Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scottish Highlands.
1964.
The dungeons welcomed him with an unsettling humidity—a strange sticky cold in his bones after the dry warmth of the Egyptian nights. The common room was carved from stone and shadow, lit by flickering green firelight that reflected off the murky waters of the Black Lake beyond the tall windows. Curtains stirred from unseen drafts, and the walls, alive with serpentine carvings, pulsed softly with ancient magic.
He drew out a framed photo of his parents at their wedding—Lycoris laughing in a silver gown, her hand tucked into Hamza's arm, a young, elegant wizard with gentle dark green eyes. Their smiles were steady. In the photo, Lycoris's laughter rippled gently, and Hamza's eyes twinkled as if caught in a moment of quiet joy. He set the photo on the stone nightstand.
Next came a smaller frame: uncle Regulus, messy grey and black hair and mischief in his face, carrying a five-year-old Mizar on his shoulders through Blackmoor Park. They were laughing. Regulus was halfway turned towards the camera, mouth open mid-joke, and little Mizar's curls were wind-tossed and wild, slightly moving as if stirred by a breeze only they could feel. Carefully, he placed it next to the wedding portrait.
Then came the old photo of his father in childhood. It showed him clutching a book nearly as tall as he was, wide-eyed and solemn. Behind him, the shadowy outline of the family library shelves in their manor outside Zennor in Cornwall towered like cathedral walls. Mizar pressed his thumb briefly to the glass, and the image of the shelves shimmered softly before settling again. He set it down.
Last, he removed the photograph taken at the gala in Geneva, hosted by the Swiss Minister of Magic. Aunt Noor wore deep violet that night, the embroidered threads of her sleeves catching every light in the chandeliered ballroom, twinkling faintly. Uncle Marwan, ever dignified, stood tall beside her in yellowish orange-toned formal robes. Mizar, nine and obscenely tall for his age in similar robes, had stood between them with the faintest grin, a gold pin in the shape of the sun shining at his collar. He remembered the way Marwan's hand had rested lightly but protectively on his shoulder the whole evening, the gesture replaying gently in the photo's subtle movements.
He wasn't alone in the dormitory. Two of the other first-years had already claimed their beds: a squat, sullen boy named Avery and a thin, pale boy with a hawkish nose named Mulciber.
Now they were bragging to each other about family reputations and hexes they'd already practiced on their house-elves. He had other things to think about.
Who comes next?
The question ticked in his mind like a metronome.
Hope Lupin had been warned. The year 1964 was protected—for now.
But there were others. So many names, so many events and tragedies, and always that delicate balance. Save one too soon, too loudly, and the rest fall like wounded birds.
He sat at the edge of his bed, fingers laced tight.
Lily. James. The rest of the Marauders with the clear exception of Peter. Snape.
He couldn't tell them anything—this burden was his to carry.
But there were others who needed him now. Allies he could shape. Quiet seeds to plant before the storm.
He had to become both a saviour and a master politician. He wondered if that was how Tom Riddle had started.
Mizar closed the dormitory door behind him with care, letting the iron latch fall into place without a sound. The corridor beyond breathed cool air through the stone—damp, old, and tinged faintly with moss. The Slytherin dormitories were quiet at this hour. Most of the other first-years were still unpacking or pretending to sleep. He'd already done what he needed to: unpack, place the photographs, gather his thoughts.
He needed the space to think. To plan. To begin.
He crossed the common room slowly, letting the flickering green firelight wash over him. The walls were alive with shifting stonework, ancient and carved with interlocking serpents whose eyes sometimes glowed when no one was looking directly at them. Shadows pooled near the corners and along the tall windows where the Black Lake pressed against the glass.
And there—half-hidden behind a low bookshelf—sat a girl.
She didn't flinch when he looked at her. Just raised her eyes in quiet recognition, as if she'd already seen him coming long before he arrived.
She had long curly brown hair pulled underneath a silk headscarf. She was reading—or pretending to. A golden-ringed hand held open a book that looked far too old for the school library.
Mizar approached carefully, not saying anything until he was close enough not to raise his voice.
"Mind if I sit?"
The girl blinked at him, then shrugged without looking up. "It's not my chair."
He took that as permission and lowered himself into the green velvet seat opposite hers. The lake shimmered faintly behind her through the tall window, casting a wavering pattern across the floor between them.
"Everyone else in the dorms is busy unpacking or talking about the Dark spells repertoire their families' grimoires have to offer," Mizar said, voice calm. "Figured I'd try a different crowd."
She looked at him properly now, expression unreadable. "And you picked me?"
"You're the only one not pretending to be someone."
That caught her off-guard. She raised an eyebrow but didn't challenge him. Just closed her book gently. "You're a first-year."
"So are you."
"Still." Her tone wasn't dismissive, just matter-of-fact.
"I'm Mizar," he said after a moment.
Her eyes flicked to his, then down again. "Callista."
Callista Bulstrode.
She had been Theo's mother. That brooding blue eyed boy's existence had come to be because of the obsession of a younger twisted and spoiled boy. Archibald Nott, the same man who had a deep hatred for everything Muggle and Muggle-born and deeper for half-bloods and, especially, half-breeds. The man who in Mizar's old timeline had defiled Fleur Delacour to death.
This time Mizar would make sure that monstrous boy who had yet to get to Hogwarts would never lay his hands on Callista or Fleur—or any other woman.
He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees. "Is the book good?"
She glanced down at the spine. "It's dry. But it helps me think."
"Think about what?"
Callista hesitated. "How not to be surprised."
Mizar gave her a curious look.
"This place," she said, gesturing towards the window, the lake, the firelight. "It's full of things that try to catch you off-balance. People. Traditions. Expectations."
He nodded slowly. "And you want to be ready."
She met his eyes again. "I have to be."
There was something unspoken in that. Something brittle at the edges.
He didn't push it.
"You have family here?" she asked suddenly.
"Two cousins." It was technically true.
She tilted her head. "You sounded like you've been around this kind of place before."
Mizar gave a small smile. "My family talk a lot. I listen. You?"
Callista shifted slightly in her chair, arms wrapping around her legs. "My cousin's Cassian. He's in fifth. His father, my uncle, is the Lord of our house."
"Do you like him?"
Callista shrugged. "Cassian's smart. Polished. He's got the right face for it. He's sensible. He thinks with his brain first but his right hand is always over his heart."
She appraised Mizar, "you're the Black-Shafiq heir, aren't you?"
Mizar didn't let his expression flicker. Her tone wasn't accusatory—just observant, clinical almost. A test, not of truth, but of composure.
"I am," he said simply.
Callista nodded once, as though confirming something she'd already guessed.
She looked away for a moment, tracing a pattern into the velvet arm of her chair with one finger. "People like you are never left alone for long."
Mizar studied her. "Is that a warning?"
"It's a fact," Callista replied. "You're important. People will start orbiting you. Or trying to trap you." She lifted her eyes to his again. "It's what important people do to each other. Especially in this house."
He considered that. "And which are you?"
Callista didn't answer right away. Then: "Too smart to orbit. Too tired to trap. I'd rather survive."
Mizar felt a flicker of something unfamiliar then—recognition, maybe. The sense of meeting someone whose armor had been forged in the same kind of fire. She wasn't broken, but she was bracing for something.
"I'm not here to collect followers," he said finally.
Maybe adepts.
"I didn't think you were." A pause. "But you're going to need them."
He let the words hang there. The green firelight cast shifting shapes across the floor, like shadows made of water. Far above, the castle shifted in its ancient sleep.
"You're right," he said. "I will."
Callista closed her book gently. "Then maybe make sure the first ones can think for themselves."
Mizar stood. "That's why I started with you."
That earned a ghost of a smile.
She didn't rise, but her eyes followed him as he walked to the stairs, then added softly, "Mizar?"
He turned, one foot already on the first step.
"I hope you stay dangerous."
Mizar's expression didn't shift—but he felt the words settle into him, quiet and real. The kind of thing someone like her wouldn't say unless they meant it.
"I will," he said. "But I won't be cruel."
Callista turned her face back to the lake. "That's harder than it sounds."
He didn't disagree. Just walked up the stairs, already weighing what needed to happen next.
The next morning, the Great Hall brimmed with chatter, the high ceilings echoing with the clatter of silverware and the rustle of owl wings. The sky overhead was a low sheet of gray, the kind that promised rain but hadn't yet made good on it.
Mizar sat near the edge of the Slytherin table, Andromeda across from him, buttering toast with a lazy elegance and occasionally flicking her eyes towards the Gryffindor table with quiet disdain. Bellatrix sat at the head of the table like some newly appointed warlord on her emerald throne, already holding court among the older students even as a third-year. Her laughter rang sharp and mirthless.
Further down the table sat Callista Bulstrode, alone again, plucking at her porridge with a silver spoon and barely touching it. Her robes were slightly too large, and her braid, though neat, had already begun to unravel. Most people didn't seem to notice her. Mizar did.
He was spreading marmalade onto toast when someone dropped into the seat beside him.
"Omar Ghaffari Fuentemayor," the boy said with a nod, not bothering with preamble. "I figured you were either avoiding me or hadn't noticed me in the dorms."
"I noticed," Mizar said, pausing. "You were the last to unpack your trunk and the first one up this morning."
"I was with my brother, Darius," Omar replied, buttering his croissant with one hand and reaching for jam with the other. "He's intense. A prefect this year. He thinks I'm going to make the House proud or embarrass the family so thoroughly we have to change our surnames."
"Big stakes."
"Always."
Mizar studied him. Omar was all confidence, dressed like he knew how to wear robes tailored perfectly to fit him. His skin was warm-toned, his hair a deep, glossy dark brown that curled at the edges. His posture was immaculate, but casual—trained. He possessed the kind of voice that moved between embassy halls and ancestral salons without ever tripping on the carpet.
And yet… in Mizar's original timeline, he'd never heard that name. Not once.
Not during the First or Second War.
Not in the Ministry records.
Not in the Order's lists.
Not even whispered in the alleys of Knockturn.
It was like the Ghaffari Fuentemayor brothers had never existed.
But that wasn't possible. Omar carried himself like someone from a powerful family. Important. Protected. And when people like that died—especially violently—everyone remembered.
So what happened?
Did they leave before the storm broke?
Did they go underground?
Or did someone erase them?
"Where's your family from?" Mizar asked casually.
His companion laughed. "All over the place, honestly. My father is half Persian, half English. My grandfather still serves as the Ambassador for the Iranian Ministry of Magic. My grandmother is a Brocklehurst by birth. As for my mother—she's half Mexican, half Spaniard. She was born and raised in Madrid, but instead of going to Ilvermorny or Beauxbatons, my grandparents sent her here. Her mother—my grandmother—serves on the Iberian Magical Alliance and helped coordinate resistance efforts from the southern front during Grindelwald's rise, working closely with the ICW; meanwhile grandfather is a Senior Delegate for the Pan-American Assembly of Wizarding Education. Helps shape cross-continental standards and school relations across the Americas and handles international relations with Europe."
Mizar hadn't heard of either of those families in his original timeline. But he recognized the type. Names that opened doors before wands ever had to. They had definitely fled Britain when the darkness descended.
Andromeda raised an eyebrow from across the table. "Ambassadors, brocade, ancestral salons—what a résumé."
Omar grinned at her, unbothered. "Don't worry. I plan on adding 'best-looking in the year' before the month's out."
"Good luck beating Andromeda for that," Mizar muttered, just loud enough for both of them to hear.
Omar chuckled. Andromeda gave him a dry look but said nothing.
Further down, Callista Bulstrode glanced up briefly, as if aware of being discussed—or maybe just listening. She met Mizar's eyes for the briefest moment before returning to her bowl. Still not eating.
"Is she alright?" Omar asked quietly, nodding towards her.
"She doesn't talk much," Mizar replied. "But she's smart. And she listens."
Omar tilted his head. "Quiet ones usually do."
Mizar had new chess pieces to carve.