[13,035 Words]
The Ravenclaw dormitory had long since stilled—he'd waited until the last of his roommates' breathing had deepened into the rhythms of sleep before slipping out. Past midnight, past curfew, but he didn't care. He needed answers. Or at least to understand something .
The Grey Lady was nowhere to be seen since after his sorting, but the things she said lingered— you make it harder, even for the dead… stay away from lost things…
What did that mean ?
He rubbed the heel of his palm into one eye, trailing through the upper corridors just outside the Ravenclaw common room, where the stone arches opened to moonlight. The windows here overlooked the Middle Courtyard, and the night air drifted in, sharp with the scent of rain. Somewhere far below, an owl hooted once, then fell quiet.
Polaris paused near the Grey Lady Corridor, the hem of his pyjamas brushing his ankles, his robes thrown over them in haste. This was where she'd be, surely—if ghosts had habits. If she even wanted to be found.
But the corridor was empty.
Nothing stirred except for the flame in a single torch guttering low in its sconce.
Polaris exhaled sharply and crossed to the nearest window. He pressed his forehead to the glass, its chill making his skin prickle. Beneath him, the castle sprawled, slate roofs glistening under moonlight. The Astronomy Tower rose to his left like a crooked finger pointing into the stars.
He waited.
Nothing.
Just the sound of the wind.
His hands clenched the sill.
"Well," he muttered, "I suppose I scared her off."
Part of him had hoped—irrationally—that she'd be waiting. Like before. Like she knew he'd come. But there was nothing now. Just his reflection in the window: hair tousled, eyes hollowed by lack of sleep, a crease forming between his brows he hadn't had last week.
Why couldn't people — things — just say what they meant? It wouldn't kill a ghost to be clear. Would it?
A voice in the back of his mind reminded him he had the whole year. She was bound to appear again. Hogwarts was her graveyard. He could wait. He wasn't desperate.
Not yet.
But a sigh still escaped him, more weary than anything else. He rested his head against the glass again and shut his eyes.
"Looking for someone?" came a voice behind him, quiet and dry.
Polaris turned sharply.
There, a few paces away, stood the headmaster. Dumbledore.
Polaris hadn't really looked at him during the Sorting — not properly — but now, with no crowd, no ceremony, no noise to hide in, it was harder to ignore the details.
The long beard caught the moonlight, washed silver-blue like something out of a storybook. His robes looked old, but not shabby — layers of deep purple and midnight, stitched with patterns too faint to name. The half-moon glasses glinted as he tilted his head, eyes unreadable behind the lens.
He didn't look surprised to find a first-year out past curfew. If anything, he looked as though he'd been expecting it.
Polaris's stomach dropped. His first instinct was to lie. His second was to say nothing. But in the end, he said:
"No. Just couldn't sleep."
His voice was smooth, rehearsed, almost too casual — and it surprised even him how quickly it came. Not a stammer, not a crack. Just a truth-flavoured lie.
Dumbledore regarded him quietly, his long-fingered hands folded behind his back. He didn't press, didn't challenge, just let the moment breathe.
"The castle can be restless at night," the Headmaster said mildly. "Especially on one's first."
Polaris gave a noncommittal shrug, still staring out the window. He wasn't about to offer more. Not when he already stood out too much. First Black in blue. First night out of bed. First rule bent.
Great start.
He could already imagine the Ravenclaw noticeboard tomorrow: NEW FIRST-YEAR COST US TEN POINTS ON NIGHT ONE — GUESS WHO.
"I'll go back," he said, quick and tidy. "Didn't mean to cause any—well. I'll go."
He shifted to leave, his fingers still curled loosely around the wand he hadn't even realised he'd drawn. It hung at his side, instinctive — not raised, but ready.
Dumbledore's eyes lingered on it. Not accusingly. Not with alarm. But with a kind of distant note in his gaze, as though he were seeing something… more.
Polaris noticed. A flicker of something tight crossed his expression. But he didn't let go of the wand.
Then Dumbledore spoke again — unhurried.
"Some wander to escape something. Others to find it."
Polaris stopped, jaw tight.
He glanced sideways — not fully turning, but enough to cast a look. "And which do you think I am?"
Dumbledore's smile was slight. "I make a point not to assume."
Polaris didn't believe that for a second. He tilted his head a little, watching the man now — not wide-eyed like the others, not impressed. Just… studying.
He remembered his grandfather's voice, sharp and scornful: That man would sell principle for chaos, and call it progress. He lets the wrong people in and the right ones out. A sentimental fool hiding behind riddles and robes.
Polaris had heard the rants. Repeated. Ritualised. Arcturus Black never spoke Dumbledore's name without a curl of disdain.
But standing here now, face to face with the so-called sentimental fool… Polaris wasn't so sure.
He frowned slightly.
"Can I ask you something?" he said suddenly, before he could second-guess it.
Dumbledore's brows lifted, almost amused. "Of course."
Polaris didn't look at him. He looked past him, to the windows beyond, where the moon had begun to slide behind a veil of cloud.
"Do ghosts choose where to haunt?"
The question hung there, delicate and precise — not curious in the way a student asks a professor, but in the way a boy asks something that already matters.
Dumbledore's gaze did not sharpen, but it deepened. Polaris felt it even without looking.
"Sometimes," the Headmaster said at last. "Some choose to stay behind. Others… are held."
Polaris's fingers curled slightly at his sides.
"Held by what?" he asked. Still quiet. Still not looking.
Dumbledore's voice was thoughtful, unhurried. "Regret. Love. Unfinished truths. A memory that refuses to release them — or a person who cannot let them go."
Polaris nodded once, very slowly. Though that didn't mean he was finished, "seems unfair," Polaris murmured. "To be trapped by someone else's need."
Dumbledore's tone softened, almost to a hush. "It is."
Then, after a pause: "But even unfair bonds can be broken. Not easily. Not always without pain. But yes — they can be broken."
Polaris said nothing.
Dumbledore then stepped aside, clearing the way back down the corridor. "It's late," he said gently. "And the stairs are less forgiving the more tired one becomes, Mr Black."
Polaris moved past him without a word. But just before the bend in the hall, he paused and looked back. Dumbledore was already gone.
Polaris stood there a moment longer, frowning faintly.
What was he even doing up here?
His gaze dropped to the wand in his hand — still there, of course. It was rarely not. He never really went anywhere without it. Not if he could help it.
It felt natural in his grip, almost thoughtless, like an extension of breath. His fingers had curled around it without him noticing — like it belonged there.
Sometimes, when he held it like this, he felt...
He didn't know. Not odd, not afraid. Just... different. Steadier, maybe. Or more himself than he was without it.
He wasn't sure that made sense. And maybe it didn't matter.
Later that night, he wrote about it all — into the pages of The Chronologus .
And at the bottom of the entry, in cramped, slightly ink-blotted script, he signed:
—The Ravenclaw Disappointment.
Then he closed the journal, tucked it under his pillow, and said nothing more.
September 2nd, 1975, Tuesday
Polaris woke to an empty dormitory.
The light spilling through the tall windows was too strong to be early. He groaned softly, blinking against it, and sat up slowly. His limbs were leaden. Sleep had come eventually — patchy and thin — and not nearly enough. The shadows beneath his eyes were stark even by his usual standards, purple-grey smudges that dragged him down.
He dressed in silence, methodical and slow. There was no rush — no one left to keep pace with. His roommates were gone, and the common room, when he descended into it, was almost vacant. A third-year girl sat curled in an armchair, reading upside down. A prefect passed him without a glance.
Breakfast, technically, was still on.
But Polaris didn't head to the Great Hall. Not yet.
He slipped out through one of the side staircases instead, drawn not by hunger but by something quieter — that lingering itch of magic he hadn't quite shaken. His mind wandered to the ghosts.
Specifically, her .
The Grey Lady. He hadn't seen her yet, not properly. Just flickers. Whispers. The way other students spoke of her — elegant, aloof, silent — made him curious in spite of himself.
The castle corridors were quieter than he expected. A few portraits snoozed. Sunlight filtered in through the high windows in pale ribbons. He didn't wander with purpose, not really — just drifted. Let the stones lead.
And then, a sound.
Footsteps behind him — not cautious, not official. Loud. Ungraceful. Familiar.
"Oi! Rye!"
He turned just in time for a flurry of movement to barrel into him.
Corvus Avery flung both arms around his shoulders and spun him half a step before anchoring them both in a solid, delighted hug.
"You're alive!" Corvus grinned, voice much too loud for the quiet corridor. "I thought maybe you got sucked into a vanishing stair or something dramatic like that."
"Don't tempt me," Polaris muttered, but didn't move away. The warmth was... anchoring.
Bastian followed behind at a steady pace, arms crossed, mouth tugged in the faintest, long-suffering frown. "He made me wait for him. Again."
"I overslept," Corvus said cheerfully, slinging an arm now around both their shoulders, drawing them in like some ridiculous ringleader. "First proper Hogwarts morning and I'm already late. What a legacy."
"You snored like a troll in hibernation," Bastian added dryly.
"You say that, but I think you just missed me," Corvus beamed at him. "Be honest, Yaxley. Without me you're just a tragic, brooding figure in need of a musical number."
Polaris gave a low snort. "You are not breaking into song in the corridor."
"Yet," Corvus winked.
They walked together now, slow and loosely tangled, Polaris boxed in by the familiar press of Corvus's gangly affection and Bastian's more grounded, shoulder-to-shoulder presence. It felt... good. Annoying. Normal.
"So," Corvus said, peeking sideways at Polaris. "How's Ravenclaw Tower? All books and brooding and no decent biscuits?"
"Strangely peaceful without you in it."
"Ouch."
Bastian glanced between them, expression unreadable, then muttered, "He missed you."
" Thank you, Bas," Corvus said grandly, throwing his arm wide, then promptly slinging it around Polaris again. "See? He loves me. He just doesn't know how to say it like a normal person."
Polaris rolled his eyes.
Polaris exhaled slowly through his nose. "This is the part where I pretend not to feel anything, and you both pretend not to notice."
"I never pretend," Corvus replied, then after a beat added, "Except when I lie."
They stopped walking.
It was subtle — one of those halts that just happens, like gravity pulling three bodies to a quiet, invisible pause in the middle of the corridor. The laughter drained. Not harshly — just… peeled away.
Corvus was the first to break it. He turned toward Polaris, his smile thinning.
"You know," he said, "you not being in Slytherin kind of sucks."
Polaris met his gaze, still and unreadable. "Why?"
"Because it's wrong," Corvus said, too quickly. "You're one of us . We made a deal when we were seven, remember? Slytherins. Together. We'd run the bloody place."
Polaris's jaw tightened. "And now we won't?"
"It's not that simple."
Bastian spoke then, voice low and level. "It is simple, actually. People notice. Who your friends are. Who you sit with. Who you don't ."
He didn't say it with accusation. Just fact.
Corvus threw his hands up. "And now he's in Ravenclaw Tower with a bunch of walking dictionaries and ghosts who quote philosophy. Meanwhile, we are stuck dealing with Elora Parkinson and Burke like it's a competition of whose family tree screams louder."
"You like the drama," Polaris said flatly.
"I tolerate the drama," Corvus shot back. "And only because if I don't, no one else will say anything interesting."
Bastian studied Polaris, not interrupting — just watching. When he did speak, it was quieter, and something in it stung.
"Ravenclaw," he said, as if tasting the word. "Did you choose it?"
There was a pause, then: "No."
Corvus blinked. "What?"
"I fought it," Polaris repeated, voice flat. "Harder than I've ever fought anything in my life."
The words fell between them like iron.
Corvus's mouth opened, then closed again. "But… why? Why would it still—?"
"Because wanting isn't the same as belonging," Polaris said. "And apparently, I don't belong where I thought I did."
Corvus scoffed, hurt curdling under his breath. "That's stupid."
Polaris's gaze sharpened. "Is it?"
"Yes," Corvus said without hesitation. "We were meant to be Slytherins. All of us. You—me—Bastian. It's how we survive. It's how we win ."
Bastian's voice was low, cutting clean through: "It's how we play the game."
Polaris turned to him. "I didn't want to play ."
"You did," Bastian said simply. "You just didn't know the rules would turn on you."
Corvus shook his head. "So what, now you're off solving riddles and debating philosophy with Greengrass while we're stuck in snake's den with Parkinson and Burke? What are we even supposed to do with that?"
Polaris's voice was soft but lethal. "You could start by not insulting my house."
Corvus's eyes narrowed. "You don't even want to be there."
"No," Polaris admitted, heat rising. "But I didn't get a choice. None of us did. Not really."
Bastian's arms crossed. "The Hat makes a choice based on what's inside . It saw something."
"It saw too much ," Polaris bit out, tone cracking for just a breath. "It looked at me and said I was stitched wrong. Said I didn't fit. Not there. Not anywhere . And then it picked for me."
His chest rose, a sharp breath like it hurt to take.
"So yes," he said, quieter now. "I told it Slytherin. I begged. And it said no . It told me I didn't want power — I wanted understanding. That I didn't belong because I wanted the rules to make sense ."
Corvus stood stiffly, arms still folded, but his expression cracked. "You think we don't?"
"I think you're better at pretending it doesn't matter."
That struck something. Deep.
Corvus looked away.
Bastian shifted, slow and thoughtful. "I didn't know Ravenclaw could be that."
Polaris looked at him. "Neither did I."
They stood there, a moment suspended between walls and sunlight and too much unsaid. The air between them held weight — not accusation, not forgiveness — just weight.
Eventually, Corvus muttered, "You should've fought harder."
Polaris didn't flinch. "I nearly broke trying."
That silenced them both.
Bastian let out a slow breath. "We should go."
Corvus didn't argue this time. Just nodded.
As they rounded the last corner, the scent of toast and eggs began to creep up from the Great Hall — warm, rich, and faintly buttery.
Corvus slowed a little. "D'you think we're allowed to sit wherever we want? I mean—outside the Sorting Feast?"
Polaris blinked at him. "What?"
"You know, like… tables," Corvus gestured vaguely. "I mean, they sent us away last night. We were clearly not welcome back at Slytherin after the betrayal."
"It wasn't a betrayal," Polaris muttered.
"Tell that to Eliza Burke. She was looking at us like we'd spat in her soup."
"You did take one of her treacle tarts." Bastian added helpfully.
"She wasn't eating it."
Bastian, calm as ever, said, "We probably won't be allowed today. First years get timetables this morning."
Corvus deflated with a groan. "So that's a no, then?"
Polaris glanced sideways, then offered, "Maybe at lunch I can try sitting at the Slytherin table. See if it causes a diplomatic incident."
Corvus looked momentarily stunned — then smug. "Polaris Black. Rule-bender."
"I'm not bending it. I'm testing it."
"Oh, much better," Bastian drawled.
Corvus glanced up at the enchanted ceiling, which was steadily brightening with morning light. "Wait—do you think there's still food ?"
Bastian rolled his eyes. "How much time do you think we've wasted?"
"We paused for a brief existential crisis and some light betrayal. You know, standard first week stuff." Corvus said. "That eats at least twenty minutes."
They reached the doors to the Great Hall just as a few straggling older students slipped through. The hum of chatter swelled louder. Polaris hesitated a moment, the divide before him stretching wider than it looked.
The long tables were clearly re-sorted now — neat rows of blue, green, red, and yellow. The sea of Ravenclaw robes stood out to him first, all orderly and quiet, heads bowed over toast and pumpkin juice. The first-year cluster was easy to spot — they were the ones still looking like they didn't know how to sit properly, limbs too long for benches, voices pitched too high with excitement.
Polaris didn't head for them.
He drifted instead toward the far end of the table — where older students sat, more relaxed, more silent. Seventh-years, most of them. One looked up at him, curious, but didn't say anything. Polaris slipped into the edge of the bench without a word and folded his hands in his lap.
Meanwhile Corvus and Bastian went to the Slytherin table.
One of the seventh-years beside him — a tall boy with a book open beside his porridge — gave him a nod.
"First year?"
Polaris nodded back, wary.
"Bold move," the boy said mildly. "Avoiding your lot."
Polaris's gaze didn't shift. "I like the quiet."
The boy shrugged. "Fair enough."
He turned a page in his book with a spoon still balanced in one hand — an effortless sort of multitasking that suggested years of practice. Polaris didn't speak again. Just watched his tea swirl, pale and steam-soft, untouched.
A moment later, another student further down — a prefect, judging by the badge glinting on his robes — glanced over and narrowed his eyes.
"Polaris Black?" he called lightly.
Polaris tensed. "Yes."
The boy pushed his plate aside and stood, making his way over with an easy confidence. He had that seventh-year presence: the kind that made him feel taller than he was, like he'd already outgrown the school and was just humouring it for a final year.
"You're late," the prefect said, not unkindly. "We gave out the timetables ten minutes ago. Here."
He handed Polaris a folded piece of parchment, creased at the corners. "Potions first. Slughorn doesn't tolerate tardiness, so maybe don't repeat this mornings performance."
Polaris took it without comment, fingers brushing the edges of the parchment. He wasn't sure the remark had been necessary.
Polaris unfolded the timetable with care, his eyes flicking down the neat grid. As he glanced through the week schedule he was distracted at the idea of an owl.
He was waiting for something.
Every rustle of wings above made his shoulders flinch. Every creak of a beak on wood. Every hoot from the rafters sent his thoughts spiralling in anticipation of it .
A Howler.
He hadn't slept well for a reason.
He kept imagining it — red envelope, shrill voice, his mother's fury ripping through the Great Hall like a curse. Two sons. Two betrayals. Sirius in Gryffindor. Now Polaris in Ravenclaw. Surely it would be too much.
Surely, she would snap.
But it didn't come.
Instead, a single barn owl swept down through the rafters and landed neatly on the table beside his plate, then a second later a white snow owl dropped another letter.
One on rich parchment sealed in plain wax, the other folded more carelessly, with ink already bleeding at the edges. The owls were gone quickly after.
Polaris stared at the envelopes. One bore his name in elegant, slanted script — Narcissa's hand. The other was unmistakable in its simplicity.
Polaris hadn't seen or heard from his uncle in years. So it was surprising — strange, even — that Alphard had sent him a letter. Polaris wasn't sure how to feel about it. He felt... odd, somehow. Indifferent, maybe.
This was the uncle who used to visit often. The one who took him to Quidditch matches, who'd smuggle in sweets and shout himself hoarse every time Puddlemere United scored. The uncle who got him his first scarf in their colours. The uncle who left — and never came back.
He opened Alphard's first.
Starling—
I hear you're a Ravenclaw. Good.
You always were the sharpest of us.
Don't let the others make you doubt it.
Write when you feel like it. Or don't.
Just know I'm proud of you.
— Your uncle Al
Polaris blinked hard. He wasn't sure he would be writing back at all.
The second letter — Narcissa's — he opened more carefully. The parchment smelled faintly of lilac, like it had rested among perfumed gloves and powdered silk.
Pol,
Your placement was surprising — but not disappointing. Ravenclaw is, after all, a house of excellence and reason, and I know you'll distinguish yourself.
Don't fret about what others think. For now, focus on your studies. Hogwarts is a place of opportunity, and you deserve to enjoy it.
Be clever. Be cautious. And please try not to start any wars with the professors like Sirius did in his first year.
— Cissa
He let out a small breath. A smile flickered at the corner of his mouth — reluctant but there.
It was clear she'd written it to distract him, to soften what she couldn't say: that the family was disappointed. Confused. Maybe even embarrassed.
Still. She'd written.
He folded both letters — Alphard's crisp and sparse, Narcissa's silky and creased where his fingers had lingered — and tucked them into the inner pocket of his robes.
He hadn't eaten much. A bit of toast earlier. Now, he forced himself to chew through a few bites of cold eggs at the near-empty Ravenclaw table. The other first-years had long gone, buzzing with nervous excitement to find their classrooms.
Polaris was among the last still in the Hall, but that suited him. He liked the quiet. It gave him enough time to figure out where to go next without an audience.
He stood, adjusted his bag, and began moving toward the corridor leading out of the Great Hall — and promptly collided with someone around the corner.
"Oof—watch it—"
Polaris staggered back a step, only to find himself blinking up at Sirius's wide grin.
" Well, well, if it isn't the pride of Ravenclaw Tower! " Sirius declared, arms outstretched like he was announcing him to the whole castle.
Beside him stood James Potter, just as tall, with that same breezy confidence like the school already belonged to them. His tie was crooked. His hair was worse. Both boys had the same vaguely dishevelled look that suggested they'd just sprinted from somewhere for absolutely no reason.
"Breakfast's nearly over," James said to Sirius, amused. "And you nearly flattened a first-year."
Polaris glanced at James, brow raised. It wasn't the first time he'd seen him.
He remembered three times, actually. The first had been years ago, at some gala full of stiff collars and endless speeches about the preservation of magical lineage. Polaris had been bored out of his mind, lurking behind a velvet chair, while Sirius got scolded for sneaking a Fanged Frisbee into the ballroom. James had been there, a few inches shorter then, eating half the dessert table and laughing too loudly at jokes Sirius whispered into his ear.
The second time was after Sirius's second year — when Kreacher had been sent to retrieve him from the platform. Polaris had gone along. James had waved, oblivious to the tension, and cheerfully declared, "Oi! It's the littler Black! How's life in the snake pit?" Sirius had smacked him, grinning, before tossing his trunk at Kreacher without a second glance.
But it was the third time that stood out most.
Diagon Alley, last summer. Sirius hadn't been there. Polaris had been alone, quietly waiting outside Flourish and Blotts while his mother argued with the book clerk inside. James had appeared suddenly, like a blast of sunshine and noise, and immediately launched into conversation — as if expecting Polaris to be Sirius 2.0.
He'd talked about Quidditch. About prank plans. About "mental magical theory ideas" he was pretending to understand. And Polaris had said nothing.
By the third minute, James's smile had thinned. By the fourth, he'd blinked, stared, and muttered, "Right. Not much of a talker, huh?"
That had been their first real conversation.
"That's my brother," Sirius replied proudly, throwing an arm around Polaris's shoulders before he could duck away. "He can take it. Aren't you glad it was me and not, say, Snivellus?"
"You are not allowed to call him that in front of me," Polaris muttered, trying to twist out from under Sirius's arm. Polaris already knew who he was talking about, it was hard not to remember that one time Regulus invited said Severus Snape to their home and how Sirius made a big deal about it.
"Oh, right, sorry." Sirius grinned wider. "Forgot you're a Ravenclaw now. All noble and morally superior." He ruffled Polaris's hair hard.
"Stop that!" Polaris swatted his hand away. "And you— you —you cheered when I was Sorted. Cheered. "
Sirius gasped theatrically. "You're welcome."
"You stood up . Yelled. You shouted that's my brother like we were in the middle of a Quidditch match—"
"Hey, I was proud of you!" Sirius said. "You didn't go to Slytherin! You've no idea the bet I just won off Potter here."
"I didn't agree to any—"
"Oh, you definitely implied it. Anyway, I said you'd surprise them, didn't I?"
Polaris glared at him. "The entire Hall went quiet."
"And then I fixed it!"
"You made it worse! "
James was laughing now, watching the two of them like it was a well-rehearsed show. "I dunno, mate, I think he was right. It was sort of brilliant."
"Thank you," Sirius said smugly, slinging an arm around James's shoulder next. "See, even my best mate thinks I'm a gift."
Polaris didn't say anything — but his lips twitched. Just barely. He smoothed the expression away a second later, but Sirius caught it.
"You smiled, " Sirius accused, pointing. "You can't take it back now. That was definitely amusement."
"I didn't smile," Polaris said flatly, already adjusting his bag again like this entire conversation had derailed his schedule.
"You did," Sirius insisted. "Witnessed it. Potter, back me up."
"I'm not getting in the middle of this," James said quickly, though he was grinning too. "You'll both hex me."
Sirius opened his mouth to respond — and then his eyes gleamed. "Speaking of hexing…"
James's grin dropped instantly.
" Don't. "
"Your sister looked very cozy in green last night."
" Sirius— "
" Aurelia Potter, of the House of Cunning, Ambition, and Snake-Snuggling—"
"Leave her alone!"
"She's your sister and she's in Slytherin. I'm obligated to point it out. Repeatedly. Forever."
Polaris blinked at the idea of a Potter in Slytherin, feeling an unexpected flicker of surprise. He wondered if the Potter found it as awkward as he did being in Ravenclaw.
Maybe she felt like an outsider too.
"I'm not talking about it," James muttered, clearly trying to keep his voice neutral and failing. "It didn't happen. It was a dream. A bad one."
"Oh no, it definitely happened," Sirius said, smirking. "The look on your face last night—like someone told you your broomstick had joined the Gobstones Club."
Polaris snorted before he could stop himself. Just a quiet, derisive breath — but it earned him a victorious grin from Sirius.
"There it is again! Twice in one morning. I'm on fire."
Before Polaris could retort, James suddenly perked up. "Oi, Evans!" he called across the corridor.
Lily turned. She was walking briskly with a small knot of Gryffindor girls, hair gleaming like fresh-polished copper in the torchlight. Her gaze landed on James — and immediately cooled.
"Oh no," she said loudly to her friends. "It's talking again."
The other girls laughed. Lily didn't even break stride as she passed, giving James a look like he'd tracked mud across her carpet.
James, undeterred, looked awestruck. "She's so in love with me."
Polaris raised an eyebrow.
"She didn't even stop walking," Polaris pointed out.
"She didn't need to," James replied breezily. "The look said everything."
"It said leave me alone ," Polaris deadpanned.
"Exactly," Sirius chimed in, throwing an arm over James's shoulder. "She's trying so hard not to fall for you. Honestly, it's admirable. That level of restraint."
James nodded sagely. "She'll crack by Yule."
"October, I'd wager," Sirius said.
Polaris shook his head, completely baffled. "You're both unwell."
They beamed like it was a compliment.
Polaris sighed. "Do either of you actually know where the dungeons are?"
"For Potions?" James asked. "Yeah, we'll show you."
"You're going to breakfast."
"And you're going past the Great Hall on the way there," Sirius said. "Two birds, one stone."
Polaris didn't bother arguing.
As they turned the corner, still caught in the swirl of Lily Evans-related debate, Polaris glanced between them. James's hair was even messier up close — like he'd tried to flatten it and then given up halfway — and Sirius had that bright, brash energy that filled every room before he even walked into it.
Polaris hesitated, then said quietly, "The girl, the one you called Evans . Is she—" He paused. "Is she Muggle-born?"
James didn't seem to hear. He was too busy recounting something Lily had shouted at him last term — something about his "inflated ego" and "a rat learning manners faster than you."
But Sirius heard. He stiffened.
For a second, the air between them felt like it thinned — stretched too tight. Polaris saw the flicker of warning in his brother's eyes before Sirius smiled too quickly.
"Anyway," Sirius said, clapping a hand on Polaris's shoulder and steering the conversation like he was yanking the wheel of a broomstick. "Did you know James and I tied for tallest in our year? You wouldn't think it, right? Because of his hair."
James turned, mid-rant. "What?"
"Your hair adds two inches at least. Doesn't count."
Polaris didn't respond. He just gave Sirius a long, quiet look — not quite questioning, not quite agreeing — and then dropped it.
Sirius didn't look back.
James, of course, had launched into a debate about how his height was "completely legitimate" and how Lily secretly liked it anyway.
Sirius and James were still trading jokes, bumping shoulders, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. It was all so… loud. Unapologetic. Like they never questioned whether they belonged in the space they took up. Polaris trailed behind them by a step, watching.
Blood traitor.
He'd heard the word countless times. At dinner, especially, when Sirius had still come home for holidays. Their mother would bring it up like a sermon — tight-lipped, eyes like daggers.
" Potters, " she'd sneer, as if the name alone were filthy. "Breeding disloyalty under the pretence of decency. And Sirius thinks them noble."
The word was used for families who'd "lost their way." For those who valued kindness over pedigree. For those who taught their children that blood was not a weapon.
Polaris had heard stories. How blood traitors married down, how they polluted lines and raised their children to think filth was equal. He'd memorized those words the way others memorized recipes — not because he believed them, but because he'd been raised among them, and they were as inescapable as wallpaper.
Yet James Potter didn't seem dangerous.
If anything, his greatest offense was that he was just as loud as Sirius — maybe even louder, though Polaris suspected that was more competition than coincidence.
He didn't act like a traitor to his blood. He didn't act like anything but a boy who liked to joke too much, with a friend who made him worse.
Polaris frowned, quiet beneath the weight of the thought.
If Corvus were a blood traitor, he wondered suddenly, would I stop being friends with him?
The answer came faster than he expected.
No.
He liked Corvus. He liked the way Corvus listened. The way he thought in spirals and always wanted to know why — even when the answer was supposed to be obvious. Spending time with him was like breathing differently.
And besides…
Blood traitors were still pure-bloods, weren't they?
That had to count for something.
Didn't it?
He wasn't sure. The thoughts tangled too easily when he pulled at them, knotted with years of half-heard sermons and passing comments that had never quite felt like his but had settled into him anyway.
Polaris blinked and looked up — he was standing outside the Potions classroom now. He didn't get a chance to thank his brother and his friend before they ran off for breakfast. He doubted there'd be anything there now.
Most students had already arrived. He stepped in, expecting to find Professor Slughorn at the front. There were already a lot of students there.
Then he noticed the colours.
The Ravenclaws were sharing potions with Gryffindors.
Polaris paused, one foot over the threshold, heart thudding with a strange discomfort. He scanned the room quickly. Most seats were already taken — students huddled into their familiar groups, laughter and chatter folding around them like invisible walls.
He didn't have anyone to sit beside.
His eyes drifted to the Ravenclaw tables. His housemates had arrived early, it seemed. They filled rows in twos and threes, some already unpacking ingredients, others still joking with half-tied robes. A few glanced up when he entered. Some looked away just as fast.
One of them didn't.
Mirza.
The glare he gave Polaris wasn't subtle. It hit like a slap, ending a clear message.
Polaris just tilted his head slightly, brow faintly furrowed, as if trying to puzzle out a riddle. Huh. That was… odd. Mirza hadn't spoken a word to him since yesterday. Was this about the game?
In truth, Polaris hadn't quite understood what had happened.
It had started like a normal evening.
A game of Exploding Pairs — Elias and Polaris were natural rivals, fast, focused, each daring the other to blink. Rafiq had been slower, still learning the rules, but Polaris hadn't minded. There'd even been a moment he nearly admired the boy's focus, how earnestly he tried.
And then—
"Boo."
Polaris didn't turn.
He didn't roll his eyes. He didn't scowl. He simply blinked once and said, dryly, "You're loud for someone who thinks they're sneaky."
Behind him, Nathaniel let out a short laugh. "Merlin, do you ever startle?"
Polaris finally turned, meeting Nathaniel's grin with a calm, unreadable look. "Not when I know I'm being watched."
Nathaniel's smile didn't falter, but he tilted his head slightly. "So, you did see me."
"Reflected off the brass cauldron. Try harder next time."
Nathaniel clutched his chest dramatically. "Wounded. You make it very hard to make friends, you know."
"I make it hard for people to pretend they're not trying."
Nathaniel stared at him for a beat — then let out a small, honest laugh. "Alright, fair. Still, you looked like you were about to be eaten alive by awkward seating politics, so—" He gestured toward the back. "Come sit with me."
Polaris didn't move.
He studied Nathaniel the way someone might study an unfamiliar potion — carefully, without blinking, checking the ingredients before deciding whether it was safe to drink.
Polaris had learned early that people didn't offer kindness for free. They wanted things: status, information, influence. Or worse — they wanted to fix you.
And yet Nathaniel Sayre looked back at him with such infuriating openness, like someone who'd never been taught to guard a thought before saying it.
Polaris's first instinct was to say no. Not because he didn't want the seat — but because he didn't trust what came with it.
Then again what was there to lose?
"Not a trap," Nathaniel added. "I swear I don't bite. Unless someone says pineapple belongs on treacle tart."
Polaris's eyes narrowed just slightly. "That's... oddly specific."
"Trauma from childhood," Nathaniel said, already heading toward the back with a wave of his hand. "Come on. You sit; I'll protect us from Slughorn's splash zone and provide top-tier Gryffindor commentary. It's like dinner theatre but with boiling liquids."
Polaris followed.
They reached the back of the room, half-shadowed and blissfully away from the centre. Nathaniel dropped into his chair with his usual chaotic grace. Polaris settled more slowly, unpacking parchment and quill with precise, practiced movements.
"I should warn you," Nathaniel said under his breath, "Willow's not talking to me."
Polaris gave him a sideways look. "You two close?"
Nathaniel shrugged, but there was something careful in the motion. "Yeah. Since we were small. Practically grew up in each other's pockets."
Willow Smyth sat near the front.
Polaris wasn't surprised she'd been sorted into Gryffindor. She had all the traits of a lion: sharp-tongued, impulsive, unwilling to yield. She wore her ideals like armour, even when they cut the people around her. Her anger burned hot and fast, but it never lacked conviction.
No, Gryffindor suited her.
Sayre, though…
Polaris glanced at the boy beside him — all unfiltered energy and crooked grins, all heart and noise and open doors.
He'd half expected a Hufflepuff badge.
The loyalty made sense. So did the ease with people, the instinct to mend rather than break.
"We had another go at it last night. Then again this morning. I tried apologizing — third time, actually — but she just walked off like I hadn't said anything." He exhaled through his nose. "At this point, I don't even know what I'm apologizing for. I think I'm just… trying not to lose her."
Polaris said nothing at first. His quill tapped once against the desk, eyes fixed ahead. Willow sat near the front, perfectly still, spine straight. If she heard them, she gave no indication.
"She's stubborn," Nathaniel added.
"She's hurt," Polaris corrected quietly.
Nathaniel looked over, surprised by the softness in the tone.
Polaris didn't look at him. "If Smyth still considers you a friend, she'll accept your next apology. If she doesn't…" He paused, then gave a small, elegant shrug. "Well. Then it's not really about the apology, is it?"
Nathaniel let out a breath, thoughtful.
"I wouldn't have bothered after the first one," Polaris continued, tone turning colder again. "I don't like wasting words."
"You don't seem to use many," Nathaniel noted.
"Because most people aren't worth the effort."
Nathaniel gave him a sidelong grin. "And yet you're sitting here with me."
Polaris said nothing to that.
Professor Horace Slughorn was stood at the front of the classroom, he pulled out a thick parchment scroll, thumbed to the top, and began reading names aloud in his usual rich baritone.
"Black, Polaris."
The room went still for just a second too long.
Not because the name was unfamiliar — but because it was too familiar.
Slughorn didn't bother looking up. He didn't need to.
"Ah, yes," he said, voice warming like a kettle just before a boil. "The youngest of the Black line. I had the pleasure of dining with your grandfather not too long ago — Pollux spoke quite highly of you, though I suspect his standards remain... formidable."
Polaris said nothing. His quill hovered an inch above the parchment, unmoving.
Around him, the silence shifted — not quite uncomfortable, but alert. The kind of hush that prickled against the back of his neck. Two students sitting just ahead leaned closer to each other. A whisper slipped between them, low but not low enough.
"That's him," said one — a half-blood boy with a nervous edge to his voice. "He's one of the ones I told you about. You've got to be careful. The Blacks, the Averys, the Burkes—"
"They hate Muggle-borns, right?" the girl beside him whispered back. She was taller, freckles along her neck, her hand curled tight around her wand.
Polaris found himself rolling his eyes.
A few others stole glances his way. Some wary. Some curious. One or two with a kind of sharp-eyed admiration — as though knowing his name was enough to expect cleverness, cruelty, or both. He wasn't just another boy in the room.
He was a Black. And that meant something.
Whether they feared it, resented it, or admired it — they had already decided what he was before he opened his mouth.
Slughorn, oblivious or perhaps simply uninterested in the shift in the air, continued cheerfully. "Regulus, of course, shows excellent promise in his fourth-year work. Clean technique, a steady hand. I expect he'll be joining my N.E.W.T. class in due time. And your grandfather's curiosity in the field was always... spirited. Quite the collection of experimental texts, if I recall correctly."
He chuckled to himself, like he'd shared an inside joke with someone long gone.
Polaris inclined his head once — neither accepting the praise nor rejecting it.
Just acknowledging it.
Slughorn's eyes flicked to him at last, narrowing slightly with interest. "Let's see if talent runs in threes, hmm?"
He moved on without waiting for a reply.
"Fawley, Sylvan."
Slughorn paused again, raising a bushy brow. "Any relation to Cedrella Fawley at the Ministry?"
Sylvan, a wiry boy with prematurely silver-streaked hair, gave a slight nod. "My aunt."
"Wonderful woman, Cedrella," Slughorn said with a fond smile. "Chairs the Department of International Cultural Liaison. Brilliant negotiator, and her herbal infusions are to die for."
Next:
"Greengrass, Senna. Sister of Septimus, I presume?"
"Yes, Professor."
"He was a prodigy with Draughts of Living Death. Curious mind, steady hand — a credit to the name. High expectations, my dear."
Senna blinked once but offered no reply.
"Kim, Felix."
Another pause — Slughorn's voice turned approving. "Ah! The Kim diplomatic line. One of the finest Sinitic wandlore circles in the last century. Your father is stationed in Prague now, yes?"
Felix nodded.
Slughorn smiled, clearly enjoying himself. "Your grandfather and I once collaborated on a twelve-year aging tonic. It aged wine perfectly but tragically turned my moustache blue. Never did figure that one out."
A few students chuckled softly.
"Sayre, Nathaniel."
Another slight pause.
"Sayre," Slughorn repeated, eyes brightening. "As in Isolt Sayre — founder of Ilvermorny?"
Nathaniel grinned, raising a hand. "That's the rumour, sir."
Slughorn chuckled. "Well! It's not every day I get a Sayre in my classroom. Your family has quite the legacy in magical creature study — and a fair bit of duelling flair, if I recall correctly."
Nathaniel shrugged, grin still firmly in place. "I mostly chase Puffskeins."
Slughorn let out a rich laugh and nodded appreciatively. "Modest and well-mannered — the makings of a fine potion-brewer.
The roll continued, but Polaris had already begun forming mental notes — not just of the students Slughorn lingered on, but the ones he skipped over quickly. It was subtle, but real. Influence. Power. Legacy. Slughorn's gaze lingered where it mattered most to him .
Polaris understood the game.
Once the final name was called and a few more compliments handed out, Slughorn clapped his scroll shut with a flourish and paced toward the front of the room.
"Now then," he said, hands folding over his rounded middle, "before we lift a single ladle or so much as uncork a vial, I want to ask you a question."
He turned to face the class, eyes twinkling.
"What makes a good potion-maker?"
A beat of silence followed — that cautious, first-day stillness where no one wanted to be wrong. Quills hovered, a few students glanced at each other, waiting for someone braver.
Slughorn smiled, undeterred.
"Is it talent ?" he prompted. "A natural gift for combining ingredients?"
A few nods.
" Patience , perhaps? The willingness to wait six hours for a draught to simmer properly without stirring?"
More nods.
" Precision ?" He arched a brow. "The steady hand, the correct angle of stir, the instinct to stop just before over-boiling?"
One or two students raised their hands now. Slughorn waved them down kindly.
"Don't worry — no right answers today. Just thoughts." He let the silence sit for a moment, then leaned forward slightly.
"Can anyone become great at potions?" he asked. "Or is it a gift only a few possess?"
This time, someone up front — a Gryffindor girl with a confident voice — said, "I think it's about control. Magic's chaotic. Potions force it into structure."
"Excellent point," Slughorn said, nodding. "Structure! Yes, indeed — an elegant container for wildness."
He turned to the room. "What's more dangerous, then? A poorly brewed potion — or a poorly cast spell?"
A few scattered voices offered ideas. "A potion," someone muttered. "It can linger, spread." Another said, "A bad spell's instant — you don't get a second chance."
Then, from where most of the Ravenclaw's sat, a voice rang out with theatrical confidence:
"A poorly brewed potion, sir," said Gilderoy Lockhart, sitting tall with a gleam in his eye. "Because unlike a spell, it can affect entire populations. One vial in the wrong hands, and you've got a tragedy worthy of the Prophet's front page."
He smiled, clearly imagining his name in the headline.
Slughorn chuckled, amused. "Ah, Mr Lockhart. A dramatic answer — and not entirely wrong. Though I'd caution you: spells can be just as catastrophic, especially in the hands of someone who thinks flair is a substitute for focus."
A few students snickered. Lockhart's smile faltered for half a second, then returned with practiced charm.
"Of course, sir," he said smoothly. "But I do believe I'll be quite good at both."
At the back, Polaris watched quietly, quill motionless between his fingers. Beside him, Nathaniel tilted his head, then leaned in.
"I bet you've already got an answer," he whispered.
Polaris didn't respond at first.
He blinked slowly, eyes dragging across the blackboard without really reading it. His posture, though straight, carried a faint heaviness in the shoulders — the weight of a night spent not sleeping, and a morning spent pretending he had.
His quill twirled idly between his fingers, not out of thought, but boredom. He wasn't even looking at it. Just watching the shifting candlelight on the blackboard like it might rearrange itself into something worth paying attention to.
Then, softly — not for the class, but for Nathaniel — he said, almost as if to himself:
"A spell fades. A potion remembers."
Nathaniel blinked.
"What?"
Polaris still didn't look at him. His tone hadn't changed, but something in it felt… half-submerged. Like a thought pulled up from deep water, not quite fully surfaced.
He ran a hand through his hair — slow, distracted — and a faint frown pulled at his brow. His fingers lingered at his temple for a second too long, as if brushing away something he didn't want to name.
The ache was still there. It felt like it would never disappear.
"A spell miscast can be undone, countered, forgotten. But a potion, once absorbed — it becomes part of the body. It changes the blood. Alters thought. Corrupts memory. Some poisons don't kill you. They just rewrite you slowly."
Nathaniel stared at him for a moment, lips parting slightly.
"Bloody hell," he whispered. "You should teach the class."
Polaris gave the faintest twitch of a smirk. "I don't like hogging all the attention."
Nathaniel grinned. "Too late."
At the front, Slughorn's voice rang out again.
"Mr Black?"
Polaris blinked. Slowly looked up. "Yes, sir."
"What was it you said just now?"
A hush fell over the room. Even Willow turned slightly in her seat.
Her gaze flicked toward the back — casual at first, as if reacting to the sound of Polaris's voice like everyone else. But then it settled on Nathaniel, and her eyes narrowed.
Just slightly. Not in anger — not yet — but with the quiet weight of realization.
As if she hadn't quite expected him , of all people, to be sitting beside Polaris Black .
The moment passed. She turned forward again, too quickly to make a scene, but not quickly enough to hide the shift in her expression — something edged, something unreadable.
Polaris didn't fidget. He didn't even look surprised to be called on. He simply repeated, in a voice that was quiet but oddly resonant:
"A spell fades. A potion remembers."
Slughorn paused, then let out a deep, pleased chuckle. "Now that , my boy, is thinking like a true potioneer."
"Five points to Ravenclaw for that insight."
Slughorn clapped his hands again. "Potions are memory, yes — but also transformation, restoration, destruction, healing. They are the soul of subtlety and the science of precision. Over the next seven years, you'll learn to turn your own magic inward — not to throw or to shield, but to reshape. "
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"And if you're clever, and focused, and lucky — you might even leave here with your eyebrows intact."
A few chuckles followed. Quills began scratching again.
Polaris, still silent, added a single note to the corner of his page:
Potion as language. Not cast — consumed.
Nathaniel peered over. "What are you writing?" had he missed something was he supposed to write something down too was what Nathaniel wondered.
"Just a reminder." Polaris told him.
As the last of the chalk floated back into place on the board behind him, Slughorn dusted his hands together and faced the class with the air of someone delivering the final line of a well-rehearsed monologue.
"Potion-making," he said, "is an art, not a science—but like all art, it begins with understanding."
The words hung in the warm dungeon air, echoing just faintly off stone walls.
A few students scribbled the quote down, uncertain if it would be on a future test. Others simply looked thoughtful. A Gryffindor boy near the front leaned sideways and whispered something about "a bit dramatic," but not unkindly.
Slughorn smiled, clearly pleased with himself.
"For homework," he added, "I want you to write a short paragraph—no more than five inches of parchment—on which potion you'd most like to learn and why. Be honest. Passion is as important as precision in my classroom."
He turned, beginning to gather his materials as murmurs of parchment rustling and bag-strapping swept through the room.
"Hand it in by our next lesson," he added over his shoulder. "Points for originality, of course."
Nathaniel groaned lightly beside Polaris. "Five inches? How am I supposed to narrow it down to one potion?"
Polaris was already standing by the time Nathaniel reached for his inkpot.
He slipped his notebook into his satchel with practiced speed, eyes flicking briefly toward the door — not out of panic, but purpose. Slughorn had begun ushering students out with a genial wave, dismissing them an hour early. That was all the excuse Polaris needed.
"Pick the one that scares you most," he murmured, not turning around as he adjusted the strap of his bag.
Nathaniel blinked. "Why?"
Polaris gave a faint shrug, still facing away. His tone was dry — almost bored. "Because fear makes you curious. And curious people learn faster."
As if it was obvious. As if anyone with half a brain should already know that.
Then he was gone — slipping through the doorway before Nathaniel could ask another question.
Leaving behind a boy blinking after him with a lopsided, bewildered smile.
"Okay, Black," he muttered under his breath. "You might actually be cool."
Polaris moved fast as he walked through the corridor. Not hurried, but with a pace that dared interruption as he weaved through the other students.
The dungeon corridors were cool and quiet, disturbed only by the echo of his footsteps—until they weren't.
"Oi. Black. "
The voice came from behind, too loud, too casual.
Polaris didn't stop walking.
"You've got nerve," Rowle drawled, matching pace beside him now, taller by nearly a head and walking with the smug tilt of a fourth-year who thought that mattered. "Ravenclaw, though? Really? Bit of a letdown. Thought the House of Black had higher standards." Two other Slytherins flanked him—one of them already snickering.
Polaris didn't look at him. "Must've missed the part where I asked for your thoughts."
That earned a chuckle—low, condescending.
A few Ravenclaws slowed their steps, casting glances over their shoulders. Polaris kept walking.
Rowle matched his stride. "You planning on turning blood traitor like your brother, then?" Rowle's voice dipped as they turned the corner, less performative now. "Sirius seems eager to tear down everything your family built. You going to follow his lead, make a nice, dramatic declaration? Or are you just soft enough to end up where the Sorting Hat stuck you? Here you are—dragging your name through the floor like it means nothing."
That made Polaris pause.
Not abruptly. Just a smooth halt mid-stride, head turned slightly—enough to look at Rowle as if trying to decide whether he was worth the effort of acknowledging.
And in that pause—barely a breath long— rage bloomed .
How dare he?
It wasn't the insult to Sirius that burned. It was the insult to him . To the name Black . As if it could be dragged . As if it could be cheapened by the tie he wore or the corridor he walked.
Polaris had been taught, long before Hogwarts, how to hold his spine straight under scrutiny. How to wear his blood like a banner. How to speak little and listen well, because the Black name needed no defence—only reminders .
He'd been taught that the world was made of houses and names and vaults. And no one , not even a fourth-year with a chipped tooth and a louder mouth than mind, had the right to tread where he walked.
Rowle thought Polaris was soft.
Polaris almost smiled.
"Dragging it?" Polaris's voice was very soft. "No, Rowle. I'm carrying it. Something you'd understand if your surname meant more than mildew and Ministry scraps."
A few students actually gasped.
Rowle's smirk faltered.
Polaris turned to face him fully now, hands loose at his sides, expression unreadable. "You think putting on a green tie makes you powerful? You think name-dropping Sirius makes you dangerous?"
He stepped forward once, calm and slow.
"You don't understand the name Black. Not really. You think it's about politics. Blood. Slogans. It's not." His voice was growing sharper, colder. "It's about weight. Every galleon we own, every book, every death in our family tree has been earned —through fear, through brilliance, through silence. You want to be scary? Get a vault like ours. Build a name people flinch at in a courtroom. Until then—"
He looked Rowle up and down, expression flicking with faint disgust.
"—don't speak above your station."
It was like ice had settled into the corridor. Ravenclaws had stopped walking entirely. Even a couple of older Slytherins were watching now with narrowed eyes, lips twitching like they weren't sure if they should intervene or laugh.
Rowle's face twisted. "You arrogant little—!"
His wand was already in his hand before he finished the sentence.
"Don't."
The voice came from behind Polaris—Nathaniel, out of breath, still clutching the strap of his satchel as if he'd sprinted to catch up. "Don't be an idiot, Rowle."
Rowle's wand didn't lower. "He insulted me."
Polaris didn't blink. "No. I described you."
Rowle's wand hand twitched.
Polaris's was still at his side. His voice turned calm again. "Go on, then. Hex me. Attack a first-year. In public. In front of everyone here."
Several Ravenclaws were openly watching now. A Gryffindor whispered something. Laughter.
Rowle's knuckles whitened.
"You won't," Polaris added, almost gently. "Because deep down, you know what happens when people cross the Blacks."
The air had gone thin—tight with tension and unsaid threats. Rowle's wand hovered like a misplaced dagger, the muscles in his hand twitching with a decision he hadn't quite made.
Then:
"Oh, Rowle," came a drawl from just behind the crowd. "Did no one teach you how to lose with dignity?"
Heads turned fast.
Evan Rosier cut through the ring of onlookers like a blade through silk—fifth year, tall, sharp-featured, with a glint in his eye like he already knew where this was going. His prefect badge caught the light as he moved, but it wasn't what gave him power here.
It was his smile . Too charming. Too amused.
He strolled forward, hands in his pockets, voice velvet and venom. "Imagine pulling your wand on a first-year just because you couldn't win an argument. That's not bravery, Calren . That's desperation."
Laughter, again—closer this time, more confident now that Evan had arrived.
Rowle flushed. "He insulted—"
" Insulted? " Evan cut in, tone light as if he might start laughing. "No, darling. He educated you. Be grateful. Merlin knows no one else in your bloodline bothered."
A few Slytherins actually gasped this time. One snorted and covered it with a cough.
Polaris didn't move, just watched with something unreadable in his expression—like he was studying Evan the way one might study fire: beautiful, bright, and best not touched.
Evan's eyes flicked briefly to him. "You alright, Black?"
Polaris gave a slow, near-imperceptible nod. "Perfectly."
Evan turned back to Rowle. The smile dropped half a degree—enough to freeze the air around them.
"Then I'll make this easy for you," he said. "Apologise."
Rowle stared. "You're joking."
Evan's grin widened just slightly. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
Rowle didn't answer. His eyes darted to the Ravenclaws, to the Slytherins behind Evan, to the Gryffindor staring at his wand, to the wand in his hand that suddenly felt very useless.
"You'd take his side?" Rowle spat. "A Ravenclaw?"
"No." Evan stepped closer, voice dropping low enough only Rowle—and Polaris—could hear. "I'm taking Regulus's side. And if you don't think that means defending his brother, then maybe you've forgotten what House you belong to."
Rowle's bravado cracked. There was a moment—just one—where he looked like he might try it anyway.
Evan tilted his head, eyes glinting. "Go on, Calren . Show everyone how brave you are. Pick a fight you can't win."
Rowle's jaw clenched.
Then, with the stiffness of someone choking down boiling tar, he muttered, "Sorry."
Louder this time, under Evan's glare. "Sorry, Black."
Polaris tilted his head slightly. "Accepted," he said, voice cool as marble. "Though next time, try to mean it."
Evan laughed. "Careful, Rowle. If the first-years are schooling you this early in the year, what does that say about your prospects?"
There was nothing more to say. Rowle turned, face like thunder, and shoved past the gathering crowd.
Evan lingered only a second longer, then turned back to Polaris with a wink. "Well handled. He nearly cried."
Polaris blinked. "You helped."
Evan's grin sharpened. "Of course I did. You're Regulus's baby brother. That makes you family." He paused. "And besides... you've got promise. Shame about the tie."
With a parting smirk, he vanished into the crowd.
Nathaniel watched him go, then turned to Polaris.
"Okay," he said. "I take it back. You're not cool. You're terrifying. "
Polaris looked at him a moment, considering something then.
"You spoke," Polaris said quietly. "When Rowle pulled his wand. You said something."
Nathaniel blinked. "Well—yeah. I wasn't going to just stand there and let him curse you."
"It wouldn't have landed," Polaris replied, like it was fact.
"That's not the point." Nathaniel responded.
Polaris tilted his head. "No. It isn't."
There was a beat of silence. Footsteps echoed ahead of them, the crowd thinning now as they reached the stairs.
"Why did you say anything?" Polaris asked, voice even. "You didn't have to. It wasn't your fight."
Nathaniel blinked again. "Because it was wrong?"
Polaris didn't respond.
So Nathaniel shrugged. "And because you told me in class that fear makes people curious. I guess I was curious what would happen if I said something."
Polaris studied him another moment. Then turned his eyes back to the path ahead.
"Hm."
It wasn't approval.
But it wasn't dismissal either.
Polaris exhaled softly through his nose. Barely a breath.
"You can call me Polaris," he said.
Nathaniel blinked. Then smiled—wide and sudden. "Really?"
Polaris gave a small nod. Almost imperceptible.
"Well in that case," Nathaniel said, trying and failing to sound casual, "you have to call me Nate. All my friends do. Except my cousin, but she's weird."
Polaris looked faintly amused. "Nate," he echoed, testing the sound of it like it was a new word in a new language.
"Exactly," Nate said, visibly pleased.
They rounded a corner, footsteps echoing against the stone floor. Nate, clearly unable to leave silence alone, glanced sideways. "So, uh—do you like Quidditch?"
Polaris didn't answer right away. Not because he didn't know. But because the question caught him off guard in a way he didn't want to admit.
"I do," he said finally. "I follow the League. I like the strategy."
"Strategy?" Nate laughed. "That's such a Ravenclaw answer."
Polaris looked at him. "You asked."
"Fair." Nate kicked a loose pebble down the corridor. "What position?"
"Chaser," Polaris said without hesitation.
"Ha! I knew it. You've got that—'I'll score and make it look easy while everyone else is still blinking' energy."
Polaris blinked slowly. "That's not a real description."
"No, but it should be."
Polaris didn't smile. Not fully. But his mouth twitched just faintly, the corners drawn by something unspoken.
"When's your flying lesson?" Nate asked, after a beat. "Mine's Wednesday morning."
"Friday," Polaris answered.
"Shame. Would've been fun to fly together." Nate squinted at him. "Wait, what broom do you have at home?"
"Cleansweep," Polaris said. "Six."
"Nice," Nate said, clearly impressed. "Solid broom. My parents got me a Nimbus 1000 last year. Think they were trying to bribe me into not setting fire to the greenhouse again."
Polaris gave him a mildly alarmed look.
Nate grinned. "Long story."
There was a pause, but Polaris didn't look away, instead smiled lightly before he said. "I want to hear it."
Nate blinked. Then grinned wider, the kind of grin that could pull people into orbit.
"Well," he said, "it involves a jar of doxy eggs, a dare, and a very unfortunate puffskein."
Polaris raised an eyebrow.
"Exactly," Nate said, nodding solemnly. "Truly tragic."
Polaris made a small sound—almost a laugh. Not quite. But it was there, just beneath the surface, like thaw beneath snow.
They kept walking, steps light now, easy. The air between them had changed—less like two first-years thrown together by chance, and more like... something starting. Something simple. Uncomplicated. And Polaris wasn't sure when the shift had happened, only that it had.
He wasn't used to this.
Talking without caution. Without weighing the risk of every word.
With Corvus and Bastian, it was different. They were his. Trusted. Bound to him in ways no one else was. But even with them, there were unspoken lines—places they didn't touch, silences they didn't break. And outside of them? Everyone else was just a storm to weather. A performance to keep up. Always watch what you say. Always know who's listening.
But Nate... wasn't trying to use him. Or impress him. Or report anything back.
He was just... talking.
By lunchtime, the tension from the morning had thinned. Two classes in, timetables handed out, and the sharp edge of the first day had dulled to something more manageable. Gossip that moved faster than owls. Polaris had barely stepped inside before he was intercepted.
"Finally," came a voice at his side, low and impatient. "Come on."
Corvus Avery didn't wait for a reply—he just caught Polaris by the sleeve and tugged him in the direction of the Slytherin table like this was something they'd already discussed and Polaris was simply behind schedule.
Polaris went without protest.
They passed the Ravenclaw table, where a few students glanced up—one of the boys from his dorm raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Across the hall, Polaris briefly caught sight of Nathaniel at the Gryffindor table, animatedly recounting something with hand gestures far too big for the space.
He didn't stop walking.
Corvus dropped onto the bench near the middle of the Slytherin table, and Polaris slid in beside him, movement smooth and practiced, like it was second nature.
It wasn't. But it would be.
Polaris's eyes scanned the hall automatically—habitual, assessing. A few students looked their way. Most didn't.
"So," he murmured, under the clatter of plates and hum of chatter. "Is anyone going to say anything?"
Corvus didn't look up from where he was reaching for a goblet. "About you sitting here?" He snorted. "Potter is already at the Gryffindor table like she's one of them. So no, I doubt anyone's going to bat an eye at a Black sitting with Slytherins. Might even assume you belong here."
Polaris glanced sideways and nearly rolled his eyes. Pinned proudly to Corvus's robes was a Ballycastle Bats badge — glinting like it was a mark of noble heritage, not blind loyalty to a team that played like a band of concussed Bludgers.
Of course he was wearing it.
Polaris raised an eyebrow, lips tilting into something dry. "Comforting."
Corvus finally looked at him, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Don't worry, we'll let you borrow some green if it makes you feel more at home."
Polaris glanced down at his tie—blue and bronze stark against the sea of green around him. "Maybe I'll enchant it to match. Blend in."
"Don't," Bastian said from beside Corvus the table, stabbing a roasted parsnip with unnecessary force. "Your house would probably send a search party."
Polaris almost smirked. "Would they?"
Corvus leaned in slightly. "If they're smart? Yes. You're an asset. If not—well, you've always got us."
Here, things moved fast. Judgements were passed in the flick of a gaze. And yet—
"Look who finally came home," someone purred.
Polaris turned to find Elora Parkinson perched across from him, fork delicately balanced between fingers polished to perfection. Her pale green eyes flicked over him like she was deciding if he'd grown into his bones since the last time she saw him.
"Took you long enough," she added. "We were starting to think you'd gotten lost in a library and died under a pile of books."
"I probably would've," Polaris said evenly, "if Corvus hadn't dragged me."
Corvus made a grand shrug beside him. "You're welcome."
Another voice joined in—low, smooth, with just the edge of curiosity. "Is it true, then? That you're the one who put Rowle in his place this morning?"
Polaris glanced up. Kalen Nott sat a few seats down, posture straight, gaze level. He hadn't raised his voice—he didn't need to. The table quieted a little, the space around him pulling inward like a held breath.
"Rowle's not even here," said a third Slytherin, a boy with sandy hair Polaris vaguely remembered from last year's Parkinson gathering. "Skipped lunch altogether. Rosier's been laughing about it all morning."
"Elora nearly spat pumpkin juice when she heard," Corvus added.
"I did not," Elora said coolly. "I sipped it very elegantly. Unlike Rowle, who chokes on his own self-importance."
She leaned forward slightly, chin in hand, expression sharp with interest. "Come on, Polaris. Tell us. Did he really pull his wand and nearly cry when Evan showed up?"
Polaris didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth tilted. "He did pull his wand."
A satisfied hum rose around the table.
"I knew it," Elora said, triumphant. "And you didn't even point your wand. That's the part that really gets me. You just stood there, all quiet and dramatic, and spoke ."
"It's always the quiet ones," said someone else, half-laughing.
"You are very quiet," Elora added, with the air of an accusation disguised as charm. "You never introduce yourself, have you noticed? You wait for people to do it first. That's why you don't have any friends in Ravenclaw."
That earned a few snickers from nearby.
Polaris blinked. "I… do that?"
Elora arched a brow. "You absolutely do."
He frowned faintly, thoughtful now. She was right. He did tend to wait. Hold back. He'd done it before—even then, with someone who hadn't minded. It wasn't meant to be rude. It just… didn't occur to him. Or maybe it had become a habit. A kind of armoured courtesy, inherited and worn too often.
"Suppose I should fix that," he murmured.
Elora smiled, victorious. "You should."
Polaris picked up his goblet, then added, almost offhand, "I think I'm friends with Senna Greengrass."
"'Think?'" Corvus repeated.
"She sat beside me in Astronomy," Polaris said. "We talked about star charts and wand wood."
"Stars and wand wood," Elora echoed, unimpressed. "Well. That's positively thrilling."
"She said Sagittarius is a fire sign, but I said technically it's ruled by Jupiter, so it's more complicated."
Corvus snorted. "Scandalous. Truly riveting social ground you're breaking."
From beside them, Bastian stirred just enough to speak. "If that's how you make friends, I fear for the rest of us."
Polaris glanced over. "It was a long class."
"I'm sure it felt longer for her," Bastian said flatly, then sipped his drink without blinking.
Elora sighed, sitting back. "Merlin, we have work to do."
Polaris huffed—a short, amused breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
Elora caught it, narrowed her eyes like she'd just spotted something rare. "Was that a laugh , Black?"
Polaris raised a brow. "Might've been."
Elora leaned back with a theatrical sigh. "Merlin, we definitely have work to do."
That got a snort from Corvus and a muffled laugh from someone further down the table.
Polaris shook his head faintly, still amused, but his eyes flicked across the Slytherin table again.
A boy sat near the end — dark hair, a lean frame, space carved between him and the others like a border drawn in silence. No one looked at him. He didn't look at anyone.
Polaris's eyes lingered for a moment, then moved on.
"Have any of you seen Regulus?" he asked, tone more curious than concerned. "I haven't spotted him in a while."
That caught Corvus's attention. "Not at all?"
Polaris shook his head.
There was a pause. Then, from further down the bench, Kalen spoke—calm, quiet, like he'd been waiting to be asked. "I passed him on the way out of the common room before lunch. He was with Crouch and Rosier. Rowle, too."
Polaris blinked. "Rowle?"
"Didn't look like a friendly reunion," Kalen added, casual as if discussing the weather. "Regulus said something. Crouch and Rosier laughed. Rowle didn't."
Corvus immediately leaned across the table, eyes sharp with interest. "What kind of not-friendly? Like scolding? Threats? Passive-aggressive glares? Come on, Nott—details."
Kalen raised a brow. "I wasn't eavesdropping."
"You're always eavesdropping," Elora said, practically buzzing now. "You just pretend you're not because you're quiet and broody."
Corvus nodded, backing her up. "Exactly. You look like you're studying your shoelaces, but you're definitely recording conversations to use later."
Kalen looked mildly offended. "I was walking. I overheard. That's different."
"Semantics," Elora said with a dismissive wave, then turned to Polaris. "Your brother and Crouch are close, aren't they?"
Polaris shrugged, though his expression was thoughtful. "Regulus talks about him sometimes, but not in a way that says much."
"Which means everything," Elora said knowingly.
Corvus leaned in again. "Did they look tense? Did Rowle look hexed? Are we thinking fallout from this morning?"
Kalen sipped his water with the serenity of someone who enjoyed letting other people froth. "Rosier looked amused. That's all I can tell you."
"That definitely means something happened," Elora said at once. "I heard the Rosier heir never gets involved unless it's interesting."
"Or dramatic," Corvus added. "Or both."
Bastian rolled his eyes faintly. "Or because Rosier likes to be seen. Even boredom can be a performance."
Polaris watched them with quiet bemusement, sipping his pumpkin juice while they theorised like seasoned gossip columnists. There was something oddly reassuring about it—the way they took every scrap of information and twisted it like taffy until it fit into something sharp and delicious.
Elora's gaze drifted past him then, toward the Ravenclaw table. "Speaking of twists," she murmured, "has Greengrass made many friends yet?"
Polaris followed her line of sight. Senna was seated at the Ravenclaw table, wedged comfortably between two girls—one with thick curls and ink-stained sleeves, the other laughing at something Senna had just said. Her hands moved as she spoke, animated, confident, perfectly at ease.
"She looks fine," Polaris said, quietly.
Elora gave a small nod, more thoughtful than jealous. "I suppose she would be. She adapts faster than most. Still," she added with a sigh, "it's a shame she wasn't sorted here."
"She seems happy where she is," Bastian said simply.
Elora didn't argue, but her eyes lingered a moment longer.
Corvus caught the look and grinned like a wolf with a secret. "Merlin, you're sulking."
"I am not ," Elora said at once, straightening.
"Oh, you are," he said, delighted. "Look at you. Jealous because Senna's got new friends who aren't you. What is it now—abandonment? Betrayal? Existential crisis?"
"I just think it's a waste ," Elora said icily. "She could've ruled Slytherin in a month."
"You mean you could've ruled Slytherin with her ," Corvus corrected. "Don't worry, I'm sure she still thinks of you fondly between giggles and friendship bracelets."
Elora shot him a look of such disdain it could've melted goblets. "Unlike you, I'm not threatened by other people's social lives."
Bastian didn't even look up. "You absolutely are."
Polaris, still watching the Ravenclaw table, murmured, "They seem like nice girls."
"Oh, they do ," Elora said, sniffing like it offended her personally. "All soft cardigans and shared ink pots. Disgusting."
Corvus let out a bark of laughter, loud enough to draw a few curious glances.
Polaris huffed quietly, lips tilting. "You miss her."
Elora rolled her eyes skyward. "She was more tolerable when she only liked me ."
Bastian, now watching Polaris more than the table, spoke low enough not to be overheard. "Are you still getting headaches?"
Polaris didn't look at him. Just took another sip of pumpkin juice. "Not really."
Bastian raised a brow. "That means yes, doesn't it?"
Polaris hesitated. "That means I'm getting better at ignoring them."
Bastian hummed, unimpressed. "Ah. The 'ignore it until it stops existing' strategy. Very effective. Ask any dead man."
"I'll consider dying later," Polaris said dryly.
But the word dying stuck for half a beat too long in his throat, like it didn't sit right on his tongue. He took another sip.
"You'd schedule your own funeral just to avoid small talk."
"I'd put it in writing," Polaris said, "with a note that says, 'don't invite anyone who makes noise.'"
Corvus, half-listening now, leaned in. "If you two are planning a funeral, I want to be in charge of music. Something dramatic. Something loud."
Polaris didn't even blink. "Perfect. You can be buried with me."
Bastian smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "At least then he'll be quiet."
That earned a groan from Corvus and a satisfied clink of Bastian's goblet.
After a moment, Polaris leaned slightly toward Bastian—not enough to draw attention, just enough to be heard. "Have you seen the Grey Lady?"
Bastian shook his head once. "No. Why?"
Polaris didn't answer right away. Just looked vaguely down the length of the Great Hall, like he might spot her floating between the banners. He hadn't seen her since term started. It wasn't urgent, exactly. Just… odd.
"Is that the Ravenclaw ghost?" Elora asked, picking up on it. "I haven't seen her yet. Heard she's standoffish."
"She's not standoffish," Polaris said quietly. "Just particular, I think."
"I like her already," Bastian muttered.
"No one's seen her," Corvus chimed in. "But guess who has made a grand entrance? Peeves."
Polaris looked over, intrigued. "I haven't seen him yet."
"Oh, you will ," Corvus groaned, clutching his chest like wounded prey. "You'll hear him first. The clanging. The howling. The singing. Merlin help you if you make eye contact—he'll haunt you like a lovesick banshee. He was in the dungeon last night."
"He tried to glue my shoes to the ceiling," Elora said, bored. "In the middle of Charms."
"He threw an entire suit of armour at me," Corvus countered. " An entire suit. For blinking too loud after Charms . "
Polaris blinked. "How does one blink loudly?"
"That's what I said!" Corvus wailed. "Apparently with great offense."
Bastian deadpanned, "You do have aggressive eyelids."
The laugh escaped Polaris before he could stop it—low, quick, too real to pretend otherwise.
Corvus paused mid-rant, eyes wide with mock astonishment. "Merlin's beard. Was that laughter ? From you ?"
Elora leaned in like she was spotting a unicorn. "Quick, someone write it down. We've witnessed a miracle."
Polaris just shook his head, the trace of a smile lingering. "You're all ridiculous."
Bastian, unbothered, took another sip of water. "Takes one to sit with us."
As the table settled into the low hum of late-lunch chatter, Elora squinted at Corvus, eyebrows drawn.
"Wait—what is that on your robes?"
Corvus looked down. "What—this?" He tapped the pin on his chest with a bit too much pride. "Ballycastle Bats. Best team in the league."
Elora looked vaguely horrified. "You still support them ?"
"Obviously."
"They're— chaos incarnate. I swear one of their Beaters uses a bat like a club."
"That's called versatility."
Polaris didn't even glance up from his plate. "That's called flailing."
Corvus gave him a long sigh, he knew all too well what was coming next.
Polaris finally looked up, expression perfectly neutral. "Puddlemere plays with actual strategy. Not whatever it is your Keeper thinks he's doing when he starts spinning in circles."
"Oh, come off it—"
"He's right," Bastian added, unfazed. "Puddlemere's formation's tighter this season. They've only let in ten goals in their last four matches."
Corvus made a strangled noise. " Et tu, Bastian? "
Elora smirked. "Well. At least that explains the personality."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She gave him an innocent look. "You support the Bats. That level of delusion's got to come from somewhere."
Polaris hummed in agreement, just loud enough for Corvus to hear. "It's tragic, really."
Corvus clutched his chest like he'd been mortally wounded. "This is slander. I am surrounded by traitors and philistines."
"No," Bastian said mildly. "You're surrounded by people with taste."
Polaris bit back another laugh.