[8,931 words]
January 3rd, 1976, Saturday
The Ravenclaw common room still carried the hush of a castle returning to rhythm. Luggage sat half-unpacked at the foot of neatly made beds, timetables had been freshly pinned beside the noticeboards. Saturday morning crept in under a grey sky, the lake outside flickering with soft, silvery light. Somewhere in the distance, the castle clock chimed ten.
In one corner of the room, tucked between two armchairs and a shelf of rarely borrowed alchemy texts, three first-year girls huddled close together. Their heads were nearly touching. One had an arm curled protectively around a warm mug, another sat on the edge of her seat like she was listening for footsteps. The third kept glancing over her shoulder every few seconds, dark eyes wide.
"Did you see him at breakfast?" the tallest girl whispered, eyes darting toward the staircase to the boys' dorms. "It's—gone. Like, completely gone."
Giggling, muffled. The girl with dark hair leaned forward, eyes gleaming with nervous delight. "I thought it was someone else at first. He looked— weird , didn't he? Not bad, just… not like him."
"He always looked a bit dead, though," offered the smallest of the three. "But yeah, now it's like—his whole face is different. I liked his hair. It was all wavy and— soft-looking."
"Do you think he cut it? Like on purpose?"
"Why would he do that?" said the tall one, brows lifted high. "He had good hair. Proper old family hair. It probably even did that thing where it floats when he walks."
They all laughed again, softer this time, nervous. Another glance toward the door.
"Maybe it was a spell gone wrong," the dark-haired girl murmured. "Or maybe—maybe he's trying to look scary now. You know. Since—well, you know."
The others fell quiet for a moment. A silence of held breath.
Then, with a shrug: "Still doesn't look bad. Just... too in your face. Like he'd hex you if you stared too long."
"Yeah," said the smallest. "Maybe that's the point."
"Actually," the smallest girl whispered, leaning in again, "apparently yesterday someone saw him hex a second-year. Right in the corridor. Just—bam. Over a hair joke."
"No way," said the tall one, eyes wide. "Are you serious?"
"That's what Isla said," she insisted. "He hexed the boy's eyebrows off. Or turned them green. Or maybe they caught fire. I dunno—something hex-y."
"I don't believe it," said the dark-haired girl, though her voice was hushed with uncertainty. "He's quiet. Creepy sometimes but not mean."
"That's not what it felt like when I tried asking him a question in Transfiguration," said the smallest. "I just wanted help, since he always understands everything. But he looked at me like I was stupid and didn't say a word. The Gryffindor boy who usually sits near him answered instead."
"Oh—yeah, I remember that," said the tall girl, frowning. "That was so awkward."
The dark-haired girl bit her lip. "Okay, but... he does that to a lot of people. Maybe it's just how he is? Like... maybe he's not trying to be rude."
"I said hi once," the taller one added, a bit quieter. "He just walked right past. Didn't even blink. I felt so dumb."
"I mean, he is a Black," the dark- haired one muttered. "Those lot all act like the rest of us are nothing."
"Still doesn't mean you have to hex people over a joke," said the smallest.
The others nodded, but slowly. No one seemed entirely sure anymore.
Then the tall one leaned back slightly, voice low. "Did he get in trouble?"
"Apparently not. Professor Slughorn saw it and just sort of... waved it off. Said it was 'harmless fun', and the other boy was probably playing along."
"Of course he did," muttered the dark-haired one. "Why do pure-bloods from the oldest families always get let off with a tap on the wrist?"
"It's always them," said the smallest. "Anyone else would've had detention or lost points or—something."
"They act like it's charming ," said the tall one, twisting the fabric of her sleeve. "Like—oh, boys will be boys. Hexing each other for fun. Why not throw in a dragon taming session before cereal?"
They all went quiet again, listening to the crackle of the fireplace. Then a flurry of motion—the dark-haired girl straightened, eyes widening. "Shh—someone's coming."
And just like that, the little circle scattered, mugs grabbed, and books pulled up as props. But their eyes still flicked toward the stairwell, toward the shadow of someone who wasn't there.
— ❈ —
They sat curled into the alcove of a wide stone window, legs drawn up, the chill from the glass seeping pleasantly into their socks. Outside, the lake shimmered in the dark like a sleeping creature, half-moonlight scattered across its back. Inside, the castle was quiet — post-dinner hush, the kind that made even distant footsteps sound important.
Amaya was braiding Nia's hair with gentle, practiced fingers, the curls slipping through her hands like ribbon. Nia sat very still, hands in her lap, eyes on nothing.
"I saw him yesterday," she said finally, voice soft.
Amaya didn't ask who.
"Just before dinner. I was coming down the stairs and he was—he was right there, heading up. I tried to talk to him again. Just to say sorry. But he walked right past me. Like I wasn't even—" She shrugged. "Like I wasn't there."
Amaya paused in her braiding, fingers loosely holding the next section. "Nia…"
"I know," Nia said quickly, blinking down at her hands. "I shouldn't care. You're going to say that. That I shouldn't beg to be someone's friend. That it's pathetic or something—"
"I wasn't going to say that," Amaya said, tugging gently. "But it is weird how much it matters to you."
Nia twisted around slightly, enough to glance at her. Her voice dropped lower. "Because it was my fault."
Amaya's hands stilled.
"I ruined it. We were fine, and then I said that thing—about how he's different. About Doyle, remember? I didn't mean it to sound like I was judging him, but it did. And he just... shut off. I should've kept my mouth shut. It wasn't even my business. I don't even like Doyle. He's annoying and always says mean things, and I was trying to say that, but I made it sound like I thought Polaris was the same."
She exhaled sharply, as if she'd been holding it in for days. "And now he won't even look at me."
Amaya resumed the braid slowly, more careful now. "Maybe it's not just you."
Nia glanced back, confused.
"I mean, yesterday before dinner, I saw that Gryffindor—Sayre?—try to talk to him near the stairs to the Astronomy Tower. And he got completely ignored. Like, full-body silence." Amaya raised an eyebrow. "Honestly, he looked kind of sad."
Nia didn't respond. She just tucked her chin closer to her knees.
A few moments passed in silence, the braid nearly finished. Then Amaya's eyes shifted toward the corridor below.
"Don't look now," she murmured. "He's coming."
Nia stiffened. Her back straightened instinctively, and then she shrank inward again, turning slightly so her face was hidden in the folds of her sweater. Her heart skipped the way it always did when embarrassment met hope — stupid hope — and knew it shouldn't still exist.
Polaris passed in silence; footsteps light but steady. He didn't glance up.
His shoulders were hunched, like the light from the sconces was too bright. Or maybe the cold had gotten under his skin.
When he turned the corner, Amaya leaned forward, peering after him still curious about his hairstyle choice.
"Wait... has he always had that scar?" she asked. "On the side of his head?"
Nia didn't look. Didn't want to. She pressed her forehead to the stone and closed her eyes.
"I don't care," she muttered.
But her voice cracked just a little when she said it.
January 7th, 1976, Wednesday
"…and of course, once the Dittany leaves have been properly dried, they must be sealed in an airtight jar immediately ," Professor Sprout was saying, her voice as bright and bouncy as ever despite the early hour. "Otherwise, they lose their potency and—heavens, we wouldn't want that, now, would we?"
Senna barely blinked. Her chin was resting heavily on her hand; elbow balanced on the worn edge of the wooden bench. Her eyes were fixed somewhere beyond the greenhouse glass, watching the grey morning mist unravel across the distant treetops.
Next to her, Corvus wasn't any more invested in the lesson, but his attention wasn't on the window. It was on the front row. More specifically, on Polaris, who sat upright, hands neatly folded, eyes straight ahead, not taking a single note.
Sprout's voice chirped on, undeterred. "Now Dittany is famously difficult to cultivate in poor soil, which is why we use a specially enriched compost—oh! And be careful not to overwater—"
Corvus leaned toward Senna suddenly, keeping his voice low. "Has he said much to you since we got back?"
Senna raised a brow, turning her head slowly. "Who?"
"Polaris."
"Oh." She glanced toward the front row herself, lips tugging downward slightly. "Not really."
Corvus raised an eyebrow. "You're in the same house."
"So? Doesn't matter." Senna shrugged, eyes following the slow rise and fall of Polaris's shoulder blades. "Feels like I have to drag the words out of him. He's… distracted. I dunno. Just off."
She muttered it under her breath, her tone dulled by the same boredom she'd given Sprout's lecture. Corvus didn't answer straight away. He just looked back toward Polaris, frowning faintly.
She hesitated, then added, "He used to always sketch in front of the fireplace. Nearly every night last term. Haven't seen him do it once since we got back."
Her voice dropped slightly on the last part.
"Like he's still here, but not really here."
Up front, Professor Sprout clapped her gloved hands together with the finality of someone very pleased with her own lesson. "And that's Dittany done! Now, let's move on to identifying key root systems. Pass your samples forward, dears, and no squabbling this time!"
Senna groaned quietly and slouched lower.
Professor Sprout, unfazed as ever, clapped her gloved hands together. "Mr Black, dear, would you fetch the preservation powder from the storage cupboard? Just to your left—the green tin on the second shelf."
She was already moving down the aisle before she finished the sentence, still chattering cheerfully about root preservation and fungal resistance.
Polaris didn't move.
He was staring at the cupboard door.
Just the door.
His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out Sprout's voice, drowning out everything. His fingers twitched against the table.
Aurelia, seated just to his right, made a face. "Are you deaf, or did you forget how legs work?"
He didn't respond. He only stiffened further; fingers still curled around the edge of their desk.
She rolled her eyes in full performance mode. "Ugh, I'll get it then. Merlin, forbid you sprain something."
Aurelia stood in a flourish, partly to save the moment, partly—if she was honest—to score another point in Sprout's imaginary star chart. Herbology was her favourite, after all. She flicked her hair back over her shoulder and called over her shoulder with a smirk, "Scaredy cat."
The cupboard creaked open with a light groan. It was tighter than she expected — packed with supplies, rows of labelled jars and tins stacked beside gloves, trimming shears, bundles of dried leaves tied with twine. She crouched in, half-turned toward the shelves.
Polaris's jaw clenched.
He was not scared.
He was not.
It was a cupboard. It was lit. It wasn't even dark in there.
His knuckles went white. Then, abruptly, he stood, his chair scraping against the floor with a sharp screech.
He crossed the short distance to the cupboard in three clipped strides.
It's fine , he told himself. It's not even dark. It's not dark at all. The cupboard was fully lit. The shelves were low. Nothing's going to happen. It's fine.
His breath hitched. The cupboard was too small. Too close.
Inside, Aurelia had already spotted the tin. She lit up. "There it is," she said brightly, reaching up.
At the same moment, Polaris reached too. Their hands brushed.
Polaris flinched—violently.
The tin slipped from her grip, hit the edge of the shelf, and clattered to the floor, popping open as it struck.
Powder burst out in a soft, dusty cloud as it hit the floor.
For a moment, it wasn't Herbology. It was the basement. The dark. The breath he couldn't catch.
"Watch it—!" Aurelia started, but the words hadn't even fully formed when he shoved her.
He didn't mean to. He just moved—too fast, too hard—before he could stop himself.
Aurelia stumbled back with a yelp, crashing into the side of the cabinet. A sharp edge caught her cheek. She winced, hand flying up to cover it, her breath shallow.
Polaris was already backing out. Already breathing too fast. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts as he stepped out of the cupboard, not looking at her, not looking at anything. Just away.
A few heads turned.
A tin clinked again as it rolled to a stop.
Sprout paused mid-sentence. "Everything alright up there?"
Polaris didn't answer. He stood just outside the cupboard, back to the room, shoulders rigid, chest rising and falling like he couldn't get enough air.
Aurelia emerged a second later, hand pressed to her cheek, eyes narrowed. A thin red line ran down her skin, bright against her face.
She looked at Polaris once. He still hadn't looked at her.
Then she turned to Sprout with a lightness that didn't quite reach her voice.
"Sorry, Professor. Dropped the tin. I'll clean it up."
Sprout blinked, half-convinced, half-concerned. "Oh. Alright then—just be careful, it's temperamental once exposed to moisture."
Aurelia nodded, crouching to pick up the tin. Her eyes flicked toward Polaris again—who, strangely enough, wasn't looking at her, or the cupboard, or anyone else. He was just staring at his hands, fingers slack, as if he didn't quite recognize them.
Aurelia scoffed under her breath. "Weirdo."
She didn't say it loud enough for anyone to hear—maybe not even herself—but it slipped out all the same. Then she bent to gather the spilled powder, mouth pressed into a thin line.
The class ended with a chorus of scraping stools and scattered chatter, Professor Sprout waving them off with her usual cheer.
Aurelia stood, throwing parchment into her satchel. She hadn't said another word to Polaris since the incident—hadn't looked at him, either, though he'd felt the weight of her silence all throughout the rest of the lesson.
Polaris watched her pack up, his own movements stiff. He hadn't taken notes for the second half of class just like he hadn't for the first half, hadn't touched the root samples Sprout handed out.
He moved before he could talk himself out of it.
"Potter—"
She didn't look up.
"I'm… sorry," he said, the words slow and awkward, like he was pulling them out from under something heavy. "I didn't mean—"
She snapped the buckle on her bag shut and finally turned to face him.
"What?" she said, sharp. "Going to push me again? Because a blood traitor touched you?"
The words hit with more accuracy than she probably knew.
Polaris flinched—not physically this time, but something in his eyes pulled back, shuttered hard. His mouth opened like he might defend himself, but he couldn't find the language for it. The air between them turned brittle.
"I was trying to apologise," he said, tone tightening, like he couldn't quite believe he had to explain that.
But Aurelia was already done with the conversation. She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, stepping past him like he wasn't even worth the breath.
"Andrew," she called, raising her voice slightly. "Want to come with me to the infirmary? This thing stings like hell."
The Slytherin boy glanced at her cheek as he stood — the red line was thin was hard to miss. He looked up from where he was brushing soil off his robes and quickly moved to her side, throwing Polaris a wary glance as he did.
Aurelia didn't wait for Polaris to say anything else.
She walked out with her chin high, a red line gleaming against her skin and a wall firmly back in place.
Polaris stood alone beside their shared table, fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms.
Then, a familiar presence at his side.
Corvus didn't say anything at first. He just reached across the table and began packing Polaris's things with an efficient, practiced calm—closing his ink bottle, stacking his parchment, sliding the textbook into his bag.
Nearby, Senna and Sylvan waited just outside the greenhouse, murmuring to each other in the low tones of students who didn't quite know what had happened, but had definitely noticed something.
Corvus closed the satchel and nudged it gently toward Polaris. "You want to meet up after next period?" he asked, voice low. Casual, almost — but not careless.
Polaris stared at him for a long moment.
Then, without looking away, he muttered, "I've got things. I don't know. Maybe."
Corvus didn't blink. He nodded like he expected that — like he'd already guessed that whatever happened over the break hadn't left Polaris untouched. But instead of pulling back, he shifted gears.
"Aura got us Yule gifts," he said offhandedly, adjusting the strap of his bag. "Apparently… the same one. Said we're meant to open them together or something."
That caught.
Polaris's expression flickered. His shoulders, still stiff from the cupboard, the class, the blood, eased just slightly. "She got me something too?"
Corvus shrugged, a quiet smile ghosting his lips. "Apparently."
Polaris looked down at his hands — the crescent marks from his nails still red along his skin — then back at Corvus. His voice, when it came, was soft. "Alright. After next period."
Corvus gave a single, small nod. No victory in it. Just understanding.
— ❈ —
The Astronomy Tower's indoor alcove still carried the faint chill of winter despite its enchanted glass shielding the wind. Laughter echoed faintly from a corner where a pair of Gryffindors were arguing about retrograde motion, while a Ravenclaw third-year cast warming charms over her inkpot with intense concentration.
Corvus dropped into the seat beside Polaris with a familiar sort of flair, like he'd just made a grand escape from something profoundly dull. "You will not believe how close I came to falling asleep in Binns's class. Again. I'm nearly convinced he's a ghost only so he can't be arrested for magical cruelty."
He pulled a neatly wrapped box from beneath his cloak and slid it toward Polaris across the table.
Polaris raised an eyebrow, already noting the craftsmanship. The runes etched into the edges shimmered faintly beneath the dim light — precision work, the kind only commissioned by old families with even older vaults.
"Two-way mirrors," Corvus said, grinning like a cat who'd just discovered a sunbeam and a secret. He clearly decided to have a peek beforehand. "Custom-made. Courtesy of Cousin Aura, who says we're 'terrible at owling.' Apparently, this is her solution. Honestly, I think she just wanted me to stop writing over her best parchment."
His fingers hovered over the glass, hesitant. Like it might reflect something he wasn't ready to see.
Polaris turned the mirror over in his hand. The charmwork was subtle — no garish flashes, no obvious glyphs. Just power layered cleanly beneath smooth obsidian glass. "I actually thought about these once," he murmured. "Didn't think to ask."
"Clearly, we just needed a nosy Slytherin cousin with an imagination and too much spending money."
Polaris huffed — A breath that might've been a laugh. Or just air escaping — then lowered his voice. He glanced around, checking for eavesdroppers before leaning in, his fingers still brushing the mirror's edge.
"I'm sorry I didn't respond. To the letters. Over break."
Corvus shrugged, resting his chin on his palm. "Don't be. You're allowed to disappear, you know. Even from me."
There was no accusation in it — just quiet understanding, like the pause in a song that's part of the melody.
Corvus tapped the table once, then added, voice even lower, "Was it… one of those breaks?"
He didn't look directly at Polaris when he asked — but he didn't need to. The question sat between them like a shared language only they spoke.
Polaris nodded once. Then, without thinking, he lifted a hand to run through his hair —
—and stopped.
His fingers hovered mid-air, caught in the absence.
The gesture had come so naturally, so automatically, that the realization hit like a slap. There was nothing to run his hand through.
No soft waves to twist between his fingers. Just the short, remnants she'd left behind.
He let his hand drop slowly to his lap, curling it into a fist.
Corvus sighed through his nose, gaze flicking up toward the softly glowing ceiling as if asking the stars for patience. "You've been hard to find. Since we got back, I mean. First day, I thought maybe you missed the train."
Polaris almost said something — you could see it in the way his mouth shifted, like guilt catching on the edge of a word. But it never came.
He fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve, then cleared his throat.
"I—" Polaris hesitated, then said with an awkward tilt of his shoulders, "I might've… accidentally pushed Potter earlier."
Corvus blinked. "You pushed her?"
Polaris looked vaguely pained. "It wasn't… like that. She startled me. It was an accident."
Corvus leaned back theatrically, placing a hand over his heart. "You actually laid hands on her? And you lived ? Merlin. She must've deserved it. You have no idea what I deal with in Slytherin — she's unbearable. Always marching into arguments that aren't hers, especially when the halfbreed finds himself on the floor. Honestly, why have a girl fight your battles?"
Polaris rolled his eyes, but it softened into something reluctant, almost grateful.
"I didn't mean to hurt her."
"I know you didn't." Corvus's voice lost its mockery for just a moment. "You'd never do something like that unless—"
"Unless she deserved it?" Polaris deadpanned.
Corvus smirked. "Exactly."
Polaris didn't answer. His gaze had drifted, unfocused — not with thought, but absence. He was still, hands resting lightly on the tabletop, one of them having turned the mirror over without even noticing.
January 8th, 1976, Thursday
Polaris walked in silence, head tipped just slightly downward.
His wand sat in his right hand, thumb worrying the grain near the base. His left was buried in his pocket, fingers clenched around the cool silver of his watch — not to check the time, but to hold something steady.
Since returning from Yule, he'd filled his evenings with the Vass notes. Not out of obsession — or so he told himself — but because he needed something structured. Something that he could try make sense of. Even if it was just as scary.
Anything, really, to not feel like he was floating above his own life.
"—and Father said the snow wasn't nearly as satisfying as it should have been," Sylvan was saying, his tone idly amused. "Not that we had to see much of it. The wards kept the drifts out. But still — you expect some sort of grandeur in the Alps, don't you?"
Polaris nodded vaguely, eyes fixed on someone trying to catch their toad.
"Grandmother nearly hexed the house-elf again — for misfolding the linen. Third time this season," Sylvan added airily. "I told her she ought to just vanish the poor thing and be done with it, but you know how she is about legacy punishments. So, performative."
Polaris barely registered the words.
He hated this part. Not the walking. Not the company.
Just… the looking. The way students glanced at him too quickly and then too long.
How a few didn't even bother to look away anymore. How some whispered and some smiled like they knew him — the wrong version of him — and some didn't even bother to pretend they weren't afraid.
It was worse than before.
The silence was harder to outrun.
He shifted his grip slightly on his wand. The runes in the Vass notes still refused to align. It had seemed as though he did everything right, but something about them didn't respond.
Like he'd missed something.
And he was starting to think he had.
Pathetic.
That's what it was.
Wallowing. Wandering the corridors like something shattered.
If he had to be honest, he hated the way it made him feel. He wasn't even sure how to put how he felt to words.
He wasn't going to keep doing this.
He wouldn't be that.
He had to be better than that.
He adjusted his collar sharply and inhaled through his nose — shallow, but even.
Sylvan tilted his head at him slightly, about to continue — but the voice behind them made him pause.
"Behold! His Royal Frostiness, trailed by his ever-faithful shadow."
Polaris didn't stop walking, but his grip on the watch tightened.
Doyle.
Since returning from the Yule break, the blond had made it his personal mission to be intolerable. A sneer here, a jab there — nothing worth detentions, always just short of something the professors would act on. But this time, it wasn't under his breath. It was louder. Just enough volume to make sure a few heads turned.
A group of Hufflepuffs by the Charms classroom slowed as they heard it. Two Ravenclaws hovering by the door pretended not to watch.
Polaris kept walking. Barely.
Sylvan cast him a sideways glance.
He could tell Polaris was off — had been since they got back. It was hard not to notice.
Sylvan hadn't asked about it. Not directly. He just made sure to talk enough to fill the silences Polaris didn't want to fill himself.
And now Doyle was trying to make things worse.
"Oh, come on, Black," Doyle called again, louder now, striding a few steps forward. "You never did answer me last time. I did ask about your new disaster, didn't I?"
Sylvan stopped walking.
So did Polaris.
Doyle's smirk widened as he slowed to stand near them. "Bit of a bold look, that. Not really your style. Bit of a weird way to start a new term."
Polaris didn't turn. His posture was unnervingly still.
"Maybe mummy dearest shaved your head for being a disappointment," Doyle continued, faux-sympathetic now. "Or did you just wake up and think, 'Yeah, I want to look like a curse went wrong'?"
There it was.
A small laugh from somewhere behind them. Just one of the younger students. Nervous. But Doyle heard it — emboldened by it.
Sylvan hands clenched into a fist. "You're not nearly clever enough to be this loud, Doyle."
But Doyle ignored him, eyes on Polaris like a predator sniffing weakness.
"I liked the old look better," he said, louder this time, circling slightly to stand in front of Polaris. "You know — when you didn't look like you'd just lost a bet."
Polaris finally turned.
His face was unreadable. Cold. But not distant. His eyes were locked on Doyle's, unwavering.
Doyle grinned. "What's that on your temple, anyway? That blotchy thing. Scar, is it?" He leaned in slightly, mock-studious. "It's ugly."
The words hung there a second too long.
Polaris didn't blink. He didn't breathe.
He simply stood there, still — too still — like something had fractured mid-thought. His fingers had curled tighter around the wand in his hand, not raised, not pointed. Just held. Locked. Like a lifeline.
Sylvan stepped closer instinctively, catching the shift. His voice lowered — cautious, not scared. "Polaris—"
But it was too late.
The wand moved — fast, not fluid — an instinct, not a choice.
A sudden burst of light shot from the tip.
Doyle went flying backward, a shout caught in his throat as he hit the wall with a sickening thud , robes crumpling beneath him as he slid halfway to the floor.
Gasps broke across the corridor like ripples — sharp, shocked, immediate. Someone screamed. A Hufflepuff near the door backed up so fast they knocked over another.
Polaris didn't move for a moment.
He hadn't said anything. He hadn't meant to cast anything.
His arm dropped slowly.
The wand hummed in his grip, as if it too hadn't expected to be obeyed so fully.
Doyle groaned from where he lay crumpled near the baseboard, one hand pressed to his ribs.
Polaris didn't check if he was all right.
Didn't check if Sylvan followed.
Didn't wait to see what people had to say.
He turned on his heel and walked. Not quickly, but steadily — like if he stopped, he might splinter.
Down the corridor. Away from the Charms room.
Away from the eyes.
Away from the shame.
He tried to breathe.
Once. Twice.
The inhale caught halfway up his throat and burned like something torn.
— ❈ —
It was late afternoon, the fifth-years Gryffindors had more or less taken over the far side of the common room, a mess of half-written essays, discarded scarves, and snack wrappers cluttering the table. Not that anyone was working.
"Honestly," one of them said, leaning back so far in his chair it nearly tipped, "I don't even care if it's true. It's hilarious either way."
"Mate, the story changes every time someone tells it," another chimed in, legs propped up on a stool. "One version has him shooting someone across the corridor. Another says the other person fainted from fear. Like, get real."
"Apparently, he didn't even say anything. Just—" one of them flicked their fingers dramatically, "—blinked, and a Hufflepuff went flying. Wordless magic. Very cursed prodigy."
That got a laugh.
"Every time it's one of the Blacks," someone else muttered, shaking their head. "First it's Sirius setting fire to his cousin's robes during Christmas hols —"
"That was alleged ," one was quick to add.
"—then Regulus getting hissy over someone taking his prefect bathroom slot, and now this one — nearly kills a kid with a look."
"Think it's a family requirement," one girl said through a yawn. "Pureblooded, dark-haired, emotionally unavailable, and allergic to quiet living."
A few of them snorted. One boy leaned in mock-seriously. "Do you think they rehearse it over holidays? 'Alright lads, which one of us is gonna kick up a scandal this term?'"
Another voice piped up: "No, I bet the youngest one drew the short straw. First-year crisis. Classic."
"Honestly?" someone added, stretching. "It's probably all blown out of proportion. Heard the Hufflepuff that got hurt is always mouthing off. If someone blasted me into a wall, it'd probably be deserved too."
That got the biggest laugh yet.
"Probably wakes up quoting Latin and crying black tears."
"Yeah, well," someone said, finally reaching for their neglected textbook, "as long as he keeps his wand pointed away from me, he can cry in whatever language he wants."
They all laughed again — not cruelly, just carelessly.
Teenagers with nothing better to do than make the strange boy stranger.
The Chronologus Entry—January 9th, 1976, Friday
I should've hexed Doyle properly.
Not the weird, half-accidental, stupid wand-firing thing that made me look like I've lost my mind. A real hex. One with intent. One I meant.
Maybe something with boils. Or teeth falling out. Or a charm that makes your voice sound like a goblin's for a week. Creative. Dignified.
But no. Instead, I go full silent-wand-fireball-mode and knock him into a bloody wall like some unhinged cautionary tale. A first-year! With no incantation! That's not power, that's madness. Exactly what people already think — cursed, dangerous, some dark little freak messing with magic I shouldn't understand.
And now Doyle gets to limp off to the hospital wing, clutching his ribs and pretending he nearly died again. He slept there. All night. Like he's the victim.
Dramatic little worm.
Pomfrey said he'll be fine. Of course he'll be fine. Probably got a bruise and a bruised ego and spent the evening whining about how terrifying I was. Again. Like I came at him with a bloody axe, not a wand.
It's the same thing as before. Before Yule. When I actually hexed him — properly, on purpose, because he wouldn't stop running his mouth — and he went on and on about how I "nearly killed him" with a spell that barely had any bite. Wouldn't shut up about it for days.
So now this happens — wand goes off without a word, Doyle gets flung halfway across the corridor — and suddenly it's all confirmed. "Oh, see? He's dangerous. He's off. Told you."
I hope it hurt. I hope he thought for one second that I might actually do something worse.
He called me ugly. Might I add. I already think I am, I don't need some other sorry sod telling me the same thing.
He asked if my mum shaved my head for being a disappointment. Oh, how right he was.
And no one said a bloody thing.
Well — Sylvan said something. But it's not like Doyle cares what he thinks.
I didn't even care that much at the time, which is the weird part. I was mad, obviously, but not magic-flying-out-of-my-body mad. I didn't even cast a spell. I didn't say anything. I didn't even raise my wand properly.
I just felt it.
And the wand — my wand — answered.
Which is not supposed to happen. I've read so many theory books and none of them say, "Oh yes, if you clench your jaw and feel deeply humiliated, your wand will act on your behalf."
I tried again when I got back to the dorm. Sat on my bed, shut the curtains, focused so hard on the same feeling — the same flash, the same memory, the same everything — and all that happened was my socks smoked a little and I gave myself a headache.
So, congratulations, me. Magical prodigy one moment, damp sparkler the next.
Morgana, this is pathetic. I hate writing like this.
But there's no one to talk to about it, is there? Can't exactly say, "Hello Sylvan, today I may have nearly cursed a boy into a coma with my wand's free will and I'm feeling a bit wobbly about it." He'd just talk more about his grandmother and how the Alps didn't meet her standards of snow.
And Corvus —
I could. He already knows about the headaches. The notes. The weird riddle-ghost nonsense. He wouldn't think it was too strange.
But I don't know.
Flitwick was kind about it. Too kind. Said something about "reactive cores" and "emotions outpacing thought." I don't want to be someone whose wand goes off because I got cornered. That's not strength, that's chaos in a fancy robe.
Honestly, I don't even feel shocked anymore. Of course this happened. Of course something had to. There's always something, isn't there?
Like that time the wand moved. Lead me straight to the Vass notes.
I shouldn't be surprised.
Because of course I'd get the odd wand. The one with a haunted backstory and a habit of doing what it bloody well pleases.
Everyone else gets sleek oak or reliable birch. I get whatever this is — a wand with moods. A wand with plans. Maybe I should name it. Lady Inferna, Ruler of Impulse. Or just Bastard, for short.
Honestly, what else can it do?
Levitate me in my sleep? Curse someone because I dreamed about them? Write entries in this diary so I don't have to?
At this point, I wouldn't even be surprised.
I'm not scared of it, which is probably the worst part. I should be. But mostly I'm just tired. Tired of pretending I have any real control when clearly, I don't. Not over my wand. Not over what Doyle says. Not even over myself.
Nate tried to talk to me again after detention. I shouted at him. Told him to leave me alone. I didn't mean to.
I don't know what I'm doing.
I keep reaching up for my fringe when I'm thinking too hard, like it's still there. Like I can still hide behind it.
But there's nothing to pull down now.
It's so stupid how I hate seeing it in the mirror, and now everyone else gets to. Like it belongs to them too, now. Their favourite new topic. The scar, the stare, the freaky spell. Their little story.
Corvus and I got a two-way mirror for Yule — so we could talk without owls.
Since getting it I've stopped myself from throwing it across the room, cause whether I liked it or not there were mirrors everywhere.
Felt like I was doing better since Yule. Had the Vass notes — something bigger than me to focus on. But now I'm back and it's just eyes, everywhere — watching, whispering, waiting for me to crack. And then I do. I literally crack. Magic comes out sideways. Perfect.
What am I even supposed to do with that?
At least Flitwick didn't punish me like I was dangerous. Gave me detentions in the hospital wing. Said Pomfrey won't ask questions. Great. Quiet company with stacks of potions. That's exactly what I need — isolation with the smell of dittany and stale despair.
Maybe I am cursed.
Or maybe Doyle just deserved it and I finally stopped pretending I'm better than responding.
No. That's not fair. I am better.
Or I have to be.
…I'm going to sleep.
Whatever.
If my wand wants to do something else tomorrow, it can write my bloody History of Magic essay for me.
Or better yet, it can solve the Vass notes , since clearly, it's so clever now — hurling people into walls without permission. Maybe it can figure out what the hell the runes are supposed to mean because I've stared at them every night since Yule break and I'm going mad.
They don't line up.
They should. I've traced the outer markings half a dozen times, cross-referenced them with the index. Even tried comparing the radial orientation against the Myrmidon theory. Which, by the way, is about as helpful as using tea leaves to read Arithmancy.
Whoever wrote it clearly thought that drawing a few stars in a circle made them a genius. Probably sat there thinking, "Ah yes, let me connect the dots and pretend it means something ancient and terrifying," when really it just looks like a toddler dropped ink on the page and called it a revelation.
I'll be clearly honest, I stopped cause, I was scared. To rest. Because apparently, I'm human. And now? Now I can't find the thread. It's like I dropped a needle into a haystack and torched the barn.
And of course, now everything's slippery. Everything feels off. Like I'm always half a page behind where I should be, like I blinked and lost the plot. Can't concentrate. Can't sit still. Can't sleep without another bloody nightmare. I keep rereading the same line and forgetting it by the next. I thought this would help — this would give me something structured, something to control. Something useful.
Merlin, I shouldn't have stopped when I did.
Should've just kept working. Should've locked the door, pulled the curtains, and finished it. Maybe then I wouldn't be walking around hexing people with my thoughts and getting pity-detentions from professors who talk like I'm a ticking clock they don't want to wind too tight.
And now I'm confused. Not just by the notes — by everything. What I'm doing. Why I can't hold a thought. Why everything feels so loud and so far away at the same time.
I don't even know what I'm angry at anymore.
Maybe myself. Maybe Doyle. Maybe the stupid wand for thinking it knows better than I do.
And maybe a bit about Potter.
It's been two days, and I still don't understand why she didn't tell Sprout I shoved her. She could've — easily. Got me detention, written up, something official. It would've made sense. It would've been fair. But she didn't. Just covered it up like it was nothing.
Which it wasn't.
She was annoying, yes. Always is. I hate how she thinks she's better than me.
Still, I didn't mean to shove her. It just… happened. I don't even know why.
My hands shoving her. I couldn't breathe. That's all I remember.
And then she looked at me like I was some filthy thing she'd stepped in.
Which — fair.
I haven't apologised again. What would be the point? She wouldn't believe it, and honestly, I wouldn't know how to explain it.
So instead, I just stopped myself from saying anything about the ridiculous flowers she keeps sticking in her hair.
I used to mention it — only to help her, really — they never sit right in her hair, they look off-centre or wilted. I thought I was being useful by mentioning it. But she always gets snappy about it.
I haven't said anything since. Maybe that's my apology.
Even if she'll never take it that way.
I don't know. I'm tired.
I'm done.
—P.
— ❈ —
The dormitory was quiet.
Not perfectly silent — the occasional rustle of sheets, the faint drip of winter rain against the enchanted windows, someone shifting in their sleep — but the kind of quiet that settles after a long day.
Until it wasn't.
The first sound was sharp — not a word, not quite a scream. Just a strangled noise, low and broken, like someone had been falling in a dream and finally hit the ground.
Then came the thrashing.
Sheets twisting. A gasp. A choked-off cry. A name — or maybe just a sound shaped like one.
Felix sat up first, startled, eyes squinting in the dark. Rafiq blinked awake beside him, already pulling his covers back. Charlie shifted upright, worry creasing his face.
It was Elias who moved. Barefoot, quiet, already stepping between beds.
"Polaris?" he whispered, but Polaris didn't hear. His body was tense, locked in the grip of something that wasn't quite sleep. His breathing was ragged. Fingers fisted in the sheets like he was bracing for impact.
"Polaris—" Elias crouched and reached out, placing a hand on his arm.
Polaris woke like he'd been hexed.
He lurched upright with a gasp that cracked through the room, wild-eyed and clawing at the blankets, chest heaving like he couldn't get enough air. Elias pulled his hand back, startled — but not fast enough.
Polaris flinched like he'd been burned.
For a second he looked like he didn't recognize where he was. Or who he was.
Then—
"It's me," Elias said quickly, hands raised. "Polaris, it's me. I think you were—having a nightmare."
The voice — low, careful — cut through the haze. Polaris blinked. Hard.
"You were shouting," Felix added, quietly. He was standing near the foot of Polaris's bed now, frowning like he wasn't sure if he should step closer or not.
Polaris scrubbed at his face with both hands, fingers trembling as he tried to collect himself. "I'm fine."
The words were automatic. Dry. Clipped. Not true.
"No, you're not," Rafiq said from his bed, voice tight. "You're clearly not."
"I said I'm fine ," Polaris snapped, too sharp, too fast.
Silence fell again. Not restful, this time. Unsettled.
He dropped his hands and stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused, still breathing too hard. His fingers twitched against his palm like they hadn't caught up with the rest of him. He could still see the door. The one that wouldn't open, no matter how hard he banged. The cold behind it. The pain.
He rubbed at his eyes again, rougher this time, like it might erase the memory of it.
"It was just a dream," he muttered — mostly to himself. "It's nothing important."
But his hands didn't stop shaking.
And his roommates didn't stop watching.
January 14th, 1976, Wednesday
Polaris's side of his face was pressed into his palm; elbow balanced on the edge of the table. His fingers curled around a quill he hadn't written with in twenty minutes. Ink dried at the nib. Under his eyes, the skin had gone pale and shadowed — heavy bags that hadn't shifted since the weekend.
His gaze was fixed — unwavering — on the far end of the library, where Madam Pince moved briskly between shelves like a bird of prey. He watched her shift a ladder; spine three degrees tilted to the left — the same as yesterday. She shelved quickly, alphabetical intervals, first left, then right, then double-back.
Twice in five days, she'd paused at the M–N section longer than normal — distracted, maybe. She shelved by instinct. Polaris shelved by pattern. He was counting the seconds it took her to rotate the stacks.
It would take her exactly one minute and forty-four seconds to make it back to the central desk. Seventy-two to complete a shorter arc on the east side.
He'd timed it. Several times.
Borrowing the book again — the one with Vass's notes — would raise questions. He couldn't request anything from the Restricted Section under the debate club's name unless the next topic actually needed something relevant. Unfortunately, "Transfiguration ethics in wartime" did not.
And besides, debate had become a chore. No real gain. Just noise.
Sneaking in, however? That was a skill. A matter of observation, timing, and control. All things he still had, even now.
His wand, on the other hand, disagreed.
It had been sitting quietly on the table beside his ink pot — until it wasn't. Twice now, it had shifted on its own. Just a slight tilt at first, then a slow drag. Like it was being drawn, faintly magnetic, toward the rope of the Restricted Section.
The second time it happened; he grabbed it out and shoved it between the pages of Transmutation Frameworks: Comparative Theory like a child in time-out.
Now wedged stubbornly at page 242.
He rubbed his thumb under one eye and exhaled through his nose.
Stupid wand. Haunted, cursed, half-sentient — whatever it was.
Maybe it wanted to solve the Vass notes itself. Maybe it would like to take over his entire life and he could go back to sleeping through the night.
Maybe it could take the nightmares, too, while it was at it.
That'd be nice.
"Are you seriously watching her again?" Corvus's voice broke in low and sharp as he dropped into the seat beside him, brow furrowed.
Polaris didn't look away from the aisle. "No."
"You're literally watching her."
"Observing."
"Oh, sorry, I forgot. Observing. Merlin forbid it be anything so mundane as just staring."
Polaris's only movement was a slight tap of the quill against his thumb.
Corvus huffed and dropped his satchel onto the table a little harder than necessary. He leaned in, voice quieter now, edged with frustration.
"Every day it's the same thing. 'I can't, I have to go to the library.' 'Sorry, I've got to get to the library.' At first, I thought you were still avoiding me. Thought maybe you were making excuses."
Polaris finally blinked, slowly, turning his face just slightly.
"And now?"
"I checked, " Corvus hissed. "I came by. Several times. Guess what I found? You. In the library. Every. Bloody. Time. Just like today. Exactly like this. Madam Pince getting her daily stalker."
"I'm not—"
"Don't even try," Corvus cut him off. "You've been hunched over that same pile of parchment since the first Monday after we got back. You didn't even notice when someone switched your inkpot for blueberry jam."
Polaris looked down at his notes.
"I caught it before I used it."
"You sniffed it, Polaris."
Polaris went quiet.
Corvus sighed, softer now, rubbing a hand over his face. "I get it. I do. But I miss you, alright? You're here, but you're not here. You're somewhere else. With… with your notes, and your schemes, and whatever odd ritual you're performing with Madam Pince's shelving habits. And I—"
He faltered, not used to saying things aloud.
Polaris's gaze had softened, but not by much.
"I just want my friend back," Corvus muttered, reaching to pull the quill from his hand.
Polaris didn't let go at first. Then, quietly:
"I need to find something."
Corvus stared at him. "Is it going to make anything better?"
"I don't know yet."
There was no deflection in his voice, no sarcasm. Just exhaustion — the kind that sits behind the eyes.
Corvus sat back slowly. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Can I help?"
Polaris paused.
"…Maybe."
"Do I get to know what we're doing in the library, or am I just blindly aiding an academic heist?"
"I'll explain," Polaris said. "Eventually."
Corvus huffed, unimpressed.
He leaned back in his chair with crossed arms, clearly not amused to be kept waiting — not for answers, and certainly not for attention.
Polaris, seemingly unfazed, turned his gaze back toward the far end of the library.
Without a word, he slid his hand into his pocket and withdrew his watch — not to check the time in the usual sense, but to begin counting.
Thirty seconds. Forty-two. A minute and four. Madam Pince moved between the third and fourth aisle, ladder trailing in her wake.
She was five seconds slower than yesterday. Curious.
Corvus leaned sideways, dragging his chair half an inch closer, and muttered, "By the way, Sayre won't stop asking about you."
Polaris flinched — barely — but didn't turn.
"He's been pestering me in Charms. Practically stalking me between classes. Keeps asking what he did wrong."
Polaris's grip on his pocket watch tightened.
Corvus kept going, clearly agitated. "Like, dramatically upset. Keeps saying he doesn't understand why you're ignoring him. Asks if you're mad. What he said. What he did. Wants to talk. Swears he's sorry for whatever he thinks it was. It's… kind of exhausting, honestly."
Polaris's voice was barely audible. "What did you tell him?"
Corvus shrugged, leaning back a bit. "Told him to sod off, mostly. Said you've got enough on your plate without being guilt-tripped by someone who can't take a hint."
Polaris looked away again, his jaw shifting, throat tight.
Corvus glanced sideways. "Did you get in trouble for being friends with him?"
A long pause.
Then Polaris mumbled, "I stopped talking to him since Yule break."
Corvus didn't interrupt.
Polaris kept his eyes trained on the desk. "I think it's probably better if we're not friends."
Corvus frowned. "Why?"
Another pause. Longer.
Then Polaris said, flat but too quiet to sound truly casual, "People don't deserve friends who are ashamed of being theirs."
That shut them both up.
Polaris stayed still, hand still curled around his pocket watch like it might ground him, keep him from floating off again. Corvus stared at him for a few seconds, like he might say something — but didn't.
— ❈ —
"Library closes in five minutes," Madam Pince's voice crackled from across the stacks. The usual warning, stern as ever.
Most students had already trickled out — books shut with the slap of exhaustion, chairs scraped across stone, bags shouldered as yawns stretched wide.
Polaris wasn't in a rush.
Packing away his notes one page at a time.
Beside him, Corvus had dozed off — one cheek pressed against a folded cloak, hair mussed, breath even. He always said the library chairs were criminally uncomfortable, and yet he was somehow snoring lightly.
Polaris didn't wake him.
As he slipped his folder into his satchel, Polaris's gaze drifted — not aimlessly, not really. Habit had taught him the rhythms of the library: which chairs creaked, which shelves leaned, which students hovered too long at books they didn't read.
And one shelf — back left corner, four down from the Restricted rope — had become… odd.
Over the past week, Polaris had noticed it. Noticed them.
Different students, always older. Always alone. Slytherins, mostly — though once, a Hufflepuff with dirt-streaked cuffs and a tight expression. Each one paused at that same place, the edge of that same shelving column. They never stayed long. They didn't browse or pretend to read.
They watched. Waited. Whispered something to the wood.
And once — only once — Polaris thought he saw the rope to the Restricted Section tremble, just slightly, as if it had drawn a breath.
He had dismissed it as fatigue.
Until now.
The student at the shelf tonight was one he'd seen before: tall, angular, sleeves a little too short. He glanced around — not suspiciously, just… knowingly. Checking Madam Pince's location, like someone checking the tide before stepping into a boat.
She was shelving up front.
He whispered to the wood.
The rope shivered.
Just slightly. Like something responded.
And again — the student didn't go in. He stepped back. Blinked once. Left.
Polaris stared, frozen in the act of placing his ink bottle in his bag.
Nothing else happened.
Madam Pince didn't react. The rope settled.
Polaris sat slowly, hand moving to his pocket, fingers closing tightly around his watch. The cold brass edge bit into his palm. It didn't ground him.
He looked at the shelf again. The exact shelf. Four down from the barrier.
What was it?
— ❈ —
He couldn't stop thinking about it.
Four down from the barrier.
That's how he kept writing it.
Not "a shelf." Not "a location."
A riddle.
As if calling it that might unlock whatever he'd seen. As if repetition might unearth a logic beneath the strangeness — that same beat in his head.
He had scribbled it in the margins of his journal. Twice on the back of a Charms essay draft. Once on the edge of his palm before heading back to the dormitory, the ink bleeding slightly beneath his sleeve.
Not even in full sentences, sometimes. Just that one phrase, cramped and looping, wedged between stray thoughts and questions he didn't know how to ask.
Four down from the barrier.