Rain dripped softly against the enchanted windows of the Slytherin common room, streaking down the glass like ghostly ink. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting a golden shimmer over the green-draped furniture and tired students lounging in uneven silence.
Mizar sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, a stack of parchment in his lap and a half-finished ink diagram of magical core fluctuations spread open beside him. He hadn't touched it in an hour.
Callista was curled up in one of the wide armchairs, a cup of something bitter and dark cradled between her hands. Her robes were still damp from Herbology, but she hadn't bothered to change.
Andromeda was pacing. Not with real purpose—just a slow, aimless drift that had worn a pattern into the rug.
"He's supposed to be discharged today," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "Aunt Lycoris owled this morning."
"She did," Mizar said without looking up. "And said visiting hours are over. And Darius is bringing him back himself."
Callista blew across her tea. "Which means Omar's probably threatened to jump out the Floo three times by now."
"I give it four," Mizar murmured.
Andromeda crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. "He better not come back with stitches."
"They don't do stitches in magical trauma cases," Callista said.
"You know what I mean."
Mizar exhaled, finally dropping his quill. "He'll be fine."
"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself," Andromeda said.
"I am," he admitted quietly.
The fire popped in the hearth. The wind scratched against the windows like a memory trying to get back in.
Then—at last—the common room door creaked open.
No one moved.
Darius stepped through first, dry as ever despite the rain, shrugging off his outer cloak with the efficiency of someone who didn't particularly care for theatrics. His eyes swept the room once. "Where's your dormmate with the loud wireless?"
"Upstairs," Callista answered.
"Good." He stepped aside.
Omar followed.
He was thinner, still pale beneath his skin, and walked like someone who had to remind his legs how to balance. There was a healing scar along his left temple, faint but sharp under the flickering torchlight. His robes hung a bit looser than they used to, and the familiar mischief in his expression hadn't fully returned—but he was standing. Upright. Alive.
He raised one hand in a slow, dramatic wave. "I live."
Andromeda didn't wait.
She crossed the room in four long strides and smacked him in the shoulder—not hard, but enough to make him wince.
"Ow. Hello to you too."
"You absolute idiot," she said, and then hugged him—tight, sudden, and without any of her usual hesitation.
Omar blinked, startled, then slowly returned the hug, one arm curling around her waist. "Is this my reward for surviving?"
"No. Your reward is that I don't hex you."
"I'll take it."
Mizar stood too, slower and quieter. His eyes hadn't left Omar since he walked in.
He didn't say anything at first. Just moved forward and stopped in front of him.
For a moment, he looked like he wasn't sure what to do—then, with a frustrated breath, he pulled Omar into a tight, solid hug.
It wasn't brief.
Mizar's arms locked around his shoulders and held him still, steady, like he was anchoring him in place. Omar didn't say anything—but he clutched the back of Mizar's robes, just once.
"Don't do that again," Mizar muttered, voice low and hard. "Ever."
Omar's voice was rough. "Wasn't exactly part of the plan."
Mizar pulled back enough to look him in the eye. "Doesn't matter. You scared the hell out of us."
Omar gave a ghost of a smile. "I know."
Mizar's jaw clenched again—then he shook his head and let go, but stayed close, like he didn't quite trust Omar not to disappear again.
Then, Callista stood.
She didn't make a show of it. She just crossed the room slowly, stopped in front of Omar, and held out her arms.
He blinked at her.
"You get one," she said. "Just one."
Omar didn't hesitate. He leaned forward, and she pulled him into a quick but firm hug, her chin barely brushing his shoulder.
"You're not allowed to die," she muttered into his ear.
He huffed a quiet laugh.
She released him with a tap to his arm and immediately took her tea back like it had all been an inconvenience. "You still look half-dead," she said. "But it's an improvement."
"I missed your tenderness," Omar croaked.
She grinned. "You're welcome."
Darius glanced around the room once more, satisfied, then turned to leave. "I'll be in the Owlery. Don't let him climb stairs unsupervised."
"I'm not twelve," Omar called after him.
"Could've fooled me," his brother said without looking back, already disappearing through the exit.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence returned for a beat.
Then Andromeda said, "We saved you broth."
Omar looked at her like she'd personally betrayed him. "Oh no."
"Oh yes," Callista chimed in.
"I'm never living this down, am I?"
"No," Mizar said. "Not a chance."
Omar groaned and flopped dramatically into the nearest chair, one hand over his eyes. "Brilliant. Death, betrayal, and soup."
Andromeda smirked and folded her arms. "You're home."
The dungeons were cooler than usual that afternoon, the flickering torchlight casting long, murky shadows across the stone walls as Slughorn scribbled a diagram of spiraling steam clouds on the chalkboard. The smell of crushed valerian root and singed hornbeam lingered in the air like a second cloak.
Omar sat with Mizar and Callista with Andromeda, he was paler than usual but upright, his bandages now replaced with a protective sigil inked in silver just below his collar. He was still moving gingerly, but if the deep lines under his eyes or the slight tremor in his right hand bothered him, he didn't let it show. The moment he'd stepped into class that morning, half the room had turned to look.
He had smirked anyway. "Miss me?"
Slughorn turned from the board now, beaming in the way only he could. "Ah! My finest minds—and Mr. Ghaffari Fuentemayor, welcome back, my boy! Still with your head attached, I see!"
A ripple of laughter moved through the room. Omar gave a two-finger salute.
"Wit-Sharpening Potion, my stars! Nothing more useful to wake the brain after a long winter lull. And perhaps"—he glanced fondly at the cauldrons—"help us all remember the correct ingredients for next week's pop quiz."
A few groans floated from the back. Slughorn ignored them.
At the second table from the front, Mizar stirred clockwise with practiced ease, his left hand steady on the rim of the cauldron. His right sleeve was rolled up, showing faint potion stains from years of confident, occasionally reckless brewing.
Beside him, Callista was adjusting the flame beneath their cauldron with a focused flick of her wand, her eyes darting from the textbook to Mizar's notes.
And to Mizar's other side, Omar sat upright for the first time since the match—thinner than usual, his posture careful, but his smirk firmly in place. The faint shimmer of healing sigils still curled over the skin near his collar, barely visible unless you were looking for them.
"I'm telling you," he muttered under his breath as he crushed a bundle of dried rosemary, "if I'd known nearly dying would get me three days off homework and tea delivered by Andie, I would've done it earlier."
"Try it again and I'll let the Bludger finish the job," Mizar said without looking up.
Andromeda didn't even blink. "Hopefully your potion turns to sludge."
Magnolia was sitting just behind the girls, paired with Winnifred Edgecombe.
She sat with her usual calm precision, her workspace already organized down to the last sprig of ginger root. Her posture was perfect. Her robes immaculate. And—of course—the new falcon pin gleamed from the inside edge of her cloak, just above her wand arm. If Mizar hadn't known better, he might've thought she wore it to match him.
"Your stirring is uneven," she said, tone dry. "Try anchoring your wrist if you're going to show off."
"I'm not showing off," Mizar replied mildly. "This is me being restrained."
"Terrifying," she muttered. Then, as if it had only just occurred to her, "You're still wearing it."
He glanced down at the falcon pin on his own cloak. "You gave it to me."
"You also have six cloaks," she pointed out. "All regulation. All pinless."
He gave her a slow, amused look. "You checking how often I change?"
"I check everything," Magnolia said, without an ounce of apology.
Omar coughed lightly, hiding a grin. Callista and Andromeda behind him, didn't bother. "Maybe she wants to see him change."
"I would never," Magnolia said at once.
"Absolutely not," Mizar echoed.
Andromeda sighed, "trust me, Magnolia. There isn't much to see. He changes all the time in front of us and if you take away his height: what do you have?"
Callista added, "nice hair, I'll give him that but not much more."
Omar snorted. "That's rich coming from two girls who literally braided flowers into it during the match last year."
"That was to distract the Hufflepuff Beaters," Andromeda said, unbothered. "We did win, didn't we?"
Mizar shook his head, suppressing a smile. "Glad to know my hair is a strategic asset."
"I could braid yours again for Slughorn's party," Callista mused, twirling her wand. "Just to keep the room in check."
"Please do," Omar said. "But only if we all wear matching brooches too. Preferably falcons."
Magnolia arched a brow. "You'd need to earn one."
"Oh, so they're a badge of honour now?" Mizar said. "Careful. I might start thinking it meant something."
"It means you're hex-resistant and tolerable in small doses," she said, measuring her billywig stings with ruthless precision. "Don't let it go to your head."
Slughorn waddled past their table just then, clapping his hands as the scent of steeping ginger and crushed peppercorns filled the dungeon.
"Excellent aromas in the air!" he boomed. "I can tell which tables are following instructions and which are… improvising." His eyes twinkled as he glanced pointedly at the mess brewing near the back, where Gregory Goyle had somehow turned his cauldron puce.
"Remember, my stars—add your armadillo bile now if you want your minds sharp and your essays sharper!"
Callista leaned in, muttering to Mizar, "Are you still planning to go Thursday?"
"Probably. You?"
"I already have a dress. Andromeda's making me wear heels."
"Please trip over Malfoy's ego," Omar added.
"I'll aim for the tail end of it," she promised.
Slughorn clapped again from the front of the room. "Also—final reminder to my brightest luminaries—Thursday night, Trophy Room. Be there, or risk social oblivion!"
"Wouldn't miss it," Mizar murmured.
He looked back over his shoulder just once.
Magnolia had already turned back to her cauldron, adding powdered vervain with a practiced hand. But as she stirred, wand-cane angled neatly against the desk, she said—just loud enough for him to hear:
"You better wear the pin."
He didn't answer. He just smiled.
And let the flame beneath his cauldron burn a little brighter.
Twenty minutes later, most of the class had settled into the rhythmic hum of post-brewing cleanup. Cauldrons steamed gently as students siphoned off cooled potion into labeled flasks and scrubbed their workstations with practiced flicks of their wands. Slughorn had retreated to his armchair in the corner with a biscuit and a stack of parchment, humming contentedly under his breath.
Mizar was still drying his ladle when a glass vial rolled toward his boot and bumped against it with a soft clink.
He looked up.
Magnolia stood just across the aisle, eyes fixed on her own desk as she carefully stoppered a bottle of pale grey potion. Her wand-cane leaned against the leg of her stool, angled within reach. She hadn't even glanced over.
Mizar crouched and picked up the vial. "Yours?"
"Obviously," she said, still not looking at him.
He turned it between his fingers. The potion inside glinted like dusk-silver under torchlight—flawless clarity, no trace of residue.
"Do you bottle your smugness too, or just the potions?"
That earned him a glance. Barely. "You're obsessed with me."
"I'm not the one losing grip on glassware."
"I gave it to you," she said plainly, reaching out with one hand, palm up.
Mizar didn't move. "Why?"
Magnolia raised a brow. "Because you clearly need a reference sample. And I'm generous."
He handed it over. Their fingers brushed. Neither of them acknowledged it.
"You could've just admitted mine turned out better," she said, tone breezy.
He gave her a look. "I'm not that emotionally fragile."
"No," she said thoughtfully. "Just competitive, defensive, mildly reckless—"
"I will braid your scarf into a knot at the party."
"You wouldn't dare."
"I've done worse."
"I've read your file, Mizar."
He blinked. "You have a file on me?"
Magnolia didn't answer. She took her wand-cane and stood, adjusting her robes with brisk precision. The falcon pin shimmered faintly near her collar as she passed.
"See you Thursday," she said, voice cool but not unkind.
Mizar dropped the vial into his dragonhide satchel without a word.
The rain had stopped by the time they made it out to the paddocks, though the sky still sagged under heavy grey clouds and the grass squelched with every step. Damp wind tugged at their cloaks. The kind of chill that crawled under your collarbones and didn't leave.
"Perfect weather for wrangling dangerous beasts," Callista muttered, hopping over a puddle. "Absolutely charming."
"Could be worse," Mizar said, trailing beside her.
Ahead, Professor Kettleburn was already waving a prosthetic arm wildly in the air. "Line up, line up! Mind your voices and your limbs—we're handling a young griffin today, and I don't fancy losing anyone's fingers."
"Bit late for him to be worried about limbs," Mizar said under his breath.
Callista snorted. "Don't tempt fate."
The class gathered in a semicircle around a rusted pen, where a juvenile griffin was pacing nervously. It was smaller than most adults, all twitchy talons and molting silver plumage, like a storm cloud with wings. The beak clicked once—sharp and warning—but it didn't lunge.
Kettleburn beamed like a man introducing an old friend. "You'll work in pairs. Approach carefully. Don't shout. Don't startle. Don't die."
"I feel like that last part should be underlined," Mizar said.
"I feel like you're going to forget it the moment you get too confident," Callista replied.
They were paired together, probably by Kettleburn on purpose—he seemed to have a sixth sense for which duos caused the least destruction. Or the most, depending on his mood.
As they stepped forward toward the pen, Callista kept her hands in clear view, boots sinking into the wet grass. Mizar followed a little more casually, gaze flicking from the griffin to the fencing to the sharp slant of the nearby hill. Just in case.
"I saw you talking to Magnolia again," Callista said, not looking at him.
"She saw me first," he said, pretending to sound neutral.
Callista arched a brow. "Is that what you're going with?"
Mizar crouched a bit, watching the griffin's movements. "She tossed me a vial."
"Right. Just casually tossing you flawless potion samples across the room."
"It wasn't flawless."
Callista made a skeptical noise.
"She said it was so I'd have a reference sample," he added. "Probably thinks I'm slipping."
"Or she just wanted to one-up you again."
Mizar glanced at her. "She lives to one-up me."
"You live to get a reaction out of her," Callista said, not unkindly.
He didn't answer immediately. The griffin stepped closer to the bars, watching them both with wary, intelligent eyes. Mizar knelt in the mud without caring about his robes, and held out a hand.
"I mean, yeah, but that's just the game," he said after a moment.
Callista gave him a sideways look. "Mizar. Do you even like her?"
"Like's a strong word."
"You didn't say no."
He frowned slightly. "She's smart. She's infuriating. She's…" he trailed off, brows furrowing. "She keeps showing up in my notes."
Callista blinked. "What?"
"In the margins," he added. "I was reviewing a rune diagram last week and wrote down something she said about magical compression ratios. Didn't even realize I was doing it."
Callista tried not to smile. "So you're quoting her now."
"Not on purpose!"
She crouched beside him, resting her arms on her knees. "You're halfway to keeping a diary titled 'Things Magnolia Said That Bother Me More Than They Should.'"
"That's ridiculous," he said.
"You still have the falcon pin," she pointed out.
"She gave it to me."
"You wore it. In Potions. Around her."
He shrugged. "Because it matches my cloak."
Callista laughed under her breath. "You're hopeless."
The griffin edged closer. Mizar quieted, offering it the back of his hand. It didn't shy away.
"She told me to wear it to the party Thursday," he muttered.
Callista raised an eyebrow. "And you will."
He hesitated. Then: "…Probably."
The griffin pressed its beak lightly to his fingers. Warm. Solid. Real.
Callista didn't say anything at first. Then she stood, brushing mud from her robes.
"Just do me a favour," she said, voice easy. "When you finally figure out what that pin means to you—don't be an idiot about it."
Mizar looked up. "I'm never an idiot."
She didn't even blink. "You're always an idiot. Just—don't be a sensitive idiot."
He grinned up at her. "You're surprisingly invested."
Callista started to turn, then paused.
"And careful," she added. "Because neither of your relatives—your mother, your uncle Marwan and certainly not your uncle Arcturus—would take kindly to you catching feelings for a commoner Muggle-born."
The grin slid, just slightly, from his face.
"I'm not," he said. A beat. "Catching feelings."
Callista didn't argue. But her voice was quieter when she said, "Even if you're not, she's smart. She'll notice if you act like you are."
"I don't—"
"I'm just saying," she cut in, more gently now, "don't mess with her head. Not because you're not allowed to feel things, but because if you do? You both pay for it."
Mizar looked back toward the griffin, who was now circling lazily in its pen. His voice, when it came, was light—but not thoughtless.
"She doesn't even like me."
"That's not the point," Callista said.
There was a pause. Just long enough for the wind to rattle the treetops beyond the paddock.
Then she added, more softly, "For her sake, and yours—don't be careless."
Mizar didn't answer right away.
Then: "I won't."
Callista gave him one more glance—measured, knowing—then walked off toward where Kettleburn was starting to demonstrate how to rewrap a talon safely.
The owlery was nearly deserted when he arrived. Snow filtered in through the arched, open windows, catching on the wind and scattering across the stone floor. Tammuz was already waiting on one of the higher perches, watching him descend the spiral steps with the kind of expression only old owls could manage—equal parts patience and reproach.
The owl shifted, lifted one claw, and let a slim, rectangular parcel drop neatly into his waiting hands. The seal was unmistakable—golden wax pressed with the falcon family crest.
"Tell uncle Marwan I got it," Mizar murmured, slipping Tammuz a slice of smoked mouse from his pocket. The owl accepted it without fuss, then turned back to the open window like a sentinel reclaiming his post.
Mizar crossed the owlery in slow, steady steps, the package tucked close under his arm. The wind bit at the back of his neck, cold and clean and just sharp enough to ground him. He sank onto the edge of the wide, stone sill beneath the furthest arch, where the draft was fiercest and the view stretched out across the pale, bruised sky. He didn't bother brushing the snow from the ledge.
With careful fingers, he loosened the parchment.
The book inside was older than he expected. The leather binding was dry, but solid, and the title was still clearly etched into the cover:
Dust and Oath: On the Breaking of Bound Threads by Aasim Jalil.
Lydia had told him it was the kind of thing only passed between curse-breakers in firelit backrooms. Her father had relied on it once. And now it was his.
He ran his thumb down the spine. The magic in it wasn't loud—but it was there. Worn, patient. Watching.
Mizar opened it.
The table of contents read like a ledger of impossible things—Looping Fates, Inheritance by Malediction, Rotational Hexcraft, The Scarring of Institutional Roles, and finally, in sharp ink near the end:
Chrono-Intervention and Legacy Curses: Systems That Refuse to Heal.
That one.
His fingers hovered over the edge of the page, but he didn't turn to it yet. Instead, he stared out into the sky, mouth tightening.
This—this—was what mattered. Breaking the curse on the DADA position. Undoing a legacy of sabotage and death and madness. It wasn't about the faint stupid burn in his chest whenever Magnolia looked at him like she'd already solved him.
He wasn't here for her.
He wasn't here for any of that.
He pressed his fingers to his temple, as if willing his focus to anchor. "You're not Harry anymore," he muttered under his breath. "You don't get to waste time on feelings that won't go anywhere."
Because that's what it had felt like—back down by the paddocks. That slant in Callista's voice, the knowing in it. Like she could already see him unraveling. Like Magnolia already had.
He needed to focus. On the curse. On changing what came next. On ending the cycle before it swallowed those he was meant to save.
He couldn't afford distraction.
Not from a girl who always saw too much.
He turned the page.
And started reading.