[8,272 Words]
August 31st, 1975, Sunday
It started with a sock to the face.
Polaris had just finished tucking his last book into the corner of his trunk when the door to his bedroom creaked open—and something soft, damp, and suspiciously unwashed smacked into his cheek.
"Oi," he said, blinking, as the offending article hit the floor with a tragic flop. "Whose disgusting sock—?"
Sirius was already halfway into the room, grinning like he'd just kicked down the gates of Azkaban. "Yours now," he said. "Consider it a farewell gift."
Regulus appeared in the doorway behind him, arms folded, brow arched with exaggerated judgment. "He's trying to be sentimental, I think," he muttered. "This is his version of a hug."
"Oh, shut it, Reg," Sirius shot back. "I don't see you doing anything memorable for our baby brother's big sendoff. He's finally going to Hogwarts with us."
"I made sure he has the correct edition of Law and Wand: A Young Wizard's Introduction to Magical Legislation . They came out with a new version a few months back."
Polaris looked up, surprised. "You—wait, that was you? I thought Kreacher—"
Sirius made a face like someone had just tried to give him homework for his birthday.
"—What is wrong with the two of you?" Sirius said, half-laughing, half-horrified. "Honestly. A Ministry booklet? That's your welcoming gift?"
"Look," Sirius continued, flopping onto Polaris's bed without invitation, "the point is, this is your last night before you get corrupted by new friends and mediocre House rivalry. So, we're making it count."
Before Polaris could object, Sirius grabbed one of the bed pillows and lobbed it directly at Regulus.
Regulus didn't flinch. He caught it mid-air like a Seeker snatching a Snitch, and without a word, launched it back at Polaris .
Chaos erupted immediately.
Within moments, the Black brothers were a tangle of limbs, pillows, and indignant yells. Polaris found himself laughing— actually laughing—as Sirius tackled Regulus half off the bed, and Regulus tried to suffocate him with a throw blanket.
Then, without warning, they turned on him.
Regulus launched the pillow at Polaris's head with unnerving accuracy, and Sirius, grinning like a wolf, shouted, " Get him! " before lunging across the mattress.
"Wait—what—!" Polaris yelped, already backing away too slowly.
It didn't matter.
In an instant, he was under siege, pinned between his brothers' knees, caught in a flurry of blankets and triumphant yells.
"Not fair!" Polaris shouted through a grin, dodging a flying cushion and retaliating with a vicious underhand swing of his own. "There's two of you!"
"You're a first year now," Sirius panted, half-laughing as he rolled off the floor. "No more special treatment."
"Says the boy who once cried because Mother made him wear navy instead of black," Regulus muttered, breathless.
"You swore never to speak of that!"
Polaris laughed so hard he fell backward against the trunk he had packed for Hogwarts, breath coming in shallow bursts.
Polaris, still catching his breath, lifted a hand weakly from where he lay on the floor and said, "Wait—wait, wasn't that also the same day you spilled pumpkin juice on Grandfather Pollux's cloak and tried to pretend it was intentional design ?"
Regulus actually snorted. "Oh, that day."
Sirius froze mid-swing. "You little traitor," he said, eyes wide. "You weren't even in the room!"
"I wasn't," Polaris agreed, grinning, "but you told me the story. You said—and I quote— 'fashion is meant to evolve, and if the old fossil can't handle a bit of warm orange, that's his problem.'"
Even Regulus laughed now, sharp and clean. "Didn't he just… stare at you?"
"Oh, he stared ," Sirius said, voice gone dramatic, flopping back like a martyr. "Gave me the full patented Pollux Glare™. You know the one. The 'I know seventeen ways to murder you with a cigar case' glare. I was braced for death. Ready to be disinherited."
Polaris propped himself up on one elbow. "And then he just—walked away."
"Didn't say a word," Sirius confirmed solemnly. "Not even a sigh. Just... blinked like he pitied me and went back to reading about bloodline hierarchies like nothing had happened."
Regulus shook his head. "He probably decided you weren't worth the effort."
Polaris grinned wider. "He definitely decided you weren't worth the effort."
Sirius made a wounded noise and tossed a pillow at both of them. "Unbelievable. Betrayed by my own brothers."
"Justice," Regulus said.
"Memory," Polaris added, softly but smugly.
Sirius stared at them both from the floor, hair a mess, dignity in shambles—and then he sat up suddenly, eyes gleaming like a boy struck by lightning.
"You have no idea how fun it's going to be," he said, voice urgent, like Polaris needed to understand this before it was too late. "Hogwarts is chaos in a castle. There are secret passageways and moving staircases and a ghost who moans dramatically about her ex every time someone uses the second-floor girls' loo. It's brilliant."
Polaris tilted his head, amused. "You sound like you're recruiting me."
"I am recruiting you," Sirius said, eyes bright. "For the noble cause of making life bearable. You know—spontaneous joy, unhinged brilliance, minor acts of educational sabotage."
Regulus groaned quietly.
"I'm serious—third week of second year, James and I charmed an entire hallway of suits of armour to shout compliments at whoever walked past. But like, weirdly specific compliments. 'Nice ankles, Cresswell!' 'That's a tragically underrated jawline, Montgomery!'" He threw his arms out dramatically. "They bowed when McGonagall walked through. Called her 'Queen of Cold Justice.' She didn't even blink."
Polaris huffed a laugh.
"It was better than the frogspawn balloon trap," Sirius continued. "We got Peeves to help. Went off in the Charms corridor during exam prep— epic . Total pandemonium."
Regulus looked up from where he'd been brushing lint from his sleeve. "Yes. I remember. I was walking past when it exploded."
Sirius winced, but grinned. "Collateral brilliance."
"I smelled like pond water for a week."
"You got extra sympathy points from Slughorn. And I distinctly remember you laughing—once."
Regulus gave him a flat look. "I was choking."
Sirius turned to Polaris. "Point is—Hogwarts is alive. It breathes mischief if you know where to look. You'll see."
Regulus stood slowly. "Just make sure he's not used for target practice."
Sirius scoffed. "I'd hex anyone who tried."
"Not what I meant," Regulus muttered, already halfway to the door.
He didn't wait for a reply. The door clicked softly shut behind him.
Sirius stared after him for a beat, then let out a sigh and flopped back onto the floor, arms sprawled.
"Merlin, he's dramatic," he muttered to the ceiling. "You'd think laughing once in your life was some sort of betrayal."
Polaris didn't answer right away.
Sirius rolled his head to the side to look at him. "It's not a crime to have fun, you know. Especially in this bloody house. Every time I come home for the holidays it's like being stuffed into a coffin lined with family expectations. The only time I actually get to breathe is when I'm at the Potters'. And even then, I half expect Mother's voice to start echoing from the mirror."
He exhaled sharply, then went quiet for a moment.
"…You still want to be a Slytherin?" he asked, carefully casual.
The words caught Polaris off-guard. "Of course I do," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
The answer came in the form of a sock, flung directly into Sirius's face.
Polaris sat up, brushing hair from his eyes. "Do you even remember what happened to you when you were sorted?"
Sirius pulled the sock off with a grimace. "Yeah," he said after a beat. "I remember."
Polaris looked away, suddenly unsure if he'd gone too far. But Sirius only sat up slowly, face serious now.
"Look," he said, voice quieter. "All I meant was—you don't have to be in Slytherin. If you are, fine. You'll survive it. You're smart. Cunning in the useful way. But if the Hat says something else…" He hesitated. "Don't fight it because you're scared of what they'll say. What she will say."
Polaris's fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the blanket. "It's not about her."
"No," Sirius agreed, "but it will be. For them. Everything always is."
Polaris was quiet for a moment, then tilted his head. "What if I do care? About how it looks? About disappointing them?"
Sirius didn't answer right away. He just watched him.
Polaris's voice was steady, but softer now. "It's not just about Mother. Or even Father. It's…" He trailed off, then shifted where he sat, curling his knees slightly toward his chest.
"I think I'm scared," he admitted, staring at the folds of the blanket pooled between them. "Not of the House. Not really. Just... of being nothing. Of not mattering."
His voice was quiet. Not dramatic like Sirius, not bitter like Regulus—just plain. Honest.
"I don't want to end up alone. Or forgettable. Or worse— wrong ," Polaris said, the last word hanging longer than the rest. He hesitated. "Not being in Slytherin feels like a step toward all of that. Like… like I'd be cut off before I've even begun."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy—it was careful. Like both of them were balancing something fragile between their hands.
Sirius sat up straighter, the usual grin faded from his face. "You think being in Slytherin makes you matter ?"
Polaris shrugged, but it wasn't indifference. "It makes me belong. Or at least it's supposed to. And if I belong, maybe I won't disappear." Most of all Polaris didn't feel like being tortured.
Sirius's expression cracked just slightly hurt more by the words than he let on.
"Pol," he said, voice low. "You don't have to prove you deserve to exist."
Polaris stilled. Looked away.
"You say that," he murmured, "but you've always wanted to be seen. I just want to be safe."
Sirius frowned. "It's the same thing, isn't it?"
Polaris almost smiled—but it was small, cold, and not a smile at all.
"No," he said softly. "It's not."
There was something distant in his tone now, like he'd already thought this through too many times to feel anything new about it. He didn't say I want to belong. He said: I need to be legible. I need to disappear into the right shape.
Sirius didn't see it—not really.
To him, rebellion was courage. Breaking rules meant breaking free.
But for Polaris, keeping quiet was the strategy. Survival wasn't loud. It was neat edges, careful words, and knowing when to disappear.
And sometimes— sometimes —that was what made talking to Sirius so frustrating. It wasn't that he didn't care. It was that he cared only in the ways he understood. His truth was loud, bright, angry. It charged through the room like a hex and waited to be applauded.
Polaris's truth was quieter. Calculated. Built from hours of listening at stairwells and watching shadows in hallways. Then there was the overthinking.
When Sirius spoke, it often felt like he was answering a question no one had asked.
He didn't mean to misunderstand—but he did. Often. Like he wanted to. Like anything more complicated than defiance was beneath him.
Polaris had stopped trying to explain the full shape of his fears a long time ago.
Because Sirius didn't listen to be changed. He listened to win .
And even now— especially now —Polaris knew: some things were better left unsaid between them because it made honesty feel like a dead end.
Sirius, maybe sensing the shift, ran a hand through his tangled hair and said, too brightly, "Hey. You still getting those headaches?"
Polaris paused, the question catching him sideways. He lowered his head, resting it against his knees.
"Not right now," he said softly. "Yesterday, though... when we were at Diagon Alley."
Sirius hummed. "You looked pale. I figured you were just bored stiff following Regulus through the shops."
Polaris didn't answer right away. His voice came muffled through the crook of his arm. "It hurt a lot. The kind where your vision blurs and every sound feels like it's scraping along your skull."
Sirius shifted, suddenly serious again. "You tell Mother?"
Polaris snorted faintly. "No point." She'd just look at him like he was defective... not broken enough to fix, just not what she ordered. He hated the look she gave him when he mentioned hearing things.
He exhaled, shoulders curling tighter inward.
"They keep saying it's magical sensitivity, that it's just stress or… growing pains." he muttered. "But that doesn't make sense. If I were sensitive to magic , I'd be sick all the time. We live in a manor warded six ways from sunrise. I go to shops lined with enchantments; I sit on runes." His hand tightened slightly on the hem of his sleeve. "Why would it only hurt sometimes ?"
Sirius tilted his head. "Maybe it's a certain kind of magic?"
Polaris looked up at him, something between bitterness and tired sarcasm in his eyes. "That's what I've been telling myself. It's the only thing that makes sense. But I can't figure out what kind. And now there's this ringing —like glass, but inside my head. I hear it more often lately. Especially when I'm out."
He rubbed his temples gently. "It's like trying to concentrate while someone whispers nonsense directly into your skull."
Sirius watched him quietly.
Polaris gave a shaky breath. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm going crazy. Like... properly mad. I can't even read some days. I get two pages in, and the words start swimming."
That last admission felt like laying down a weapon. Polaris rarely said anything like that aloud.
For a few long seconds, Sirius didn't speak. Just looked at him.
Then, gently, he reached out and flicked a bit of lint off Polaris's sleeve.
"Well," he said, with careful nonchalance, "if you are going mad, you're doing it very elegantly."
Polaris gave a weak snort. "That's not comforting."
"Wasn't meant to be. Just trying to lower the bar."
September 1st, 1975, Monday
Corvus was talking again.
Polaris didn't mind. Corvus talked a lot, but he had a way of making it entertaining— all sweeping opinions and dramatic pauses, like he was performing for an audience only he could see. He was sprawled across the train seat with one leg folded under him, an arm slung over the windowsill, narrating something halfway between a complaint and a monologue.
The train hadn't left yet. The whistle had sounded once — a long, low call — and students were still hurrying along the platform, dragging trunks, hugging parents, knocking elbows in narrow compartments. It would leave any minute now.
Polaris sketched. He rather liked drawing. Though he wasn't sure if he preferred painting. Drawing was easier in moments like these.
Corvus tilted his chin mid-rant, lips curled in mock disdain, and Polaris caught the angle in three strokes — sharp jaw, narrowed eyes, the way his collar sat just slightly askew, like it had been fastened in a rush and never corrected.
"—and of course he says purple is a respectable robe colour now, as if he didn't publicly faint at the Yule Masquerade when Lady Greengrass wore lavender." Corvus scoffed. "Honestly. The nerve."
He didn't wait for agreement. He rarely did.
Polaris let his pencil shift lower, tracing the edge of Corvus's wrist. He always gestured with his left hand when lying. Dramatic lies, anyway — the kind meant to distract, not deceive.
"You're not listening," Corvus said, eyes narrowing.
"I am," Polaris replied without looking up. "You're recounting the tragic death of colour theory and personal dignity. Lavender is to blame."
A pause.
Then: "You're a menace," Corvus said, pleased. "What are you drawing?"
Polaris tilted the notebook slightly. A charcoal sketch — not exact, but honest. It caught the expression between the words, the flicker of something private behind the theatrical smirk.
Corvus gave a short, breathy laugh, his mouth twitching. "You made me look…" He searched for the word.
"Like a person with thoughts and feelings. Horrifying , I know," Polaris said dryly.
Corvus rolled his eyes. "Unforgivable."
And then, as if summoned by theatrical timing, a soft thump came from above — followed by a scrabble of claws and a low, imperious mrrrp .
Corvus's entire posture changed.
He straightened, reached upward with a practiced motion, and plucked a sleek black cat from the luggage rack above. The creature flopped into his arms with the resignation of royalty accustomed to inconvenient affection. Its fur was midnight-dark, its eyes pale green and utterly unimpressed.
"You remember Loki," Corvus said airily, stroking the cat's head with gentle, practiced fingers. "He nearly killed a house-elf last week. Self-defence, obviously."
Polaris raised an eyebrow. "Was the elf armed?"
"With poor manners," Corvus said gravely.
Loki blinked once at Polaris, then turned, tucked his paws beneath himself, and began purring. Loudly.
"He likes you," Corvus said, sounding vaguely offended.
Polaris closed the sketchbook with a quiet snap. "That's unfortunate. I was just beginning to enjoy being disliked."
"I'll remind you of that when he brings you half a doxy corpse at breakfast. He's generous when he chooses victims."
Polaris leaned back, letting his head rest lightly against the window. "Have you seen Bas?" he asked, almost idly.
Corvus didn't miss a beat. "Last I heard, trapped in a carriage with Corban. Tragic, really. He may never recover."
Polaris hummed. "At least he'll learn diplomacy under pressure."
"Or how to fake his own death," Corvus muttered.
Before Polaris could reply, the compartment door slid open with a sharp clack.
A girl stood there — brown hair pulled back into a low braid, brown eyes that seemed unreadable beneath a pair of sharp, faintly unimpressed brows. She didn't look particularly flustered by the cramped corridor or the train's imminent departure. Just… mildly inconvenienced.
Polaris took one glance at her expression and privately thought: She has perfected the look of someone who has never been impressed by anything in her life.
Behind her, a boy leaned over her shoulder to peer inside — taller than her by just enough to be annoying about it. He had a mop of dirty blond hair and brown eyes bright with interest; his weight balanced on the doorframe like he wasn't entirely sure whether they were welcome or not but had decided to find out anyway.
The girl spoke first.
"Do you mind if we sit here?" she asked, tone polite but unbothered. "The train's about to move, and we've already been told off for not picking a compartment."
Corvus looked vaguely horrified. Loki opened one eye.
Polaris blinked once, then gestured to the empty bench across from them. "Sure," he said. "We're not territorial."
"Speak for yourself," Corvus muttered under his breath, brushing invisible lint from his lap as if guests were an insult to his personal aesthetic.
The girl stepped inside without hesitation. The boy followed, offering an easy nod.
"Thanks," he said, as if they'd just let him crash a private party. "Everywhere else was packed. Either full of first years or some seventh-years pretending they're too important to breathe the same air."
Corvus looked at him, deadpan. "That's because they are ."
"I believe it," the boy said cheerfully, collapsing into the seat beside the girl without asking. "I'm Nathaniel, by the way." then he gestured to the girl, "and that's Willow." She gave the smallest of nods.
"Willow Smyth," the girl added simply, adjusting the strap of her bag and sitting down with the poise of someone raised to be quiet and deadly.
"Polaris," Polaris said.
He should have said the surname first. That was the custom—the proper way. but sometimes the looks he got when he said it made him pause. He was proud of it. Most days.
" Avery , Corvus Avery," said Corvus, without looking up from Loki, who was now staring at the newcomers like a tiny, judgmental deity.
Willow glanced at the cat before asking. "He doesn't scratch, does he?"
"No," Corvus said with a smile. "He plots. "
Polaris was already half-turning toward the window when Nathaniel leaned forward suddenly, eyes locking on the sketchbook in his lap.
"Wait — did you draw that?"
Polaris blinked. He hadn't even realized the sketch was still visible — slightly open.
Nathaniel leaned closer. "That's unfairly good. We're not supposed to have actual talent already."
Polaris tensed — just slightly — and moved to close the sketchbook properly this time.
"Thanks," he said, eyes flicking down. His tone was neutral, but the back of his neck felt warm.
Corvus smirked. "Careful. If you compliment him too much, he might wither and combust."
Nathaniel didn't seem to notice the discomfort — or ignored it on purpose.
"Do you do portraits, or just people in the room?" Nathaniel asked, his knee bounced with that open, twitchy energy that made Polaris tired just watching.
Polaris hesitated. "Depends."
"Can I see more?"
"No," Polaris said, a bit too fast. Then, softer: "Not right now."
Nathaniel raised his hands in surrender, still smiling. "Fair enough." He settled more comfortably into his seat, "Are you two first years too?"
"Out of malice?" Polaris asked without looking up.
"Out of responsibility," Nathaniel said solemnly. "It's what little brothers are for."
He leaned back, arms folded behind his head, then added, "Mum was a Hufflepuff. One of the Macmillans. Loud, stubborn, sort of terrifying in a nice way. Dad didn't go to Hogwarts — he was at Ilvermorny. Thunderbird House. Most of his side of the family's still in Ireland or America, depending on the decade and the politics."
Corvus, who had been preoccupied with flicking invisible lint off his lapel, glanced up with practiced nonchalance. His voice was casual, in the way a knife was casual when left on a table between rivals.
"And your father's family? Wizarding, I assume?"
Nathaniel didn't bristle — he just tilted his head. "Pureblood, yeah. Old Irish wizarding family on my dad's side. Mostly scholars and magizoologists now, though a few have joined the Ministry in America. One ran off to be a harpist with a troupe of Veela once. No one talks about him."
Corvus blinked. "Ah. So your bloodline's… intact."
"Clean as a cauldron scrubbed by an obsessive house-elf," Nathaniel said with a grin. "Why? You keeping a list?"
Polaris, who'd been flipping to a fresh page in his sketchbook, snorted.
Corvus cleared his throat. "No. Just curious. One hears things."
Willow raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking from Corvus to Nathaniel with the air of someone who'd already run the maths and found it unworthy of her time. "Do you ask everyone you meet for their blood status, or just the ones who smile too much?"
Corvus looked up sharply, lips twitching — not with amusement. "Curiosity about lineage isn't exactly uncommon in proper wizarding families. Unless you're defensive for a reason."
Willow's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, more like a flare of disdain. "Yes, how foolish of me. I forgot being half-blood means I should come with a pedigree chart and a blood sample."
"Ah," Corvus said with a quiet, almost pitying smirk. "So, you are one of those. "
Willow leaned forward slightly, not flinching. "One of what , exactly?"
"Half-bloods like you always attack the very structure that protects them," Corvus said, smooth as silk. "It's transparent."
Willow's lips parted, clearly ready to fire back.
Nathaniel let out a low whistle. "Blimey. Do I need to put up a shield charm in here?" Though it didn't stop Corvus and Willow from continuing their argument.
Meanwhile Polaris had been watching it all, it was rather amusing seeing how fast Corvus could make enemies or friends. Polaris' attention then drifted to Nathaniel.
"You said your mum was a Macmillan?" he asked.
Nathaniel nodded, grateful for the change in tone. "Yeah. Born and raised in Yorkshire. Hufflepuff through and through — heart of gold, but don't cross her unless you want a faceful of spoons flying at your head."
Polaris gave the smallest tilt of his head, intrigued. "My grandmother on my father's side was a Macmillan too. Never got to meet her though, she died ages ago."
Nathaniel blinked, then gave a lopsided smile. "Small world. What's your surname?"
Polaris hesitated for a beat, but only a beat. "Black."
At that, Willow actually paused.
Nathaniel, however, only raised his eyebrows slightly. "As in the House of Black?"
Polaris gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Yeah."
Nathaniel's brows lifted, but not in judgment — more in interest. "And I thought my family reunions were intense."
Polaris raised a brow, then asked, "You never said your surname."
"Oh. Sayre," Nathaniel said, as if it hadn't occurred to him to mention it.
Polaris looked up from his sketchbook properly now. "Sayre? As in Isolt Sayre?"
"Yeah," Nathaniel said with a small laugh. "Apparently, I'm descended from her. My dad's side — Irish-American. He moved to Britain after marrying my mum."
"You're related to the founder of Ilvermorny," Polaris said thoughtfully, with something that might have been genuine curiosity. "I read about her."
"Technically, yeah. Not that I'm about to go duelling mountain beasts to prove anything," Nathaniel said, grinning. "Honestly, I think my dad just wanted an excuse to marry someone outside his weird old family tree."
Polaris hummed, gaze lingering. "Interesting."
Willow, apparently unwilling to let things rest, turned back to Corvus. "At least some of us don't need to name-drop our ancestors just to feel significant."
Corvus turned to her with an arched brow. "You mean like your muggle-born grandfather who ran a shop, or was it your mother's side that had the mud on its boots?"
Willow didn't blink. "One of them did run a shop, yes. Which means at least they earned their place. Better than sitting on piles of gold while house-elves raise your children and intermarriage keeps the gene pool as shallow as your conversation."
A beat of silence followed. The air in the compartment felt colder.
Polaris's quill stilled. He looked at her, slowly, like he was adjusting the focus of a lens — not to see better, but to ensure what he saw was real. His voice was low and sharp enough to cut glass.
"Careful." He told her.
Willow turned to him, eyebrows lifting in a challenge. "I'm just saying—"
"No." Polaris's tone didn't rise, but the frost in it deepened. "You're not saying. You're sneering. There's a difference."
Willow opened her mouth, but Nathaniel interrupted — and not with his usual easy-going drawl.
"Alright, that's enough." His voice was firm. "Seriously, Will." Nathaniel added.
She blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"You don't have to like tradition," Nathaniel said, not unkindly, "but you don't get to spit on someone's entire family tree like its sport. You're better than that."
For a moment, the compartment was silent — then Willow blinked, like she hadn't quite heard him correctly.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet but shaky. "Right. So when he calls my family dirty, that's just banter. But when I talk back, suddenly it's too far?"
Nathaniel opened his mouth, then hesitated — and that was all the answer she needed.
Willow stared at him, stunned. "Wow," she breathed. "I didn't realize the rules changed depending on who was wearing the robes and who cleaned them."
"Will—" Nathaniel sat forward, reaching a hand out, but she pulled back.
"No, don't." Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "You're supposed to be my friend."
There was a tightness around her eyes, the kind that came just before someone either burst into tears or exploded — and she clearly wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of either.
She stood abruptly, grabbing her bag and yanking the door open.
"I'll find another compartment," she said, not looking at anyone. "Maybe one where bloodlines don't make you disposable."
And then she was gone... though she did leave her bag
The door slammed shut behind her with a sharp thud that echoed into silence.
Corvus let out a soft, scoffing exhale. "Temper, temper."
But Nathaniel was already on his feet.
"She's right," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, and moved toward the door.
Corvus raised a brow. "Feeling chivalrous?"
Nathaniel shot him a look — something halfway between frustration and regret — then yanked the door open and disappeared down the corridor after her. He left his satchel too.
Polaris watched it swing slightly before settling. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, just... oddly still.
He blinked down the corridor, then glanced toward the empty seat Willow had left behind. His brow furrowed.
"Was she... crying?"
Corvus shrugged, utterly unbothered. "If she was, it's not like she started that way. Perfectly fine Prattling on about bloodlines like she had something to prove." He leaned back against the window, stretching his legs out. "Nathaniel should've let me handle it. She was fun to argue with."
Polaris gave him a slow, flat look — unimpressed, unreadable.
Corvus caught it, smirked. "What?" He raised both hands. "Sorry I don't burst into tears when someone mentions their grandmother had a job."
Polaris arched an eyebrow; he was pretty sure that wasn't even why she was crying. "Merlin forbid anyone experience consequences in your presence."
Corvus grinned, unrepentant. "Exactly. Life's too short for guilt."
Corvus stretched his arms behind his head, a lazy grin still tugging at his lips. "Honestly, I hope they don't come back. Drama's exhausting, and I've got better things to do than babysit fragile feelings."
Polaris shook his head, closing his sketchbook with a quiet snap. "Sayre doesn't seem like that. He's... decent, I think. Not one for needless conflict."
Corvus snorted. "Decent? Coming from you, that sounds like a backhanded compliment."
Polaris smirked. "Maybe. But someone has to be the voice of reason around here."
"Careful, or I'll start charging rent for all this charm," Corvus teased, nudging Polaris's shoulder.
The whistle blew again — sharper this time — and the train lurched forward. Outside, the platform began to blur as the countryside sped by.
Polaris leaned his head lightly against the cool glass. The vibration of the train wasn't unpleasant.
The ringing had started again.
He was getting used to it.
He exhaled slowly, keeping still, willing it to fade.
It didn't help when Nathaniel and Willow returned sometime later, looking tired but composed. Willow didn't cry again, not that Polaris had expected her to. She sat straighter than ever, and when Corvus made another barbed remark not ten minutes after she entered, the arguing started anew.
It didn't stop.
Nearly the entire train ride passed with Willow and Corvus tossing sharp-edged sentences like duelling spells. Sarcastic jabs, bloodline digs, commentary on everything from economic policy to the ethics of magical creature ownership. Nathaniel had tried—once—to mediate, then promptly gave up and stared out the window in quiet despair.
Polaris remained silent. For a while, he sketched. But even that began to feel like drawing during an earthquake. The sound behind his eyes grew louder, pulsing, each wave of tension in the compartment making it worse.
And then Willow turned to him mid-argument, sharp-eyed and breathless.
"You know," she said, "by sitting there pretending to be neutral, you're just as bad. You're his friend—you agree with him, whether you say it or not."
Polaris didn't answer. Didn't lift his head. His temples throbbed. The sound in his skull rose again, a pressure like a splinter pressing inward.
He didn't argue. He didn't care to.
He just closed his eyes and hoped they'd all go silent.
They didn't.
He wasn't sure how long it lasted. The train ride blurred into a sickening rhythm of shouting and stillness, noise and static. When it finally screeched to a halt, Polaris felt it like a divine reprieve.
The doors opened. Cool evening air rushed in. They were ushered out, shuffled down the platform, past glowing lanterns and scattered luggage and the sound of older students shouting greetings.
"Firs' years!" a deep voice boomed, rough and startling. "Firs' years, this way!"
The man who called them was massive . Towering, with wild black hair and a beard like tangled ivy. He waved a lantern high above the crowd like a beacon.
"Name's Hagrid," he said as the cluster of first years gathered. "Come on, follow me!"
They did.
Polaris followed.
Down the slope, through the trees, toward the dark lake that glittered like ink under the stars. Dozens of boats bobbed gently at the shoreline, empty and waiting, their wood dark with enchantment.
"No more'n four to a boat," Hagrid called.
Polaris climbed into one without thinking. Corvus slid in beside him, stretching his legs like this was a social affair. Nathaniel and Willow followed—without speaking to each other.
The boat rocked gently as it pushed off, moved by unseen force.
And then—there it was.
Hogwarts.
The castle rose in the distance, carved from shadow and gold, its towers catching the last of the daylight like the edge of a blade. Lights glowed from within like stars caught behind glass. The lake reflected every inch of it—an upside-down kingdom made of silence and awe.
Polaris forgot the headache.
Forgot the noise. Forgot Willow. Forgot everything but the aching, impossible beauty of it.
In that moment, he almost wanted to paint . Not just sketch or study—but express . Capture the way it looked when the light hit the turrets just so. The way the mountains curled protectively around it. The way it felt.
And for once, the silence didn't hurt.
That lasted exactly one minute.
"Do you mind ?" Corvus snapped suddenly, twisting awkwardly in his seat.
Willow, who had just tried to adjust her footing in the cramped boat, blinked at him. "What?"
"You stepped on my robe."
"It's a boat," Willow said flatly. "There's no floor space."
Corvus recoiled like she'd insulted his bloodline. "That's no excuse for carelessness."
Polaris sighed inwardly. Here we go again.
"I'd say the better excuse is your robe dragging around like a wounded peacock," Willow shot back, arching a brow. "You wear it like you expect people to kneel when you enter a room."
"Why shouldn't they?" Corvus huffed. "Better that than tracking in mud from half-blood hovels."
Polaris's eyes closed, a dull ache already flaring behind them again.
Willow leaned forward slightly. "Say that again."
Corvus smirked. "Oh, I think you heard me."
The boat bumped gently against the far shore.
Hagrid's lantern swung overhead like a signal.
"Out we get!" he called. "First years, follow me!"
Polaris stood, stepping onto the shore. The ache in his head pulsed harder now, sharp and low, like something inside the castle had opened one eye and was watching him approach. Every echo, every tug of magic in the air, pressed against the inside of his skull like static building behind glass.
Willow and Corvus were still sniping at each other as they stepped out of the boat behind him. Their voices trailed him like smoke.
"You're insufferable," Willow hissed.
"Then why are you always talking to me?" Corvus shot back, flipping his hair like punctuation.
Polaris turned sharply, eyes flashing. "Will both of you shut up ?"
Willow blinked, startled. "Excuse me?"
"I said shut up," he repeated coldly. "For five minutes. Just five. You've been arguing for the entire train ride, through the entire boat ride, and Merlin help me , you are not helping my headache ."
Corvus raised both hands, smug. "Finally, someone with sense."
"I wasn't defending you, " Polaris snapped at him.
Willow crossed her arms. "So, what, I'm the problem now?"
Polaris levelled his gaze at her. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to," she said, voice rising. "Let me guess—you don't mind when he mocks half-bloods, but the second I step on a robe it's a war crime?"
"I'm just asking for silence, " Polaris bit back. "I didn't say pick a side, I said stop yelling long enough that I don't feel like my skull's going to crack open."
Willow took a step closer, expression sharp. "Of course. Merlin forbid little Lord Black feels discomfort. You purebloods don't like noise unless you're the ones making it, huh?"
"Don't start generalizing," Polaris warned. "You're doing a fine job of proving Corvus right."
That hit.
Her face twisted. "I knew it," she spat. "You pretend to be all quiet and neutral, but the second someone presses, you show your teeth. You're just like the rest of them."
Polaris's temper, already frayed thin by the pain in his skull and the pressure in the air, snapped.
"I've never met anyone like you," he said, voice low and cutting. "And I grew up surrounded by idiots in velvet. But you— you take it further. Always looking for something to hate. To fight. Is that what happens when you're raised without any basic manners ?"
Willow's eyes went wide.
"Oh, I see," she said, laughing without humour. "Now it's a bloodline insult. Should've expected it. After all, what else do you lot have to brag about? Ancient names and inbreeding. "
Polaris blinked, stunned.
"What?" he asked, like he couldn't have possibly heard her correctly.
Willow tilted her head, fire in her eyes.
"Cousin fuckers," she said, every syllable precise. "The lot of you. Your whole tree loops like a snake eating its own tail."
There was a beat of silence.
Polaris stared at her, genuinely speechless. For a moment, it felt like the ringing in his ears vanished—replaced by nothing at all.
"You—" Polaris said slowly, voice flat, "— what did you just say? "
"You heard me," she snapped. "Or is your family so proud of it you wear it like a crest?"
A beat of stunned silence followed.
Across the shoreline, a cluster of other first years had turned to look. A few were halfway out of their boats and had frozen in place, clearly not sure whether to move or listen.
A pure-blood girl near the front—a Rosier, maybe—visibly recoiled, muttering something sharp to the boy beside her. A red-haired girl whispered " bloody hell " under her breath. One of the muggle-borns looked confused and a little horrified, glancing between Willow and Polaris like someone had just started speaking a language not covered in orientation.
Nathaniel choked. " Willow— "
Even Corvus paused mid-step, eyebrows raised in something between scandal and theatrical respect. "That was… vivid."
Polaris didn't move. His jaw tightened. His fists clenched. But he didn't speak right away.
Hushed whispers were already spreading behind them.
"You can't say that—"
"She called them cousin— ?"
"Did you hear what she said to the Black kid—?"
Nathaniel stepped between them then, arms out like he was preparing to physically block hexes. " Alright—enough! Everyone just—just stop."
Willow looked like she was still ready to go ten rounds.
Polaris's eyes were dark now, unreadable. But the way he stood—perfectly still, back rigid—was louder than shouting.
From up ahead, a booming voice called out: "OY! First years, this way! Don't make me come down there!"
Hagrid's lantern swayed in the distance, the rest of the first years already clustered ahead on the path. Only now did the rest of the onlookers begin to stir, some glancing nervously at Polaris, others giving Willow wide-eyed looks like she'd just punched someone in a courtroom.
Even the Rosier girl turned away with a faint sneer, muttering " half-blood tantrum " under her breath.
Willow heard it. She flinched, just barely.
Corvus gave a low whistle. "Well. That's one way to make an impression."
Polaris didn't respond. He walked ahead. He doubted he'd see much of both, Sayre and Smyth after the Sorting. He didn't want to fight through every breakfast just to be heard.
His head throbbed, but it wasn't the noise that bothered him most now.
It was the eyes.
All of them watching.
All of them seeing.
By the time they reached the castle doors, the hush that had fallen over the group had thinned into whispers again—uneven, scattered, all just quiet enough to let the nerves crawl in. Polaris kept his eyes forward. One hand tucked itself into the edge of his robe sleeve, gripping the fabric tight.
The doors swung open.
The Entrance Hall swallowed them in stone and torchlight. Polaris could feel the pressure settle across his shoulders like an extra layer of robes.
Professor McGonagall waited by the top of the stairs, sharp in silhouette, a long roll of parchment in hand.
"This way," she instructed crisply, and they followed — sixty-some children shifting together like a shoal of fish in stiff uniforms and second-hand nerves.
Polaris moved with the group but angled his steps toward the front. He didn't want to be in the back. It felt suffocating, his chest felt heavy. He felt trapped with them all around, and why was the ringing so much louder?
The doors to the Great Hall opened.
Warm light poured over them. Dozens of candles floated in the air, flickering softly above the long House tables. The enchanted ceiling stretched overhead like a living sky, stars glinting through high clouds. Students filled every seat, older years already whispering and laughing, the House banners casting shadows in their House colours. Gryffindor. Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw. Slytherin.
Polaris's eyes swept the Hall — a thousand eyes, it seemed, all pointed at them. He adjusted his collar, blinked against the headache flaring behind his eyes, and stepped forward.
Someone stepped in front of him—and he didn't see her until he stepped directly on her foot.
"Oi—!"
He froze. The girl turned sharply toward him, eyes flashing.
She was his height. Dark hair, messy in a way that looked unbothered rather than unruly, half-pulled back with a twist of ribbon — or maybe twine from a flower stem.
Her skin was warm-toned, lightly freckled, with that golden sun-marked look of someone who didn't flinch from the outdoors.
And her eyes—amber-hazel, lit with golden flecks—were fixed on him like she was peeling back a layer, perhaps burning the layer.
She didn't say anything right away, the glaring seemed to be enough.
"My bad," Polaris muttered quickly, stepping back.
She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and turned away without a word.
He moved on.
Up ahead, the Sorting Hat finished its song with a dramatic final chord that no one really knew how to respond to—so they clapped, some a bit too eagerly. A few older students hooted, clearly making a sport of guessing who would land where.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward.
"When I call your name, please come forward, sit on the stool, and place the Hat on your head."
Polaris exhaled through his nose. His fingers twitched at his side.
He wasn't really listening.
Professor McGonagall had begun reading names—first years peeled off, one by one, to mount the steps, slip the Sorting Hat over their heads, and disappear momentarily beneath its brim. The Hat called out Houses with dramatic flair—some decisions immediate, others lingering, the room occasionally erupting in cheers.
But Polaris heard none of it. Not even when Corvus Avery was called and placed in Slytherin when the hat barely touched his head.
His chest was too loud.
Thump. Thump.
His leg jittered beneath his robes, heel tapping against the stone floor in an uneven tempo.
"Black, Polaris."
Finally.
He wanted it over and done with.
He moved instantly.
There was no hesitation in his stride—no wobble, no pause. His spine was straight; his hands relaxed at his sides. Each step was calculated, confident, controlled. Like he'd practiced it in a mirror.
But his heart— Merlin, his heart.
As the name reverberated in the air, two boys, bearing a striking resemblance, leaned forward in their seats with bated breath.
One donned the crimson robes of Gryffindor—Sirius Black, hair untamed and eyes sharp with something like hope buried beneath careful detachment.
The other, clad in Slytherin green—Regulus Black, spine rigid, expression unreadable but gaze fixed—tense as if the outcome meant more than he could say.
Their eyes didn't waver as Polaris climbed the steps and sat on the stool, his robes whispering against the wood. He reached for the Hat without ceremony and pulled it down over his head.
From the Gryffindor table, James Potter leaned sideways toward Sirius, whispering just loud enough for Sirius to hear over the soft hum of murmurs.
"Think he's nervous?"
Sirius exhaled through his nose; eyes still locked on the stool.
"Polaris? He'd rather implode than look nervous."
James's brow lifted slightly. "Sounds like Rel before we left. You should've seen her—practicing speeches in the mirror like the Hat needed a monologue."
Sirius huffed, just barely a smile. "That your sister's thing, then? Overthinking everything?"
"Only things she deems important," James said dryly, then glanced back at the stool. "But your brother—he doesn't blink."
Sirius didn't reply. Not with words.
Because Polaris had the Hat on his head—and the Hall had gone still.
Darkness was all Polaris saw under the hat.
Then—
Oh… oh my. That's different.
The voice unfurled inside his mind like parchment catching fire—slow at first, then sudden, sharp, burning with surprise.
Now, what do we have here…
There was a pause. Not a dramatic one. A hesitant one.
Are you doing that? the Hat demanded. Stop that. Whatever that is—stop.
It tried again.
Then came the shift. A strange pressure, like something trying to peel back layers that were already fused together.
…That's odd. Hold still, boy. Let me—let me see—
Polaris didn't move, but the Hat jolted like it had touched something too hot.
What—?
A low hum filled the void inside the Hat. It wasn't from the Hall. It was inside —a ringing, like glass beneath tension. Not a sound exactly, but something deeper. A resonance that refused to flatten.
You don't let me in. Not easily, it muttered. Like wading through fog that sings back.
Polaris's brow twitched.
What are you talking about? he thought.
That, said the Hat, right there. That sharp edge. You hide it well—on the outside, at least. But underneath? You bristle with wanting. So much need to know. To make sense of things that won't explain themselves.
Polaris tensed. That's not strange.
No, the Hat agreed, the hat was talking about something else. It's rare. Rare enough I haven't seen the likes of it in… a very long time. You're stitched together like a spell with too many syllables. There's static between your truth and my eyes.
You're different, the last one of you I sorted...
Another pause. Then—
Who taught you to keep things so buried?
No one, Polaris snapped back, sharper than he meant.
The Hat chuckled darkly. Ah. So, we're lying to ourselves already. You'd make a fine Slytherin.
Then put me there.
Eager, are we?
It's where I belong.
Is it?
Polaris gritted his teeth. Yes.
Why?
The question cut deeper than it should have.
Polaris hesitated. His thoughts tumbled, defensive and fast: Because it's expected. Because it's safer. Because it fits. Because if I don't—
He stopped himself.
The Hat was quiet.
Then, softly: So that's it. You think belonging comes from matching the mold. But what you really want… is to understand the mold. Break it open. Pick it apart. You don't crave power. You crave sense. Structure. Meaning.
Polaris stayed silent.
But the quiet wasn't passive. It was defiant.
You are ambitious, the Hat said. But not in the way they think. You'd survive in Slytherin. Even thrive. But you— it hummed, almost fondly, —you don't want to win. You want to know. Not just facts. Not just books. The reasons behind everything. The roots beneath the roots.
Another long pause.
You belong in—
No.
Polaris's thought was a low, sharp cut.
I want Slytherin.
Why?
Because it makes sense.
That, the Hat said gently, is exactly why you don't belong there.
The ringing deepened. Not louder, just closer—like it was inside his teeth now, inside his bones. Polaris clenched his fists in his lap, fingers digging half-moons into the fabric of his robes. His head ached. No—throbbed.
He could feel eyes on him. The whole Hall watching. Waiting. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there. Seconds? Minutes?
"Get on with it," someone muttered, far below.
He swallowed, throat dry. His mouth tasted of copper.
The Hat wasn't speaking anymore. It was listening. Listening too closely, like it could hear the cracks starting to split inside him.
Stop it, Polaris thought, sharp and panicked.
But it didn't. It pushed—not cruelly, but curiously, unrelenting—nudging into the shape of him, tugging at threads he didn't want unravelled.
Ah, there it is, the Hat murmured.
That fear. Not of failure—of misplacement. Not fear of failure. Not even fear of being lost. It's deeper than that. You fear being wrong. Wrong in your shape, your place, your purpose.
Like a puzzle piece that looks correct from above but never quite fits. You ache for certainty, not because you want to be right—but because you're terrified of what it means if you're not.
You fear that if you don't belong where they told you, you should… then maybe you don't belong anywhere at all.
His breathing hitched. Too fast. Too shallow.
He tried to ground himself. Count. Anchor. Five things you can see— but he couldn't see anything but the inside of the Hat, black and thick and close.
Four things you can feel — His fingernails, still in his palms. The wooden stool beneath him. The sweat on the back of his neck. The ache blooming behind his eyes like poisoned ivy.
Three things you can hear—
Ringing. Breathing. Ringing .
Two things you can smell—
Ash. And something else—something wrong, like ozone, or burning parchment.
One thing you can taste—
Blood.
His chest was too tight. His ribs wouldn't move. The panic was swelling fast, too fast, climbing up his throat like a scream—
You belong in—
No—
RAVENCLAW! the Sorting Hat bellowed aloud.