— ❈ —
Chapter 25 Summary
After a week away, Polaris finally returns to Hogwarts—but the castle feels foreign, its corridors whispering what they think they know. Home has left marks no one can see, and silence had been his only defense. In the trophy room, a chance encounter with Dumbledore turns invasive when the Headmaster tries to enter his mind. Polaris's instinctive Occlumency slams back, and his fury breaks through—Hogwarts is no sanctuary after all.
Earlier in Grimmauld Place, he'd stood before a portrait of his mother as a girl and dared to ask Orion if he'd ever been happy. Orion's silence followed him here. Now even kindness feels like danger: Nia's attempt to welcome him back ends in humiliation, pushing him past breaking point. Fleeing the crowd, he collapses behind the greenhouses, where Nate finds him. What follows is confession—his mother's punishments, his desperate need to be perfect, his belief that safety could be earned. Nate refuses to leave, telling him he doesn't have to be perfect to be enough. For once, Polaris lets himself believe it.
— ❈ —
[5,882 Words]
The Chronologus Entry — January 30th, 1976, Friday
I read over what I wrote yesterday.
Disgraceful.
I nearly tore the whole page out. Burned it, shredded it, anything to erase the evidence.
Because that wasn't me. Not really. That was me losing it, and I'm not supposed to lose it. I looked like something half-drowned and still too stupid to sink. Still, I left it. Better to leave it, though. A reminder. Proof of what happens when I slip.
Proof of what happens when I let myself slip.
Proof I won't let it happen again.
I'd already told you what Dumbledore tried yesterday, but the man didn't leave it there. Today he saw fit to call me to his office—the one I passed on the way up from the infirmary. The audacity of summoning me, as if I wanted to hear a word out of his mouth. I won't set down the details, not now. Why waste leverage before its worth is clear?
Even as I write this, Charlie is snoring as he often does.
Loudly, gracelessly, enough to rattle the posts. And yet—I almost missed it. A week gone and I come back to this racket, and it's almost comforting. Almost. Less so the socks he insists on scattering across the room like some idiotic trail for house-elves.
I didn't sleep here in the dorms last night. Nor did I bother with dinner. Instead I claimed I was feeling sensitive—and you know how I hate that word.
It wasn't hard to sell, not with Pomfrey already worried after I'd been gone so long. Better to feign feeling "sensitive" than face the ceaseless noise. The gawking. The whispers.
Oddly enough, I wasn't left alone there either. My brothers came. For once they weren't arguing, though that didn't mean peace. Ris spent most of the visit glaring at Reg as though he'd tried to murder him. I was too tired to care enough to ask what set it off this time. There's always something with them. Petty, relentless, perhaps it runs in the family.
This morning, on my way out of the infirmary, a pack of Gryffindors I didn't even recognise waited just long enough to shout "Black the ungrateful!" before darting round the corner. Cowards. I could still hear their laughter trailing back, as if they'd invented the cleverest joke Hogwarts had ever heard.
It's always the same with them. Eyes tracking me, waiting for some reaction, like trained dogs hoping I'll toss a bone. Their laughter had that dull, pack-animal edge — the kind that only sounds brave when it's shared.
They strut about, convinced they're comedians, when all they manage is recycling the same filth with the imagination of a brick. If wit were gold, they wouldn't afford dust.
They won't stop talking. What happened with Nia Cadwallader saw to that.
Since yesterday, everyone's been rushing to her side, all eager to play the part of sympathetic saints. Already the story's been twisted half a dozen ways—not that I should be shocked. By now I ought to be numb to it. I'm not. It still pisses me off.
Mostly because it drags eyes onto me. I can feel them, clearly judging me, as if I'm somehow worth less than the rest of them. All over a stupid card I refused to accept.
Accept what, exactly? Their false smiles? Their names scrawled beneath words they barely meant? These are the same mouths that spat Black the Butcher,Black the Fainter,Black anything they could twist into a joke.
And I'm supposed to bow in gratitude? To smile sweetly while they shove paper in my hands, as if that wipes away the filth of their laughter?
I regret nothing.
Not with Cadwallader. If anything, I regret not making my annoyance clearer sooner. She thinks herself righteous, thinks her forced kindness is some sort of binding contract—that if she drapes enough sugar over her words the world must bend to her will.
She should have listened. How many times did I say "not now"? How many times did I brush her away? Yet she pressed in closer, insistent, card outstretched like it was the most important thing in the world. I warned her. She ignored me. And she has the audacity to be wounded when I refused to play along.
And then today—after Defence—her shadow, the girl she's always with in Charms (whatever her name is), decided to make my alleged cruelty her business. She followed me halfway to History, spouting her self-righteous sermon as though anyone cared. I didn't stop her. Why would I? If she wanted to look pathetic trailing after me, that was her choice.
Of course the others stared, hungry for a scene. Always the same. Nosy, witless, desperate for scraps.
The only reason she finally stopped was because Corvus and Bastian saw to it. Apparently they decided my silence wasn't enough—that what she really needed was to be shoved back in her lane. Corvus, in his usual brilliance, went straight for blood, calling her a filthy Mudblood who ought to mind her own business. Bastian, not one to be outdone, wrinkled his nose and told the crowd he could smell something rotten, and from the way he said it, everyone knew exactly who he meant.
I should have felt thankful. I didn't. Not when the girl turned her glare on me, as if I had said it, as if their words automatically belonged to me. The Slytherins laughed, of course, and somehow that meant I was guilty by association.
That's what it always comes to—blame by proximity. Whatever anyone else does, it sticks to me.
And what was I supposed to do? Defend her? Apologise? As though I owe her anything after she chased me down to play inquisitor.
Not a chance.
And since I've already written their names, I suppose I should also set down that Corvus and Bastian and I are not on bad terms anymore. That ended before Defence. They found me after I'd collected my books, and I felt nothing but guilt with how upset Corvus looked—going on about how he thought something terrible had happened, to the point of even believing I might be dead. I nearly called him dramatic, but I couldn't. Not with the look in his eyes, nor the way he hugged me as if he'd expected never to see me again.
He even tried sending owls. None reached me, which only convinced him further that I was gone. And Bastian stood there too, both of them insisting they needed to apologise—Corvus for what he'd said, Bastian for leaving me that night in the library.
As if any of that mattered.
As if they were the ones who had wronged me.
It was maddening. After everything, it should have been me apologising—and I was already thinking of how to do it—yet they said sorry first. And when I finally did, it felt useless.
They didn't even seem to expect it, as though an apology from me was out of character. Is that truly how they see me? Am I really as awful as the whispers say, and too blind to notice it for myself?
I don't know.
What I do know is that all of this began with that damned book. If I hadn't gone after it that night, none of it would have happened. I wouldn't have snapped at Corvus. I wouldn't have driven Bastian off. I wouldn't have been cornered by Myrtle, of all ghosts, into promises I never should have entertained.
But I did.
And I was fool enough to try what she asked, though I hadn't the faintest idea what I was doing. She wanted an ending. She wanted it from me. And like an idiot, I thought attempting it might mean something, might even ease the guilt I carried for the way I had treated her.
Instead it only put me on the floor, pain burning through me until I woke in the hospital wing with nothing to show for it except another reminder of what I am—or rather, of what I don't understand about myself.
And when I came back—well. You know what I walked into. And for what? A book. A single, wretched book.
Evan gave me the book today — of course he did, with a smug reminder that I owe him. As if I could forget a debt to a Rosier. It was the only thing I could think about as I sat down tonight, tearing through every page, every line, convinced I'd missed a margin note, a cipher, anything.
And yet there was nothing.
Nothing new, nothing hidden, nothing extra at all. I compared it to the notes I already had, line for line, word for word. Identical. All that trouble, all that weight of expectation, and for what? A waste.
I cannot decide what infuriates me more—that I let myself believe there might be progress, or that I now owe Evan for nothing. A favour hanging over my head, with no gain to show for it. He gets the satisfaction of leverage, and I—nothing but empty pages and wasted hours.
I thought—no, I was certain—that there was more to be found. That I had overlooked some thread of Vass's work that would finally pull the rest into place. I let myself believe I was on the edge of understanding, that perhaps tonight would be the night something shifted. Foolish.
Now I am left indebted, no further than I was yesterday, with nothing to hold except the sour taste of wasted time. I despise being beholden to anyone, least of all when there is nothing to balance the scale in my favour.
A fool's bargain. My time, my pride, my debt—all for nothing.
—A Fool With Nothing to Show
February 5th, 1976, Thursday
Professor Sprout's voice carried cheerfully through the greenhouse, her hands busy as she demonstrated the safest way to repot a Fanged Geranium without losing a finger.
Aurelia hunched over her parchment, quill gripped tight, determined to catch every word. Herbology mattered to her—not that she cared much about marks in other lessons, but this one was different. This one she wanted perfect.
And yet, beside her, Black was doing what he always did. Not paying attention. Or at least, not in any way that looked like it.
His eyes kept straying to the window, watching the condensation run down the glass as if it were more interesting than Sprout's voice. He usually looked as though he hadn't slept, but today the slackness under his eyes made him seem different—less alert, more like someone who'd been hollowed through. Other times he only stared at the table, fixed on the wood grain as if it might tell him something. His right hand tapped against the surface, finger by finger, over and over, close enough that Aurelia could feel it through her arm. He always tapped, but the rhythm snagged and stuttered now, uneven, almost like his hand wasn't listening to him.
With his left hand, he dragged his quill over the edge of his worksheet, filling it with odd symbols she didn't recognise. Runes, maybe—but that couldn't be right. They weren't even allowed to take Ancient Runes until third year. He scratched them out, started again, then did the same thing over and over as if no one else existed. The marks came harsher than usual, pressed deep into the parchment, as though he cared more about crossing them out than writing them.
Aurelia bit the inside of her cheek and tried to listen to Sprout, who was now warning them about the Geranium's habit of snapping at sudden movement. But her thoughts wouldn't settle. Black never seemed to try—not in Herbology, not in anything. In debating sessions he turned up late, or not at all, and when he did, he looked like he was winging it. Winging it, and still managing to look like he knew exactly what he was doing.
It was infuriating.
Only lately, her irritation didn't quite stick the way it used to. She kept seeing the image she'd stumbled on last week—him under the elm tree, shoulders heaving, hands pressed hard against his face as if he could bury the sound. She had turned away quickly, pretending she hadn't heard the sobs, but the memory stuck like a burr. Since then she had caught herself wondering what it was he thought about, when he looked so detached, so untouchable.
She glanced at him again—and this time he noticed. The tapping slowed, faltered, and then stopped altogether as his eyes lifted to hers.
Grey, though in the bright wash of the glasshouse they looked closer to blue—clear, unguarded in a way she had never quite seen before.
Her throat tightened. She looked too long, and knew it, and jerked herself back into motion. Leaning towards him, she whispered, "Could you not? The tapping. It's distracting. You could at least pretend to listen for once."
Her voice was barely more than a hiss, but it carried.
"Miss Potter." Sprout's voice cut across the greenhouse. "If you've something worth interrupting with, I'm sure the class would like to hear it."
Aurelia froze. Heat prickled at her ears. She had nothing to give—nothing but the truth, that Polaris Black never seemed to care.
But Black spoke before she could, his tone smooth and steady, almost careless. "Professor, Potter was wondering whether repetitive rhythms—like tapping—might soothe the Geraniums. Since sharp noises startle them, it seemed reasonable to wonder if the opposite might calm them. I thought it might be worth testing while repotting."
"Very good, Mister Black," said Sprout brightly. "That's exactly the kind of curiosity I like to see. Five points to Ravenclaw—and to Slytherin, for asking."
The class murmured with interest, but Aurelia caught the pause before he spoke—the flicker like he'd debated saying nothing at all. And when Sprout praised him, he didn't look pleased—not proud, not even relieved. For a heartbeat it almost seemed he couldn't stand it.
Of course he'd turn it around, make it sound clever, like he'd been listening all along. He always found a way to slip past without so much as a scratch. And now he'd proven her wrong—again. Aurelia's fingers tightened round her quill, baffled and more irritated than ever. How did he manage it?
Lately, she was starting to see what Willow meant. He had this way of turning things round without meaning to—one moment silent, the next snapping at someone for breathing too loud. Half the time he looked like he couldn't care less, and the other half like he couldn't stand to be there at all. It was impossible to tell which was worse.
For the past week, she'd heard nothing else—Willow griping about every little thing Black did. How he embarrassed her on purpose, how he made her look foolish, how he twisted things so she seemed like a bully.
Usually Aurelia ignored it. Willow could exaggerate when she was angry. But yesterday was different. Willow had accused him of stealing her Transfiguration essay, so sure of herself she'd made a spectacle of it. And in front of everyone, he had calmly tipped out his bag and turned out his pockets for McGonagall—who found nothing. Willow, near tears, had been the one landed with detention for lying.
And now here he was, scribbling away as if none of it had ever happened.
Aurelia frowned, uncertain. She couldn't picture Black plotting petty torments for Willow; he hardly seemed to notice half the things people said about him. If anything, it was as though he lived in some other place entirely, locked away inside his own head. Willow wasn't altogether wrong about him, but she wasn't altogether right, either.
She realised she was staring. As if he'd felt it, his head lifted and their eyes caught once more.
Her frown deepened. The words slipped out before she could stop them.
"Why did you do that?"
His quill stopped mid-stroke, a symbol glistening half-formed on the parchment. For a long moment he didn't speak, face unreadable.
At last, his voice came low, quiet enough that only she heard. "Returning the favour."
She blinked. "What favour?"
He dropped his gaze again, like he regretted saying anything. The quill hovered, motionless. "You didn't go telling everyone about… last week." His tone was clipped, fragile in a way Aurelia had never heard from him before. "Seemed fair."
Aurelia stared at him, uncertain what to do with that. Her mouth had gone dry, words tangling.
What slipped out instead was, "You're such a weirdo."
The moment she said it she wished she hadn't. His answer hadn't been strange at all—it had been fair, even honest. But she wasn't about to take it back.
Black gave no sign of offence. He only lowered his head again, setting his quill in motion, finishing the half-made symbol before striking it out and beginning another. The tapping started up again, faint this time, more habit than thought. For a moment Aurelia wondered if she imagined the hesitation in it—and told herself it was nothing. But the doubt lingered, pricking at her.
— ❈ —
Polaris pressed his eye to the telescope, though the sight it offered was no comfort. The star that bore his name burned steadily above—bright, admired for its constancy. Others called it steadfast; he saw a thing shackled to the sky.
What glory was there in shining, if it meant never moving?
His breath misted faintly in the cold air of the tower, curling away into night. He shouldn't have been there, not after curfew, but the tower was the only place that didn't feel like it was closing in.
He drew back from the telescope but kept his gaze lifted skyward, as though the darkness might give him something more than indifference. Instead, his thoughts turned again to the line he could not shake—the fragment of Vass's hand.
If you're reading this, the wand has found resonance. Not with you exactly, but with what moves through you.
Resonance. He had read those words a dozen times, whispered them until the sound lost all meaning. Yet they gave him nothing, only suggestion masquerading as truth.
The North Star held its place. And beneath it, he stood uncertain, a boy with empty hands and a name that felt heavier by the hour.
But not every star kept its place.
Some wavered and waned — bright one night, dim the next. He liked those best. Unreliable, restless, refusing to be pinned. Proof that not all stars shone the same way.
He almost envied them. To flare and falter, to change—how much truer that seemed than a life fixed fast in one corner of the sky. Yet the thought curdled quickly, for change was what he feared most in himself. "Different" was the word that haunted him — a flaw he could never mend, a truth he could never strip away.
His mother wanted a flawless son. His father wanted no son at all. Sirius wanted a partner in revolt. Regulus wanted the brother he pretended Polaris already was. And he—he was none of it.
He was only a crooked star, guttering against the dark, fighting to keep his light from going out.
Polaris turned, meaning to leave the tower, but stopped dead.
At the far end stood the Grey Lady—pale, silent, unblinking.
His hands curled into fists as he stared at her, uncertain, his brow knitting tight. "Come to give me another riddle?"
Her answer was cold, cutting. "No. I came to stop you from tearing yourself apart."
The words fell oddly on him, heavy with something left unsaid. His skin prickled. Only one thought fit—Myrtle, the ghost girl he'd nearly lost himself saving.
His fists slackened, fingers trembling as they uncurled. He edged forward, wary she might slip into the wall again. "You're too late for that," he said quietly. "It nearly happened already."
Why her? Why now? For months she had stayed back—aloof, distant, withholding any answer he pressed for.
The Grey Lady's voice cut through his thoughts, sharper now. "Do you even understand what you tried to do to that girl?"
Polaris's breath caught. Myrtle had spoken after all.
He swallowed, his voice defensive. "She asked me. She said she wanted peace."
"Peace," the Grey Lady repeated, but there was nothing soft in the word. "Peace is not yours to give. You think you can unmake what death has claimed? You think you can touch the soul and not be burned?"
She drifted closer, her presence seeping cold into the stones around them.
Polaris stared, bewildered, her words landing like judgment. Who was she to decide what he could or couldn't touch? What gave her the right to treat his actions like something she had the authority to condemn?
"Don't you dare," he said, his voice breaking through at last. "You've given me nothing but riddles. You think this is my fault? You led me here—every step—and now you tell me to stop?"
The Grey Lady's face did not shift. "I gave you questions," she said, her voice cool and steady. "Not leave to act."
"Exactly!" Polaris's voice rang off the tower walls, louder than he intended, edged with fury. "You've given me questions—all of them—and never once an answer. And now you stand there, pretending you know best?" His breath came fast, uneven. "You think you're the saviour now? You started this. All of it."
For the first time, strain flickered across her still features. "I spoke because I believed you could bear the weight," she said, more softly. "I was wrong."
"The weight of what?" Polaris seized on the word, his anger tipping toward desperation. "That's the problem, isn't it? You say it like you know. You always speak like you know. But you leave me blind. What is it you think you see in me? What is it you know?"
Her eyes seemed deeper than the night beyond the tower. "I know enough to warn you of this," she said. Her voice fell low, edged with warning rather than anger. "The more you pull at these threads, the more they will draw you in."
"Threads?" Polaris shot back, his voice rising. "Or chains? Which is it?" His jaw tightened. The night pressed cold against his skin, but he barely felt it. "Need I remind you—you set me on this path. You pointed me to Vass. Isn't this what you wanted? For me to learn what he was— so I might understand what I am?" His chest heaved, every word forced out. "So tell me—do you know what I am?"
Her face shifted, just for an instant—something like grief—but the flicker vanished, replaced by her pallid calm.
"I know what it cost him to learn," she said, her voice hardening, sharp with finality. "And I will not watch you pay the same price."
Polaris's fury broke loose, slipping past every wall he'd built. "Then stop speaking in riddles! Say it. Say what you know. Say what Vass wanted me to know, and stop hiding the truth!"
"No." The word was cold, final, like iron striking stone.
Her form wavered at the edges, the air around her frosting faintly as her voice dropped lower still, brittle as ice. "Because if I do, you'll only run faster toward the edge."
She began to fade, her voice the last thing that lingered, turning to frost in the air.
"One day you will curse me for ever speaking. One day you will wish I had let the noise hold."
And then she was gone, dissolved into the stone, leaving Polaris alone beneath the star that bore his name.
For a moment, he just stood there, trembling in the cold. The wind tugged at his sleeves, but he hardly noticed.
He hated her for vanishing like that—speaking to him as though he were a child. Yet she wasn't wrong. He could still feel it: the pull of the dark, the sick tilt of the world as his body began to slip. Something inside him had gone still since then, afraid that if he reached again, he wouldn't come back whole. What frightened him most wasn't the failure, but how near it had been.
His jaw tightened. He told himself he didn't care what the Grey Lady thought, that he wasn't reckless enough to try again. Not yet. Not until he understood.
But the word she had used stayed with him—threads that could be followed, unravelled, rewoven.
He looked up, found his star—bright, still, untouchable. For a moment he stood there, breath ghosting in the dark, the weight of its gaze pressing down.
"You do not get to tell me what I am," he murmured, though she was long gone.
Then he left the tower, his steps echoing down the stairwell, the echo thin and uneven — like someone trying to convince himself he wasn't afraid.
— ❈ —
He wondered, as he made his way down the quiet corridor, if it was petty to be this annoyed. Myrtle had always talked too much — about her death, about her toilet, about whoever happened to look at her the wrong way — so why did it bother him now?
Maybe because this time she'd talked about him.
Who else had she told? Other ghosts? Surely she wasn't stupid enough to spread it around to the living—but then again, Myrtle had never been famous for sense. You'd think, after decades of haunting toilets, she'd have learned a trace of discretion.
Still, it had been obvious, hadn't it? That what happened between them wasn't to be discussed. He hadn't needed to say it aloud — you don't tell people that sort of thing. Common sense. But then again, Myrtle and sense had never been properly acquainted. You'd think, after existing as long as she had, she'd have managed to find a bit of either.
It was too late for any patrols; even Filch had likely given up.
Polaris's thoughts kept circling the same point. What if she'd said something to the living? He didn't much care what ghosts whispered — they didn't count — but a word in the wrong ear could travel fast. One student, one teacher, then Dumbledore, then the Ministry. It didn't take much imagination to see how that ended.
They'd call it what it looked like — dark magic. Something dangerous, something that shouldn't be possible.
They'd want to study it, understand it, contain it.
His hand closed over his sleeve as he kept walking. He'd done nothing wrong — not really. He'd only tried to help. But that never mattered. Being different had never been a gift in his family, only a flaw waiting to be corrected.
He waited once he entered the bathroom.
From one of the cubicles came the faintest ripple, then Myrtle rose, her outline wavering like heat above stone. Surprise lit her face, then something close to guilt.
"Oh—it's you," she said quickly. "You're back. I thought you'd—"
"Spare it." His voice was low but edged. "You've been talking."
Her eyes widened. "I haven't! Well—only a bit. Only to the others. They asked what happened that day, and I said you tried to help. That's true, isn't it?"
He stepped closer, the word help making him tighten his jaw. "Did you tell anyone alive?"
"What? No. Of course not. Why would I—"
"Myrtle." The way he said her name cut through her babble. "Think. Anyone. A student, a teacher, Peeves—did you let it slip?"
She shook her head so hard her glasses blurred. "No one living! I swear! I know what they'd say—dark magic, dangerous—"
"Exactly." He stopped in front of the sink. "You're sure?"
"Yes!" She wrung her hands, half fading through the basin. "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I just wanted someone to understand what you did."
"You don't understand what I did."
Her mouth fell open, a nervous flutter at the corners. "Then tell me. You must have thought about it since—you could finish it, couldn't you? I felt it when you tried. I felt free."
He looked at her, unreadable. "You said you wanted peace. I gave you nearly that."
She brightened, misty and eager. "Then you'll try again?"
He stared at her. For a second he couldn't find words. "Try again?" The sound came out half-laugh, half-breath. "You're telling me to try again?"
Myrtle blinked, startled by the sharpness in his voice. "I just meant—if it almost worked—"
"Almost worked?" He took a step closer, tiles echoing underfoot. "You think it was easy for me? That I just waved a wand and walked away? I woke up in the hospital wing, Myrtle—gone for a week, unconscious for a day and a half. Easy, is it?"
She flinched, but he didn't stop. The words were coming too fast now, the pressure of them spilling out.
"All you can do is wail that I didn't finish the job. You don't even care what it cost—just that I failed to clean up your misery for you."
"I didn't mean it like that," she said quickly, her voice pitching high. "You promised you'd help me! You said you would!"
"I did help you," he shot back, the words biting before he could stop them. "You got what you wanted. You said you wanted peace, remember? You felt it. You said it was beautiful. And now you can live with knowing you'll never feel it again."
Myrtle's eyes went wide, fury and hurt warring across her face. "You're cruel! You're horrible!" she screamed, her pitch echoing off the tiles.
Polaris threw up his hands, voice breaking into a shout. "Oh, I'm sorry—did you want flowers with your exorcism?"
The words cracked through the room, harsh and echoing. For a moment, there was nothing but the hollow sound of his breathing catching off porcelain. As if in protest, the pipes rattled; Myrtle's form blurred into the ceiling, leaving only the tremor of her voice behind.
Then came the creak of the outer door, the spill of lamplight, and Filch's voice rasped from the doorway.
"Who's in here? Out after curfew, are we?"
Polaris froze. His own words still seemed to hang in the air as Filch's lantern beam swept across the sinks.
"Black," Filch snapped when he saw him, seizing a fistful of his collar. "Screaming your head off in the girls' lavatory—what's the matter with you, boy?"
Polaris didn't answer.
Filch's grip tightened as he dragged him forward. His breath hit Polaris's cheek—stale and sour, like stale tea and damp cloth. Polaris turned his face aside, forcing his breath shallow. The lantern swung, shadows jerking across the tiles. Behind them, the bathroom light flickered on its chain, and Myrtle's muffled sobs echoed faintly through the pipes.
"Let go," Polaris said, trying to keep his tone even.
"Not likely," Filch muttered. "You Blacks are all the same. Think the castle's your own private estate. Your brother is just as bad—worse, maybe."
Polaris's jaw tightened. Filch tugged him again, fingers pressing into his throat. The roughness of it lit a nerve he didn't want touched — too close to another hand, another kind of control.
"Take your hand off me," he said, louder this time.
Filch sneered. "You don't give orders, boy. Not to me."
A hiss cut through the corridor. Mrs Norris slunk out from between Filch's legs, her lamp-like eyes gleaming in the gloom.Her tail lashed, thin and twitching.
"Then don't touch me." Polaris wrenched free, straightening his robe. "You haven't even got a wand. So what exactly do you think you'll do?"
Filch's face went a mottled red. He lunged forward and seized Polaris by the sleeve, fingers clamping hard around his wrist as if sure he'd bolt. "Watch that tongue. Think being a Black makes you special, do you? Your lot's only good for trouble. You're just like your brother—every bit as bad."
That did it. "At least he has something better to do than chase children with mops," Polaris shot back, voice low but shaking.
"Enough!" The word cracked through the corridor; both froze. Both turned. McGonagall stood at the foot of the staircase, her tartan dressing gown buttoned tight, wand drawn but lowered.
"Mr. Filch," she said evenly, eyes flicking between them. "You may release him."
Filch's grip fell away, but his voice came sharp. "Caught him shouting in the girls' lavatory, Professor. Won't say what he was doing there, and then he mouths off like that."
Her gaze shifted to Polaris. His collar was twisted, his breathing still rough. She had heard enough to know how it sounded.
"I heard enough to know you will apologise," she said.
Polaris stiffened. "For what? He grabbed me first."
Filch's face darkened. "Listen to him! Just like his brother, never any respect—"
"That will do," McGonagall said sharply, without turning. "Mr. Filch, thank you. I'll handle this."
Filch's jaw worked. "Aye, you handle him, but don't expect manners. It's not in their blood."
"Good night, Mr. Filch."
He hesitated, muttering something under his breath before shuffling off, lantern swinging furiously at his side.
McGonagall waited until his steps faded before speaking. Her voice stayed calm, but there was something under it. "You may think sarcasm a shield, Mr. Black, but it seldom protects. You will—"
He didn't meet her eyes. Not anymore. He watched her mouth instead, tracing the careful shape of her words. They sounded measured, rehearsed—every syllable wrapped in authority that pretended to be kindness. It was the tone Dumbledore used before everything fell apart—the calm that asked for trust while keeping its own.
"You may—" she began again, but he cut across her.
"Did you hear what he said?"
She frowned. "I heard enough, yes."
"'It's not in their blood,'" he repeated, the words low and precise. "You going to make him apologise, too?"
McGonagall's mouth tightened. "Mr. Filch spoke out of turn. But I don't believe you need me to tell you which of you is held to a higher standard."
The old answer. The answer that sounded fair and wasn't. It landed exactly where he expected it would.
"So he gets away with it because you pity him," said Polaris, mild as milk.
"Watch yourself," she warned.
He gave a faint shrug. "Just observing, Professor. Suppose it's easier to forgive being born without magic than with the wrong blood."
Something flickered across her face then—a look he couldn't name, and didn't want to. Whatever it was, it made his skin crawl. It felt like she'd already decided there was something wrong with him, and was only waiting to confirm it. He hated that look. He hated how she always spoke as if she cared, as if pity could pass for understanding. It disgusted him, how easily people pretended to care.
She didn't answer, and that was answer enough. He'd seen that expression before—the one that said not everything is worth challenging. Every adult wore it eventually. Rules first, fairness later.
Her eyes flicked to him, cool and measuring, but she didn't rise to it. "You will walk with me to my office," she said instead. "And you will explain why you were where you had no business being."
He didn't reply. The fight still burned somewhere in him, but he followed, hands shoved deep into his pockets, moving carefully, as though control itself were a kind of defiance.