[7,882 Words]
January 21st, 1976, Wednesday
It hadn't been difficult to slip into the library after hours. Madam Pince was rigid about closing at eight sharp, and by half past eleven the castle fell into its usual lull — the kind of silence that meant even the portraits were dozing.
Most students surrendered to their beds; tomorrow's classes demanded it, though few believed sleep would make the mornings any kinder.
The real challenge was timing. Filch's patrols were erratic, and that wretched cat seemed to scent mischief before it happened. Prefects were predictable, more gossip than rule-keeping. As for the ghosts, Polaris had little to worry about. They tended to avoid him, and he preferred it that way. Only Myrtle ever insisted on haunting him, flitting out of toilets with an ear-splitting wail.
Unlocking the doors was simple — Alohomora, whispered once, and the heavy lock had clicked aside like a sigh. By half past twelve he and Corvus were inside, steps hushed against the floors, while Bastian held his post outside the library entrance.
Earlier, Polaris had handed his mirror to Bastian, who was waiting two corridors down with wand in hand. Corvus held the other, ready to see a flicker at the first sign of trouble.
Corvus crouched at the velvet rope that cordoned off the Restricted Section, his face drawn in a baffled frown. He glanced at Polaris, then back at the barrier, whispering in disbelief.
"Why don't we just—" he gestured vaguely, "—go under it? Or over? It's a rope, not a wall."
Polaris stood a pace behind him, wand lifted, the thin beam of Lumos casting shadows. He shook his head once, curt.
"Because if it were that simple, everyone would have done it already."
Corvus squinted at it. "It's literally waist height."
Polaris shifted closer, letting the light run along the fibres. "Think about it. Hogwarts brags about being one of the finest schools, and this—" he gestured at the rope "—is what keeps curious hands away from dangerous texts? If it were that simple, half the castle would have read their way into Azkaban by now."
Corvus swallowed, edging back from where his fingers had hovered too close. "You think it's cursed?"
"I think it's Hogwarts." He said it simply, like that was the end of it. "Everything here has teeth, even when it smiles." He moved nearer, light grazing over the posts again. "If it were just a rope, they wouldn't call this section Restricted. They'd lock it in a cupboard."
Corvus huffed under his breath, muttering something that sounded like, "Still looks like a ruddy rope." But he didn't try again. Instead, he hovered nervously beside Polaris, his own Lumos shaking faintly as the two of them studied the silent line of shelves beyond.
He stopped at the fourth case down from the rope, angling the glow higher, eyes fixed on a gap where one book looked slightly out of place compared to the rest.
Behind him, Corvus shifted nervously. You know," he whispered, "I don't get it."
Polaris didn't answer. His throat felt tight, like words might catch if he tried. He kept his eyes on the shelves, on the clean geometry of spines in a row — safer to study the pattern than risk turning and letting Corvus see whatever flickered behind his face.
But Corvus continued, frustration edging through his hushed voice. "These notes. This book. Before Christmas you said it was a dead end. You dropped it. Said it was nothing. And now—" He gestured around them at the looming stacks. "Now, we're here. What changed?"
Polaris's hand tightened on his wand. He decided not to respond.
"Why now? Why's it suddenly important? Is it even about the notes anymore, or is it—" Corvus faltered only for a breath, but pressed on anyway, "—because of what happened over Yule? Are you just trying to—"
"Stop." Polaris's voice barely rose above a whisper. The wand light shuddered once before he forced it steady. He turned at last, face shadowed, expression fixed into something blanker than it felt.
The hush made his pulse feel louder than it was.
He hated that Corvus's guess came close enough to hurt. Hated more that some part of him wanted to admit it — wanted to say he hadn't slept properly since December, that the memories replayed until even his dreams turned cruel. But shame held the words in place, like a hand pressed flat against his chest.
When he spoke again, his tone had hardened into something cold, a finality that left no space for reply. "Don't drag Yule into this. Not here. Not ever."
Corvus flinched at the edge in his tone but didn't back away. His own light trembled faintly, reflecting the tension carved across his face. "I'm not dragging anything. I just—" His voice cracked, more frustration than anger. "You won't talk to me, Polaris. You won't talk to anyone. How else am I supposed to—"
A crackle interrupted him. From the mirror on Corvus's belt, Bastian's voice hissed out, low but impatient: "Are you two going to be much longer? Because Filch has passed already, and I'm not planning to spend all night hiding behind a bloody suit of armour."
Polaris exhaled through his nose, the sound more irritation than relief. He didn't even glance at the mirror. "Then don't. No one forced you to be here."
He didn't mean for it to sound that harsh — but the words hung there. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to take them back. Better silence than admitting he'd slipped.
Silence wound itself taut, a thread pulled to snapping.
When Bastian spoke again, his voice was flat with bitterness. "Right. Of course. Of course. Since you clearly don't need me here."
The mirror went dead with a faint pop.
Corvus winced, shooting Polaris a look equal parts disapproval and resignation. Polaris met it only for a flicker, then dropped his gaze back to the shelves.
He wanted to say something, anything — but the thought of how it would sound turned his stomach. Better to swallow it down.
So, he said nothing, turning the light back to the shelves as if silence were all he knew.
The gap still drew him — that one spine nudged a fraction out of line, as though waiting to be noticed. He lifted his wand, whispered, "Revelio."
Light trickled out across the wood, crawling over the edges of the case. For a moment it showed nothing, and then — a faint outline burned into view, a soft rectangular glow that hovered just above the row of spines. It was like seeing a doorframe drawn in dust-light, except nothing lay beyond it.
Polaris moved closer, lifting his wand to follow the edges of the shimmer. He felt the corner of his mouth tighten — he'd been right. There was something about this shelf.
The pattern made sense now. Those seventh-years hadn't been loitering at random. They'd known what he hadn't: this case was stitched with its own kind of magic.
He could guess what it was for — to draw a book across without ever stepping past the rope. But the how eluded him. What triggered it? A charm? A word? A call only the books themselves recognised?
Corvus edged closer, trying to get a better look.
And then a face burst through the glow.
"I knew I heard you!" Myrtle shrieked, her voice shrill enough to rattle the shelves.
Both boys yelped, stumbling back — Corvus nearly dropped his wand, Polaris's light jerking across the case. The sound that burst out of him was loud and unsteady, his chest heaving like he'd sprinted.
Adrenaline roared, narrowing his vision until all he saw was Myrtle's grinning blur. His hand pressed against his chest, trying to force his heart to slow.
"Shut up, Myrtle." The words cut out of him before he could think, as if striking first might smother the fear before it turned to something worse.
His voice dropped lower, bitter now, every syllable honed to hurt.
"You're an annoying pest. You cling and wail and shove yourself in where you're not wanted. Do you even hear yourself? Pathetic, shrieking, begging to be noticed. That's why no one takes you seriously. That's why no one ever stays."
Myrtle's face crumpled. The indignation she'd carried in deflated into something small and fragile, her watery eyes trembling as she hugged her arms across herself.
"That's not fair," she whispered, voice breaking, "I only wanted to help. I thought you liked when I—" She hiccupped, her whole form flickering faintly. "Everyone says things like that. Everyone."
With a strangled sob, she plunged through the floor and was gone.
Polaris's chest still heaved with the aftershocks, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He wanted to swallow the words, but shame locked them in his mouth. His wand shook faintly in his grip.
Corvus's stare burned into him, wide and incredulous. "What is wrong with you lately?" His whisper cut sharper than a shout, not angry at Myrtle's treatment but at the edge that hadn't left Polaris's voice all night. "You bite at Bastian, you snap at me, and now this—" he gestured at the space Myrtle had vanished through, exasperation flaring. "It's like you can't go two minutes without tearing into someone."
Polaris stiffened. The words hit harder than he expected, gnarled in a place already sore. His best friend—his best friend—and even he was saying it. The worst part was that he wasn't wrong.
"There's nothing wrong with me." The protest came out hard, carrying the crack of something breaking beneath them, more than just anger. Almost convincing — except for the catch in his grip, the breath that snagged like he'd swallowed glass.
"I don't need you—" his voice thinned, tightening around the edges "—or anyone—telling me how I'm supposed to act."
When he spoke again, the sound had hollowed, quieter only because the fight had drained from it, leaving disbelief uneven in its place. "You're meant to be on my side."
Corvus's mouth parted, the protest already there — I am — but the words never had the chance to leave.
And then another voice cut through.
"Well, well. Isn't this touching?"
Light cut across the aisle, bright and deliberate. Both boys jerked toward it, Corvus's wand nearly slipping from his hand. A prefect's badge gleamed in the glow, and Evan Rosier stepped into view like he'd been waiting for the right dramatic moment.
He let the silence stretch before speaking again, eyes roaming over them with open amusement.
"Honestly, you might be the worst sneaks I've ever seen. No lookout, voices carrying halfway down the corridor, screaming like banshees —" his grin widened, cruel in its charm, "—did you want to be caught?"
Corvus flushed, stammering, "We—we had—" but faltered, unable to offer anything that didn't sound pathetic.
Polaris frowned, thrown. They had a lookout. His chest tightened at the realisation, confusion flickering briefly across his face.
Evan caught it at once. His smirk deepened. "Oh, don't tell me you really thought you'd get away with it like this? Merlin, even Regulus could've managed better in first year."
Corvus shifted unsurely, gaze flicking unsurely to Polaris.
Evan took a step closer, lowering his wand light so shadows ran sharp across his features. His voice dropped, silky with mockery. "So, what was it then? What was worth all this effort?"
Neither boy answered. The silence stretched taut until Polaris finally let out a breath, he was past caring, past the point of trying to mend anything tonight. His voice was flat, drained.
"A book."
Evan blinked once, then gave a short laugh that was equal parts delight and disbelief. "Clearly." His eyes slid to the shelf they were standing in front of, lingering there a beat too long.
"You know," he said, tone lazy with amusement, "you could've saved yourself the trouble and just asked me."
Corvus stiffened, caught between relief and dread, but Evan's gaze never left Polaris.
Polaris's stomach knotted, but his face gave nothing back. "And what, you'd have handed it over out of the goodness of your heart?"
"Goodness?" Evan laughed outright now, warm and mocking all at once. "Hardly. But I could get it. Not tonight, mind you — I've got rounds to finish, and I don't fancy Pince's banshee shrieking any more than you. Tomorrow morning. You tell me what you want, and I'll make sure it finds you."
The words hung there, longer than needed. Polaris felt something twist at the back of his mind.
What kind of favour? What would Rosier want from him? He kept his face still, refusing to show the flicker of unease, but the curiosity burned.
"Don't pull that frosty Ravenclaw stare," Evan said at last, clearly amused. "I can see it already — that Black look. Cold as marble. Keep it. You'll need it."
He flicked a glance down the aisle, the sound of his footsteps already turning away.
"Now — off with you, before Filch actually does show. You're lucky it was me."
Evan's footsteps faded and for a moment neither spoke. The silence pressed heavier than before, pulling Polaris back to the last words he'd thrown at Corvus.
Polaris's throat felt tight. He didn't want to hear whatever Corvus might say — but he didn't want the silence either. His mouth moved before his caution could catch it.
His voice was low, forced lighter than he felt. "Bastian left."
Corvus turned, slow, as though weighing the cost of answering. Polaris didn't look at him; he stared at the dark line of shelves instead, as if the books could shield him from whatever expression might be waiting.
When Corvus finally spoke, it wasn't the reply Polaris wanted.
"Maybe I'd have done the same."
It wasn't cruel — only honest. And somehow that stung worse.
Polaris's stomach twisted, heat and shame catching under his ribs. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, to say something that would make Corvus stay. But the words caught, tangled in the same knot of pride and guilt that had ruined the night to begin with.
"Goodnight, Rye." Corvus's tone was quiet, tired. Final.
Corvus walked away. Polaris didn't move, the words already looping in his head.
January 22nd, 1976, Thursday
The night had offered no rest. Not even dreams — just the same reel of words and faces, running until dawn. He had wanted sleep, but every time he closed his eyes Myrtle's expression returned, or Corvus's voice, or the hollow snap of his own denial. By morning, the castle's silence felt heavier than sleep itself, pressing against his ribs like a weight he couldn't shift.
It wasn't pride that kept him from seeking them out straight away. The truth was simpler. Things didn't reset because you said sorry, not when they had broken in the way last night had. An apology over toast and pumpkin juice wouldn't undo the edge in his voice, wouldn't erase Bastian's bitterness when he left, or the way Corvus had looked at him — not angry, not exactly, but unsettled in a way Polaris hadn't meant to cause.
Besides, breakfast was no place for it. Too many eyes, too many ears waiting to stitch scraps of conversation into stories that weren't theirs.
He hadn't bothered with the Great Hall. Food felt pointless, and the thought of sitting under the gaze of a hundred curious eyes was unbearable. Even the idea of swallowing anything made his stomach twist, as though the very thought of food might turn against him. He'd only managed to tell Evan what book he needed. Even that felt like more effort than it should have.
So instead of the Great Hall, his feet carried him elsewhere. He paused outside a door he'd never once had reason to open, though he knew it by reputation: the second-floor girls' bathroom. Myrtle's haunt.
He hesitated. Then pushed it open. Somewhere behind him, footsteps slowed — just long enough to notice where he'd gone — before carrying on.
It was colder than he expected — not the draughty kind of cold, but the stagnant kind, as if the air had never quite learned to move. His shoes scraped faintly against the tiles as he stepped inside. The row of sinks stretched along the left wall, their mirrors dulled with a film of condensation though there was no steam, no reason for it. One tap dripped steadily, the sound sharp against the silence.
The door thudded shut behind him, echoing too loudly.
There was a ripple of movement near the far sink.
"You've got nerve, coming here."
Myrtle drifted half out of the pipe, arms folded tight. "First you scream at me — scream — like I'm some horrible thing, and now you come waltzing in like nothing happened?"
Her eyes were wet, though she tried to glare through it, the way a child might force themselves to look older, angrier. "If you think I'll let you insult me again, you're wrong. I could—" she broke off with a sniff, then rallied, chin lifting — "I could haunt you forever. Whisper in your ear while you sleep. Rattle chains. Drop pipes on your head."
Polaris kept his gaze on the floor tiles. His hand twitched against his sleeve. "I shouldn't have said it."
"That's all?" Her pitch rose, shrill with disbelief. "You call me pathetic, you say no one ever stays — and all I get is 'I shouldn't have said it'? That's not an apology. That's nothing!"
The word nothing landed harder than he expected, uncomfortably close to what he already thought of himself. His throat caught. He forced the word out anyway, fragile as a crack spreading through ice: "I'm sorry."
Her lip trembled, but she forced a glare through it. "Then why does it sound like you're sorry for yourself, not me?"
"I meant it." The word came too sharp, almost an accusation — as if her doubt were worse than his guilt. His wand tapped restlessly against his knuckles, betraying what his face refused to show. "I lost control. I shouldn't have taken it out on you. You didn't deserve it."
Not an excuse, not a deflection — not the easy blame of saying they were caught because of her. Just the truth.
For a moment, Myrtle blinked, startled. Her lip trembled — then hardened again.
"Then prove it."
Polaris's head jerked up.
"If you really mean it," she pressed, trembling but unrelenting, "then do something. Every time I say you're too loud, too different, you act like I'm being silly. But I feel it. You rattle me. Nobody else does that. Nobody else makes me think about leaving."
Polaris blinked at her, bewildered. "Leaving? What are you even talking about?"
Her chin lifted, stubborn through the tremor in her lip. "I want you to help me stop. To stop being here. To set me free."
The words struck cold. Go. Stop. End. That was more than leaving — that was erasing. Killing.
"That isn't— that's not something I can—" His chest knotted. Just me. Just Polaris. That was supposed to mean ordinary, harmless. Not… whatever she thought she felt. His voice cracked sharper than he meant: "I can't do that."
"Yes, you can!" she snapped, flickering brighter for an instant. "Don't lie to me. I feel it every time you're near. You shake me apart. If you really mean you're sorry, then help me go. I don't want to stay here anymore. Not like this."
Her words needled under his skin. Feel it? No one feels it. No one names it. That was the whole point — it stays hidden. If she could sense it too, then it wasn't in his head. It was in him.
He shook his head, the denial rising like bile. "I don't know what you think I am, but I'm not that. I'm not—whatever you think you feel."
"Just try!" Myrtle cried, the words breaking, almost childish in their demand.
"You don't know what it's like—being stuck here, watching everyone else leave, move on, while I—" Her voice fractured, echoing sharp against tile. "I'm tired of it. Tired of being the one who never gets to go. You could make it stop. You could. And if you don't…" Her voice dropped, trembling now. "If you don't, then what good is your sorry?"
"I said I can't!" The words tore out sharper than he meant, edged with panic, anger, both.
Something snapped in the air. Pressure coiled in his skull, sharp enough to make him stagger. A hand flew up to his temple, sleeve already damp where a sudden trickle of blood slid from his nose.
And Myrtle's form juddered violently — not a girl but a shadow tearing across tile.
Then it stilled. She hovered there again, wide-eyed, breathless though she had none.
His heart lurched. Merlin, she's right.
"You—" Her voice trembled. "You felt that too, didn't you? You did. I knew it."
Polaris pressed his sleeve hard to his nose, the copper taste of blood in his throat, the pounding behind his eyes near blinding. "No," he forced out, hoarse, shaken. "I didn't. That wasn't—"
But she only stared, desperate certainty tightening her features, as if the moment had proved everything she'd been saying all along.
There was no point denying it now. Whatever had just happened, Myrtle had felt it too.
His sleeve bloomed red. Different. He knew it already — had known it his whole life, though the word burned whenever it brushed too close. But different in this way? To unmake someone? To gut them out of existence?
"Even if it were possible," he rasped, voice cracked with fear, "I couldn't. Not without—" The pounding in his head swallowed the rest. "It would cost too much."
Myrtle drifted closer. Her face was set, strangely calm beneath the glimmer of tears.
He forced himself to meet her gaze, though his own felt emptied. "Do you really not want to be here anymore? You're already—" His throat caught. "You're already dead. So, what does it mean, if you're not here? What does it mean to… go?"
For once, she didn't answer straight away. The bathroom rang with silence, only the drip of a leaky tap breaking it. When she spoke, her voice was thin but steady, stripped of its dramatics.
"It means I don't wake up in the same place every day. Don't sit here crying while everyone else laughs outside. Don't keep watching the world move on without me." Her voice shook, thin as glass. "It means I don't have to remember it all—the way it happened—again and again. It means I could rest. Really rest."
She drew a shaky breath, almost steadying. "And you've already shown me what that feels like. Just for a second, when I flickered—I felt it. The quiet. The peace. I want that more than anything."
He stared at her; sleeve pressed hard to his face. She meant it. Every word. And some part of him understood — too well. But understanding wasn't the same as being able. Or willing.
He could walk out now; pretend she hadn't asked him to end her existence. Or he could try. Try and fail, and maybe that would be enough. Maybe she'd forgive him for at least trying.
His gaze fell to the wand in his hand. It had chosen him for a reason. He hated that reason.
Would it be mercy, or something worse?
The thought knotted his stomach. But in the end, the silence was heavier than choice. He raised it, shut his eyes, and forced himself to concentrate on that strange pull he'd felt before, when she'd flickered.
For an instant, the air thinned. His wand hummed like a struck wire, not from any spell he knew.
Myrtle's form shuddered—then flared, brighter, steadier, her features softening with wonder. For a heartbeat it looked like she might dissolve into the peace she begged for.
Then the strain ripped through him.
A white-hot spike split his skull, so sharp it was sound and pain at once. The air thinned, like the whole room had been yanked away from his lungs. His wand slipped from his fingers as his knees crashed against tile.
The floor tilted. Pressure roared in his ears — ringing, shattering, a hollow thrum like bells struck too close. Copper flooded his mouth. He gagged on it, choking, body jerking as if the air itself burned through him.
The world blurred.
Myrtle's light collapsed back to its usual pallor. She hovered above him, horrified, her voice cracking in panic.
"You nearly did it… I knew you could. You almost set me free."
Her face narrowed into a tunnel, pale and urgent above him. The last thing he felt was the cold bite of tile against his cheek.
Not tile. Wood. Carpet under his knees, her wand raised, her voice burning in his skull. He flinched, choking on the memory as much as the blood in his throat. The pain was the same, the same.
Not again, not her, not this—
"Polaris!"
Then—black.
January 24th, 1976, Saturday
When Polaris opened his eyes, he wasn't surprised to find himself in St Mungo's.
Confused, yes — but not surprised. It felt inevitable. As though everything had been pulling him here anyway, every choice and every mistake gathering into this one end point.
The first thing he noticed wasn't the bed, or the room, but the sound — a soft, charmed hush that pressed so close it magnified the beat of his own pulse. For a moment, he thought it was still the ringing from the bathroom.
Polaris lay still against the pillows, trying to keep his breathing even, as though calm could be performed if he made it quiet enough. But his chest kept stuttering shallowly, each breath thinner than the last, as if his lungs had shrunk inside him.
But his thoughts refused to still.
He saw Myrtle again — not wailing but wide-eyed, almost peaceful. You nearly did it… you almost set me free.
His stomach knotted. What had he done? What had he almost done?
The sour rise at the back of his throat made it hard to swallow.
Was that why his head hurt? Why it rang and burned? Was that him — doing something without meaning to? Could he stop it? Could he stop anything?
He thought of the Grey Lady, of the way she said something similar to what Myrtle had said.
If just existing near him shook ghosts apart, what did that make him?
He bit the inside of his cheek instead, tasting copper, forcing the panic back into its box.
The first face he'd seen when he came round hadn't been a Healer's, but his father's. He had been there on the couch, coat still on, scarf trailing carelessly to the side, the Daily Prophet open in one hand and a mug in the other.
The Healers had come and gone since. The same ones as always, with the same questions — his name, the year, if he remembered what had happened. They called it an "episode," as usual. He'd told them he didn't know what caused it. A lie. His father's eyes had lingered on him then, steady in a way that made it obvious he didn't believe a word. But he hadn't said anything, just let them finish their work and leave.
Now, at last, they were alone.
The steam curled faintly from his father's mug, carrying the bitter edge of coffee. He never drank coffee — except when he was trying not to drink anything stronger. It should have meant restraint, but to Polaris it was just another mask. Sober or drunk, he hated every version of his father.
It had only worsened since Yule, when his father told him in that flat, unyielding way that his mother had been sent away, but only until summer. Until. As though her return were inevitable, as though his father couldn't see how the very thought hollowed him. If it were up to Polaris, she would never set foot in Grimmauld again. But nothing was ever up to him.
The soft scuff of leather caught his ear — shoes, polished, close to the bedside. His father was standing in front of him. Polaris kept his gaze low.
"Look at me."
The words landed like a weight. Not loud, but absolute. Polaris's throat tightened. He dragged his chin up, forcing his eyes to meet his father's.
"You told them you didn't know what happened." his father's voice was quiet, measured. "That might pass with Healers. It won't with me."
Polaris shifted uncomfortably.
"Did someone do this to you?"
For a moment, Polaris didn't understand. Then he saw it in the tilt of his father's head, the sharp steadiness of his gaze. His father wasn't asking if he'd overreached or botched some spell. He was asking if someone had done it to him.
The thought unsettled him — because it almost sounded like his father wanted the answer to be yes.
Polaris swallowed hard, his fingers twisting the blanket into knots. "No," he said at last, low but uneven. His pulse betrayed him; his heel pressed hard into the mattress, toes curling tight as if bracing for impact. "No one… no one touched me."
His father's eyes didn't move, as if weighing the truth against the lie. Then, finally, he eased back half a step, the shift small but noticeable, like pressure loosening from the room.
"Then did someone make you do something?"
Polaris blinked, a sharp ache flaring behind his eyes. His mouth opened, closed. "I—I don't…" The words tangled, slipping away before he could finish.
"Did they ask you to try something you shouldn't? Push you past your limits? Because if no one laid a hand on you, then someone put the idea in your head." His tone sharpened, still low but carrying a hard edge. "That's the only other way."
Polaris's stomach turned. It wasn't a question anymore — it was a narrowing of possibilities, as if his father had already decided one of them had to be true. Either someone had struck him down, or someone had driven him into it. The idea that it might simply have been him — unguarded, unasked for — didn't even seem to fit in his father's mouth.
"No one—" his voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, forcing the rest out. "No one made me do anything."
For a moment his father just stared, the weight of his gaze heavy enough that Polaris's hands twitched against each other, nails scraping briefly against his palm. Then his father gave the faintest nod — not of belief, not really, but of containment, as though tucking the answer away for later scrutiny.
His father sighed, dragging a hand down his face. For a moment, the mask of composure cracked into something wearier. Then he crossed the room, tugged one of the chairs closer, and set it in front of the bed.
"Fine," his father said at last, tone flat, but honed to a point. "If no one touched you and no one made you — then tell me what you tried. What was it that nearly wrung you dry? You realise you could've left nothing of yourself?
Polaris's chest clenched. He shook his head quickly. "I didn't—"
His father cut across, sharper now, though his voice never rose. "Don't waste my time with denials. I watched you lie to the Healers. I won't have it here. Not from you." He leaned forward, gaze fixed and hard. "So, tell me."
The silence burned. Polaris's throat closed around the protest, his fingers tangling tighter in the blanket. He held his father's eyes as long as he could bear it — and then broke away, staring down at his hands instead.
"I… I was trying to help someone," he muttered at last, the words small, almost swallowed.
His father's eyes narrowed, but he didn't speak. He only leaned back slightly, waiting. The silence pressed like a hand on Polaris's throat, until the words tumbled out before he could stop them.
"It was—" his tongue felt clumsy—"a ghost. Myrtle. She—she kept asking, over and over. Said I made it worse for her, that I could—" His breath stumbled. "I told her no, I did, but she wouldn't stop and I—Merlin—I thought maybe if I only… just thought it, maybe it would—" He faltered, words tripping over themselves, eyes burning. "And then she—she flickered, like she was about to vanish, and then—" he rubbed his temple, too hard. "It hit me. Harder than anything."
He risked a glance up — and wished he hadn't. His father's face gave nothing back, which was somehow worse.
Polaris had expected—hoped—for a question, anything to show his father was at least trying to understand what he meant. Some sign that the words hadn't been wasted. Instead there was only that cold, unblinking stillness, as if the explanation hadn't mattered at all.
"I wasn't trying to be reckless," he said quickly, voice cracking. "I just—she wanted rest. I thought I could give her that. I didn't mean to nearly—" He bit down on the word, as if saying break myself aloud might make it real.
His father didn't answer at once. He sat still, eyes fixed, as though weighing every syllable. Then he spoke at last.
"This does not leave this room. Not to your Healers, not to your brothers, not to anyone. Do you understand me?"
The words struck like a closing door. Polaris felt them lodge in his chest, heavy as stone. Of course. Contain it. Hide it. That was the way of things. He gave the smallest nod, throat tight.
His father leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowed. "You nearly burned yourself hollow. Do you realise that? Another inch and you'd have stripped the magic clean out of your bones. A Squib — that's what you'd have made yourself. All for a ghost's tears."
The word hit harder than the rest. Squib. Polaris flinched, heat rushing under his skin. He'd braced for his father to call him a fool, a liar, something — but this was worse. A defect. A warning of what he already feared most about himself. He dropped his eyes, staring at the knots of the blanket until they blurred.
"If anyone knew you could do this — even attempt it — you'd be marked for it. Hunted. You think your mother's cruelty is the worst the world has to offer? Don't test that theory."
The words carried the shape of protection, but he couldn't make himself believe it. To him, it sounded like his father naming him dangerous, something to be hidden away, a liability.
"So you will never attempt it again." His father's final words were clipped, absolute. "Not ever. Whatever she asked of you — you ignore it. You shut it down. And you keep your mouth shut."
He let the silence hang for a moment, then added, lower: "I need to hear you say it."
Polaris's throat closed. He'd been braced for the command, but not this — not the demand to shape the words himself. His nails dug crescents into his palm until the sting jolted him. For a heartbeat, he thought about refusing, about holding the silence. But his father's gaze bore into him, leaving no room for rebellion.
His stomach lurched so violently he thought he might be sick; the words scraped raw on the way out, burning his chest as though spoken under duress. "I…" His throat closed; he tried again. "I—I won't." His hand came up, rubbing at his chest where it hurt, as if the promise itself had lodged there. "I… I promise."
His father studied him, expression unreadable, as though testing the truth of it. At last, he gave a short, decisive nod. That should have been the end.
But all Polaris could hear was the silence left after — the silence of someone who had looked at him and seen not a son, not even a mistake, but a flaw to be hidden. Another failure. Another Black unworthy of the name.
He turned onto his side, knees pulled close, back to his father. Breath came shallow, too quick. As if smaller meant safer. But it didn't feel safe. It felt unbearable. A stray, terrifying thought brushed against him — the wish to follow her into that quiet she wanted so badly. Just gone. Just nothing.
— ❈ —
The window glass caught Orion's reflection more than the London skyline beyond. The faint grey light washed his features in a pallid hue, making him seem as much a statue as a man. He stood still, one hand braced on the sill, shoulders squared as though to make plain that he would not be moved.
The soft click of heels approached. He didn't turn; he already knew the sound.
"Uncle." Bellatrix's voice was smooth, warm enough to pass for familial concern. "How long has it been since we found ourselves in the same corridor? Too long, I'd say."
Orion's eyes flicked to her reflection in the glass — her smile, her poise, her dark gaze bright with curiosity. He did not return it. "Not long enough."
Her lips curved faintly, as though his chill amused her. "I came as soon as I heard. Imagine my shock — whispers all through Diagon Alley. Polaris, collapsing. Some said he was struck by a curse, others that he nearly died." She tilted her head, voice laced with theatrical dismay. "One does tire of the public inventing stories, don't you agree? I thought it better to come directly to family. To you."
Orion finally turned, unhurried to the point of contempt, his expression unreadable. "Then you wasted the journey. Family or not, you'll find nothing here for idle ears."
"I hardly call concern idle." Her gaze glittered, cutting in its sweetness. "He is my cousin, after all. Blood of my blood. Surely I've earned the courtesy of truth."
"You've earned nothing," Orion said coolly. He shifted just enough to stand between her and the ward door behind him, as though blocking an imagined attempt. "Polaris is my son. His condition is my affair, not yours."
Her brow arched — elegant, disdainful, but still cloaked in civility. "I only wished to see him. A familiar face might ease him, don't you think? He must be… unsettled." The pause was weighted, probing.
"You will not." Orion's voice was steel. "Healers alone attend him. That is my decision, and it is final."
Something flickered in her eyes, quickly smothered by a practiced smile. "You mistake me, Uncle. I don't seek to overstep. Only to understand. I have… hopes for Polaris. High ones. I'd hate to see his promise squandered through secrecy."
Orion's mouth tightened, the barest ghost of a sneer. "Hopes." The word fell like a verdict. "Do not cloak your prying as loyalty. I know what sort of counsel you offer when you whisper of hopes and promise. You sound more like your aunt than you may care to admit."
The smile faltered. "And yet my aunt raised fine sons, did she not?"
"Two broken by her hand, and a third she would have strangled if left unchecked," Orion replied flatly. "Do not hold her up as proof of virtue."
The silence bristled, thick with all that could not be said. At last Bellatrix inclined her head, lips curved in a cool facsimile of respect. "Very well. If you insist on guarding him like a treasure, I shan't wrestle the key from you. But remember, Uncle — treasures kept too tightly often wither. Secrets rot."
"Better they rot," Orion said, turning back to the window, dismissing her with the shift of his shoulders, "than be paraded before those who would misuse them."
Her footsteps lingered a moment, a soft scrape on the tile. Then she moved on, her smile shifting into something unseen as his reflection reclaimed the glass.
January 25th, 1976, Sunday
The keep was carved into the Welsh mountains like a wound, its black stone swallowing every flicker of light. Blackheath Keep had never been built for comfort. It had been raised for silence, for secrecy, for endurance — its walls older than memory, layered with enchantments that dampened sound and stifled rebellion.
A place to press out the arrogance of a Black who had gone astray. Its wards seemed to breathe with the stone itself, patient and suffocating.
Walburga had not taken to it well.
She lay strapped to the narrow bed, hair matted to her damp temples, lips cracked, wrists raw where the cuffs had seared her skin. Her eyes blazed with fury, but there was a frantic brightness beneath, the wild sheen of someone too long denied sleep.
The cuffs at her wrists pulsed faintly with runes that burned if she strained too hard. She had fought them, of course. Fought until her throat rasped raw and the sheets beneath her were streaked with sweat, until the healers declared her "noncompliant" and doubled the restraints.
When the door groaned open, she turned her head sharply.
Pollux's hand tightened around his cane as he stepped in. He leaned against it — a tremor shivered through his frame, hidden by the sweep of his robes. Walburga's eyes flickered, just briefly, to the handkerchief, the pallor, the slight sheen of sweat. She noticed. Oh, she noticed. Her lips twitched — a flash of triumph, cruel as a wound — but she bit it back. He would not grant her release if she mocked his weakness.
"You reek of stubbornness," he said coolly. "And wasted effort."
"Father." Her voice cracked, but it carried the same imperious edge. "At last. You see what they've done to me. I am the Lady of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black—how dare they touch me? How dare they lock me in this pit like some criminal?"
Pollux lowered himself stiffly into the chair at her bedside, his movements slower than they once were. A cough rattled faintly in his chest before he smothered it behind the handkerchief. He ignored the way her sharp eyes lingered on him, catching the tremor in his fingers.
"You are not the Lady of this House," he said coolly. "Not yet. And if you continue as you are, you may not live to see that day."
Walburga stiffened. "Is that a threat?"
He tilted his head, the faintest shadow of weariness in his expression. "A fact."
Her mouth twisted into a snarl. "You'd see your daughter rot, would you? I married Orion for this family." Her voice dropped into something fevered, almost triumphant. "He was meant for another once — I made certain she vanished."
Pollux's jaw tightened. "Enough."
"I won him," Walburga pressed on, eyes wild now. "And I thought—once Sirius was born—that Orion might love me. I thought—" Her voice cracked into a bitter laugh. "But he is weak. He was never worthy of Lordship. Better he die and pass it to my sons. Sirius may be lost, but Regulus, Polaris — they are mine still. I will carve the weakness out of them. They will not betray me."
Pollux rose sharply, disgust shadowing his face. "Enough. You speak of your husband's death as if it were a ledger to be balanced, and do not dare call cruelty a mother's love. You think yourself strong, yet look at you — unkempt, broken, undone by four stone walls. You sicken me, Walburga. Even your victories reek of rot." His voice cracked into a violent cough, forcing him to clutch at the handkerchief.
"—You shame this family more with every word."
Walburga's wrists strained against the glowing binds. "Shame? Everything I am, everything I've done, has been for us—for Black! And you call it shame?" She spat the word like poison.
Pollux's reply came cold, final. "No. You've done it for yourself. For your vanity. And you mistake obsession for duty." He glanced toward the warded door, exhaling faintly into the handkerchief. "You exhaust me, Walburga. Even now."
He pressed the handkerchief harder to his mouth, shoulders shaking. For a moment, it seemed her madness might outlive him — and the thought drew a bitter shadow across his face.
"Get me out," she hissed. "Father, I beg you. You cannot let them keep me here."
Pollux looked at her for a long, hard moment. He saw the frantic sweat at her brow, the way her breath came too fast, the hollows deepening beneath her eyes. She was breaking. And for the first time, his disgust edged into indifference. "You make it difficult to care whether you are freed at all."
Something in her broke at that. She thrashed against the glowing binds, her breath catching in ragged gasps.
"You don't understand," she cried, voice cracking. "The silence gnaws at me — it's in my skull, it chews the hours into nothing. The walls breathe. They close in. I cannot tell if I'm awake or dreaming!"
She strained against the mattress, wild-eyed now, desperation rising. "I cannot stay here! I am Walburga Black! They cannot bury me alive in this stone. It drinks the sound from my throat, it drinks the air from my lungs. I will wither—I will rot—I will go mad—"
Pollux's expression hardened, his mouth thinning into something carved of stone. "You think madness a punishment reserved for you alone? This place has held Black blood for centuries, daughter. Every stone is steeped in it. And you are here because you chose cruelty over duty. You are here because you disgraced yourself."
She stilled suddenly, forcing her breathing into something almost calm, as if she could smooth her voice into obedience. "Then tell me," she said quickly, too quickly. "Tell me what you want. What they want. I'll do it. I'll—change. I'll bend, I'll swear it before every ancestor at Grimmauld if I must—
Pollux's laugh was sharp, incredulous. It cut through her babbling like a knife. "Change?" He leaned forward, lowering the handkerchief just enough for his voice to strike cold. "Do you even grasp why you are here? You took your wand to your own child. You used Unforgivable magic and called it correction. You dare stand before me and prattle of loyalty, of family, while your sons bear scars from your hand. That is not devotion — it is desecration."
Walburga flinched, but only for a second. Then the fear surged back, hot and breathless. "I do it all for the family," she insisted, voice rising, cracking into hysteria. "For you! For Arcturus! For Orion! For the portraits on the walls! For every voice in my head that demands it! Don't you see?"
Pollux stood, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. His cough tore through him again, but he ignored it, eyes fixed on her with something colder than hatred. "No," he said quietly. "You will stay here. In Blackheath. Until silence itself teaches you what it is to be broken — as you have broken others."
He turned; handkerchief pressed once more to his mouth as he moved toward the iron-bound door.
Walburga's scream followed him, frantic, almost childlike now, echoing off stone as the wards thrummed and held her fast. "FATHER! Don't leave me here! Don't—you cannot—don't let them keep me—"
The door sealed shut, drowning her voice into muffled wails.
Pollux lingered for a breath in the corridor, his chest tight, the taste of iron bitter on his tongue. Her screams clawed after him, but it was the thought that she might survive him — louder, shameless and unrepentant — that chilled him more than the keep's silence.