "Yes?"
Nia didn't even pause. "I heard something. Doyle — you know Doyle, yeah? Hufflepuff, our year, kind of your height, smells like burnt toast—?"
Polaris stared at her. "Who?"
He watched her face shift — eyebrows drawn in, mouth slightly parted — like he'd said something bizarre. Like of course he should know who Doyle was.
"Doesn't matter," Amaya wheezed. "He was talking near the greenhouses. Loudly. Bragging, kind of. Said he helped put up the posters in the Hufflepuff common room. Like it was funny."
Polaris's posture changed almost imperceptibly. Not tense — not yet — but attentive. Engaged.
"Did he say who made them?"
Nia shrugged, frustration bitter on her tongue. "Not directly. But he said something about knowing who 'really went for it'—his words, not mine. Didn't drop a name, but he acted like he knew. Might've even been him."
Polaris didn't wait. "Where is he now?"
"Left before lunch ended," said Amaya, already turning. "He's headed to flying. You've got it now too."
"We were going to tell Professor Sprout," Nia added, "but—"
"Thank you," Polaris said, already moving. Nia and Amaya were quick to follow.
There was a pause with the rest — a shared breath of unspoken understanding — and then the entire group surged forward.
The boys exchanged a look, not long enough to be a plan but just long enough to know none of them were staying behind.
Corvus's eyes gleamed. "Well, I didn't want to go to class anyway."
"Same," said Kalen brightly, falling into step like it was pure coincidence.
"I had a class," muttered Bastian, frowning—but not slowing.
Nate, with a sheepish smile, turned fully away from the direction of his own lesson and muttered, "They'll survive without me."
Only Sylvan didn't have to change direction. He just sighed, adjusting his grip on his satchel.
"At least the drama's conveniently located," he said under his breath.
They made a strange procession, scattering second-years and drawing confused looks from a group of fifth years heading the opposite way.
"Is this smart?" Nate asked, catching up to Polaris's side. "Confronting someone?"
"I'm not planning on confronting him," Polaris replied calmly. "I'm planning on asking questions."
"And if he gives you the wrong answers?" Kalen asked, all curiosity, like this wasn't exactly what he was hoping to watch unfold.
Polaris didn't look at him. "Then I'll ask better questions."
Corvus grinned. "Merlin, I love when you're like this."
Sylvan muttered something that sounded like terrifying but didn't clarify.
— ❈ —
The wind tugged at their cloaks as they rounded the path toward the Flying Field — the sort of grey, blustering weather that made brooms fight back when they kicked off. Already, a scattered group of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were gathered on the edge of the field, some standing, some adjusting their brooms, a few chatting idly under the half-clouded sky.
Amaya didn't break stride. She gave the subtlest nod toward the left cluster — where a tall, freckled boy with dirty blond hair was laughing a little too loudly.
"That's him," she said.
Nia hesitated, clearly torn between following Polaris and going to get a professor. "We should just tell Sprout—"
Polaris kept walking. He didn't even look at her.
In the circle of students, Doyle was in full performance mode — gesturing as he paced, puffed up with smugness, the air of someone who didn't expect to be challenged.
"I'm just saying," he said grandly, "Black the Butcher doesn't exactly deny anything, does he? Look at him — probably planning his next monologue about why Dark magic's just misunderstood. Won't be long before he's sacrificing Puffskeins in the forest and calling it research. "
No one laughed.
Not really.
A few made a sound, unsure. One girl shifted awkwardly behind her broom. The others watched — not Doyle, but behind him.
Polaris had arrived.
He didn't stop at the edge. He walked right into the space, his wand already in his hand, calm as the tide. Doyle hadn't seen him yet.
Corvus followed eagerly behind, grinning. Kalen tilted his head trying to get a better look, fascinated.
Nate seemed to be the only one who hesitated when Polaris pulled his wand from his sleeve — though he wasn't exactly in a position to judge, not after getting a warning for hexing someone himself.
Bastian said nothing at all. Sylvan didn't either.
"Careful now," Doyle was saying, oblivious. "You don't want to upset him — Merlin knows what he'll do if he doesn't like your tone. Might try to mind-control you with his big words. Or hex your teeth out and call it an 'experiment.' Dark Lord in the making, that one."
No one spoke, they al shifted nervously staring at Polaris rather than Doyle.
Polaris broke the crowd's silence.
"You think that's funny?" His voice cut through easily, daring in a way.
Doyle turned, startled. His eyes narrowed. "Oh, you're here. Wonderful. I was just telling them how you're Hogwarts' personal bogeyman. Really brightens the term."
He could've pointed his wand then. But waited. Let Doyle finish the sentence, finish the joke. That way, no one could say he'd been rash.
Polaris didn't respond.
He just stared—unblinking, unmoved—as if he were trying very hard not to say what he was actually thinking.
It was clear he'd already lost patience — but he held the thread of it by sheer force of will.
He'd never heard of a pure-blood House named Doyle. And that wasn't the issue — not really. He didn't care about that. But the thought flickered anyway.
Half-blood, probably.
Not that it mattered.
What mattered was Doyle wouldn't shut up.
"Have to admit," Doyle said, smug now, trying to control the space again, "Black the Butcher's got a nice ring to it. Surprised you haven't had it embroidered yet. Or maybe—"
"Vocifero Claudere."
The hex hit Doyle square in the throat.
Doyle staggered, mid-sentence. He opened his mouth—
—nothing.
Again. Nothing.
His hands flew to his neck, eyes wide in alarm as his mouth opened… and nothing came out. No insult. No smugness. Just silence. His jaw worked helplessly, throat spasming. Then: a wet, spluttering cough. A wheeze. A horrid, retching sound as he bent forward, trying to spit out words that wouldn't form.
Polaris tilted his head, eyes steady. "Pity," he murmured. "You wanted the last word, didn't you."
Laughter erupted.
Not at Polaris.
At the boy.
A few students gasped. A few stepped back. But most didn't.
They watched.
Some wide-eyed. Some delighted.
Doyle staggered back into the stone edge of the broom rack, face flushed and panicked, mouth moving like a broken puppet — no voice, just spit and fragments. He tried to speak again, and again. Nothing.
Polaris lowered his wand, calm as ever.
"Next time," he said evenly, "try saying something worth losing your voice over."
The laughter didn't stop, though some were clearly uncomfortable.
Somewhere behind him, Sylvan whistled, low and impressed.
Kalen gave a slow clap. " Well, " he breathed, "that was violent poetry."
Corvus just beamed like it was Yule.
Nate — well. He found himself shifting awkwardly.
And Polaris — Polaris smiled. The kind of smile that knew exactly what it had done and didn't flinch from it, utterly unapologetic.
He hadn't planned to hex Doyle. Not really.
But Doyle wanted a monster.
So, he gave him one.
The crowd had delighted in the spectacle. And Polaris had smiled through it — because for once, the silence wasn't his burden to carry.
Letting Doyle suffer humiliation? It felt powerful.
Feeling no remorse? He felt nothing after. And that, somehow, felt right.
Smiling? That was the moment he realised control could look like cruelty.
And he wasn't sure he minded.
But as the laughter echoed, something caught — a snag in the thread. A note too loud, too long.
They laughed like they'd been waiting for it. Like they wanted this version of him.
They'd enjoyed it more than he had.
And Polaris had never wanted to be anyone's punchline. But he hadn't wanted to be their entertainment , either.
He glanced at Doyle, who had sunk to the ground, dazed and wheezing. There was a look of desperation in his eyes now — red-faced, clutching at his throat like he couldn't breathe, like the silence might drown him.
A professor would come. Or not.
It didn't matter.
Polaris turned, the faintest curl still lingering on his lips.
And the others followed.
— ❈ —
The air in the circular room was too still. As if the portraits on the walls were holding their breath. A clock ticked quietly behind Dumbledore's desk, a slow, deliberate rhythm that made Doyle's ranting seem louder by contrast.
"I couldn't breathe! " Doyle cried, hands gesturing wildly from the armchair beside Professor Sprout. "You didn't see it — I couldn't breathe! I was choking — properly choking! He hexed me like a lunatic — just staring like it was funny! And everyone laughed! What if no one helped? I could've died! "
"Doyle," said Professor Sprout, gently but firmly. "You weren't dying."
"I felt like I was!"
Professor Flitwick cleared his throat politely. "That's not quite the same thing."
Dumbledore raised a hand, not unkindly. "Let's not rush," he said, gaze flicking calmly between them. "We're here to understand what happened. Mr. Black?"
Polaris sat perfectly upright, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in his lap. His expression was neutral, posture relaxed. Not slouched, not stiff. He looked more like someone waiting for a carriage than someone accused of magical assault.
"I cast Vocifero Claudere" he said evenly. "Just some old vocal hex. It doesn't obstruct breathing. I removed his ability to speak. Not his ability to breathe."
"You made me choke," Doyle snapped.
"No, I didn't?! You made yourself choke; you panicked . I didn't make you panic," Polaris replied. "That was your choice."
Sprout shifted. "Mr. Black, regardless of how you describe it, the spell caused quite a scene."
"I would argue that Doyle caused the scene," Polaris said, tone still cool, "by announcing to a crowd that I was a Dark Lord in training."
Flitwick spoke then, his voice low and precise, with just the faintest edge beneath the formality. "I'm aware of what was said. And the context it was said in."
"He was terrifying, " Doyle snapped, eyes darting between them. "He looked like he was going to kill me."
"I didn't."
"You wanted to."
Polaris looked at him, head tilted slightly. "If I wanted to, Doyle, you wouldn't be here ."
The room went silent for a beat too long. Even Sprout shifted uncomfortably.
"Merlin. It was a joke. You can all breathe again." Polaris muttered.
Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Mr. Black, would you care to explain your thought process in that moment?"
Polaris turned to him like a student answering a written exam.
"I had been publicly mocked, insulted, and labelled a threat. Doyle framed the situation like a joke — one which others were beginning to enjoy at my expense. I considered my options. I could have ignored him. But that would have granted him the last word. I could have humiliated him with something worse. I didn't."
He glanced at Doyle, then back to the staff.
"I picked something controlled. That's all."
Doyle scoffed.
"Smug little freak," he muttered under his breath — not loud enough for the professors to reprimand, but loud enough for Polaris to hear.
" Vocifero Claudere ," Dumbledore echoed. "That hasn't been taught since the early 1900s."
"Sure, but doesn't mean they took it out of all the old duelling manuals. I wanted his voice gone. Not harmed . It was effective."
Flitwick didn't speak, but Polaris could feel his eyes staring at him.
Sprout inhaled. "Effective? He thought he was choking."
"His lungs were fine." Polaris was quick to respond.
"His fear wasn't."
Polaris looked at her now, voice lower, but steady. "He wanted to make me look like a monster. So, I gave him one. Briefly ."
"And you don't regret that?" she asked, more softly.
"No," Polaris said, trying to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "He asked for something he couldn't handle. I taught him what it felt like."
"You enjoyed it," Doyle accused. "You were smiling. "
Polaris shrugged slightly. "I didn't laugh, if that helps."
For a moment, Doyle just stared — as if Polaris had spoken in another language. His mouth opened, then closed again.
Then he turned sharply toward the headmaster, eyes wide, hands thrown up in exasperation.
"You're hearing this, right? He hexed me — and now he's joking about it! You're seriously going to just sit there and—?"
He broke off, gesturing wildly toward Polaris like he expected Dumbledore to intervene right then, right there.
Dumbledore leaned back slightly ignoring Doyle's gestures. "You're remarkably composed, Mr. Black."
"I've had practice."
Another pause.
Sprout softened her tone slightly. "I'm not saying Doyle was right to provoke you. But don't you think you could've walked away?"
"I could have," Polaris said. "But then he would've thought he'd won."
Dumbledore gave a slow nod, thoughtful. "And that matters to you."
Polaris didn't answer.
Not yes. Not no.
Just silence.
It said more than enough.
Flitwick finally spoke again. "May I speak with Mr. Black privately before we decide on next steps?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Of course. Pomona, would you mind accompanying Doyle for a moment? I believe the house elves have brought some tea."
Sprout rose gently and placed a hand on Doyle's shoulder. "Come along."
Doyle gave Polaris a final, indignant glare before storming toward the door.
The office settled. Flitwick stepped closer to Polaris once the door clicked shut.
Flitwick didn't look back at Dumbledore, and Polaris didn't either. It didn't matter — the words weren't for him.
" Vocifero Claudere ," he said, not accusing — but wary. "T You know what that spell was meant to do, don't you? It was meant to scare people. Shake them."
"I don't know. It was just a spell I saw," Polaris said flatly, not quite meeting their eyes.
"It was once used in duels to shake an opponent's nerves. Never meant to harm. But it was banned in 1904 for... emotional volatility."
Polaris didn't react. Not outwardly. He just gave a small, dismissive shrug — like it didn't matter, like none of it ever had.
"You're clever. Exceptionally so," Flitwick said with a tired sigh — not frustrated, just weary. "But cleverness isn't a shield. People rarely remember what you said — only how they felt when you said it."
"I didn't shout," Polaris murmured.
"You didn't need to," Flitwick said softly. "You knew exactly where to press. And why it would sting."
A pause.
"I'm not angry with you," he added, voice low. "But I worry. You're young, Polaris — and still learning, like all of us. But people won't see that. They'll see your name, your composure, your cleverness — and they'll use that as a reason to judge you harder. Expect more. Forgive less."
Polaris didn't respond right away. His gaze flicked briefly to the window, then to the far corner of the room — anywhere but the face across from him. His fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve.
"May I ask…" he said, quieter than before, "is something going to be done about Doyle?"
Flitwick's expression shifted, just barely. "That depends on the conversation we have with him."
Polaris nodded slowly. "It's only that… I heard that he was speaking near the greenhouses. He said he helped put up the posters in the Hufflepuff common room. Allegedly , he found it funny."
He glanced between the two men, his voice still calm.
"I know you may not know who started it. But if he helped spread it… that should count for something. Shouldn't it?"
His tone wasn't accusatory — more inquisitive than insistent, but undeniably deliberate.
Flitwick didn't answer right away. Behind his desk, Dumbledore shifted in his chair.
"That will be looked into," the headmaster said gently. "I give you my word, Mr. Black."
Polaris inclined his head. "Thank you, sir. I just… thought it was important to mention."
"It is," Flitwick said quietly. "And it does matter."
A pause.
Dumbledore rose slowly. "You are very precise, Polaris," he said. "I hope you'll remember that precision can heal as well as harm."
Polaris's mouth twitched as if he might say more but didn't. "Yes, Headmaster."
Dumbledore's expression softened. "A gentle warning, then. If you walk the line too often, even your best intentions will start to blur in the eyes of others. Do try your best not to cast anymore hexes at your classmates."
"I'll try very hard sir," Polaris responded.
Flitwick's eyes lingered on him a moment longer, then smiled.
"Off you go, then," Flitwick said, more gently. "Flying class waits for no one."
Polaris dipped his head again, just enough to be respectful.
"Yes, sir."
As he stepped into the corridor, Polaris let out a slow breath through his nose. His hands were still folded behind his back, but the fingers had curled tight.
He didn't regret it. Not a word, not a wand movement. If he had to do it again, he would — only faster.
— ❈ —
By the time he reached the field, the sky had already darkened a little — November, after all.
Flying class was already in motion: students weaving through poles on battered brooms, others sitting cross-legged on the grass, watching or whispering. Madam Hooch stood off to the side, frowning as she knelt beside a Hufflepuff who was holding their wrist and looking rather pained — or dramatic. Polaris couldn't tell which from this distance.
A few heads turned when they saw him coming.
Whispers, again. Always whispers.
He was halfway down the field when someone peeled away from the group.
Nia.
She jogged toward him, her curls shifting with every step, the worry on her face impossible to miss.
"You, okay?" she asked. "What happened? Did you get in trouble?"
Polaris blinked. He hadn't expected warmth. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, actually.
"I just got a warning," he said. "That's all. Doyle's still there, so… we'll see later. If they punish him. Or if he actually knows who started it."
Nia nodded, biting her lip. For a second, it looked like that might be it.
Then she said, softly, "Did you apologise?"
Polaris frowned. "To whom?"
"To Doyle."
His eyebrows lifted, baffled. "Why would I do that?"
Her mouth opened, incredulous. "Because you hurt him?"
"I scared him," Polaris corrected, sharper than he meant to be. "There's a difference."
Nia crossed her arms. "Well, either way, you made him feel small."
Polaris's face didn't move, but something behind his eyes did. "He made me feel like a joke. And you think I need to apologise? Do you hear yourself?"
"I'm not saying he was right," she said, voice rising slightly. "I'm saying—look, people like you—"
He froze.
Something in his chest dropped.
People like you.
His whole posture changed — colder, straighter, as if something had come undone inside him, and he was trying to keep it from showing.
"People like me?" he repeated.
Nia's eyes widened. "No, I didn't mean it like that —"
"I don't care how you meant it."
He turned before she could say more, words thick and hard behind his teeth.
"And don't expect me to answer," he added, without looking back, "if you call me by my name."
Then he walked away, crossing the field in stiff, steady strides toward Madam Hooch, who was still talking to the boy on the ground.
Waste of time, he muttered under his breath — not loud, not meant for anyone.
Just enough to make himself believe it.
The Chronologus Entry— November 22nd, 1975, Saturday
10:23 a.m.
There's a boy in Hufflepuff who clearly dislikes me.
Didn't know that until yesterday. We've shared at least two classes with the Hufflepuffs, and I couldn't have picked him out of a line-up — which says a lot, considering he apparently had enough time to hate me.
He helped put the posters up. Claimed he "didn't know who started it," like that made him any less pathetic. Professor Sprout made him write me an apology. Supervised, of course. As if a forced letter written under duress counts for anything.
Flitwick gave it to me this morning. Said I didn't have to read it. Good — I didn't plan on it.
I burned it.
He lost twenty points. That was it. A letter I didn't read, and some sand drained from an hourglass.
Still not sure what bothers me more — that he did it, or that he was so aggressively mediocre about it.
Honestly, if you're going to hate me, at least be interesting.
And the way he panicked — genuinely thought he couldn't breathe yesterday. I hadn't even done much. Just enough to give him what he was asking for. Watching him struggle? It was satisfying. No one dragged me off in chains. I got a warning. That was all.
I overheard one of the girls in the common room whispering something about "special privileges — because he's a Black."
Maybe. I don't care.
If privilege means I don't have to write some miserable apology letter to someone I couldn't pick out of a crowd? I'd bathe in it.
The posters are gone. The professors have yet to find out who started it. I doubt they ever will.
I've already accepted that the professors are useless.
But I know it'll come back. Not the posters, maybe — but the idea. The name. The way people looked at me like they were waiting for something to snap.
I'm not worried. But I do wonder who started it. Just in case I ever feel like returning the favour.
— Your resident Butcher , Polaris
The Chronologus Entry
20.56pm
It's probably nothing.
Probably .
Yesterday we spent most of the morning trailing after Flitwick through the woods behind the greenhouses. He called it a "botanical mindfulness excursion." Said it would help us develop patience, observational precision. I mostly just wanted the noise to stop.
It was a Thestral .
Thin as shadow, bones under skin, wings folded.
It walked straight out of the trees.
Everyone else seemed confused at the snap of a twig. Except Rafiq. He saw it too, he saw what snapped the twig.
You're only supposed to see them if you've seen death.
Real death.
Up close. Personal.
Mirza probably has. The way he went still after Flitwick explained — like someone had thrown a net over his thoughts.
But I haven't.
I haven't.
I would know if I had. Wouldn't I?
It's probably a mistake. A trick of the light. An anomaly. Maybe there's another explanation. Maybe I'm just the exception.
Except — it moved toward us.
It had walked out from the trees slowly, like it didn't mean to startle anyone. But then something shifted. It jerked forward — sudden, stiff, like it was afraid of me . Like it meant to strike. Flitwick stepped in before it could get close, but it wasn't just panicking. It was looking at me .
And Flitwick saw. I know he did — he glanced at me, just for a second, after the creature finally turned and disappeared into the trees.
I wish he hadn't noticed. I wish I hadn't.
I felt cold, but not afraid. Not the way I should have been.
I haven't gone back to Vass's notes. I can't focus on them — not properly. Not with this… whatever this is, pressing behind my eyes.
But maybe I should.
Maybe it's better to know.
Eventually.
Just — not yet.
Right now, I want things to stay still. I want to keep sitting with Sylvan, trying to get him to admit he is dyslexic and it's not a crime.
Help Corvus finish organising his duelling card collection in whatever bizarre hierarchy he insists makes sense.
Decide whether or not to help Bastian revise for History of Magic because he despises it with his whole soul. I'm still annoyed he didn't say anything to Aaron that one time. Even so I guess he's still my friend.
Nate's trying to get me into Hippogriff racing. He says one day we have to go see a real race together. I pretended not to be interested, but I think I am.
I want to win every quiz Flitwick sets and get top marks in Potions and Transfiguration. I need to. Like it could somehow soften my mother's voice when she sees my house tie.
She's written to me several times. I only opened one.
The first line stopped me.
'You will come home for Yule. And this time, you will explain yourself —'
I didn't read the rest.
I've been writing back to Uncle Alphard instead. He signs his letters in green ink and always includes some absurdly rare magical fact like it's a secret we're both in on. He never asks questions I can't answer.
I've missed him, terribly.
He makes things feel more normal.
Like I'm not losing grip.
—P. Black
December 22nd, 1975, Monday
Polaris didn't have much to pack.
He sat cross-legged on his bed, folding a spare jumper before placing it atop a nearly empty trunk. A few sketchbooks, his journal, and one wrapped bundle of parchment sat inside already, neatly stacked with enough space left over to fit a kneazle. There wasn't much to bring back to Grimmauld Place — he had clothes at home, clothes at Hogwarts, and frankly, the less he brought, the easier it would be to pretend none of it mattered.
His hand hovered briefly over the bundle of parchment — the Vass notes, still folded tight and bound with a thin strip of ribbon.
He took it out carefully, the paper cool and stiff between his fingers. For a moment, he just sat there, looking down at it — as if weighing something heavier than paper.
Then he crossed to his desk and placed it in the drawer, closing it with quiet finality.
Across the room, Felix was shouting.
"Charlie! You absolute gremlin , how many times do we have to talk about your socks?"
Polaris didn't even look up. The sock in question was lying by the desk chair — striped, tragic, and definitely unpaired. Polaris had seen its twin earlier in the week sticking out from under the his wardrobe. Charlie had, at the time, claimed it had "migrated."
"This is the third time this week ," Felix continued, flinging the offending sock at Charlie's bed. "Do your socks have a death wish, or do they just hate each other?"
"They're adventurous," Charlie said lazily from his perch by the window, swinging his legs. "Unlike you."
"Adventurous," Felix repeated, scandalised. "They're feral . Honestly, I should hex them into place."
Rafiq snorted and muttered something under his breath, which Felix immediately picked up on.
"And you ," Felix rounded on him, "can you keep your disgusting frog on your side of the room? I saw it move. Again. I was folding my robes and it blinked at me."
"It's a toad ," Rafiq snapped, deeply offended. "He's in his enclosure, and he didn't blink at you — he was judging you; there's a difference."
"It's a frog," Polaris said flatly without looking up. "It's shameful you don't even know what your own pet is."
Felix let out a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "Merlin's sake, can we just—"
But Rafiq raised a hand, dramatically cutting him off. "No, no, clearly this is symbolic. The only two purebloods in the room are also the most insufferable. Surely it means something."
Polaris didn't even look up. "What does it mean, exactly?" he asked, deadpan. "Some kind of grand cosmic punishment for your frog-related ignorance?"
Rafiq narrowed his eyes. "Toad."
"Frog," Polaris corrected blandly. "You're sure you're not projecting? Maybe you're the symbolic one.
Meanwhile, Charlie had made the grievous mistake of combining two opposing food groups — something involving chocolate frogs and crisps — and was chewing happily, crumbs falling onto his duvet.
Polaris caught it in the corner of his eye, nose scrunching as he spoke to Charlie.
"Eat that outside. I've told you before—no food in the dormitory. It smells like something died under your tongue."
Felix, mid-rant and entirely unaware Charlie had been eating, whirled around. "You're eating ?!" His voice rose an octave. "I can't even think straight when the air smells like… Merlin, is that vinegar? Vinegar and chocolate?!"
"I was hungry," Charlie said around a mouthful.
"I'm packing !" Felix cried, throwing his hands up. "I just want one peaceful night where I don't trip over socks, inhale cursed snacks, and lock eyes with an amphibian judging me from a jar!"
Polaris shut his trunk with a soft click.
He didn't say it aloud, but he agreed with Felix, for once. He'd been hoping for a quiet evening too. But chaos, apparently, was unavoidable — no matter how little you brought with you.
— ❈ —
The Ravenclaw first-year boys' bathroom was busier in the mornings, which is why Polaris prefers the evenings. Two of the sinks still gurgled softly, but most of the others had already shut off for the night. The enchanted mirrors were in a mellow mood, offering the occasional drowsy compliment — "Looking sharp, young man. If a little pale." — and the toothbrush holders hummed gently to themselves.
Polaris sat perched on the marble ledge beneath one of the windows, knees tucked up, a slim leather-bound novel balanced in his lap. His enchanted toothbrush was dutifully scrubbing his teeth with rhythmic precision, moving on its own with the occasional magical sparkle. He didn't seem to notice it — eyes flicking across the page, wholly immersed in the story.
Across the room, Oliver muttered a goodnight and left. Idris followed, towel slung over one shoulder, yawning as he went.
A few moments later, Rafiq wandered in, hair damp and curling from his shower. He headed to the far sink, rummaging in his toiletry pouch. When he turned and spotted Polaris, his face lit up with amusement.
"You always read when you brush your teeth?"
Polaris slowly looked up, the toothbrush still working in his mouth.
He gave Rafiq a long, withering look.
Then pointedly turned back to his book.
Rafiq snorted but didn't press. He squeezed toothpaste onto a Muggle toothbrush — a slightly frayed one with a green handle — and began brushing manually. The contrast was mildly ridiculous: Polaris, effortlessly elegant with a levitating toothbrush and novel in hand, and Rafiq beside him at the mirror, hunched forward like he was preparing for dental combat.
Polaris finally turned a page, waited another beat for the enchantment to finish polishing his molars, then removed the toothbrush from his mouth and set it back in its holder with a faint chime .
"Yes," he said, voice clear now. "Because I don't need to stare at myself while I do it. Unlike some people."
Rafiq raised an eyebrow in the mirror. "Are you implying I enjoy watching myself spit into a sink?"
"I'm implying you enjoy hearing yourself talk, which is roughly the same thing."
Rafiq grinned, mouth full of foam. "You're just mad I interrupted your date with that book."
Polaris didn't dignify that with a response. He turned a page, slowly.
"…You remember that thing?" Rafiq said eventually, brushing slower now. "In the woods. The… horse. The not-a-horse."
Polaris didn't look up, but his gaze stilled on the page.
"I've been thinking about it. A lot."
Another moment.
"I know it's probably weird to bring it up here. Not trying to pry. Just…" Rafiq shifted, the bristles of his toothbrush squeaking faintly. "You looked at it too and well, no one else could see it..."
Polaris kept his expression neutral. He placed the book aside carefully before turning slightly.
"I didn't see anything."
The lie came smooth — practiced. The kind that came not from deception but from instinct. From protection. He blinked once, letting the silence settle.
Rafiq didn't answer right away. He rinsed, spat into the sink, and stared into the mirror like it might give him some instruction.
Polaris watched him carefully. Then, cautious: "They only appear if someone's seen—"
"I know what they are," Rafiq said quickly, too quickly. Then softer, "Doesn't matter."
Polaris tilted his head just slightly. He wanted to ask. He almost did.
"I was just startled by a sound," Polaris said evenly as he shifted slightly. "Nothing more." Polaris then opened his book again.
Rafiq didn't press. There was a pause as he rinsed out his mouth and reached for a towel, and for a moment it seemed they might retreat into silence again — until he cleared his throat, casually.
"So… why do you call it Yule?" he asked, glancing at Polaris's reflection in the mirror. "Everyone else raised wizard-side does it, I've noticed. But it's still just… Christmas, right?"
Polaris lowered his book slightly, watching Rafiq through the foggy edge of the glass. It wasn't a bad question. But it still took him a few seconds to consider answering it.
"I suppose it's just what it's always been called," he said at last, setting the book down. "The season. The rituals. Christmas is the Muggle version." His voice didn't hold any judgment — just the mild distance of someone who'd grown up steeped in something else.
Rafiq smirked, drying his hands. "And what are you most excited for this Yule, then?"
Polaris blinked slowly, as if debating the effort of answering.
He didn't lift his eyes from the page.
Didn't see the page, either.
He was expected to look forward to it. First time home since being Sorted. Since publicly disappointing every expectation tied to his name.
Yule wouldn't be celebration.
His expression flickered, then settled. The real answer was something he wasn't about to say.
So, he shrugged slightly, and replied — flat, almost flippant:
"I miss my house-elf doing everything for me."
Rafiq squinted at him; unsure he'd heard right. "Your what?"
Polaris looked up, genuinely confused. "My house-elf."
He waited for recognition. None came. "You don't know what a house-elf is?"
"Sounds made up," Rafiq said. "What — is it like a house pet?"
Polaris frowned. "They're magical creatures. Bound to serve wizarding families. Ours is named Kreature. He cooks, cleans, takes care of the property, irons things. That sort of thing."
Rafiq stared at him. "So. A slave."
"No," Polaris said immediately, as though correcting an obvious mistake. "He wants to serve. He was bonded to the Black family when he was born. It's… what he lives for."
Rafiq's eyebrows shot up. "Right. So, he's a slave who likes being a slave?"
Polaris sat up straighter, mouth tightening. "It's not the same thing. They're not like us. House-elves are… magically bound to their families. They don't want freedom. That would be—shameful. Or even dangerous. They need to serve someone. It's part of their identity. Their magic reacts to disobedience. Hurts them. They wouldn't survive without a master."
Rafiq just stared at him, towel slung over his shoulder, toothbrush forgotten in one hand.
"That's still slavery," he said quietly.
Polaris didn't answer for a long moment. He stared at the tiles instead, steam curling faintly around him, toothbrush now still beside the basin.
"This is exactly why I'm not in any rush to make friends with Muggle-borns," he said finally, voice low and even. "You come into our world and decide how everything should work, instead of trying to understand how it does ."
Rafiq recoiled, mouth parting like he'd been slapped — then blinked, recovering with theatrical indignation.
"Bloody hell," he said, with mock gravity, "Now I'm the colonial invader. All because I'm mildly alarmed by magical slavery."
Polaris gave a sharp exhale through his nose. "It's not —" He stopped. Then muttered, "You're impossible."
Rafiq leaned on the sink, eyebrows raised like he was delivering a proposal at the Wizengamot. "So, hypothetically—if I did understand. If I promised to try. Would that finally earn me the right to call you Polaris?"
Polaris turned to him slowly, half-expecting sarcasm. What he got instead was a deliberately hopeful expression that was trying just a bit too hard to look casual.
He stared at Rafiq for a second longer than he meant to. Then He shifted his focus, lips twitching faintly.
"I'm still deciding if you deserve a name at all."
Rafiq grinned. "I'll take that as progress."
Eventually, Rafiq tossed his toothbrush into the basin, gave Polaris a little salute, and wandered off toward the showers, humming some Muggle tune under his breath. The door swung shut behind him with a soft click.
Polaris looked up.
The mirror met his gaze.
For a second, he stared too long.
Steam curled softly around the frame, clouding the edges. His reflection wavered faintly, pale and indistinct — like something half-formed. His hair clung damply to his temples; his cheeks still flushed from the heat. There was no bruise, no mark, no visible crack in the surface.
But the mirror, which usually offered a smug or sleepy compliment by now, said nothing at all.
He touched the edge of the porcelain sink, knuckles white. Then, softly, he muttered to the boy in the mirror—
"Don't flinch."
It wasn't fear. Not quite. It was the muscle-deep tension of someone preparing for something they could neither fight nor flee. The calm before a ritual he didn't believe in but had to perform anyway.
No panic. Just anticipation. And the quiet dread of someone who knew they couldn't win.
Polaris stood straighter. Shoulders back, chin lifted slightly. The training kicked in, automatic — the posture of obedience. The illusion of control.
Home wasn't safety. It was scrutiny.
He didn't want to go.
But he wasn't allowed to say that.
So instead, he dressed his thoughts in silence, steeled his nerves, and prepared like a soldier going to war.