Cherreads

Chapter 2 - Blood Remembers

[10,495 Words]

May 16th, 1968, Thursday  

Polaris felt as though he knew a lot for his age. 

Not numbers, not runes, not spells—not yet. But rules. And those were more important. 

Some were written. Most were not. 

The first rule was this: Be still.  

Still hands. Still voice. Still face. 

Stillness meant control. Stillness meant respectability. Stillness made you watchable, admirable, safe. 

The kind of child people pointed to and said, "Now that is a proper pureblood."  

He didn't know what proper meant, not really. But he knew the difference between Sirius's tapping fingers and Regulus's folded ones. He knew which one got scolded less. Which one Mother smiled at longer. 

Today, there had been a tea. A formal one. The kind with too many spoons and stiff-backed chairs and adults who spoke in clipped syllables and glanced at him only when he fidgeted. 

He had tried not to. He really had. 

But his fingers always wanted to move. 

He hadn't meant to tap the table leg. Or bounce his heel. Or stare too long at the gold-rimmed saucer, wondering how the flowers on it never faded. 

But his mother had seen. She always did. 

The guests were gone now. 

The room had been cleared. 

And Polaris was waiting. 

Just as he'd been told. 

Polaris sat on the velvet footstool, hands stretched palm-up over the silk runner. His feet dangled above the floor, heels knocking gently against the carved leg. The room smelled of rosewater and lemon polish—and something thinner underneath, like metal left too long in the rain. 

His fingers twitched—barely. 

Walburga turned, slowly. Her smile was small and smooth and terrible. 

To Polaris, she was everything sharp and shining. Her gowns rustled like warning bells, her perfume always too sweet, layered over the cold bite of something chemical and dry. Her face was beautiful in the way portraits were—perfectly framed, perfectly still—but her eyes never blinked quite when they should. They were always watching, maybe even waiting. 

"Again?" she said softly. That softness was always worse. 

"You know what I've told you, darling. About hands that can't be still." 

Polaris bit his cheek and nodded. 

He had been still. Mostly. But "mostly" didn't count. Not here. Not with her. Mistakes didn't need to be loud to be noticed. In this house, there was no such thing as small. Every slip was a stain. Every twitch a failure. And failures had consequences. Predictable ones. 

If you forgot, you paid. If you moved, you were corrected. That was the rule. And rules, she always said, made things safe. 

"You embarrass yourself when you fidget," she said, crouching to eye level. Her tone was clipped, almost weary. "You undermine the name I gave you. Polaris . Do you even know what that name means?" 

He swallowed. "The North Star." 

"Yes," she said, kneeling before him with the slow, deliberate grace of someone used to being obeyed. Her hands rested lightly on his knees, and her eyes fixed on his with a gentleness that always felt like something else beneath the surface. 

"The fixed star," she murmured. "Polaris. It does not flicker. It does not fall. While the other stars spin madly, it holds its place. That is why you were named." 

She reached up, brushed a strand of hair from his face, then let her fingers linger just a moment too long. 

"You think we choose names at random in this family?" she said, voice dipping into something close to amusement. "No, darling. We name our children after stars because stars endure . They are distant, yes—but constant. Immortal. Cold when they must be." 

She smiled—quiet, satisfied. 

"Our bloodline is like the night sky: ancient, pure, and full of power. Bellatrix burns hot. Regulus orbits close to the centre. And Sirius—" her mouth twitched "—Sirius was born the brightest of them all. So full of promise. So eager to shine." 

She exhaled through her nose, something sharp behind it. 

"But brightness means nothing if it turns wild. A star that strays too far from its constellation is just a warning in the sky. Remember that Polaris. Even brilliance can burn itself out if it forgets its place." 

Her hands moved to cup Polaris's. 

"But you, my love, are Polaris. Not the brightest. The steadfast . The anchor. The one that guides without needing to shout or spin." 

She leaned closer. Her breath was warm against his temple. 

"Names have meaning. And yours—yours is a promise. To me. To this family. To all of us. You were born to be still. To be certain. To endure ." 

But her gaze sharpened. 

"And yet tonight… you couldn't keep your hands still. You wriggled like you were nervous. Like you didn't want to be seen." 

"I didn't mean to—" he started, voice small. 

She cut him off with a soft "Shhh." 

"Regulus knew how to sit still at three. Sirius…" A pause. Her lips pressed thin. "Well. You are not Sirius." 

Then, with a sigh—disappointed, not angry—she reached for the thin lacquered cane on the table beside her. 

"I don't do this because I'm angry," she said, still calm. "You need to understand that." 

Polaris stayed silent. That was the second rule. Don't speak unless asked. 

She stepped back in front of him. 

"I do this because I love you. And love, real love, is not kind for kindness' sake. Love teaches. Now straighten your hands." 

That he did. 

The first strike landed across the soft flesh, and the pain bloomed like heat under the skin—sharp, hot, immediate. He didn't cry out. Just blinked hard and focused on the rug beneath her shoes. 

The second landed lower, catching the wrist. A welt would rise there. It always did. 

When it was done, she crouched again, lifted his hands gently — as if the welts weren't already rising. 

"See?" she said, almost tender. "You can be still. You're stronger than you think." 

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. Her lips were cold. 

"One day, you'll thank me. When the world looks to you, when the family counts on you — you'll remember this, and you'll know how to hold your ground. Like a star. Like a Black." 

He nodded, because that was the third rule: Always agree in the end.  

That night, well after the silence had settled thick through the halls, his door creaked open. 

Regulus was the first in. Quieter than Sirius, both hands wrapped around a folded napkin that sagged slightly in the middle. He paused near the bed before crouching down beside Polaris on the floor. 

"I saved you the corner piece," he whispered, and carefully unwrapped the bundle. 

The smell hit first—warm sugar and golden syrup, buttery pastry flaking at the edges. The tart was slightly squashed, the crust cracked along the top, but Polaris's eyes lit up anyway. It was his favourite: thick with treacle, sticky in the best way, and still faintly warm, like it had been snuck from the kitchen only minutes ago. 

He didn't say thank you. He didn't need to. Regulus just sat beside him, knees tucked up to his chest, watching. 

Polaris picked at the corner with slow, bandaged fingers. The sugar clung to the cloth strips, and he had to tug it free in pieces. His hands stung when he moved them, especially the left, where one welt had cracked slightly beneath the gauze. 

"I told you," Sirius said sharply, kicking the door shut as he stormed in. "I told you not to fidget when she's watching. What were you thinking?" 

Polaris didn't look up. "I forgot she was there." 

He pulled a crumb from the crust and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. "I was thinking about how mirrors know when you're looking at them." 

Sirius huffed, pacing. "You always do this. You know what she's like when she's in a bad mood. Now I'm not allowed to go outside all day. Because of you ." 

Polaris winced—not because of the words, but because he flexed his palm wrong trying to lift another bite. He paused, then carefully cradled the rest in his lap. 

"I didn't mean to," he said quietly as he was trying to concentrate on eating the tart without hurting his hands. "I'll remember next time." 

"She hit you, Pol," Sirius snapped the frustration building up. "She cane-whipped you. That's not—" He cut off, fists balled at his sides. "It's not fair." 

Regulus looked over. "Does it hurt much?" he asked softly. 

Polaris nodded, just once. "Only when I move them." 

"Then don't move them," Regulus said, shifting closer, as if that alone could protect him. 

Sirius sat down hard on the bed, arms crossed. His cheeks were still flushed. "You shouldn't even have to remember. It's stupid." 

"It's just the rules," Polaris mumbled around another mouthful. "I moved when I shouldn't have. She told me to learn stillness. This helps." 

"Rules this, rule that ," Sirius muttered. 

Polaris blinked up at him, confused. "I just want her to stop being angry." 

Sirius didn't answer right away. He watched Polaris struggle to lift another crumb to his mouth, his fingers trembling slightly even through the bandages. He watched Regulus silently inch closer again, resting his shoulder against Polaris's like he used to do with bruised birds they found in the garden. 

Sirius's anger didn't burn out—it just folded in on itself, sullen and hot and helpless. 

He stood again, paced once, then came back and dropped to the floor beside them. 

No one spoke after that. 

They sat in a row on the cold wood floor, three boys and one half-eaten tart between them. Regulus gently brushed crumbs off Polaris's lap. Sirius tore a flaky edge from the pastry and passed it over without a word. 

Polaris took the piece and tucked it between his fingers, careful not to press too hard. 

The tart was sweet. His hands still hurt. 

They stayed like that until the tart was gone and the silence felt full enough to fall asleep in. 

 

June 26th, 1968, Wednesday  

Once, there was a little star who didn't know he was burning. 

He lived at the bottom of a well, deep in the earth where the sky was only a memory passed down by insects. The well was tall, and the stone walls were smooth, too smooth to climb. But the star didn't mind. He thought the world was the well—grey, silent, safe. The echoes were his lullabies, the shadows his only company. 

But still, sometimes, late in the never-night, he looked up. And sometimes—only sometimes—he thought he saw something blue. 

Not just blue. Endless.  

And though he didn't know the word for it, not yet, he wondered what it meant to fly. 

Polaris Black, four years old, paused, pencil hovering in midair. He blinked down at the page. 

He hadn't meant to write a story. It just… appeared. 

The drawing wasn't anything special. A round, slightly crooked well, a sky too big for the page, and a small figure curled at the bottom—somewhere between a star and a boy. His legs were tucked under him. His face was round, a little sad, but there was a tiny flame in his chest. Polaris had drawn it with gold ink from one of his mother's old calligraphy sets. He wasn't supposed to use it, but it felt right. 

The sketchbook had been a gift—from Uncle Alphard. 

He remembered the moment clearly, even though it had happened months ago. Alphard had crouched down to his level, pressing the wrapped parcel into his hands with a grin. 

"A place for your stories," he'd said, crouching down to meet his eyes. "Even the ones you don't have words for yet." 

Polaris had turned it over in his hands, hesitant. "But I don't know how to draw," he had whispered. 

Alphard had smiled. " Of course you do. You just haven't remembered yet."  

Then, quieter—like it was a secret meant only for the shadows between them— "One day, I'll paint you. But only when you're ready to be seen."  

Polaris hadn't fully understood what that meant. Not then. But it had stayed with him. 

He was lying on his stomach, on the thick rug in the corner of his room. Books were scattered around him in quiet chaos—pure-blood histories with stiff leather spines, pictureless spell theory volumes, a worn copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard (one Regulus had slipped him, carefully unwrapped from brown paper). A blanket hung off the edge of his bed like it was trying to reach him but hadn't quite made it. 

The room was silent except for the gentle scratch of pencil against paper. No ticking clocks. No humming portraits. Even the wind outside knew better than to knock on these windows. 

Polaris didn't speak the story aloud. He just knew it, he made it. 

The star-boy wasn't brave. Not really. He wasn't clever like the foxes Polaris had read about, or bold like the lions that roamed through myths. But he watched. And listening, in the world Polaris came from, was more important than roaring. 

That was what Father said. 

"Speak only when spoken to. Observe before acting. A sharp mind is a quiet one."  

There were always things to remember. So many rules. So many ways to do it wrong. Don't speak out of turn. Don't fidget. Don't forget what the colours on the robes meant. Don't sit in the wrong chair. It was tiring . And sometimes Polaris wanted to say something , even if it wasn't important. But what if he said it wrong? What if he forgot a rule again? 

He didn't like forgetting. It made Father's mouth go thin. 

He turned another page in the sketchbook and drew the well again—this time with roots tangled around its stones. He didn't know why. Maybe the star-boy wanted to escape. Maybe the roots were trying to hold him in. 

"Polaris." 

The voice slipped under the door like a spell. 

He didn't jump. Didn't speak. He simply closed the notebook with steady fingers, slid it under the nearest book, and sat up straight. His back hurt from the floor. His legs had gone numb. But that didn't matter. 

He moved like he was used to this. Because he was. 

His room was beautiful in the way a cage is beautiful—tall ceilings, velvet curtains, gleaming shelves. Every surface polished. Every book approved... maybe not all . But there were no toys. No colours that didn't match the family crest. No childish mess. 

The door creaked open, and his father stepped in, wand tucked in his robes like a reminder. His eyes swept the room with that usual cool precision. 

"Is this where I told you to be?" came the voice from the doorway— Polaris could hear the disappointment. 

Polaris looked up, eyes wide for a moment before they settled into stillness. He sat straighter, brushing the gold ink from his fingers against his robes in an attempt to hide it. But it was no use—the stains were vivid, smudged like bruises across his small palms. 

His father stepped inside, wand tucked away but unnecessary. Orion Black didn't need a wand to hurt. His words were often enough. 

The man's gaze dropped to the mess on the floor—open books, scrawled parchment, a small streak of red crayon on the corner of the rug. Polaris followed his eyes and suddenly hated what he saw. 

Too many colours. Too much softness. His chest tightened without reason. 

Orion didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. His disappointment settled over the room like smoke, thick and suffocating. 

"I see," he murmured. "You've been playing again." 

Polaris opened his mouth—he wasn't sure to say what—but then closed it. His hands folded tightly in his lap, hiding the stains. His fingers still tingled from the drawings. 

"Do you think the world will honour a Black who plays with colours like a street urchin? A child who rolls on the floor like a Kneazle chasing thread?" His voice was smooth—so smooth it cut clean. "Is that what you wish to be, Polaris?" 

The boy shook his head quickly. "No, father." 

Orion's eyes were still cold. "Then why do you insist on behaving like one?" 

Polaris didn't know. He only knew the drawings made him feel something warm—something that didn't live in this house. He liked the way the stories came out of the pencil without permission, like they wanted to be born. He liked the colours. 

Silence was safer than truth. 

Then Orion's eyes narrowed. He had spotted something. A book, half-hidden beneath The Nature of Cursed Lineages . Not a family-approved title. 

He bent slowly, plucking it from the floor with thin, precise fingers. 

Polaris stilled. 

It was that book. 

A small, worn volume with a pale blue cover and gentle script on the front: A Kindness Beyond Magic: Parallels in Non-Wizarding Lore. It had no dust jacket. No aggressive politics. Just stories and reflections—written by wizards. 

His uncle Alphard had given it to him just a few weeks ago. "Not every inheritance is written in gold," he'd said with a wink. "Some things we lose matter more than we remember. Read when you're alone—you'll see what I mean."  

The first pages were simple. They spoke of how certain charms—like those for warding sickness or blessing new homes—appeared not just in magical families, but in old Muggle traditions, too. 

Polaris hadn't read much. But he had read enough . 

Orion opened the book, flipping through its pages with slow, deliberate motions. His eyes skimmed diagrams, footnotes, hand-drawn runes beside sketches of ancient stone circles. Notes on magical convergence. Folklore crossovers. Mentions of "non-wizarding" beliefs and "pre-Statute customs." 

His brows drew low. His lip curled. 

The silence pressed in. 

Then— 

Snap.  

The sound was small: the book's spine bending under his grip. 

He looked up, eyes no longer cold—but burning. 

"Who gave you this?" he asked, voice deceptively calm. 

Polaris's heart thudded. He felt suddenly very small. 

"I…" His throat tightened. "Uncle Alphard. For my birthday." 

Orion stepped closer. "How much of it have you read?" 

"Just the beginning," Polaris whispered. 

In one movement, Orion knelt before him, hand catching his chin—not gently—and lifting it so their eyes met. Polaris's breath hitched. His father's grip was not cruel enough to bruise, but firm enough to scare. Enough to say: you do not lie to me.  

"What exactly did it say?" he asked. "In those first few pages you read." 

Polaris's lips parted. He tried to remember the words—not perfectly, but enough. The pages hadn't seemed dangerous when he read them. They'd felt soft. Like someone wrapping a blanket around a storm. 

"It said…" he began slowly, "that some spells might have come from stories. That Muggles and wizards used to… share things. Like songs. Charms. Even if they didn't know what they meant." 

A flicker passed through Orion's eyes. Disgust hidden behind a smooth mask. 

"I see," he said, letting go of Polaris at last. He stood and walked a slow, measured step back, holding the book as though it were infected. 

"Do you know what that is?" he asked, voice calm again, but sharp with a blade beneath it. "That is a lie. A child's story, told by those too weak to accept the truth." 

Polaris stayed on the floor, eyes wide. 

"But—" he began, quietly. 

Orion's voice cut clean through. "There is no magic in ignorance. There is no strength in failure. And Muggles , Polaris, are a failure of nature. Squibs of the world, left to crawl and whimper and pretend they matter. It's dangerous to draw lines between ourselves and people who were never meant to carry power." 

Polaris didn't respond. But something folded in his chest. 

Orion stepped closer again, crouching to his level. His voice was velvet now, the kind that curled around the ears like lullabies—but there was no warmth behind it. 

"Do you know why they write things like that?" he asked. "Because they are afraid of us. Afraid of our names. Afraid of the power we carry in our blood. So, they write lies to make themselves feel brave. They pretend that kindness is stronger than magic. That effort matters more than legacy." 

He tapped a finger against the cover of the book. "This… this is poison dressed in sugar." 

Polaris blinked. The words echoed in his head. 

Poison? Dressed in sugar? It sounded odd. 

Polaris didn't know how sugar could be poison. Sugar was for birthdays and cocoa and the middle of cinnamon toast. But he didn't say that. Maybe grown-ups knew something about sugar he didn't. 

"I didn't know," he whispered. 

"Of course you didn't." Orion smiled now—tight and hollow. 

It didn't look like a real smile. Not to Polaris. Real smiles crinkled eyes and made people softer. This one didn't. This one sat on Orion's face like something painted on, and if anything, it scared him. 

"You are still young. But you must learn, Polaris, and you must learn early ." 

His voice lowered again. 

"You are not like them. You were born for better. You carry a name that bends the world, not one that is bent by it. That truth — our truth—is not cruelty. It is clarity. And clarity is power." 

Polaris looked down at the gold stain on his fingers, at the edge of colour that still lingered on the rug. The part of him that had felt warm, that had made stories, seemed suddenly... wrong. He wasn't sure. 

"I didn't mean to…" he started but didn't know how to finish it. 

It was clear his father was frustrated; with the tone he was now using. 

"You strayed," Orion said flatly. "And when one strays, they are corrected. There is no shame in that. But there is shame in refusing to be corrected." 

Strayed. Polaris wasn't sure what that meant exactly. It sounded like when a dog runs off and someone has to call it back. But he hadn't run anywhere. Just… read. He only wanted to see the pictures. 

Polaris looked up. 

"Do you understand now?" Orion asked, an edge to his tone. "Do you see how they twist the world to lure you from it?" 

And Polaris—just four years old, tired, confused, craving approval the way flowers crave sun—nodded. 

"Yes, Father." 

Orion studied him, and for a moment Polaris thought he saw something close to disappointment. It made Polaris' chest hurt; he hated when his father looked at him like that. 

"Good," the man said, standing tall again. "Then remember this: the only truth worth holding is the one you are born into. Everything else is noise. You will not read this again. And you will not speak of it." 

He turned for the door. "Wash your hands," he added, just before stepping through. 

Then the door clicked closed behind him. 

Polaris sat in the silence. The room was still full of books and stories and drawings—but now they looked different. Like things he shouldn't have touched. 

His hands felt dirty. 

He rubbed at the gold on his skin with the hem of his robe, scrubbing until the colour faded. 

He told himself he had done wrong. 

That stories could lie. 

That sugar could poison. 

Children tend to believe the people who name the world for them. 

Yet, he had wanted to ask why . 

He knew better than to ask that question. 

The last time he'd asked why , Father's hand had met his cheek. It hadn't left a mark, not one anyone could see, but it had ached deep in his jaw for days. Every bite of food had reminded him not to question. Every glance in the mirror, searching for a bruise that wasn't there, had reminded him that pain didn't always need proof. 

 

June 27th, 1968, Thursday  

The morning came too early. 

Light leaked past the heavy velvet curtains, soft and gold and uninvited. Polaris blinked up at the ceiling, his small frame stiff beneath the weight of the blankets. He hadn't meant to wake so early. He hadn't meant to wake at all—not yet. But sleep had turned on him sometime in the night. 

It had started as a dream. Maybe even a story at first. 

He was climbing—yes, climbing—up and up toward a sky that shimmered like glass. There was a ladder, just like the one he'd drawn, and it stretched higher than any tower, through stars that winked at him like they knew something he didn't. But then the sky cracked. And the ladder broke. 

And he fell. 

Down, down, down, his arms reaching for rungs that weren't there anymore. He tried to call out, but the wind ate his voice. And the stars? They didn't blink this time. They just watched. 

That was when he woke up. 

He hadn't screamed—he never screamed—but his hands had shaken under the covers, and his chest felt full of something too big for a four-year-old to hold. Fear. Shame. Or something without a name. 

His dreams were always odd in their own way. Like that time, he had dreamed of strings stretched too tight, snapping one by one—and the sound they made was not pain, but music. 

Another night, he saw stars fall like teeth from the sky, and when they hit the ground, they didn't shatter—they sank into the earth and hummed. 

Once, he opened a door that wasn't there the night before and found a room full of cloaks. Not people—just cloaks, hanging. Some still warm. 

He had walked across a frozen lake where faces moved under the ice, drifting closer each time he looked away. 

He dreamed of a mirror with no reflection, but when he breathed on the glass, something behind it breathed back. 

And once, just once, he dreamed that someone called his name—not loudly, but with the kind of voice that knew him, the kind that wasn't supposed to exist, or maybe it did? 

Now he lay there, still quiet, as the world around him stirred. The house was waking up. Footsteps clicked somewhere below, then silence. A door closed. The clock in the hallway ticked. 

Today was his first lesson. 

He should've been excited. He had been, when Mother first told him. She'd knelt beside him in the drawing room and said it was time he had a proper tutor of his own. That he would learn the things befitting a son of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. His chest had swelled with pride—until she mentioned that he would not be joining Sirius and Regulus. Not yet. 

"They are far ahead," she said. "Your place is here. Starting where one must start." 

He had nodded, of course because she was right, everyone had to start from somewhere. Though he still looked toward the staircase that led to the upper study, where Sirius and Regulus sometimes sat with books too big for their laps, and for a moment, his throat had felt tight. 

He thought maybe he'd get to sit beside them. Maybe it would feel like being part of something. 

But he would be alone. 

And that made the lesson feel heavier than the books stacked on his little desk. 

Still, he dressed himself neatly in the charcoal-grey robes folded at the edge of his bed. He fastened the buttons with steady fingers. Pressed the creases. Smoothed the collar. There was pride in being presentable. That much he knew. 

He didn't go back to the sketchbook hidden beneath his mattress. Not today. Not when he had something to prove. 

Instead, Polaris made his way to the side chamber off the main library, a room his father had deemed "suitable for instruction." His legs were still short, but his strides were practiced. The house held its usual hush — not silence, but something heavier, like breath held too long. 

And when he opened the door to the study room, he was already standing straight. 

The walls were lined with glass-doored bookcases, filled spine to spine with volumes older than Polaris's grandfathers. A globe sat in the corner, all sea and parchment-toned land, with tiny dragons sketched in the oceans like warnings. There was a desk too—small, crafted of dark wood. A chair waited behind it, straight-backed and expectant. Beside it, a taller one. 

Polaris sat. 

He didn't swing his legs, though they didn't reach the floor. 

He didn't fidget. 

He folded his hands just so, fingers light in his lap the way Mother had taught him. 

The door creaked open a minute later. 

His tutor entered—tall, thin, robes crisp like folded letters. His eyes were dark, but not unkind. Not at first. Just distant. Observing. Like he already knew who Polaris would be before he ever said a word. 

"Polaris Black," the man greeted, voice smooth and practiced. 

"Yes, sir." 

The tutor gave a single nod, as if that confirmed everything he needed. 

"You can call me, Mr Thorne. I have taught many young men from the great houses of our world. I expect discipline, thought, and respect. Do you understand these things?" 

"Yes, Mr Thorne." 

"Good." 

A thick folder was placed on the desk. He opened it with ceremony, flipping past pages as if searching for the right place to begin. 

"We'll start with blood." 

Polaris blinked. 

"Blood?" he echoed. 

For a second, he thought of the red kind. The warm kind. The kind that spilled if you fell hard enough or got caught doing something you shouldn't. He remembered the time he'd cut his palm on the edge of a broken picture frame and stared, mesmerised, as it welled up in a perfect bead—so vivid it didn't feel real. 

Was that what they meant? Was this lesson about medicine? Or healing spells? 

But Mr Thorne's tone was too careful. This was his first lesson, Polaris didn't think he was ready to learn about spells , not at all. He wanted to learn but he also didn't want to fail. 

He said blood like Father said honour . Like something invisible that everyone was meant to understand without question. 

Then it clicked. 

Not the kind that hurt. The kind that meant something. 

Mr Thorne gave a small, patient smile, like one might offer a child who had asked a question just a little too late. 

"Not the kind that spills when you're careless," he said. "The kind that lives in you. That defines you. That binds you to the name you carry." 

Polaris sat up straighter. This he had heard before. At dinner. In passing. In Father's voice, low and reverent. 

"Pure blood," Polaris said, a bit quieter. 

"Precisely." 

The man drew a piece of parchment and slid it across the desk. On it were four columns: Noble, Mixed, Tainted, and Other.  

"Which do you think you are?" 

Polaris didn't hesitate. "Noble." 

"And which do you think your tutor is?" 

Polaris hesitated. He looked up. The Thorne's eyes were unreadable. 

"I don't know, sir." 

"A fair answer. I am noble-born. As are you. As are your brothers. Your mother. Your father. And what does that mean?" 

Polaris thought. "That we come from… good families?" 

"Strong families," the man corrected gently. "Families untouched by corruption. Families that preserved their strength through care. Through tradition. That is not something to be ashamed of. That is something to honour." 

Polaris nodded, slowly. Something about the words made his chest tighten—but not in a bad way. It was like holding your breath so you wouldn't let anything spill. 

"You must understand," Mr Thorne continued, "there are others who would like to see that strength weakened. Diluted. Lost. Those who do not understand the value of purity seek to mock it, change it, destroy it. They speak of kindness, of acceptance and of sameness. Do you know why?" 

Polaris frowned. "Because… they're jealous?" 

Mr Thorne's eyes gleamed, pleased. 

"Very good," he said—but this time, his voice held more than approval. There was something weightier beneath it, a kind of gravity meant to press into the bones. "Jealousy is the seed of much in this world, Mr Black. Envy curdles the heart. It makes people lie, makes them twist truths into virtues. They envy what they cannot be. They envy what they cannot earn." 

He tapped the parchment lightly, his finger landing again on the word Noble . 

"That is what you must understand. Not everyone who smiles at you wishes you well. Not everyone who speaks of equality does so from a place of goodness. Many speak of sameness because it makes them feel less small. Because if they admit there is such a thing as better—better breeding, better heritage, better magic —then they must also admit to being lesser. And that, for them, is unbearable." 

He leaned back, letting the words hang. 

"So instead, they pretend. They speak of change. Of fairness. They call your strength privilege, and your honour pride. And in time, if you let them, they will convince you to be ashamed of what you are. To forget ." 

Polaris didn't speak. He felt something hot and strange in his chest—an emotion that was part pride, part fear, part something he couldn't name. He wasn't sure if he wanted to cry or stand taller. 

Thorne watched him closely, then softened—just slightly. 

"But you won't forget. Will you?" 

Polaris swallowed. "No, sir." 

"Good," Thorne said, voice low. "Because the world forgets too easily. And when it does, it destroys the very things that made it great." 

Polaris didn't fully understand. Not all the way. But the words fit together like puzzle pieces, even if he didn't know the full picture yet. They made sense . They were spoken calmly. Kindly, even. 

And when things made sense, Polaris believed them. 

He wanted to understand. 

He wanted to learn. 

"Now," Mr Thorne said, tapping the parchment. "We shall begin by listing the sacred twenty-eight. Your legacy. Then we'll compare it to the lesser lines." 

Polaris took the quill. His hands were small. His fingers ink-stained from yesterday, but he didn't think about colours anymore. 

He just wrote. 

"…and so," Mr Thorne concluded, tapping the illustration of the Rosier family crest, "it is not merely blood that defines us, but the memory of blood—who we have been, and what we are expected to become." 

Polaris blinked at the page. The quill was still warm in his fingers. His notes were neat. Careful. He liked how the words looked on parchment—how they sat, like little soldiers, waiting to be read again. 

But a question tugged at him. It had been whispering there for minutes now, quiet but stubborn. 

He raised his hand. 

Thorne paused. He arched one eyebrow, almost amused. 

"Yes?" 

Polaris didn't fidget. He knew better. But the words came out fast. 

"If blood remembers, sir… how does it remember? Is it magic, or… is it something else? Do names hold the magic, or the people?" 

Mr Thorne's lips parted. Not with annoyance—no, this was something else. Surprise. Maybe even approval. 

"A thoughtful question," he said. "Not one most your age would think to ask." 

Polaris sat straighter, chest warm with something close to pride. 

Thorne stepped away from the board and folded his hands behind his back, pacing lightly. Thoughtfully. 

"Blood remembers through lineage," he said. "Through action. Through legacy. The magic we carry is not simply a gift; it is cultivated. Protected. When a family guards its values—when it holds to truth and strength and pride—then yes, that memory grows deeper. Stronger. That is why names matter." 

"But what if someone has a strong name," Polaris asked, "and does something… not strong? What happens to the memory then?" 

There was silence. 

And then, slowly, then Thorne walked back toward him. 

He knelt—his eyes now level with Polaris'. 

"You are young, Mr. Black. But already I see the mind working beneath your stillness. That's good. Curiosity is no enemy—but it must be directed." 

Polaris nodded. Slowly, unsure what he meant. Curious was supposed to be directed?  

He thought of the bugs he watched crawl under rocks, the way he'd once spent an hour taking apart a wind-up toy just to see what made it tick. No one had told him to do that. It just happened , like a voice telling him, look closer. Was that the wrong kind of curiosity? The sort that wasn't "directed"? 

He looked up at the man—tall, with kind eyes, though they didn't smile. Grown-ups were strange. They said things that made sense like riddles. Curiosity was no enemy… unless you pointed it the wrong way? Like a wand in shaking hands. Like Sirius pointing at the family tapestry asking, "Why's that one burnt off?" and getting slapped for it. 

So, curiosity had rules, then. Invisible lines... 

Maybe that was what " directed " meant. 

Polaris tucked the word away in his chest like a coin. He'd spend it later, when the world made more sense. 

"Remember this," Thorne said, voice gentler now. "A name is a promise. When someone breaks that promise, the fault lies not in the name, but in the person who shamed it. We do not change the name—we correct the mistake." 

Polaris's chest tightened. 

Correct the mistake. 

That meant names had rules. 

And mistakes could be erased. 

His small hands curled against his robes. It was too many rules. Too many things with edges. Curiosity had to be directed. Names had to be protected. Mistakes could be undone but only in the right way. 

Even feelings had rules, he was beginning to suspect. Sirius got away with shouting when he was angry—but only because he was older. Regulus cried once and got sent out of the room. Polaris had wanted to laugh when the tea kettle squealed like it was dying, but the noise had startled Mother, so he swallowed it down and said nothing. 

The world seemed packed with invisible strings—pull one wrong and something snapped. 

He glanced up at Thorne, eyes wide, thoughtful. "How do you know which things are mistakes?" 

Thorne didn't answer right away. That was another thing grown-ups did. They paused like they were choosing from too many doors. 

"Time," the man said at last. "Time tells you. And consequence." 

Polaris nodded again, slowly, like before. But inside, he wondered— what if you ran out of time before you knew which rule you broke?  

Thorne stood again and moved back to the board, where a series of names had been drawn beneath the "Tainted" column. 

"Some of these names were once noble," he said, circling one with the tip of his wand. Sparks flared red, then dimmed. "But they chose weakness. Compassion. They betrayed their own. And so, their names are remembered differently now. Their children bear that shame." 

Polaris swallowed. 

He didn't want to shame his name. 

He didn't want to be remembered… wrongly. 

"You must never forget what you are," Mr Thorne said quietly. "Or let others forget it." 

Polaris looked up at him, eyes uncertain. "But what if they say we're all the same? That blood doesn't matter?" 

A flicker of something colder passed through Thorne's gaze. Not anger. Not yet. But steel. 

"Then they lie. Or they are fools. Likely both." 

He crouched again, his voice lower now—meant just for Polaris. 

"You must never let someone of lesser blood look down at you. Do you understand?" 

Polaris nodded, but slowly. "I think so." 

"They will try," Thorne said. "They will say you are arrogant. They will say you are cruel. But what are they truly doing?" 

Polaris thought. "Trying to… bring me down?" 

"To make you forget ," Thorne whispered. "To drag you to their level. Because if they can convince you to doubt yourself, then they can rise. And you must never let that happen." 

Polaris stared at the page again. The words. The columns. 

"What happens to them?" he asked quietly. "The ones who try to rise?" 

Thorne gave a small, knowing smile. "They mimic. But they cannot become. A goblin may dress like a wizard. A Muggle-born may wave a wand. But that does not make them you . Greatness is not performed—it is inherited ." 

There was a pause. Polaris's fingers twitched around his quill. 

"If someone clever comes from the wrong family," he said, "shouldn't we… help them? Teach them?" 

Mr Thorne straightened once more. 

"There is a kind of cleverness that mimics brilliance. Like a mirror held to the sun—it may seem bright, but it gives no heat. No fire. You, Polaris, carry a legacy. That is real. That is rare. You must protect it." 

Polaris sat still, a thousand thoughts turning behind his eyes—but none louder than one: 

He didn't want to forget. 

He didn't want to fall. 

"I won't let them," he said. 

Mr Thorne gave him one final nod, thin and satisfied. 

"Good. Then this has been a worthy first lesson." 

The door to the study clicked shut behind him, and Polaris walked the corridor with measured steps—just as Mr Thorne had. He didn't run. Didn't skip. 

He didn't quite understand everything Mr Thorne had said, not yet. But it had sounded important. Felt important. And he had understood one thing clearly: 

He wasn't a child anymore. 

His steps down the corridor were just a touch more deliberate than usual, hands tucked behind his back the way his grandfather did when he walked the estate, when the family went to visit the manor. The portraits lining the hall didn't comment as he passed, but Polaris imagined they could sense the difference. Or perhaps he only hoped they could. 

He felt taller. Not physically, of course—his feet still didn't touch the floor when he sat—but in the way that mattered. In the way that lived behind the ribs. He was being tutored now. Like Sirius and Regulus. Like Father had been. That meant something. 

He found them in the lounge. 

Sirius and Regulus sat cross-legged on the floor by the low table, a chessboard between them, the pieces clicking into place on their own, soldiers obeying their masters' strategies without a word. 

Regulus was winning—his pawns lined up with suspicious precision, a knight poised for the finishing strike. He wore the look of someone almost bored by his own cleverness. Sirius was chewing the inside of his cheek, one leg jittering against the floor as he stared at the board like it had personally offended him. 

Polaris stopped just inside the doorway and listened. Sirius darted forward, queen in hand, ignoring a vulnerable corner. The piece hopped across the board… and fell immediately into Regulus's trap. His rook swooped in with a clean, decisive move and captured her. 

"You always forget to protect her," Regulus said, not unkindly, but not trying to soften the victory either. "She's the strongest piece." 

"I know that." Sirius snapped, hand darting toward the board, like he might undo the move if he could just get there fast enough. But it was already done. 

Polaris saw the mistake before it happened. Had seen the past three, in fact. But he didn't say anything. Sirius never liked being corrected. Not even when it was meant kindly. Especially not then. 

"I'll give you another minute," Regulus said primly. "But then I'm taking your rook." 

Sirius pressed his lips together and glowered at the magical soldiers. His hair fell forward to mask his eyes, the scowl more eloquent than a dozen words. 

Polaris stepped inside, folding his arms lightly behind his back the way Mr Thorne had. "You're letting him trap you, Ris." 

"I know what I'm doing," Sirius snapped, not looking up. 

Polaris said nothing more, he knew better that to add more to it instead Polaris just sat on the edge of the settee, hands folded, expression neutral. 

Regulus grinned without subtlety. "He always forgets the left flank. He's done it three times now." 

Sirius's eyes flashed. "At least I don't take ten minutes to decide every move." 

"It's called strategy ," Regulus sniffed. 

Polaris smiled, though it was small. And then, unable to hold it in longer, he announced, "I had my first lesson today." It was clear the youngest Black was proud of such a statement. 

Regulus looked up immediately, his competitive glint replaced with curiosity. "With Thorne?" 

Polaris nodded, trying not to puff his chest, but it was difficult. "Yeah. We started with bloodlines and legacy. He said I have a good mind." 

Sirius rolled his eyes but didn't comment. 

Regulus leaned forward, chess momentarily forgotten. His silver-blue eyes—so much like their mother's—were bright with interest. "Did you do the columns? Noble, Mixed, and stuff?" 

"Yes," Polaris said, and this time he did let a bit of pride through. "He made me list the Sacred Twenty-Eight from memory. Then we talked about what happens when names get lost. Or… fall out of favour." 

Regulus nodded, eyes bright. "Mother says the Shafiqs used to be one of the oldest, but they keep to themselves now. She says they married carelessly. Not wrong , just… not wisely. That's what happens when you forget tradition." 

Polaris tilted his head, recalling. "Mr Thorne says memory is more than just words that It's legacy. That blood remembers. " 

Regulus's eyes widened, as if Polaris had just told him the answer to an unsolvable riddle. "He said that? That's brilliant. " 

Sirius finally made a sound—a loud exhale, long-suffering. "Sounds boring. Blood and remembering and whatever, blah blah blah. Bet he just wants to make you write essays all day." 

"It's not like school," Polaris replied carefully. "It's… different. It's about who we are. " 

Sirius shrugged and moved a pawn. Another poor decision. 

Regulus immediately capitalized on it with a smug flourish. "Mate in four." 

"Shut up." 

Sirius glared at the board as if it had betrayed him personally. His fingers drummed once against the edge of the table, then stilled. 

"This game's cursed," he muttered. 

"It's not cursed," Regulus said without looking up. "You just keep making bad moves." 

"Keep talking, Reg. I'll start charging admission." 

Polaris watched the board in silence. Regulus had him. Mate in four, he'd said—and he was right. The path was clear. Elegant, even. Sirius had all but handed him the win with that last move. Polaris could see it in his head, the way it would play out. Knight to D3. Queen to H5. A few shuffles, and it would be over. 

The next move sealed it. 

Regulus dropped his bishop with an irritatingly smug clack, and Sirius groaned—loud, theatrical, as if he'd just been sentenced to Azkaban. 

"Ugh, fine, " he huffed, pushing back from the table. "I'm done. He cheats anyway." 

Regulus's eyes narrowed. "I do not cheat." 

"You think ten moves ahead like a creep. Same thing." 

"That's how chess works , idiot." 

Sirius turned away dramatically, then pivoted back with a sudden, sharp grin. "Hey, Pol. You play." 

Polaris blinked. "Me?" 

"Yeah. Take my spot. You've been watching the whole time anyway." Sirius leaned over the board, still grinning as he ruffled Polaris's hair with a rough hand. "Bet you could beat him." 

Polaris straightened his shoulders. "I like watching." 

"But don't you want to win?" 

That earned a snort from Regulus. "He's four." 

"He's smart ," Sirius shot back, eyes gleaming now—not just with mischief, but something like petty vengeance. "Smarter than you, sometimes." 

Regulus bristled. "He's not better than me." 

"I didn't say better," Sirius said, voice all innocence. "Just that he might finally shut you up." 

That did it. Regulus leaned back, arms folded, already sulking before a single piece moved. 

Polaris hesitated only a second more before slipping into Sirius's chair. His legs dangled above the floor again, but this time, he didn't notice. His eyes were on the board. 

The game unfolded quickly. 

Polaris's choices were deliberate, he thought through every move. He didn't gloat when he took a pawn or smile when Regulus's queen was forced into retreat—he was too focused for that. There was something comforting in the click of piece to square, the quiet thrill of seeing patterns unfold. Chess had rules but not limits. Every move reshaped the future. There were always a hundred things you could do—some louder, some quieter. He liked that. 

Sirius hovered behind him, practically vibrating with delight. 

"Oof, bad move, Reg," he cackled as Polaris sacrificed a knight only to trap two of Regulus's bishops. "Did you mean to do that? Or are you just naturally terrible?" 

Regulus glared. "He's guessing." 

"No, he's winning. That's what he's doing." 

"I wasn't even trying yet." 

Sirius laughed again, cruel and careless. "Yeah? Maybe don't try at all. Might help." 

Regulus's face went red. 

Polaris stayed quiet. He could feel the heat between them now, that sibling tension that sparked like kindling when pride was poked. He didn't mean to make Regulus angry—but the board didn't lie. He was winning. 

"You're distracting me," Regulus muttered, not quite meeting anyone's eyes. 

"Maybe you just don't like losing to someone in shorts, " Sirius said with another bark of laughter. "Honestly, Reg, what'll Mother say when she hears you got beaten by the baby?" 

He didn't look up right away. 

I'm not a baby, he thought, the words stiff and hot in his chest. Babies don't learn about bloodlines or sacred names or how to sit properly with their hands folded just so.  

He had done all of those things. 

"I'll hit you," Regulus snapped, shoving a pawn forward harder than necessary. 

Polaris looked up, quietly. "I don't mind stopping." 

"No," Sirius said at once, dropping a hand to Polaris's shoulder like a general defending his champion. "He stays. You've had it too easy for too long, Reggie ." 

"I said don't call me that! " 

"I'll stop when you stop being such a little—" 

" Boys ." 

Their mother's voice echoed faintly from the hall—a single, sharp syllable that froze all three in place. 

Sirius threw himself dramatically onto the sofa with a groan. Regulus muttered under his breath and began resetting the pieces with stiff, annoyed hands. Polaris sat still, eyes still half on the board, already replaying the match in his head. He liked the way it had gone. Not because he'd won—but because there had been so many ways it could have gone. Every piece held potential. Every loss opened a new possibility. 

Then Sirius muttered, just loud enough to be heard, "I hate her." 

Regulus froze. "Don't say that," he snapped, eyes narrowed. "You can't say that." 

Sirius only shrugged, stretching long and lazy like nothing had happened. "I'll say what I like." 

 

August 25th, 1968, Sunday  

Polaris didn't really understand what the big deal about flowers was. 

They didn't do anything. They just sat there, smelling strange and looking soft and breakable. But every time he visited his great aunt Cassiopeia's house—which had been happening since he was three—there was always a walk. And every walk, without fail, ended in the greenhouse. 

Aunt Cassiopeia liked flowers. That much he'd learned. 

She never said it outright. She didn't talk like other grown-ups, not in the way that made you feel small or like you were supposed to be somewhere else. She talked to him, not at him. And when she talked about her flowers, her voice changed—just a little. Softer. Like she was remembering something she didn't want to forget. 

Polaris didn't care much for the flowers themselves. But he liked listening to her talk about them. He liked the way it made her smile. 

She never smiled at family dinners, not when everyone was gathered and pretending to be pleased to see each other. Not at the social events where people wore too much perfume and said things they didn't mean. Not even when she came over to his house and had tea with his mother, sitting stiffly in the drawing room like she was somewhere far away. 

But in the greenhouse, with the sun slanting through the glass and the air thick with green and growing things, she smiled. Just a little. Just for him. 

Lately, though, she'd been moving slower. She sat down more often during their walks, resting on the stone bench beneath the hanging ivy. Sometimes she'd press a hand to her chest when she thought he wasn't looking. Her voice, once steady and clear, had grown quieter, like it was being carried away by the wind. 

Polaris didn't ask. He didn't know what to ask. 

Polaris didn't like flowers. Not really. 

But he tried to learn them anyway—because maybe, if he knew their names, Great Aunt Cassiopeia would be proud of him. 

He'd rushed through a book about magical flora the night before, flipping pages too fast, trying to cram the names into his head like spells. He should've taken his time. If he had, maybe he would've remembered. 

"Oxglove," he said, pointing to a tall stalk with bell-shaped blooms. 

Cassiopeia glanced over, one brow raised. 

"No, wait. Forget-me-not?" He frowned. "Or was it…" 

She laughed—not unkindly, but like a breeze rustling through leaves. "You'll remember when it matters." 

He didn't get upset. Not with her. He just nodded, quietly promising himself he'd learn every flower in the greenhouse. Every single one. For her. 

He watched her for a moment as she knelt beside a pale, drowsy-looking blossom curled in on itself like it was still dreaming. She touched its petals with the back of her fingers, humming something soft and low. The flower stirred, slowly opening, its silvery-blue glow catching the light. 

"Why do you like them so much?" Polaris asked. "They don't… do anything. They're kind of useless. 

Cassiopeia didn't answer right away. She was coaxing the moonbell fully awake, her voice barely above a whisper. When she finally spoke, it was like she was speaking to the flower, not him. 

"They're quiet," she said. "They don't ask for much. And if you're patient… they show you who they are." 

After that day Polaris spent a long time reading about flowers. 

Who knew there were so many? Four hundred thousand types, the book had said. Polaris had been baffled. Four hundred thousand. He'd only had a month, but he tried anyway—cramming names and meanings and blooming seasons into his head like they were spells he could cast to make her proud. 

He never got to use any of it. 

He never got to ask her what her favourite flower was. 

Because a month later, she was gone. 

It didn't make sense. One day she was there, humming to moonbells and calling him her little star. The next, he wasn't allowed to visit. Then, suddenly, they were all dressed in black, standing in a cold room and someone said the word "funeral." 

No one told him anything. Not really. 

When he asked if the funeral was for her, Pollux Black, his grandfather— Cassiopia's brother-just nodded solemnly and said, "She served her name well. She died with her bloodline intact and her honour unbroken." 

Polaris didn't know what any of that had to do with her not being here anymore. 

Pollux patted him on the shoulder like that was supposed to help. "Be proud, boy. That's how we go." 

Arcturus, his grandfather, added, "You'll understand when you're older." 

That was all. 

He didn't look at the casket. He looked at the sky instead, because the sky didn't lie to him. 

Aunt Druella, who always smelled like lavender and sharp perfume, said, "She was lucky, in the end. Died in her sleep. That's rare in this world." 

She said it like she was talking about a sale on rare tea. Not a person. 

"Better to go quiet than screaming. That's what I say." 

Everyone kept saying legacy like it was supposed to mean something. Like it was supposed to fill the empty chair in the greenhouse. Like it was supposed to explain why no one would answer when he asked where Cassiopeia had gone. 

Polaris didn't understand. He was four. He didn't know what death was. He didn't know where people went when they stopped being here. He didn't know why no one would just tell him. 

Polaris wandered because he was bored, because Sirius was bothering mother about when they got to go home, all the while Regulus was allowed to take a nap because he was sick. 

The other adults had begun to drift back toward the manor—talking in hushed, bitter voices that called themselves reverence. No one noticed him slip away. No one ever noticed when he moved quietly as he carefully watched for who was watching . 

The burial grove lay quiet beneath a veil of heavy mist. The grass was damp. The roses bowed their heads, too elegant to bloom in mourning. 

He didn't know why he'd come. Maybe he wanted to say goodbye, because that was what it seemed like everyone was doing. Maybe he just wanted to see where she'd be forever instead of her greenhouse. 

He stood by the earth. Freshly turned. 

He had thought maybe Uncle Alphard would come. He kept glancing over his shoulder, just in case—a flicker of hope he hadn't even meant to light. But he never came. 

Polaris hadn't seen him in a while now. No one really talked about him, not unless they were angry. 

He missed him. 

Alphard would've said goodbye properly. He would've helped Polaris pick the right flower for the grave, maybe even told a story about Cassiopeia that made her feel closer instead of further away. 

He wished he'd come to say goodbye too. 

That's when she found him. 

" Polariiis ," Bellatrix sang, her voice wrapping around his name like silk laced with poison. 

She emerged from behind him, tall and black-clad, seventeen and dangerous in a way that didn't need announcing. Her eyes sparkled like a dare or maybe a challenge. No one was supposed to be out here alone— 

but Bellatrix had never cared much for rules. This was one of the rules Polaris decided needed to be broken. 

She smiled, wide and wrong. "Do you know what they're going to do?" 

Polaris didn't answer. He didn't like the way she looked at the grave. Like it was something fun . 

"They'll dig a hole," she continued, sweet as honey left too long in the sun. "Right here, where the dirt's still soft. Then they'll put her in a box—tight and dark and velvet-lined like a gift nobody wants to open." 

Polaris blinked. "She's… sleeping." 

Bellatrix laughed—a high, strange sound that made his ribs tighten. 

"Oh, little star ," she cooed as if mocking the way Aunt Cassiopeia said it, crouching beside him, close enough that her hair brushed his sleeve. "No, she's rotting. That's what death does." 

She pointed to the ground like she was pointing out a puddle. 

"Soon her skin will turn grey, like old wax. Her mouth will gape and spill flies. Her eyes will collapse in on themselves, and her hands—those delicate hands she used to touch her stupid flowers—they'll shrivel until they look like claws." 

Polaris went still. He couldn't move. Couldn't blink. 

"But that's not the worst part," she whispered. "Not yet. First she'll bloat. The gases build up, you see. It's like a balloon. Eventually she'll burst —right there in her pretty little box." 

Bellatrix's eyes lit up like she was describing fireworks. 

"And when the worms come, they won't start with her feet. No, they like the soft parts. The insides . That's what you are, cousin. That's what she is now. A garden for maggots." 

Polaris trembled. 

His hands clenched around the hem of his sleeve. 

Bellatrix leaned in so close he could feel her breath on his cheek. "Everyone says she's gone to rest," she whispered, "but there's no peace under the soil. Just silence. Just darkness. Just the smell of ending ." 

He didn't like what she was saying, was that really what death was? 

She tilted her head, all teeth and mock concern. "Don't cry, Polaris. You'll water the grave. The worms might come up early." 

Then she stood. Straightened her robes. And walked away without looking back. 

He sank to the grass when she vanished. Knees folded beneath him, face blank. He didn't know how long he sat there for. 

He heard her footsteps before he saw her. His mother had found him. 

She did not rush. Black women did not rush—not even through grief, and certainly not through gardens. 

Her robes trailed behind her like a stormcloud stitched with silver. Her shoes did not stain in the mud. Her expression was not one of concern—it never was—but of irritation worn like perfume. 

Polaris didn't look up at first. His eyes were red, he didn't want her to see, but it was too late for that wasn't it. 

Walburga looked down at him, frowning. "What are you doing here?" she asked, though the question was already a reprimand. 

Polaris wiped at his cheek with his sleeve, ashamed to feel it damp. 

"I—Bellatrix said—" he started, but the words knotted in his throat. "She said Aunt Cassie… that the worms… they're going to eat her." 

His voice cracked on eat . It was a child's voice again, not the careful, clipped tone she'd trained into him. 

Walburga did not kneel. She never lowered herself—not to eye level, not to emotion, not to grief. 

"They will," she said calmly. "Eventually." 

Polaris stared up at her, eyes wide. 

"It's natural," she continued, as though they were discussing rainfall. "The body breaks down. It feeds the soil. The cycle continues." 

"But—" Polaris choked, "she's Aunt Cassiopeia. " 

"And now she's carrion." Her tone didn't waver. "Her purpose is complete. Her body returns to the earth. This is not something to fear. It is something to accept ." 

He looked at the dirt. It didn't look like peace. 

"But… doesn't it hurt?" 

Walburga exhaled sharply through her nose—never a sigh. "She's dead. She doesn't feel. You do. And you must learn to manage that." 

She took a step closer, one gloved hand brushing the wrinkle from his shoulder. 

"Grief is not meant to spill out of you like blood. That is common . That is indulgent. " 

Her hand hovered over his face, not tenderly, but precisely. She wiped beneath his eye with the edge of her sleeve like she was cleaning a stain. 

"A Black does not weep in the open. We endure. We carry memory, not display it." 

Polaris's voice was barely a breath. "But I miss her." 

Walburga straightened. "Then prove she mattered. Stand with your spine unbent. Bury your grief where it belongs— inside ." 

Polaris swallowed. The tears retreated. Shame replaced them like cold water poured into a cup already cracked. 

He stood, slowly. 

He looked at the grave one last time. 

Who would sing to the flowers now?  

Polaris tightened his fingers around the edge of his sleeve. No one had said anything about the greenhouse. No one had told the flowers she wasn't coming back. 

Did the dead really feel nothing?  

He wasn't sure. Not really. 

Bellatrix said she was meat. His mother said she was memory. But when he closed his eyes, he could still feel Cassiopeia's voice humming through the stems. 

How could something like that just disappear?  

Maybe it didn't. Maybe it got buried, like everything else. 

That was the Black way, after all. 

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