The Room of Requirement opened like it had been waiting.
Tonight, it resembled a quiet training hall: high, vaulted ceilings; smooth stone floors; wide open space broken only by a few low shelves and a circle of cushions. In the center, a wide patch of floor was marked with runes in pale gold chalk. The torches flickered low and steady, casting long, amber shadows across the walls.
Magnolia was already there, seated just outside the chalk circle. Her satchel lay beside her. The sleeves of her jumper were pushed to her elbows. Her wandcane leaned gently against a nearby bench.
She looked up as Mizar entered. "You're late."
"You're early."
She tilted her head. "I was bored."
Mizar raised an eyebrow, setting his satchel down. "You came here out of boredom to do wandless spellwork. Is that the story you're sticking with?"
She shrugged. "I like control."
He nodded once, solemn. "Alright. Then let's take it."
They began simply. Mizar knelt beside her and summoned a small flame between his palms. It hovered there, flickering faintly—a test of focus and intent.
"Your turn."
Magnolia reached her hand forward. Her fingers flexed, then stilled. She inhaled.
Nothing happened.
She let out a breath through her nose. "I hate this part."
"The part where it doesn't work?"
"The part where I care that it doesn't."
Mizar gave a half-smile. "That's when it's working."
She gave him a look. "That's not encouraging."
"Try again."
She did. This time the flame appeared for a second—small, almost translucent, like a memory of fire. It wavered, then disappeared again.
Mizar's voice was quiet. "Better."
"It fizzled."
"It answered."
Magnolia rolled her shoulders back and tried again.
The third time, the flame stayed.
After the first hour, her purple and white had been tossed aside, and her hair had come loose from its pin. She was flushed and focused, wandless magic glowing faintly at her fingertips as she levitated a stone disc through a complicated loop in the air.
"You've done this before," she said suddenly, not looking at him.
"Hmm?"
"This," she said, nodding towards the magic, the room. "Teaching it. Guiding it."
"I have," Mizar said. He didn't elaborate.
Magnolia didn't push. She held the disc steady a moment longer, then let it hover in place.
"It's mad that they don't teach wandless magic at Hogwarts."
Mizar looked over.
"I mean it," she said. "I asked McGonagall once—right before OWLs. Way before your stunt with Marchbanks. She said it wasn't part of the standard curriculum anywhere in Europe. Not even Beauxbatons. Apparently it's too unpredictable."
"It is," Mizar said. "But so is dueling. So is life."
She glanced sideways at him. "Exactly."
He was quiet for a moment, watching her.
"Back home," he said finally, "in Egypt… we start learning it young. Families teach it before a wand's even in your hand."
Magnolia's gaze snapped to his.
He nodded.
"It's not optional. The idea is, if someone breaks your wand—or takes it—you should still be able to protect yourself. Or someone else."
She scoffed softly, a bitter edge in her voice. "Of course. Because that makes sense. Which is why Hogwarts ignores it entirely."
"Because Hogwarts," he said dryly, "is built to preserve power. Not share it."
Magnolia exhaled sharply. "I hate how right that sounds."
She didn't smile, but the way she looked at it—that was close.
"You're a better teacher than most of the ones paid for it," she said.
"I'm not here to teach," he said. "I'm here to make sure you can burn the world down if you ever need to."
She looked up at him. Her expression was unreadable.
Then she whispered, "Good."
What else can you teach me?"
Mizar didn't answer right away. He looked at her, really looked, the way one might measure a door before deciding whether to knock or break it open.
"Something simple," he said eventually, "but useful."
He stood, brushing dust from his palms. "You've done the spell before, probably. But not like this."
She raised a brow, but said nothing.
He turned, faced the open space in front of them, and drew a breath.
Then: "Expecto Patronum."
Light burst from his hand—brilliant, silver, and sharp-edged like dawn cutting through cloud. A falcon soared from his fingers, wings wide and luminous, scattering glowing feathers as it circled the room. Magnolia's eyes followed it, the way its tail shimmered, the elegant curve of its neck as it turned in the air.
It was unmistakable.
"The Shafiq crest," she said quietly.
He nodded.
The falcon came to rest midair, then dipped into a dive and vanished in a quiet flicker of light.
"That wasn't just for Dementors," Magnolia said, slowly. "You sent it."
Mizar nodded again. "You can cast messages with a full corporeal Patronus. They travel across distances instantly. Silent, shielded, and only the person it's meant for can hear it."
He stepped aside and gestured. "Your turn."
She hesitated. "It took me ages just to get the wisp."
He tilted his head. "So get the wisp. Then get the rest."
She inhaled. Closed her eyes.
Expecto Patronum.
Silver mist spilled from her wandcane, ghostlike and weak. It curled upward, then dissolved. Magnolia hissed softly and tried again.
And again.
And again.
She burned through half an hour and most of her patience, her jaw tight, her fingers clenched white around the wand embedded in her cane.
"You're forcing it," Mizar said at last. "It's not brute force. It's memory. Feeling."
"I'm trying."
"I know. But it's not a spell you fight with. It's a spell you believe in."
She turned to glare at him. "What do you think I'm trying to believe in?"
He met her eyes. "Something that makes you want to stay. Something that would drag you out of the worst night of your life."
Her gaze dropped. Her jaw flexed once, twice.
She didn't speak, just turned again to the open space.
And whispered:
"Expecto Patronum."
This time, the mist surged forward. It held its shape longer, curled into something low and sleek. For a moment, the light sharpened—and then it broke apart again, vanishing like breath in winter.
She exhaled hard. "Damn it."
Mizar stepped forward, not to correct her—just to stand close.
"You're close," he said.
"I'm not there."
"But it's looking for you."
The next time, it took. A sudden bloom of silver light rushed from her wandcane—clearer, sharper, brighter.
A small lizard, alert, scuttled into the air and climbed higher than it had any right to. Its spine glimmered like polished stone. Its eyes glowed like old runes. It turned in the air, then landed gently on her shoulder—warm, solid, real.
Magnolia stared at it.
It blinked at her.
She let out a breath that shook.
"That," Mizar said, "is yours."
She reached up slowly, and it didn't flinch. Just curled gently against her collar like it had always belonged there.
"A lizard," she said finally, voice hoarse. "Of all things."
"The one carved on your wand," Mizar said. "It's always been with you."
She didn't smile. But she didn't look away, either.
"I'm gonna send a message to my mums."
Magnolia exhaled, eyes on the last wisps of silver that shimmered and vanished through the far wall.
Mizar watched her calmly. "You've got the shape now. Next is intent."
She nodded once, the adrenaline still sharp in her limbs. "Right. The message."
He stepped closer, voice steady. "You have to speak it aloud. The Patronus only carries what it hears—your voice, your words, your magic behind them."
Magnolia's eyes flicked towards where her lizard Patronus had gone, then back to Mizar. "It's like a letter… with teeth."
"Exactly." He smiled faintly. "But better than owls. Can't be intercepted. And it doesn't miss."
She looked down at her wandcane again. Tapped it lightly against her palm. Her breath was still catching.
"I don't know what to say."
Mizar didn't push. "Then say what you'd say if they were here."
That silenced her for a moment. Then she nodded. Slowly. Like it hurt.
She lifted the wand again, steadied her hand.
"Expecto Patronum."
The lizard burst forth this time without hesitation, leaping from her cane and landing softly on her shoulder again—waiting, alert.
Magnolia inhaled, then whispered—louder than before, with the weight of real memory behind her voice:
"Mum. Mama. I'm fine. I swear I'm fine. I just wanted to say I miss you—and I'm trying."
The Patronus blinked once, as if understanding.
"Tell mama to stop worrying. Tell her I'm eating. And tell mum I wore the scarf, even if it's hideous."
The silver lizard gave the slightest tilt of its head, then dropped from her shoulder. It scuttled forward, sharp and sure, tail trailing comet-like light, and vanished through the wall again.
Magnolia stood still for several seconds, eyes locked on the place where it disappeared.
Her voice, when it returned, was raw. "You said they'll hear it?"
"They'll hear you," Mizar replied. "Exactly as you meant it."
She closed her eyes. Just for a second.
Then: "That was horrible."
Mizar gave a small nod. "You did well."
"I meant horrible as in… feeling things." She wrinkled her nose like the word itself was distasteful. "I'd rather levitate knives."
"You'll get your chance," he said, deadpan.
She gave a snort, then moved to sit again, suddenly looking more tired than she had when she arrived. The heat of the spellwork was fading from her cheeks, leaving her quiet and bare in the hush that followed.
Mizar sat down beside her.
"What do you wanna do after Hogwarts?" she asked after a beat, fiddling with a loose thread on her cuff.
"Gonna try getting a job at the Ministry," she continued before he could answer. "I'm applying for an internship at the Department of International Magical Cooperation. I assume now that you're a Lord, you'll take your seat in the Wizengamot and oversee your family's business and all that."
"Yes," he said tentatively, "but I also wanna do something else."
"What?"
"I don't know yet."
She raised an eyebrow. "Helpful."
"You should go into teaching," she said, nudging him with her elbow.
He let out a dry laugh. "Yeah, sure. 'Cause Dumbledore loves me so much."
"They're always in need of DADA professors," she said with a smirk. "And you're terrifying enough to keep a room full of seventh-years in line."
He tilted his head. "You think?"
"I think you'd either inspire greatness or start a student uprising. Either way, very memorable."
He smiled faintly, but his gaze had gone distant.
The silence stretched between them, and Magnolia didn't press. She let her head rest against the stone wall, her lizard Patronus long since vanished. The glow of the torches flickered low and warm.
Mizar stared into the shadows, but his thoughts spiraled elsewhere—out of the Room of Requirement, out of Hogwarts.
He thought of Hepzibah Smith, and how she had died when Mizar had still been a toddler.
Killed by Voldemort. By Tom. Not directly but orchestrated by him and her house elf executed.
He knew the story—how she'd boasted of her treasures, how Tom Riddle had played the charming young man working at Borgin & Burke before poisoning her for Helga Hufflepuff's Cup. The cup had probably already been turned into a Horcrux.
So had the locket. Slytherin's locket. Taken from that woman, stolen with the same smile Tom had used on everyone.
Both objects already cursed, already hidden.
This time around Mizar wasn't a Horcrux like Harry had been.
That meant six Horcruxes. The Cup and the Locket were nowhere within his reach. Voldemort had yet to kill Bertha Jonkins so Nagini was still a mere snake. Tom Riddle's diary was probably in the position of Abraxas Malfoy who would one day succumb to Dragon-Pox around Harry Potter's birth in 1980. There was no way either of the Malfoys would give the diary to Mizar willingly, for all it mattered—they might not even know what the diary actually was.
Marvolo Gaunt's Ring with the Resurrection Stone and Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem.
He needed to act.
That night, long after Magnolia had gone and the Room had sealed itself again, Mizar didn't sleep.
The castle was silent as he moved—his footsteps soft, purposeful, cloaked under a Disillusionment Charm strong enough to fool even portraits. He didn't need the Marauders' map. He knew the route. He had silenced his steps with a spell.
The second-floor girls' bathroom was cold when he entered. Damp crept up the tiles and fogged the corners of the cracked mirrors. A tap dripped. The air smelled faintly of mildew, dust, and something old.
"Who's there?" came a high, watery voice.
Mizar didn't flinch. He turned slowly.
Moaning Myrtle floated above the far sink, peering at him suspiciously.
"You're not supposed to be here," she said, drifting closer with a sulky scowl. "It's a girls' lavatory."
"I won't be long," he said quietly.
"Oh, of course. None of you ever are," she sniffed. "Always come barging in, poking around. Peeves once dared a fourth year to flood the sinks. They always flood my sinks…"
"I'm not here to make a mess."
She tilted her head, studying him. "Then why are you here?"
"I'm looking for a way down."
Myrtle blinked. "Down?"
"To something forgotten," he said. "It won't bother you."
She narrowed her eyes. "Well. Fine. But if you break anything, I'll scream loud enough to wake the Bloody Baron."
"I believe you."
Mizar stepped towards the farthest sink, the one where Myrtle had died—though she didn't remember it clearly. She only ever recalled crying in that stall, and seeing a pair of strange, glowing eyes. Then nothing.
He knelt in front of the porcelain basin, aged and cracked, and whispered in a tongue not meant for this century.
The words slid like oil through the air. Parseltongue.
The sink shuddered. Stone scraped. Pipes groaned as the basin retracted and spiraled open to reveal a deep, gaping shaft below.
Myrtle shrieked and darted through the ceiling in fright.
Mizar didn't hesitate. He jumped.
The fall was cold and swift. Wind tore past his robes until, with a muted thud and a roll, he landed on a pile of bones and old debris in the dark.
He rose, wand already lit. The narrow tunnel stretched out ahead of him, choked with roots and silence.
He walked.
The entrance to the Chamber opened with another hissed command. The ancient stone door slid aside, revealing a vast chamber of green stone and still air.
Salazar Slytherin's statue loomed at the far end, severe and watching.
Mizar waited.
The sound came first—scales shifting against stone. A low breath. Then she emerged.
The Basilisk.
Massive, coiled like a mountain, her head lowered but her eyes tightly shut. Blind, perhaps. Sleeping for years, perhaps longer.
Mizar didn't raise his wand.
"I don't mean you harm," he said—in Parseltongue.
Her head lifted slightly. "Another one. But not the same."
"I came to ask something of you."
Her body shifted—impossibly long, ancient muscles rippling.
"Why should I grant it?"
"Because I know what was done to you," he said. "And I would not leave you in chains."
A long silence.
"I sleep now," she hissed slowly. "And I dream. But there is pain still… deep in the marrow."
"I know. That's why I won't let another master wake you."
Her head lowered—almost weary.
"I want rest."
Mizar nodded. "Then I'll make it quick. And I'll make it count."
She didn't move again.
He spoke one word.
The spell was fast. Merciful. A flash of green, and her body fell like a broken wave, still coiled, now quiet.
He stayed beside her for a while. Then he got to work.
He extracted the venom with care, preserving every drop. Collected several fangs, long as short swords, and cut free long strips of enchanted scales with precision and gloves charmed against toxins.
Hours later, he left the Chamber with a shrunken trunk full of parts the world hadn't seen in decades.
He told no one.
Three days later while most students were returning up the path to the castle—rosy-cheeked from butterbeer and wrapped in scarves still trailing snow—Mizar was in Knockturn Alley.
He had made a quiet exit from Honeydukes leaving his friends behind amidst the scent of sweets. A brief walk down a side lane behind the post office, a spell cast to blur his presence.
He walked in the shadows of a narrow alley in the heart of Knockturn. The buildings leaned like old men and the cobbles glistened with something that hadn't been rain. Lamplight shimmered behind shuttered windows, flickering not with fire but with low-burning enchantments. The less people saw each other's face here, the better.
There, wedged between two forgotten shops, stood an unmarked oak door—its surface etched with ward-scars invisible to most eyes. Mizar approached, murmured a phrase he had been told by Lord Warrington under his breath, and waited.
The wards rippled, inspected him like fingers brushing across a page, then withdrew.
The door opened inward on its own.
The shop within was small but deep, lit by swaying lanterns that gave off no heat. The air was a dense brew of incense, crushed herbs, and faint electric tension. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with flasks, teeth, pickled things, wings, salted claws, bottled shadow, and powderized scale.
Behind the counter stood Thaddeus Drell.
He was tall, pale, and sharp-featured, his gold-flecked eyes more reptilian than human in the lamplight. His robes were layered black on black, embroidered with runes that shimmered faintly when the light passed over them.
He didn't speak right away. He studied Mizar with open curiosity. Then:
"Well, well… Lord Black-Shafiq. I expected your name in the papers before your boots ever touched my floor. I couldn't believe when I received word from Lord Warrington that you were coming."
Mizar didn't smile. "Keep your expectations quiet."
Drell tilted his head, intrigued. "What brings a young man like yourself to a place like this?"
Mizar dropped the shrunken trunk onto the worn stone floor and flicked his wand. The box unshrunk and groaned open, revealing the contents inside.
The smile slid off Drell's face.
He stepped out from behind the counter slowly. "Is that—"
"Basilisk," Mizar said. "Fresh."
Drell crouched, reached into the trunk with care, and lifted a length of glimmering green-black skin. The light clung to it like oil. His fingers brushed the edge of a fang next—long, curved, and pale as bone.
"Sweet Merlin," he whispered. "It can't be."
Drell looked up sharply. "You killed it?"
"I put it to rest."
He turned the trunk slightly, revealing several carefully preserved vials, their contents a glowing, viscous green. The basilisk venom pulsed faintly inside them, as if still dreaming of death.
Drell stood. "Do you have any idea what this is worth?"
"I do. That's why I'm here."
The apothecary master's expression was unreadable now—somewhere between reverence and caution. "This will make waves. Quiet ones, but deep. There are collectors who would bleed for a single fang. Unsanctioned alchemists would pay fortunes for venom that pure. I know a warlock in Kyoto who'd trade you half his vault for three inches of that hide."
"I don't want waves," Mizar said coldly. "I want silence. Controlled clients. Only the most trusted."
Drell gave a low laugh. "You want discretion from Knockturn Alley. Brave or foolish, I haven't decided which."
Mizar stepped forward. "I don't need you to decide. I need you to move it. Small batches. No names. No trace."
Drell's smile returned—just a little. "And your cut?"
"Eighty percent."
"You drive a cruel bargain."
Mizar looked him dead in the eye. "I killed a basilisk and dragged it here in pieces. You're getting the easy part."
Drell gave a slow nod of appreciation. "Fair enough."
"I'm keeping some of the venom," Mizar added. "Don't ask why."
"I don't. I only ask if you'd like it stored in blood-sealed glass, or would you rather carry it yourself?"
"I'll carry it."
"Of course you will," Drell murmured. He closed the trunk and gave it a quick sweep of his wand, vanishing it beneath the floorboards with a subtle spell.
"I'll send word by owl. Encrypted."
"I'll read it," Mizar said, already turning.
"Tell me one thing, Lord Black-Shafiq," Drell called lightly. "Where in this rotting world does one still find a basilisk?"
Mizar glanced over his shoulder. "In the places no one dares to look."
And with that, he stepped out into the narrow alley, letting the door whisper shut behind him.
The next night after his Housemates went to bed, his late night adventures continued.
Mizar waited until Ravenclaw Tower was empty—until the fire had dimmed and the footsteps faded. The hour was deep, the kind of quiet where portraits slept and ghosts whispered to themselves in corners.
He walked. Disillusioned, silent, slipping behind veils of Notice-Me-Not charms and casted silencing spells under his breath. He moved like a shadow through Hogwarts' inner arteries.
Past the bronze eagle knocker at Ravenclaw Tower—he waited until a yawning third-year came through the door, muttered the answer to a riddle, and left it open long enough for him to step through.
The tower was all star-glass windows and soft blue light. And in one corner, floating inches above the floor near the tall arched window, she hovered: the Grey Lady.
Her pale face turned before he spoke. Her voice was silk and frost. "You are not of my House."
"No," Mizar said quietly, dropping his charm. "But I need to speak with you, Lady Helena."
That made her pause. Most students didn't know her name. Certainly not that one.
"You come with secrets," she said.
"I'm here about your mother's diadem."
Her form stiffened. "You know of it?"
"I know it was taken. Hidden. Twisted."
She drifted closer, her expression unreadable. "There was one before. A boy, dark of hair and clever with charm. He asked the same."
"I know," Mizar said. "That boy—Tom Riddle—defiled your mother's relic. He used it for something unspeakable. I believe he turned it into a vessel of his own soul."
Her face was a winter mask. "You say it like you know him."
"I've met what remains of him," Mizar said softly. "I know what he wants. Power. Immortality. To bend the world until it forgets its shape."
Helena turned towards the window. "I thought I was clever, once. When I fled with the diadem. Then my mother sent for me and… well, it doesn't matter."
"You were tricked," Mizar said. "But you can help stop him now."
Silence.
Then she said, "He hid it at Hogwarts. Of course he did."
"Do you know where?"
She nodded slowly. "A room that changes. A room that listens. He called it a place for hiding things."
Mizar's breath caught.
"The Room of Requirement."
He had used that room to train Magnolia. How hadn't he noticed it there?
Her eyes gleamed faintly. "He was proud of that discovery. But he didn't know… the castle remembers. I remember."
"I'll find it," Mizar said.
"You'll need to be careful. It resists being entered for that purpose now—it remembers him."
"I'll make it listen."
Helena Ravenclaw inclined her head. "Then go."
Two nights later, Mizar stood in front of the blank stretch of wall across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and instead of asking for a place to train, he asked for something else.
The place where he hid it. Show me what he left behind.
The wall rippled.
A door appeared.
Inside, the Room of Requirement stretched wider than a Quidditch pitch. Towering piles of discarded objects, broken furniture, forgotten cauldrons, books, cages, masks, half-wands, bloodstained robes. It stank faintly of mildew, potion residue, and rot.
But Mizar knew what he was looking for.
He walked carefully, casting quiet revealing spells. And then, beneath the broken frame of a wardrobe, he saw it—perched on a bust of an old warlock, dusty but unmistakable.
The Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw.
It shimmered faintly even in shadow.
Mizar stepped forward, and carefully took it in gloved hands.
He didn't hear a whisper. He didn't feel a curse. But he knew it was there—coiled deep within it, the Horcrux's soul-fragment buried in the metal like a thorn under skin.
He withdrew the bottle full of venom from his robes and proceeded.
Mizar withdrew a small, thick vial from the inner pocket of his robes. The basilisk venom inside was viscous, glowing faintly green under the low light, as if it too remembered what it was made for.
He uncorked it with a steady hand.
"Sorry, Helena," he murmured under his breath.
Then he poured.
The venom hissed on contact, sizzling against the metal like acid. The Diadem trembled in his hands. For a second—only a second—the room around him went deathly still.
Then it began.
A sharp, high-pitched whine split the air. The metal twisted in his grip, warped by ancient magic resisting death. Something screamed—not with sound, but with feeling. Rage, confusion, hatred. Then fear.
The scream peaked, shattered into silence. The Diadem cracked down the center. Its glow flickered out.
It was done.
Mizar exhaled slowly, the smell of scorched magic hanging in the air. He lowered the ruined circlet into a cloth and tucked it away into the bottom of his satchel, just in case the shards retained any trace of dark enchantment.
One more to go for now—it needed to wait until the holidays though.