Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scottish Highlands.
1964.
The morning fog still hung low outside the castle, pressing pale light through the enchanted ceiling. The owls had long since finished their mail deliveries, and the Great Hall had thinned to the last few clusters of students still finishing breakfast or swapping timetables. Mizar stepped away from the Slytherin table, toast in hand, and started towards the exit—only to pause as a flicker of motion caught his eye near the Ravenclaw table.
She walked with a cane.
Or rather, leaned on it with a practiced, rhythmic confidence. The wandcane was carved from a deep reddish wood, glinting faintly in the light. Its handle curled in a graceful arch, etched with flowers and a lizard curled around the grip like a secret familiar. She moved slowly, but not with hesitation—more like someone who had long stopped caring if the world around her was in a hurry.
Her gait was uneven, a limp in her step that made some nearby first-years glance, then quickly look away. Mizar didn't. He watched.
Mizar didn't need to know the name of the condition to recognize the way wizarding society flinched from it. He remembered how the Muggle world named things. "Disabled." "Congenital." "Chronic." But here, those words didn't exist. Just silence and stares.
She was tall for her age, with a cascade of dark curls tied back beneath a paisley scarf. Silver rings adorned her fingers, and her sleeves were pinned up just enough to reveal bracelets that clinked gently when she moved. Her skin was warm-hued, her smile quick and defiant when a Ravenclaw boy made a comment she didn't like—sharp enough that the boy immediately backed off.
She moved to sit, but did so with care, easing herself onto the bench before drawing out a tiny silver spoon and measuring herbs into a steaming cup of something far too complicated for a school breakfast. Her hands were precise. Her focus, unshakable.
Across the hall, she looked up—maybe sensing the weight of his gaze—and met his eyes.
Just for a second.
Her expression didn't shift, not even a flinch. But she saw him.
Mizar blinked. Her eyes were the colour of old books and secrets not meant to be shared. He didn't look away.
Later, he'd learn her name was Magnolia Carstairs, and that she'd already corrected two professors before lunch. But for now, he just watched her sip her herbal brew like she'd made it for herself and no one else.
And maybe that was the first time he realized she was going to matter.
Even if they'd hate each other first.
By the middle of term, Mizar had learned three things about Hogwarts in 1964.
First, even in a different time, Slytherins bragged about things they hadn't earned.
Second, most professors didn't quite know what to do with a student who had already read the curriculum.
And third: Ravenclaw Magnolia Carstairs was almost matching him mark for mark in every class.
She wasn't loud. She didn't shout answers or beg for attention. But her name kept appearing beside his on graded parchments, her handwriting was exacting, her arguments cutting, and her footnotes sometimes cited obscure magical theory texts even he hadn't touched yet.
He knew that, despite how closely tied they were in ability, he could easily surpass her in a duel or full-blown combat. Power hummed through his veins. Still, Mizar was aware that if they'd met in a timeline where he hadn't been a child soldier, she would have beaten him.
She arrived late, quiet, her limp pronounced after the walk from the North Tower.
The classroom smelled like chalk and dragonhide—well-worn from decades of ghosts and pupils dragging their feet through its corridors of boredom. Professor Binns' translucent form floated through the blackboard, reciting something about the Goblin Rebellions of 1612 as if he, too, was trying not to fall asleep.
Mizar sat near the center of the room beside Omar, whose notes were scribbled in beautiful, calligraphic script. Mizar, in contrast, had a mix of sharp shorthand and occasional wand etchings in the margins, sketching runes in the style his uncle Regulus once taught him. Just behind them, Andromeda was doodling a snake devouring a lion on her parchment. Callista, as usual, sat off to the side—alone, quiet, perfectly composed, her ink barely disturbed.
Binns, barely present even by ghost standards, drifted to the topic that caused Mizar to stop fidgeting with his quill.
"…and as Ministry influence grew over spell regulation in the 17th century, so too did the formal classification of magic into what modern wizarding governments call Light, Grey, and Dark… terms still debated today, though increasingly institutionalized."
Omar raised a brow. "You think he even knows what year it is?"
Mizar smiled faintly, then raised his hand.
Professor Binns squinted through his ghostly monocle. "Yes, young—Mr. Shafiq?"
"Black-Shafiq," Mizar corrected, not unkindly. "Sir, you said the terms are debated—but most spell classifications come from Ministry law, not magical theory. Wouldn't that make them political more than magical?"
That stirred several heads.
Binns seemed surprised a student was awake enough to question him. "Ah—yes, well, there are… indeed legal roots to classification. The Ministry of Magic began defining Dark magic through the degree of control or harm inflicted upon others, but traditions differ across magical cultures…"
Across the room, a calm voice interrupted.
"So if a charm frightens someone, does that make it Dark?" asked Magnolia Carstairs, sitting upright at the edge of the Ravenclaw cluster. Her wand that served as a cane as well was propped neatly by her desk, and her silver rings glinted as she turned her parchment. "Is intent ever considered, or just impact?"
Several students glanced her way. Her voice wasn't loud, but it had clarity—controlled, deliberate.
Mizar met her eyes. "Intent matters. But denying power just because it makes people uncomfortable is shortsighted."
Magnolia's gaze sharpened. "Or it's wise. Especially if the power in question has a history of being abused."
"That's the thing about history," Mizar replied. "It reflects choices, not tools. Binding magic can imprison or protect. So why is it only called Dark when one side wins the war?"
Omar muttered under his breath, "Bloody hell, it's barely November and he's started a duel without a wand."
Magnolia's fingers flexed where they held her quill. "Grey magic recognizes that. My family practices it—and we teach that magic responds to balance. You choose discipline over domination."
"My family teaches that you master what others fear," Mizar said. "That darkness is not corruption. It's just another thread in the weave."
Andromeda actually looked up from her parchment. "And you wonder why my mother likes you so much," she said.
Callista turned just slightly, one curl falling out of place. She didn't speak, but her eyes flicked between Mizar and Magnolia like she was watching a chessboard no one else could see.
Binns, now visibly struggling to remember the lesson, added unhelpfully, "The practice of classifying spells is still in flux depending on Ministry jurisdiction, although the Unforgivable Curses remain banned in all known magical governments…"
Magnolia's voice cut through again. "Power without restraint leads to ruin. That's not Ministry propaganda—it's pattern."
Mizar didn't flinch. "And fear of power leads to oppression. I've seen that pattern, too."
She frowned. "You sound like someone twice your age."
"I feel like it," he said, then quickly looked away.
There was a long pause. The classroom had gone quiet, several students listening now with sharpened interest. It wasn't often that first-years debated anything without fumbling or posturing. But this didn't feel like posturing—it felt like prophecy.
Binns blinked, seemingly unaware of the silence. "Er… quite. Well. See Chapter Five on Goblin legal resistance for next week."
The ghost floated through the desk, dismissing them with less fanfare than a changing breeze.
Omar packed up beside Mizar and muttered, "You know, some of us just wanted to learn dates."
"I'm not sorry," Mizar replied under his breath.
Further down the room, Magnolia stood and reached for her cane—her wand, Mizar knew. The flowers carved into the wood glinted faintly in the candlelight, and the silver lizard curled near the top caught his eye.
She didn't look at him as she left.
But she limped with purpose.
Not a girl who needed saving. A girl who had already saved herself.
Three days later, the dungeons were cooler than usual. Mist clung to the flagstone floors, and condensation glistened along the ancient castle walls. Rows of gleaming brass cauldrons were already set out on the long wooden benches, while the surrounding shelves brimmed with ingredients—from unicorn hair to slivered, dried firefly wings.
Mizar and Omar were already seated when Professor Slughorn swept into the room in a swirl of sweet pipe smoke and cologne that couldn't quite mask the lingering scent of pickled tentacles.
"Now then! Today we'll be working in pairs—Sleeping Solution first. Classic, delicate, and far trickier than it looks! Half credit if your potion's too cloudy, no credit at all if your partner falls asleep at the table!"
A polite ripple of laughter passed through the room. Mizar rolled his shoulders back as he adjusted the flame beneath their cauldron.
"Careful with the sopophorous bean," Mizar murmured. "Crush, don't slice."
"I'm not new," Omar said lightly.
Slughorn wandered between rows, his eyes gleaming as he scanned the students. He stopped behind them and gave a warm chuckle.
He paused to rest a hand on the bench beside Mizar's cauldron. "Mr. Black-Shafiq," he said, with warm approval. "I went to school with your great-uncle, Lord Arcturus, and had the pleasure of teaching your uncles—Regulus and Marwan—and your mother, Lycoris, of course. Brilliant, all of them. Your mother had a remarkable hand for the subtler infusions. And your father—ah, he preferred complexity. Spent an entire term experimenting with moonstone variants in calming draughts. Very nearly invented a new strain."
Mizar's hand didn't falter, but his face blanked just slightly.
"Yes, well," he said quietly. "I never met him."
Slughorn cleared his throat, the smile returning. "Of course, of course. Such promise. Gone too soon, may Morgana keep him. But I see that same spark in you, you know. I daresay you've inherited the best of both. That singular brilliance. So rare."
Mizar gave a polite nod, letting the praise wash over him without acknowledgement. He'd learned from the Black family how to handle flattery—accept it with stillness, never eagerness.
Slughorn watched them with clear pleasure, his eyes lingering just a second too long on Mizar's profile—sharp features, green-flecked eyes, calm hands. Not quite the same… but there was a spark there. A polish to him already. Not just cleverness—charm and presence. The kind of student who attracted others without trying. He resembled one of his best students, and he didn't mean either of his parents.
Slughorn smiled a bit awkwardly, then leaned in conspiratorially. "And I must say, I was quite touched when Marwan sent me that little bottle over the summer. A rare Egyptian infusion—what was it? Essence of gilded lotus with mirageroot? Exquisite layering. I only used a drop, and it cleared my head like a breeze through Alexandria."
He turned to Omar. "And the Ghaffari Fuentemayor family! A diplomatic legacy if there ever was one. I met your grandfather once in Istanbul, a mind like a vault. I do hope you'll both come to my next little supper gathering. Thursday evening. Black tie."
At the table across from them, Magnolia Carstairs worked with a fellow Ravenclaw girl who looked both enchanted and terrified by her. Magnolia's brew was already turning a pale, opalescent blue—exactly the hue the textbook described. Her hands moved with certainty, and though her cane leaned beside her chair, she didn't seem to need anything beyond her focus.
Slughorn moved towards her. "Miss Carstairs, isn't it? Ravenclaw. I must say, your technique is quite refined. Are your parents perchance Herbologists or Potioneers?"
Magnolia glanced up, face unreadable. "Thank you, sir. Mum's a Herbologist and mamma is a Librarian actually."
"Ah, that explains the footnotes I found on your last parchment." He continued, "Splendid. Absolutely splendid. I suspect you'll have the highest marks in your class this term—well, unless our Mr. Black-Shafiq here gives you a bit of competition."
She didn't look at Mizar, but her lips twitched. "He's welcome to try."
That earned a sharp glance from Mizar, and Omar smirked.
Once Slughorn floated off to scold Mulciber for using too much valerian, Magnolia spoke just loud enough for Mizar to hear: "Your stirring's off. You're four rotations behind."
Mizar didn't look up from the cauldron. "Your lavender's over-steeped. Your potion will induce nightmares."
"Not if I buffer it with crushed chamomile at the end," she said evenly.
Mizar raised an eyebrow. "Assuming you have time."
They didn't smile, but the tension between them thrummed like wandstrings drawn taut.
Halfway through the lesson, Slughorn clapped again. "Now, now! Let's shake things up, shall we? Everyone switch partners. A different potion, different mind to work with!"
Omar groaned. "We were doing so well."
Mizar, already collecting his knife and notes, shot him a brief smirk.
To no one's surprise, Slughorn himself made the pairing rounds—and of course, he orchestrated it so that Mizar was placed beside Magnolia.
They stood at the same table, not speaking at first. She moved her cane out of the way as she opened her textbook to the instructions for the new potion: a mild antidote for common poisons.
"This one's trickier," she said, tying her sleeves up higher. "Requires exact measurements."
"I know," Mizar replied, rolling up his sleeves as well. "Try to keep up."
She scoffed under her breath. "I don't follow. I lead."
"Good. Because I'm not here to hold anyone's hand."
They worked in silence for a few minutes, then debated over the right grind size for dandelion root.
"Finer," she insisted.
"Coarser. You want absorption, not speed."
"Speed matters in poisons."
"So does control."
The potion frothed slightly—perfect colour. Neither said it aloud.
Across the room, Andromeda leaned over to Callista. "They're going to kill each other or invent a new branch of magic."
Callista didn't glance up—but her lips curved faintly. Watching, always.
Slughorn passed by and smiled wide. "Oh, now this is a partnership to remember!"
Mizar and Magnolia didn't answer. But for a moment, as they measured the wormwood in perfect sync, their hands moved with the same rhythm.
"Twenty points to Ravenclaw and Slytherin each."
Slughorn scribbled something into his little black notebook, humming under his breath.
Another name to remember. A few, in fact.
Black-Shafiq. Ghaffari Fuentemayor. Carstairs.