The Weald, Southeast England.
The wards shimmered like breath on glass as they passed through, quiet and ancient, attuned to blood and belonging.
Begonia Hall stood ahead—low and golden in the winter dusk, its sweeping lawn still dusted with fading snow. The wide clearing behind it, ringed with iron-barked trees, held the real prize: a private Quidditch pitch, as pristine as any used by the Magpies or the Arrows.
Sirius let out a low whistle. "You weren't joking."
"I never joke about Quidditch," Mizar said mildly.
Charlus Potter stood at the top step of the manor, already in winter robes, hands in his pockets and a familiar smile tugging at his lips. "You're late."
"We brought an entourage," Mizar replied, nodding to the two Black brothers.
Dorea emerged behind Charlus, elegant as ever, her hair twisted up and secured with silver pins. "The bedrooms are ready. Dinner will be at seven. But until then—go fly. Merlin knows these two look like they could use the air."
Sirius lit up immediately. "Can we?"
Charlus grinned. "The court's yours. I even had the elves re-charm the hoops."
Regulus, more subdued, said nothing—but the way he glanced at the broom shed was answer enough.
Within minutes, they were in the air.
Mizar took to flight first, rising clean and fast on his personal broom—a Shafiq-made model with a narrow build and brutal precision. He hovered for a moment, letting the chill wind bite at his cheeks, before angling upward in a sharp spiral.
Sirius shot past him moments later on one of the Potters' spare brooms, whooping. "Catch me if you can, Lord Bore!"
Mizar smirked and leaned into the chase.
Below them, Regulus cut upward with neat, efficient turns. He wasn't as reckless as his brother, but he was fast. Controlled. Mizar marked the sharp angle of his shoulders, the way he read the wind, how he didn't waste a single movement.
He could've made a good Seeker too.
They played until the sun dropped low, until breath came in clouds and fingers began to stiffen against broom handles. Charlus watched from the ground with crossed arms and a satisfied glint in his eyes, like a man watching a better world take shape right in front of him.
Mizar drifted higher and hovered alone for a moment, scanning the darkening trees, the flicker of wandlight from the house, the laughter rising from the pitch.
And something caught in his chest.
It wasn't grief exactly. It was something quieter. Older.
This could've been him.
Harry Potter.
Son of James and Lily. Raised in a house like this one. With godparents and tea in porcelain cups and flying lessons on Sunday afternoons. He might've grown up flying next to Sirius, not searching for his name in the footnotes of pain.
If Voldemort had never risen. If the war had never begun. If my parents had lived.
He would've had this.
He would've been this.
He inhaled deeply. The sky smelled like winter and wind and woodsmoke from the chimneys below.
And then Sirius's voice rang up from beneath him.
"Mizar! Stop brooding! We're freezing our arses off down here!"
Mizar angled his broom down with a practiced drop, the kind that sent Regulus's brows up slightly and made Sirius cheer.
They landed in a tumble of snow and laughter.
Inside, the manor glowed with candlelight and old magic. The boys peeled off boots and cloaks and followed the scent of roast meat and spiced pumpkin.
Over dinner, Charlus asked them about their lessons, and Dorea passed Sirius the gravy boat before he asked. Regulus answered with careful courtesy, but Mizar noticed how his posture relaxed when Dorea complimented his history knowledge. Sirius told a terrible joke, and Charlus laughed harder than it deserved.
Later, wrapped in silk pyjamas and with warm cider in hand, Sirius yawned and said sleepily from his place on a rug by the fire, "You should just adopt us, Mizar. Would save everyone a lot of time."
Regulus gave a rare smile from the armchair.
Mizar didn't answer at first.
But after a while, he murmured, "You're already mine. You just don't know it yet."
Neither of them heard him.
But that was all right.
He heard it enough for all of them.
Hours later, the manor was finally quiet.
Mizar's room was tucked beneath one of the eaves, its tall window looking out over the bare orchard and frozen lawn. Regulus and Sirius had fallen asleep hours ago, tangled in dreams and spare quilts but Mizar had not yet found sleep.
He noticed the soft creak of the landing outside. Dorea. Fully dressed, her dark green cloak fastened high at her neck, hair neatly pinned, lipstick still unmarred. She moved with practiced quiet as she descended the stairs.
It was the way she looked around before opening the front door that stopped him. Not cautious in the paranoid sense—but careful. Like someone who had done this often and always alone.
He followed her, charms and disillusionments in place.
By the time he reached the iron gate, he saw her Disapparate with a sharp turn. He hesitated, then followed the magical trace.
They reappeared in an elegant part of Muggle London—Holland Park, he guessed. Townhouses with wrought balconies and black-painted doors, gas-style lamps casting soft golden circles on the walkways. A long line of taxis purred down the distant main road.
Dorea walked briskly but not secretively. She crossed the street, passed a quiet tea shop, and turned up the steps of a white-stone townhouse with ivy trained along the gate.
The curtains in the front room were sheer. He caught her silhouette as she raised her hand—not to knock, but to tap the door gently with her knuckles, like muscle memory.
It opened almost at once.
The man who answered the door was older. A few years Dorea's senior at least. His hair was dark grey, but not thinning—thick, swept neatly back. He wore a Muggle cardigan and slacks, black shoes on a polished wood floor. Mizar saw him clearly when the light hit his face.
And he knew.
The man's jaw, though softened by age, was unmistakable. The narrow cheekbones. The proud, high brow. The eyes, deep-set and dark, shaped just like Arcturus's—only gentler.
Black.
But he wasn't a wizard. No wand. No wards on the house. The very air of the place was Muggle.
Marius.
His mum's long-forgotten Squib cousin.
Dorea's brother.
He opened the door wider and Dorea stepped inside.
Before she even spoke, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a long, familiar hug. Not polite. Not stiff. True.
Mizar watched in stunned silence.
He stayed there, across the street, unmoving.
The lamps behind the window glowed warm, illuminating a living room filled with books, a leather sofa, framed photos of a family. Dorea and Marius sat close on the couch, cups of tea between them. They didn't speak much. Occasionally she'd reach for his hand. He'd smile faintly and nod. It was the quiet of people who had known each other forever—and still chose to.
There was no bitterness in Marius's face. No hint of resentment. He looked like a man who had made peace with his path long ago.
But Dorea—Dorea looked as if she still carried the weight of him being left behind.
She stayed for over an hour. Mizar never moved.
When she finally left, she glanced up and down the street—an old habit, not paranoia. Then she turned on the spot and vanished with a soft crack.
Mizar stood still for a long time after that.
Marius Black. Squib. Disgrace. Forgotten brother.
Not so forgotten.
Mizar turned slowly and apparated back to the manor.
He padded softly past the boys' shared room. Sirius and Regulus were fast asleep, their chests rising in quiet rhythm.
Mizar slipped back into his own room, the embers low in the grate, and stood at the window, staring out into the night.
How many names had they buried? How many people had they cut off in the name of tradition?
Marius. Cedrella. Lucretia.
He thought of Sirius, already slipping into rebellion.
He thought of Andromeda, of Ianthe, of the steady, choking grip of expectations.
And he thought of Dorea—who visited her brother not to undo the past, but to remind him that he was still loved.
Mizar didn't sleep for a long time.
The next morning, everything was as it had been.
Sunlight filtered into the manor through tall windows draped in green velvet. Charlus read the Prophet at the head of the table, sipping dark coffee. Dorea sat beside him, slicing pears into thin wedges. Sirius and Regulus stumbled in half-dressed and half-awake, still laughing about the previous night's broom crashes. Charlus greeted them with a warm "Morning, lads!" and slid eggs across the table with a flick of his wand.
Mizar sat quietly, watching.
Dorea's lipstick was plum today. Her hair twisted into a soft chignon, her robes dark blue with a faint silver shimmer. Her face, as always, was composed. But Mizar could see the faint edge to her movements—the way her fingers tightened ever so slightly when she lifted her teacup.
She was acting as though she hadn't left the house in the dead of night to visit a brother no one mentioned. A brother Mizar's grandfather—Sirius Black II—had exiled for being a Squib.
A brother his own uncle, Arcturus, had let go without protest.
Mizar sat in the library, pretending to read a book on broomstick enchantments. His eyes hadn't moved from the same paragraph in ten minutes.
He didn't look up when Aunt Dorea stepped in.
"Sleep well?" she asked gently.
Mizar closed the book. "I followed you last night."
The silence cracked like glass.
Dorea blinked, just once. Then she stepped further into the room, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
"I see."
"I didn't mean to spy," Mizar said. "But you were leaving so late, and—"
"You were curious," she finished for him, nodding slightly. "And you've always been a quiet walker."
He stood now, leaning against the edge of the fireplace. "It was Marius."
Dorea's expression didn't shift. But the way her hands folded at her waist—tightly, precisely—betrayed the tension beneath.
"Yes."
"I recognized him," Mizar said. "The resemblance is too strong. He's your brother."
"And one of your uncles," she said softly.
Mizar exhaled, staring into the flames. "He looked happy. Peaceful."
"He is," she murmured. "He has a wife, a daughter and a son, a granddaughter even. A job he loves. He's made a life for himself, one far from all this."
"And Grandfather just—cast him out?"
Dorea's jaw tightened. "Uncle Sirius never saw Marius as anything but a stain. A squib. A weakness. The moment it was clear he'd never show magic, he was… written off. Our parents didn't fight it. I was too young. Arcturus—he was old enough. He should have said something. But he didn't."
"Did he ever visit?" Mizar asked quietly.
"No," Dorea said. "None of them did. No one but me."
Mizar lowered his gaze. "And he still lets you in."
Dorea's voice was low. "Because I never left him. Not really. I sent letters. Snuck him books. When he turned seventeen and left for London, I tracked him down."
"Did Grandfather know?"
"No. Your grandfather was more focused on Arcturus, on your mother and Regulus. I think Pollux suspected. But by then I was already married and gone from the family house. And Charlus never forbade me from seeing my brother."
Mizar gave a short, humourless laugh. "Of course not."
They sat in the silence for a moment.
Then Dorea moved to a side table and opened the drawer.
She pulled out a small silver mirror, its surface slightly clouded. She held it for a second, then passed it to Mizar.
"It's charmed," she said. "Linked to one in Marius's home. Even without magic, it lets him send messages. Little ones."
Mizar stared at the mirror.
A faint shimmer moved across its surface, and then words began to form, as though etched by fog:
"Emergency. Come. Mary."
Dorea paled. "Mary. His granddaughter."
Mizar was already rising. "We need to go. Now."
She nodded tightly, already fastening her cloak. "Charlus can manage the boys. I'll tell him it's a family matter."
As they stepped into the hall together, Mizar looked once at her, then asked:
"Do they know? Mary and the others? Who he really is?"
Dorea gave a sad smile. "They know only what he's chosen to tell them."
"That coming from a Black means that they don't know anything."
"His wife knows everything. That's enough."
They Apparated from the grounds to the park near Marius' residence. The unguarded door had no wards, no magical protections, just a simple brass handle and a polished knocker. Mizar noted the absence of any shimmer or crackle of magic as he and Dorea stood outside.
She knocked on the door.
Marius opened the door himself, his face drawn and anxious. His dark grey hair was neatly swept back, but his eyes betrayed the exhaustion and worry he carried.
"Dorea," he said, voice low but urgent. "Thank Merlin you're here."
Behind him stood a tall Black woman wearing a Christmas sweater.
Dorea stepped inside, Mizar close behind.
Marius glanced at Mizar with mild surprise. "You've brought company?"
Dorea nodded. "Marius, this is Mizar. He's Lycoris' boy. He's come to help."
Marius's eyes narrowed briefly but he gave a cautious nod. "I see. Welcome, Mizar."
Mizar inclined his head respectfully. "Thank you, Marius. I'm here to help in any way I can."
Marius gestured towards the rest of the room.
"This is Mary, my wife," he said quietly.
"Nice to meet you, Mizar."
In the sitting room, a woman in her thirties sat tensely, her graceful posture taut with worry. Her smooth medium toned brown skin and expressive eyes mirrored a mix of fear and disbelief. Beside her, her husband—a tall, blond man—shifted uneasily.
There was another man in the room, younger. He was rooted to his spot by the TV.
A young girl crouched on a sofa, trembling. Her soft curls framed a pale face marked by fear and uncertainty. When she looked up, Mizar saw her eyes—dark green, just a shade lighter than his own, enough to not have people mistake them for hazel unlike his.
He motioned towards the rest of the room. "This is Carina. My daughter. Her husband Callum and my son Rigel."
He kept the Black naming family tradition.
Carina folded her arms tightly. "Dad, what exactly happened? We don't understand. Mary made the table disappeared and the light bulbs shatter. We all saw it."
Her husband looked at Mizar and Dorea. "Aye, we need answers. What is this? What's going on with Mary?"
Marius's face tightened, a flicker of helplessness in his eyes. "There are things none of you don't."
Mizar stepped forward gently. "Mary, you're safe here. What's happening is normal. It's always been inside you."
Carina's voice was sharp but filled with desperation. "What's happening? Who is he?"
She turned to Dorea, "aunt Dorea. Who is he?"
"This is Mizar. Our cousin's child."
This time Rigel did react, "you told us you had no other family. That it was just the two of you after your parents died."
"I lied, son."
Marius stayed quiet for a beat.
Then he stepped fully into the sitting room and sat beside Mary, his hands clasped between his knees.
"I lied," he repeated, slower this time. "To protect you. To keep all of you away from something I never thought would touch us again."
"Marius," Callum said carefully, "what is this?"
Marius looked at his family. "You deserve the truth."
He looked at Mary Macdonald, the little girl huddled on the couch, her curls limp with sweat and fear, eyes darting from face to face.
"She's not sick," Marius said softly. "She's not broken. Mary's a witch."
Silence followed, taut and ringing.
Callum exhaled sharply through his nose, then barked a short laugh that had no humor in it. "I'm sorry—she's what?"
"A witch," Marius said again, firmer this time. "Like from a storybook. Only real. And born that way."
Carina's brow furrowed. "That's not funny."
"I'm not joking," Marius said, glancing at her. "It's real. Magic is real. I was born into a family that could do things like that—turn teacups into frogs, light fires with a flick of a wand. They called themselves witches and wizards."
He hesitated, then added, "Our name—Black—is old in that world. Ancient, even. One of the most powerful wizarding families in Britain."
"Are you saying you're a wizard?" Rigel asked, voice tight with disbelief.
Marius shook his head. "No. I'm not. I was born without magic. A non-magical child in a magical family. There's a word for it: Squib. It's not a kind one."
He looked down at his hands, voice growing quieter. "My uncle, Sirius, said I was a disgrace. An embarrassment. A Black who couldn't even do this—" he snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. He smiled faintly. "Exactly."
Callum glanced from her to Rigel, then to little Mary, still trembling on the couch. "This is mad," he muttered. "This is completely barmy."
"It's real," Dorea said softly. "I've lived it my whole life."
"I can prove it," Mizar said, stepping forward at last. His voice was calm, steady, but there was something quietly commanding in it. "Watch."
He lifted his hand—no wand, no incantation—and with a lazy flick of his fingers, the air above the coffee table shimmered.
At first it was subtle: the shimmer bent like heat over asphalt, then parted like silk. Slowly, a miniature solar system emerged—each planet glowing, turning gently in place, casting soft light over the room. A hush fell as they orbited each other in perfect silence, impossibly real.
Mary's eyes went wide. "That's… that's real?"
Mizar nodded, lowering his hand. The planets vanished in a pulse of golden light.
Callum stumbled back a step, one hand braced on the armrest. "Bloody hell."
Rigel's mouth hung open. "How?."
"Wands help focus magic," Mizar explained. "They aren't always necessary."
Carina turned to her mother then, voice raw. "You knew. You knew all of this. You lied to us."
Mary—older Mary, Marius's wife—looked suddenly much smaller. She straightened her spine, eyes shining but proud.
"I didn't want to lie," she said. "But I didn't know how to tell you. I could barely believe it myself when I met him."
She turned to Marius, who gave her a soft nod.
"My parents sent me to London for school," she continued. "From Kingston. I was supposed to focus on my studies. And then I met this boy who could talk about stars like he'd touched them. He told me his world had centaurs and goblins and schools in castles. I thought he was mad. Or charming. Or both."
"You knew about magic this whole time," Carina whispered.
Mary nodded. "I married into it. I saw enough to believe. But I promised him we'd raise you far away from that world. It hurt him. I know it did."
"I didn't want you pulled into something you didn't choose," Marius said quietly. "Especially when I couldn't even be part of it."
"But I have magic," Mary Macdonald said, her voice small. "So… I'm part of it now, right?"
Mizar crouched beside her again, his tone gentle. "You always were."
Silence held for a long moment.
Carina's voice cracked the silence. "Wait—who are you, exactly?"
Her husband added sharply, "You said your name's Mizar, but that doesn't explain anything."
Carina's brows drew tight. " why are you here?"
Mizar glanced at Dorea, then back to them. "Because I'm family. My mother is Lycoris Black. My grandfather… was Sirius Black II."
Carina paled. "The one who—"
"Yes," Mizar said quietly. "The man who disowned your father. The man who decided that not having magic made him worthless."
Callum let out a slow, incredulous breath. "And you're his grandson."
"I am," Mizar said without shame. "And I'm here because I don't believe what he believed. I'm here because your father matters. Because Mary matters. Because your family deserves to know the truth—and to choose what to do with it."
Rigel spoke next, his voice low but clear.
"You told me once, when I was a kid," he said to Marius, "that if I wanted to feel at peace, I should close my eyes and picture this world… this place where none of the things that make me different mattered."
He glanced at his mother, at Carina, then at young Mary still perched on the couch with wide eyes.
"Our race," he went on, voice tightening, "that I'm gay. You said in that world, none of it would matter. That it wouldn't weigh on me."
He swallowed hard.
"You were talking about the world you came from."
Marius's face crumpled—not with guilt, but with something quieter. Grief.
Carina sat down slowly beside her daughter, brushing her fingers gently through her curls. She looked up at her father. "So there's a world where we're not so… othered?"
"I wish that were true," Marius said hoarsely, "but no. Even if I had brought you up in the wizarding world… prejudice would have found you."
He looked at his children, all three of them. Then at Callum.
"Your father can't do magic," he said simply. "That alone would've made you targets for cruelty in some circles. And your mother is a Muggle."
Marius's voice broke slightly on the word. "A non-magical person. That's what they call it. Muggle."
Callum blinked. "You mean… me."
Marius nodded slowly. "You. Your parents. Most of the world, really. But there are people in the magical world who still think that matters. That magic is blood, not choice or character. People who would've looked down on Mary for loving me had I been born magical. The same people who will judge sweet Mary."
Carina let out a quiet breath. "So we wouldn't have been free there either."
"Not always," Dorea said gently. "But there are people fighting to make it better. People who believe magic doesn't belong to bloodlines. That it belongs to the soul."
Mizar glanced at her. "And people who don't care who you are, only what you stand for."
Marius gave a faint smile at that, weary and proud all at once. "I knew that world could give you wonder… but I was exiled from it."
Rigel stared at him. "But you never told us. You let us believe we didn't belong anywhere."
"I thought it would spare you," Marius said quietly. "I didn't think magic would come for any of you. I thought I was the end of it."
"And then Mary made a dining table vanish," Callum muttered, hazel eyes flicking to his daughter who had inherited them.
Mary Macdonald sat up straighter. Her curls bounced slightly, and her fingers clenched in the edge of her jumper. "I didn't mean to. It just… happened."
Mizar gave her a calm look. "It usually does."
Carina touched her daughter's hand and looked at Mizar again. "So what happens now?"
"That's up to you," Mizar said. "But she's going to need guidance. Control. A wand. A school, eventually. She's a witch now. That doesn't have to be frightening."
"And us?" Rigel asked, his voice quieter now. "What do we do with all this?"
Marius looked at him, his son with too many questions in his eyes. "You live your lives. But you live them with the truth. You decide whether to look away, or lean in."
No one spoke for a long time.
Until little Mary said, in a very small voice, "I want to learn."
Marius shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze flickering to Mary. "I want her to learn," he admitted quietly, "but I'm afraid of what might happen if the wrong people find out."
Mizar stepped forward, firm but calm. "Mary isn't just any child. She's a Black."
Marius's eyes narrowed. "I don't want Arcturus to find out about Mary. You know what he's like. He'd use it against her."
Mizar's expression tightened, a flicker of offense in his voice. "My uncle? He'd never harm a child. Your fear underestimates him. Mary deserves the best of the best, and I can make sure she gets it."
Dorea nodded slowly. "Mizar has a point. You can't undo what happened to you, Marius, but Mary's future doesn't have to be burdened by it."
Marius shifted uneasily, glancing at Mary and then at the others. Carina's brow furrowed, and Callum's arms crossed tightly.
"So, what does this mean for Mary?" Carina asked, voice firm but uncertain. "How does she learn? What happens now?"
Rigel, still processing, added quietly, "And you said Mizar's a Lord? What does that even mean for us?"
Dorea took a deep breath. "Mizar is Lord Black-Shafiq. That name carries weight—not just here in the UK but throughout the magical world. He's important, and he's here because he wants to help Mary."
Dorea looked at Mary, who sat quietly clutching her jumper, then back at the family. "Mary is supposed to start Hogwarts next year. That's where young witches and wizards go to learn how to control and use their magic. It's a school like no other, with professors, houses, and rules… a place where she'll find others like her."
Carina's eyes widened. "So she's going to school for magic? Like… really?"
"Yes," Marius said softly. "She has to learn to control her powers. Hogwarts will teach her everything—from spells to potions to how to protect herself."
Callum shook his head, still trying to grasp it all. He turned to Dorea. "And you say Mizar can help with this?"
Mizar nodded. "I can offer her patronage. While I can't undo your father's banishment from the Black family, I can become her godfather. I'll protect her, support her, and make sure she has every opportunity."
Dorea chimed in gently, "This is a new chapter for all of you. But with the right guidance, Mary can thrive."
Marius exhaled, shoulders hunched under the weight of memory. "I didn't want this for her. For any of you. I wanted you safe."
"But she's not just yours anymore," Mizar said softly. "She's ours too."
Callum stepped towards his daughter, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. "And this… this Hogwarts, it's safe? Really?"
Mizar met his gaze steadily. "It's as safe as anywhere magical ever is. And she'll be watched. Taught. Protected."
Finally, Mary spoke, her voice small but steady:
"If he's my godfather… does that mean I get to learn from him too?"
Mizar smiled, kneeling down to meet her eye to eye.
"You get to learn from the best, Mary. Starting now."