[6,864 Words]
October 23rd, 1970, Friday
The garden was too perfect.
Trimmed hedges like teeth, white roses that never wilted, and the peacocks—pearl-white, aloof—stalked between hedges trimmed into the silhouettes of duelling wizards. But none of that mattered to the children of the Sacred Twenty-Eight—not when their parents were locked away in the manor, voices weaving politics and power through cigar smoke and wine.
The children were left to their own devices, in the golden hour light of late afternoon.
Corvus Avery was lying on his back atop the trimmed grass, hands laced behind his head, a smirk playing on his lips like he was already bored of the world. He was the same age as Polaris—though he carried it differently. His soft brown hair curled slightly at the ends, and his eyes—blue, bold—seemed to think themselves older than they were.
Polaris Black, six now crouched beside a line of ants, watching them move in quiet awe, a twig in his hand forgotten. He'd read once that ants could carry ten times their weight. That they left invisible trails. That if the queen died, the whole colony would unravel.
He wondered how long that would take.
"This is dull," Corvus announced, dragging out the word like it was a yawn. "They should've brought dragons or cursed portraits or something."
Polaris hummed, distracted. "You said cursed portraits scared you."
"I was four," Corvus shot back, puffing out his chest. "Now I could duel one. Blindfolded."
Polaris didn't answer. He was smiling—quietly, the kind that lived mostly behind his eyes. He reached down and nudged one ant aside with the twig, gently but with no real concern for where it ended up. He just wanted to see if the others would notice. Would they pause? Panic? Reorganise?
That was what Corvus liked about Polaris. He listened. Even when Corvus bragged or complained or made-up grand adventures about blood-thirsty hats and enchanted lemon trees, Polaris never told him to be quiet. Unlike Corvus' older cousins, Avner and Aura.
Corvus rolled onto his side and picked up a discarded biscuit from the tray the house-elf had left behind. "I wonder if anyone's ever hexed a scone to explode," he mused, holding it like a Gobstone about to erupt.
"Maybe don't throw it at anyone," Polaris said softly, eyes still on the ants.
"Not anyone important," Corvus muttered.
Polaris finally stood, brushing dirt from his knees. He looked down at the thin, busy trail of insects threading across the garden path, their tiny legs moving in perfect, thoughtless rhythm.
"Do you think they know I'm here?" he asked suddenly.
Corvus looked up, confused. "The ants?"
Polaris nodded. "Do they think at all? Or just… move?"
He stepped forward. Slowly. One foot landed squarely on the trail. He lifted it again. Several ants were caught beneath the sole of his shoe—squashed, legs crumpled, still. He crouched again and watched the survivors, who milled and twitched in new, panicked patterns around the dead.
"They don't stop for long," he murmured. "Just reroute."
Corvus made a face. "That's gross."
Polaris didn't seem to hear him. "It's strange, isn't it? You'd think they'd mourn. Or at least freeze. But they don't. They just keep going."
He watched for another few seconds, head tilted slightly. Then, almost absently, he crushed another small cluster with the heel of his boot.
"They're not like us," he said.
Corvus opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wasn't sure if Polaris was talking to him anymore—or to the ants.
There were other children, too. The Rosiers. The Selwyn twins. That Rowle boy—Callister or Caldon or something heavy and blockish. They played their own games in cliques, laughing like daggers. Polaris didn't miss the way one of them had looked at him earlier, as if already ranking him on some unseen scale.
Then it happened.
A crack — sharp, violent.
Polaris's head snapped up.
Sirius.
He had Rowle pinned, fists flying.
Rowle shoved back, wild and clumsy.
They crashed into the hedge. Thorns tore sleeves. Bark snapped.
Someone screamed — not in fear, in excitement.
Polaris stood frozen.
He couldn't hear the words. Only the rage.
Corvus shaded his eyes lazily with a hand. "Well. That escalated."
"What happened?" Polaris asked, the question more to himself.
Polaris watched, frozen in place as the scuffle broke. Sirius shoved the older boy back with a final hiss of a word Polaris couldn't hear—but it dripped with venom. Rowle spat something back, something that made Sirius's face twist.
And then Sirius turned and ran.
Fast. Through the hedges. Into the grove that shadowed the garden like a secret waiting to be kept.
Polaris didn't think. His legs just moved.
"Where're you going?" Corvus called after him.
But Polaris didn't stop. Didn't answer.
Sirius's feet pounded against the grass, through hedges and low-hanging charms that tugged at his sleeves like whispers trying to pull him back. The grove was cooler in its silence, shadows thick between the trees. He stumbled once, caught himself, and pressed forward until he couldn't see the manor anymore.
He stopped beneath an old willow, chest rising and falling in jagged rhythm.
His fists were still clenched.
Rowle had deserved it. The git had said something vile about blood—something about how even certain purebloods were starting to turn soft.
Sirius hadn't thought. He never did when it came to that.
He bit the inside of his cheek hard. His fingers were trembling now, not from rage but from the slow crawl of oh no, what have I done? His mother would know. She always knew. His father would barely look at him, but the silence would be thick enough to drown in.
And if they were really angry this time—
Sirius winced as he shifted, the bruises across his back aching beneath his dress robes. Fading purple and yellow. He hadn't told anyone—not even his brothers because they would have heard it.
He ran both hands through his hair, tugged at it, the panic bubbling now, hot in his chest. He needed an excuse. Something clever. Something defensible . He was a Black, wasn't he? He could lie his way out. He had to. That's what they wanted.
"Ris?"
He flinched so hard he nearly dropped to his knees.
But it was just Polaris, panting softly, wide-eyed at the edge of the grove.
Sirius looked away.
"Don't," he muttered.
Polaris stepped closer anyway.
"Why did you follow me," Sirius said again, but it came out shakier this time. Less sharp, more cracked, it was clear he was more concentrated with what was worrying him.
"I wanted to," Polaris replied simply. And then, quieter: "Are you hurt?"
Sirius shook his head, jaw tight. "He deserved it."
"I know," Polaris said—not because he cared what Rowle had done, but because the idea of someone looking down on their family made something cold twist in his gut. Rowle must have said something—of course he had—but Polaris didn't really care about the details. He only hated the feeling.
Besides, Sirius was always finding someone to fight with. Always some new slight, some complaint, some excuse to flare up. He wasn't exactly good at keeping his mouth shut.
Silence. The kind that didn't press, just waited.
Sirius collapsed onto the roots, one arm slung across a knee. "They're going to kill me," he muttered.
"No, they won't," Polaris said—because it was what you were supposed to say, even if you didn't believe it. Because he already knew Sirius would get in trouble. Of course he would.
And getting in trouble in the House of Black wasn't something to be proud of.
Polaris could still remember the first real punishment he'd received, just last year when he was five. His father's wand—drawn without a word—and the pain that followed like lightning. It hadn't felt like discipline. It had felt like being broken open. He didn't think his older brothers had ever been punished like that by their father. When it came to discipline, it was usually their mother. But not that time.
"You weren't there," Sirius whispered. "Last time… it wasn't even this bad and she—" He stopped. Gritted his teeth. "They told me not to embarrass them. First thing they said."
Polaris knelt beside him, unsure if he should speak, if there was anything that could be said. His brother looked older like this, and smaller at the same time.
Sirius stared at the ground. "It's not fair."
Polaris looked at the bruises blooming beneath Sirius's collar. He wanted to reach out but didn't. He just watched, quiet, thinking.
If most of the blame laid with Rowle then, for Sirius it wouldn't be the worst punishment he'd ever had. Not by Black standards. Sirius would be yelled at, maybe hexed, maybe grounded to his room for the rest of the summer. It would hurt, but it wouldn't break him.
"Maybe," Polaris whispered, "you could say Rowle said something about me."
Sirius blinked.
"I'm one of the youngest here. It'd make sense you were protecting me."
Sirius looked at him then, really looked—and for the first time since the fight, his shoulders dropped just a little.
"You'd do that?"
Polaris nodded. "It might work."
It was strategy, really. Simple cause and effect. The adults would see it as chivalry, not recklessness. The right kind of trouble, which meant less pain for Sirius—and if anyone ended up embarrassed, it'd be Rowle.
Sirius gave a breath of something close to a laugh. It was too tight to be joy, but it wasn't panic anymore either.
"You're clever," he said.
Polaris didn't answer. Just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, in the quiet grove where the lantern light didn't reach.
They stayed like that a while. And when they finally stood to return, Sirius's steps were just a bit steadier.
By the time they returned to the gathering, the air was already thick with tension.
The children had been herded together, a cluster of well-dressed discomfort beneath a sky blooming with evening charms. An elder Rosier was speaking with tight lips to a rather flushed Lord Rowle, while Walburga stood nearby like a statue carved in frost.
Polaris spotted Corvus instantly standing by the buffet table, two sugared plums in one hand, blinking at them as if they were ghosts.
Rowle, on the other hand, had a blotchy nose and a twisted scowl. His sleeve was torn at the shoulder, and he was already mid-rant, voice raised in that shrill, desperate pitch of a boy who knows he's losing.
"I didn't start it! He—he punched me first! I didn't even say anything !"
Sirius straightened beside Polaris, jaw set.
Walburga turned her eyes—sharp and silver—and Polaris could feel the whole world tilt with the weight of her gaze. "Is that true?" she asked, voice calm and cold. "Did you strike first, Sirius?"
Polaris stepped forward before his brother could speak.
"No, mother," he said. "He said something about me. About our blood. Sirius was just protecting me."
He didn't glance at Sirius. Not yet.
Walburga's expression didn't change—at least not to someone who didn't know her. But Polaris had spent enough time watching her face, learning the language of her silences and small movements. The almost imperceptible flick of an eyebrow. The way her lips pressed together—not in displeasure, but in consideration as if measuring him.
She was particular. Precise. Every look she gave meant something.
And in that moment, Polaris felt the flicker of uncertainty cross her face—not whether he was lying, but why he had lied.
Walburga blinked, slowly. "What exactly did he say?"
Polaris hesitated—not out of fear, but from calculation. He understood, now, what lying really was. Not just avoiding truth, but crafting something more useful.
"He said I must be more Muggle than wizard. That no real Black would spend so much time crawling in the grass with insects... which I wasn't. " He glanced down, quiet. "He said I was embarrassing the family."
A lie. But one Rowle might've said, in another mood, on another day. Close enough to truth that it had weight.
Walburga looked at him for a beat too long.
And Polaris knew better than to speak again.
Because there were two kinds of silence in the House of Black—the kind that protected you, and the kind that marked you.
He only hoped this was the first.
"He called him a 'mud-touched little crow,'" Sirius added unnecessarily, voice steady. "I don't know what it means, but I wasn't going to let it go." He definitely knew what it meant.
Corvus's eyes went wide behind them. A moment later, Polaris turned, meeting his friend's stare. Just once.
Corvus blinked. Then straightened his back.
"That's what I heard, too," he said casually, biting into a plum. "Clear as day."
Silence stretched. One by one, the other children nodded—some reluctantly, some not even fully sure what they were agreeing to, but all of them old enough to understand sides .
Even little Cassiopeia Yaxley — the youngest of the three Yaxley siblings and the only one in attendance that evening — gave a decisive nod, her curls bouncing. She'd spent the first half of the night trying to feed a doxy her dessert.
Rowle's face turned a furious, mottled red. " They're lying! " he shrieked. "They're all lying! I didn't say any of that! They're protecting him ! They're just scared— "
"Enough," Lord Rowle snapped, the command slicing through the air like a whip. "You've humiliated us enough for one evening, Calren."
"But—!"
"I said enough ."
Rowle's mouth snapped shut, trembling. His eyes darted to Sirius, to Polaris, burning with something deeper than anger.
Hatred, perhaps.
Polaris felt it. Held it. Let it slide over him like a chill wind.
Sirius looked away, face unreadable now.
Walburga turned, her voice distant. "We'll discuss this at home."
Which meant punishment. Which meant silence. Which meant survival.
And still, as they were dismissed and the gathering began to thin—like storm clouds finally breaking apart—Polaris felt Sirius touch his arm.
A silent thank you. A breath of something more.
Corvus drifted over a moment later, brows raised as if to ask what even happened?
Polaris was too busy thinking about what it had meant. That a few words—just a few—could shape everything .
Not magic. Not curses. Just story, spun well enough to change the course of the evening.
He stared out at the thinning crowd, fingers absently curling against his robe.
And for the first time, he wondered:
What else could words change?
A shadow moved at the edge of his vision. Regulus stood apart from the rest, just near enough to have heard everything, just far enough to pretend he hadn't. He hadn't said a
word during the confrontation—but Polaris saw the look he gave them now. Not confusion. Not judgment.
Recognition.
He'd been there. He'd heard what Rowle actually said—something sharp, yes, but ordinary. Barely more than a sneer. Nothing worth fists or fury.
Regulus knew it had been a lie. Knew Sirius had chosen violence, and Polaris had chosen words to cover it.
And still, Regulus said nothing.
Their eyes met, briefly. It was weighted with a kind of understanding passed between them, brittle and strange.
Just the knowledge that sometimes, a lie was the only thing standing between you and something worse.
Then Regulus looked away.
And Polaris exhaled.
An hour later, they were home.
Their father was still out—off doing whatever Orion Black deemed important. It wasn't unusual. He rarely accompanied them to events like these, and when he did, he kept to the corners, drink in hand, eyes anywhere but on his wife. Polaris couldn't remember the last time they'd seen both their parents in the same room without an argument. If it wasn't Orion accusing her of breathing too loud, it was their mother criticising the way he looked at the curtains.
Tonight, had been no exception. He hadn't come.
Their mother, on the other hand, was very much present—her voice drifted from downstairs now, sharp and endless, delivering Sirius a lecture that was half about appearances and half about disgrace, with very little breath between. Something about honour , and the family name , and not letting emotions rule you like a common mudblood.
Polaris slipped away before she could pull him into it too, at that time Regulus was long gone, he had a knack for having Polaris look for him.
The Black brothers were particular about their rooms. Territorial, even.
Crossing the threshold without permission was a silent offence—one that might not earn shouting but would be remembered. Each brother had their own knock, an unspoken code.
Polaris's was four taps: two quick, one pause, then two again.
He used it now and waited.
The door creaked open a few inches. "You can come in," Regulus said simply.
Which was probably why he let him in.
Regulus always kept the curtains drawn tight, even in summer, and the whole space had a quiet, rehearsed perfection to it—as though inspected daily by some invisible jury. His books were alphabetised. His socks folded by spell. His slippers aligned like soldiers at the foot of his bed.
Polaris stepped in carefully, as if the wrong breath might crease the air.
Regulus swung his legs off the bed and stood, putting on his most serious expression—the one he used whenever Mother was particularly volatile. He was lying on his stomach now, chin resting on his arms at the edge of the bed, watching Polaris with a frown that was half irritation, half big-brother fascination.
"You can't just throw lies like that around," Was the first thing Regulus said, in the deeply serious tone of a boy who once read a twelve-chapter book on magical law for fun. Polaris might've done the same out of curiosity — to understand, to pick it apart — but never for enjoyment. That's what novels were for.
Polaris, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his hands in his lap, blinked up. "It was believable."
Regulus huffed. "To them . Not to Mother . She's going to unravel that thing by breakfast."
"She didn't look—"
"She always looks like that," Regulus interrupted. "That's her thinking face. You've only bought Sirius a day. Maybe two."
Polaris considered this gravely.
Then: "That's still something."
Regulus made a noise that might've been approval. It was hard to tell with Regulus. He had a face like a shut book—neat spine, no title. You only found out what was inside if he let you.
"You have to make your lies stick better," Regulus went on, turning over onto his side now, his voice taking on that instructive air again. "Make them small. People believe small things. And don't blink so much. You blinked five times."
"I did not."
"You did . Five. I counted."
Polaris looked vaguely betrayed.
Regulus shrugged, unrepentant. "You always blink when you're buying time. Also—" he gestured with a hand, "—don't explain so much. The more you explain, the more people think you're hiding something."
"I am hiding something," Polaris pointed out.
"Exactly."
Polaris frowned, like this was deeply unfair.
"Also," Regulus added, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling like a tiny, weary general, "it helps to make yourself look a little pathetic. Not too much. Just enough to make adults feel clever for believing you."
Polaris gave him a slow, deeply sceptical look. "You're good at this."
"I know ."
He sounded almost proud.
Polaris studied him for a moment. "How do you practise lying?"
Regulus pointed vaguely toward the mirror on his wardrobe. "Mostly I rehearse."
"You rehearse lying?"
"Obviously."
Polaris was quiet for a long moment. "Can you teach me?"
Regulus didn't answer right away. He turned his head slightly, gaze sliding from the ceiling to his little brother. Polaris looked painfully small sitting there on the rug—his robes wrinkled, one sleeve falling down over his knuckles. The grass stains hadn't faded.
Regulus exhaled. "Alright. Lesson one."
Polaris straightened instinctively.
Regulus swung his legs off the bed and stood, putting on his most serious expression—the one he used whenever Mother was particularly volatile.
"Lie to me," he said. "Anything."
Polaris blinked, then let out a small huff of laughter. The request was so absurdly formal, so very Regulus , that he couldn't help it.
"Alright," he said, biting back a grin. "I'm not tired."
Regulus raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "You're literally yawning."
Polaris stifled another laugh, rubbing at his eyes. "Details, details."
"You're not even trying, try again" Regulus said immediately.
"Okay, fine. I love spinach. With liver."
"You're not even trying," Regulus said. "Too fast, and you looked like you wanted to laugh."
"I did," Polaris admitted. "Because it's disgusting."
Regulus folded his arms. "Come on. One real lie. Just one."
Polaris tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. "I think I'd like to be a dragon tamer."
Regulus squinted. "Almost. But your face does this thing when you're pretending. Your eyebrows go weird."
Polaris wrinkled his nose. "Maybe your face is weird."
"That's not a lie, that's just rude."
"I'm eleven."
"You're six."
They stared at each other a moment, then broke into matching, crooked grins. It lasted only a second—but it was enough. The tension of the evening softened a little. Cracked open like a window.
Regulus flopped back onto the bed dramatically, one arm over his eyes. "You're hopeless."
Polaris climbed up after him without asking and sat at the edge, small hands braced on the quilt.
His eyes fell on the bear.
It sat where it always did—half-buried among Regulus's pillows. One ear chewed, one button eye slightly loose. A faded green ribbon tied round its neck like an afterthought.
"Is he part of the lesson?" Polaris asked, nudging the bear gently with a finger.
Regulus moved his arm, just enough to squint at him. "He's the exam."
Polaris blinked.
"Convince him you didn't lie tonight."
Polaris turned to the bear, suddenly solemn. Cleared his throat.
"I didn't lie. Not really. It was a version of the truth."
Regulus snorted.
Polaris looked back. "What's his name?"
Regulus hesitated. Then, like it hurt a little: "Button."
Polaris blinked, slow and reverent. "That's a good name."
"Don't tell anyone."
"I won't."
Another beat passed.
Regulus sat up, picking up the bear and setting it gently between them. "Uncle Alphard gave him to me. When I was five."
"Why?"
Regulus shrugged. "I think he knew I'd need something to talk to."
Polaris didn't say anything to that.
October 26th, 1970, Monday
Marriage, as far as Polaris could tell, had very little to do with love.
He was six years old, and no one had explained it to him properly—not in words, at least—but he understood things by how people looked at each other, and more often, how they didn't. He had learned that smiles didn't always mean happiness and that a quiet room wasn't always peaceful. In his world, marriage seemed to be about names and promises, about vaults full of gold and last names that made people nod with respect—or fear.
His cousin Narcissa had just turned fifteen and was newly engaged to Lucius Malfoy, heir to a wealthy and ambitious house that styled itself nearly their equal. The adults called it a "perfect match." They said it with the kind of satisfaction they usually reserved for fine wine or winning a duel.
Lucius had come to Uncle Cygnus's house that afternoon wearing pale robes that shimmered like frost. He stood too straight and smiled too little. He kissed Narcissa's hand, and she smiled back the way her mother did when greeting people, she didn't like but had to tolerate anyway—small, tight, and unbothered.
Polaris watched from behind the doorway, half-hidden simply watching.
No one ever talked about whether Narcissa liked Lucius. That wasn't the point. She didn't have to like him. He was the right choice that was all that mattered.
Polaris had heard that phrase many times before: the right choice . It sounded like something good. But when he looked at Narcissa's face—when she wasn't being watched—he thought it didn't look like she'd won anything at all.
He didn't know much about love. But he knew when someone was pretending.
Everyone was downstairs.
The drawing room had filled with silk voices and sharp smiles; all directed at Lucius Malfoy—the Malfoy heir. That word had been repeated a hundred times that day, heir , as if it made him more important than anyone else. Even the way people looked at him seemed to shimmer, like he already carried some kind of crown.
Polaris thought it was dreadfully boring.
He had been sitting stiffly in a too-tall chair beside his mother, trying to look proper while the adults fawned and praised and pretended. Narcissa stood near Lucius, pale and perfect in a new robe with silver threads. Polaris didn't want to watch her be engaged to someone who looked like he'd been carved from ice.
So, he slipped away.
The hallway upstairs was quiet, cooler than the rooms below. The shadows felt softer somehow, less watched. He crept up the staircase, avoiding the third and fifth steps, the ones that creaked. Andromeda had told him that once, back when she used to talk to him.
He didn't mean to go into her room.
But the door was open.
That alone was strange—Andromeda never left her door open. She barely tolerated him knocking. The last time he'd pushed his way in, she'd snapped and shoved him out by the shoulders, muttering about boundaries and privacy like she was someone's governess.
But now… the door stood open, and the room was different.
Had it been repainted?
He peeked in. The walls were soft green now, not the deep plum he remembered. Her desk had moved. A new set of ink bottles stood on a tray by the window. Something about the shift drew him closer, made his steps slow and curious.
He only meant to look. Just for a moment.
The letter was folded but not hidden. It was on the floor near the bed, as if it had slipped from between pages of the book it had once called home. His fingers reached before he could tell them not to.
The parchment felt warm from the sun. He unfolded it.
As he opened it, the air around him tightened. The light from the window dimmed for a breath, as if the room were listening. A faint tremble ran up his arms, not cold, not warm—just strange. He blinked and shook it off.
By the time he reached the end, he wasn't breathing.
Ted,
I swore I wouldn't write to you again.
I swore a lot of things, didn't I?
I told you I could end it cleanly. That I wasn't afraid. That it was only for your safety. That I could go back to pretending. That I didn't love you enough to burn down everything for you.
All lies.
I was afraid, Ted. Still am. Not of you—never of you—but of what it would mean to choose you. To lose my name, my blood, my family. You have to understand, they've carved those things into my skin since I could talk. Told me what I'm worth and who I'll marry and why love is only ever a transaction.Told me that someone like you—a Muggle-born—could never be enough. So, when you looked at me like I was more than a surname—like I was mine—I didn't know what to do with that. It was too much. Too good.
I miss the way you say my name like it has no price tag. I miss your hands, calloused and ink stained. The way you trace your thumb over my knuckles like they're breakable. The way you listen. God, Ted, you listen like you want to memorise me.
And I miss the sound you make when you're trying not to laugh in the library. The way you always butter both sides of your toast like a heathen. The way you touch me only when I ask you to—but never like I'm fragile. Just real.
You make me real.
And I threw that away.
If I could take it back, I would. Every word. Every lie I told myself to make it easier. I left because I thought I had to choose between you and everything I've ever known. But I think the truth is: you're the only thing that's ever been mine.
If you still want me—if you still love me, even after this—I'm yours because I love you.
Andromeda (Your Dromeda, if you'll have her back.)
He didn't hear her until the letter was gone from his hands.
Snatched .
"WHAT—" Andromeda's voice cracked into the room like thunder. Her face was white with fury, with something else he didn't yet have the words for. "What are you doing in here?!"
Polaris froze. "I—"
"That was private! "
"I didn't— I just—"
"You read it."
"I didn't mean to," he said quickly, eyes wide, hands still held out like they might give the letter back. "It was on the floor. I didn't know—"
"You shouldn't even be in here, " she snapped. Her voice shook. "This isn't your room, you nosy little—"
"But it's about a Muggle-born! " Polaris blurted, panic starting to rise in his chest. "You—he's not even—he's not one of us!"
Andromeda went very still.
Polaris stepped back. "You're not supposed to— That's wrong. That's tainted. That's what Mr Thorne said—he said they pretend to be like us, but they're not! They're jealous, and they lie, and they don't understand what it means to carry a name like Black. "
Her eyes were wide now. Not just with anger. With fear.
"You… don't understand," she said, voice lower. "You're six."
"I do understand," he argued, chest hot. "We inherit more than names. Names are promises. If you break them, you shame the name. You're shaming the name. "
Andromeda moved toward him.
Polaris stepped back.
"I have to tell someone," he said. "They need to know. You're— You were meant to marry—Bellatrix did instead but it was meant to be you, wasn't it? And now you're writing to a Muggle-born? "
She grabbed his wrist.
Hard.
Polaris yelped. "Let go! That hurts! "
Her grip loosened instantly.
He stumbled back, holding his wrist, eyes watering more from shock than pain.
Andromeda stared at her hand, as if just realizing what she'd done. "I didn't—" She swallowed. "Polaris—please. Don't. Don't tell anyone. It was an old letter; it doesn't even matter ."
"You're not supposed to ask me that," he said. "You hurt me."
"I didn't mean to," she said. "I just— Please."
He looked at her, really looked. Not at the angry cousin who'd shouted at him. But at her face now. The way it crumpled at the edges. The way she looked like something was breaking inside.
Polaris shook his head. None of this made sense. Love was duty. Love was arranged. Love was a transaction.
But she'd written to someone who made her real. He didn't know what that meant.
But it was wrong. Wasn't it?
It had to be.
Polaris didn't look at her.
He stared at the floor, clutching his wrist where she'd grabbed him, fingers curled tight into the sore place like he could press it all away. His voice came out small. Flat.
"You always agreed with the adults."
Andromeda didn't move.
"You always said the right things. When to speak, when not to. You—" His throat felt thick. "You made Grandfather Pollux smile. He likes you. He says you're the only girl who's not all fire or fog. That you're… balanced. That you're proper. "
She said nothing.
"Uncle Cygnus said you were the perfect daughter," he went on, still not looking at her, words tumbling like broken glass. "The best parts of Bellatrix and Narcissa, but smarter. Better. " His voice cracked slightly. "You knew all the rules. You followed them."
His fingers pressed harder into his wrist.
"This isn't following them."
A silence stretched between them like a fault line.
"You wrote to him behind their backs," Polaris whispered. "A Muggle-born. You— love him."
He spat the word like it tasted wrong. It did. Love wasn't supposed to be like this. Love was what you were told. Love was someone chosen for you, by people who understood your name better than you ever could.
This—whatever this was—was not that.
"You're not the person they think you are," he said, voice trembling. "You're not perfect."
He turned then, finally lifting his head. Not to meet her eyes—but to glare past her, at the door.
"I'm telling someone." He said, and he meant it. Or thought he did.
Because none of this made sense.
And things that didn't make sense were dangerous.
"I want to leave," Polaris said flatly.
She stood in front of the door, arms folded now like she was the grown-up that knew it all, and he was the one being unreasonable, when she only turned seventeen this year.
Polaris froze, chest tight, every instinct saying run , but she was crying now—and that was wrong. Andromeda didn't cry. Not when Aunt Druella screamed. Not when Grandfather raised his voice. Not even when Bellatrix did that thing with her wand that made Narcissa flinch for days.
"You don't understand," she said hoarsely, tears spilling now, angry and hot. "You can't understand. You're bloody six."
Polaris stiffened. She never cursed. Not in front of him. Not in the house.
"All you know are the rules they've spoon-fed you since you could talk. Father says. Mother says. Mr Thorne says." She threw her hands in the air. "You don't even leave the house unless someone's holding your hand, don't you get that?"
Her voice was cracking—sharp and sharp and sharp, like it might cut her open.
"You've never met a Muggle-born. You've never met anyone who wasn't chosen for you. Watched over. Controlled. Every letter you write is read before it's sealed. Every toy you own is spelled. You don't even know what you're allowed to think until someone tells you."
He said nothing. She was right... he never actually met a muggle-born, the people he was taught were, wrong.
Andromeda wiped furiously at her face. "I'm not perfect. Fine. You're right. I lied. I smiled at Grandfather and played the part and nodded when they told me who I was supposed to marry. But he —" Her voice faltered. "Ted was the first person who ever looked at me like I was real. Not a prize. Not a puppet. Not Bellatrix-but-better."
She swallowed hard.
"Just promise me," she said, softer now—like he was too fragile to handle anything else. "Please. You can't tell anyone. You don't understand what they'd do to him. To me."
He clenched his jaw.
"I do understand," Polaris snapped, voice rising. "You think I don't know anything just because I'm six—but I do! I know what happens to people who break the rules. I know what happens to blood traitors."
Andromeda flinched, but he couldn't stop now. His fists were tight at his sides, his wrist still aching from where she'd grabbed him. "I've heard the things Bellatrix says. I've heard what she laughs about. About your kind —"
"My kind?" Andromeda's voice cracked. "Polaris—"
" You're disgusting! " he shouted. "Just like the ones they talk about! A filthy blood-traitor , running off with some Mudblood ! That's what he is, isn't he? That's why you're hiding it. You're ashamed, because it's wrong ! You know it."
He didn't mean to shout so loud. But it came from somewhere deep—somewhere full of fear and confusion and shame and the growing sense that everything he thought he understood was slipping.
Andromeda didn't say anything.
She just stared at him.
Something between them strained. A thread he couldn't see—but felt. Like a tether pulled too tight. Like a snap that hadn't quite happened yet. It made his skin prickle, made his heart thump wrong. He didn't know what it was. Only that it hurt.
Her eyes were wide and strange, like she was looking at a stranger. Like he wasn't her cousin anymore. Like she couldn't see anything of him that she knew.
For a long moment, she didn't speak.
Then—wordlessly—she stepped aside.
Polaris didn't look at her as he walked out.
He didn't run.
He just walked. Clutching his wrist. Back straight.
Polaris told the elf he was ill.
Didn't want dinner. Didn't want tea. Just his bed and maybe the curtains drawn and please don't tell Mother yet, he'd said, I'll be fine.
The elf hesitated—probably wasn't supposed to listen to him over an adult—but something in Polaris's voice must have been sharp enough, shaky enough, to make it obey. It left with a soft pop, and Polaris curled up beneath the coverlet with his face turned to the wall.
Something inside him felt bruised. Not his wrist, not his chest—something deeper. Like he'd swallowed too many words, too much truth, and it had lodged somewhere he couldn't reach. The room felt too loud, even in silence.
He wasn't sick. Not really.
But… he felt sick. That sort of sick where your chest keeps doing strange things and your thoughts run too fast to catch and everything behind your eyes feels too full. Like they might spill.
And they had spilled.
His mother had come in to check on him sometime after supper. Her shoes made soft clicks on the floor—he could always tell it was her by the rhythm. She didn't knock. Walburga Black never knocked in her own house.
She stood by the bed for a moment, saying nothing. Just watching. He rolled away, pretending to sleep.
The mattress dipped slightly under her weight as she sat. He could smell her perfume; he hated how she always put so much that it was the only thing you could smell when you stood in the same room as her.
"Polaris," she'd said in an unamused tone, smoothing a hand down the back of his hair, it was messy.
That was when the tears gave him away.
"What is it?" she asked—not gently, but with that cold sort of concern she saved for glassware and fragile heirlooms.
"My tummy hurts," he'd lied.
She didn't press. She never did when emotions tangled too close to the surface. Instead, she touched his temple like she was checking for fever and murmured something about sweets and overindulgence and how he'd need to be more careful next time. Then she rose, already done with the moment.
He let her believe it. That it was sugar or stomach or sleep. It was easier than explaining the ache in his throat or the wet pillow under his cheek.
If anything, his mother was only kind when he was sick. Or rather—she allowed for softness when it could be explained. When it wasn't weakness , but a symptom.
Now he lay alone again, the room dark but not quite dark enough.
He kept thinking of Andromeda's face.
She'd looked at him like she didn't know him.
Not like he was annoying. Or young. Or nosy. She'd looked at him like… like he'd broken something between them. Something big. Something invisible but real.
And maybe he had.
But she'd been the one doing something wrong —hadn't she?
She was supposed to marry someone like Rabastan Lestrange. That was how it worked. That was how everyone said it worked. You married strong blood. Good families. That's what kept the magic from thinning. That's what kept the names proud.
He knew that. Thorne had taught him. Mother had repeated it. Even Andromeda used to say it. She always said the right things. She was clever. She made Lord Black, his grandfather Arcturus smile , and hardly anyone could do that. Uncle Cygnus called her the perfect daughter.
But now…
Now she wasn't perfect. She was lying. Hiding .
A Muggle-born.
Polaris whispered the word into his pillow. It sounded strange. He'd never used it before—not like that. Never with those other words either. The ones he'd spat like venom. He hadn't even known he remembered them until they were already out of his mouth.
He'd heard them before, of course. Bellatrix said them sometimes, when she didn't know he was listening. Or maybe when she did. She liked the way people flinched at her words. Liked the laughter it brought from her friends.
But Polaris… he didn't like the way it felt on his tongue.
It had tasted wrong. Sharp. Like biting metal. And now it was stuck in his mouth, bitter and awful and unspittable.
He hadn't told anyone what he read, the letter.
Polaris pulled the blanket over his head and squeezed his eyes shut.
He didn't know what he wanted. For things to go back. For her not to be doing this. For him not to have seen it. For the words he said to never have left his mouth. For Andromeda to smile at him again, like she used to.
He hadn't meant it .
Not really.
But how could he take it back?
You weren't supposed to take things like that back. That's what adults always said. You said what you meant. You meant what you said. That was honour. That was pride.
But it didn't feel like pride. Not now.
It felt like shame.