[3,267 Words]
There were nights when Orion Black wondered what might have become of him had he been born to a different name. A name without legacy. Without bloodlines that suffocated him with expectation, and portraits that watched down from their gilded frames, waiting for their descendants to behave like proper Blacks.
He imagined, sometimes, a quieter existence—where one could smile because they wanted to, not because it was expected. Where ambition was a flame, not a leash. A world where dreams were not considered signs of weakness, and sons were not groomed like hounds for a hunt they'd never chosen.
But those were foolish thoughts. Weak thoughts. He had buried them long ago, he knew better.
His father had taught him early: duty was not something one desired. It was something one wore. Like a mantle—heavy, stifling and suffocating. You learned to breathe beneath its weight, or you were crushed by it. Orion had not been crushed. He had adapted. He had endured. And, most importantly, he was fulfilling his role. That was what was important.
He had given the family an heir. Sirius—brilliant, difficult, and wild.
He had given them a spare. Regulus—quiet, obedient, with eyes always cast toward approval.
He had done his part. The line was secure. The Black name would continue.
And yet.
Walburga had not been satisfied. As always, her ambition outpaced reason. There had been that night—a blur of incense, heavy wine, and the bitter taste of potion-laced kisses. She had taken what she wanted, the way only a true Black could: without permission, without shame.
Now she carried a third son in her womb.
Another heir. Another tool. Another Black. Another star carved into the tapestry.
He felt nothing for the child. Not rage. Not grief. Just… fatigue. A weariness so deep it felt carved into the marrow of his bones. This was not a child born of love, or even necessity. This was a statement. A flex of control from a woman who no longer recognized the difference between power and madness.
And yet, when the boy was born—if he lived—he would still be hers . A Black by blood. Branded from his first breath with a name that carried rot beneath its gold. He wouldn't inherit a home, or a fortune. He'd inherit the expectation. The ruin. The curse of carrying forward something that should've died long ago.
Not because he was loved. Not because he was wanted. But because Orion had once believed someone ought to carry the weight after him—and it sure as hell wouldn't be him again.
Sirius had rebelled the moment he could form his own thoughts. Regulus, though more pliable, had proven too delicate—more consumed by the idea of pleasing than leading.
So, Walburga had taken it upon herself to secure a third.
And Orion? He hadn't let her. He never would have. But Walburga had never needed permission—only opportunity. She took, as she always had, with cold hands and colder conviction. She gave nothing. Not tenderness. Not truth. Not even the illusion of choice.
Sometimes, in the darkest corners of his thoughts, he imagined his hands wrapped around her throat—not out of passion, but finality. The silence after her last breath would be the first peace she'd ever given him.
She had drugged him. Claimed him. Used his body like a means to an end, like a name to be bred forward, not a man to be met.
And now, she carried the evidence.
This child—this afterthought—would inherit the same shackles Orion had worn all his life. Not freedom. Not love. Just duty — soul-grinding and endless. A punishment, not a gift.
Let the boy learn early what it meant to be a Black.
He would be born into a cage, same as his father. And when he looked up one day with empty eyes, begging for meaning, for breath, for a single dream of his own—Orion would simply watch.
Because that was the way of things. And no one had ever watched for him.
"He kicked again," Walburga said from her chaise, her hands resting lightly on the curve of her stomach as if cradling a relic, not a child. Her voice cut through the silence of the drawing room like a needle slipping through silk—measured, precise, always slightly amused.
Orion did not look up from the brandy in his glass, jaw clenched, the glass trembling faintly in his hand. "He will learn to stop."
"You say that as though he will listen to you."
He turned his head, slow and mechanical, eyes meeting hers with the dead calm of a man who had nothing left to burn. "They always listen. Eventually."
Walburga smiled—not warm, not even smug but certain. "This one will be different. I feel it."
Orion downed the drink in a single, punishing swallow, the burn barely registering. "They all feel different when they're still inside you."
A flicker of tension crossed her face, but she let it pass, feigning serenity as she leaned back and closed her eyes. "You'll see. He'll be what the others couldn't."
He took a step toward the fire. The silence thickened.
The heir and the spare were still so young—barely boys. Four and three. Was she truly that impatient, that dissatisfied, that she'd already begun discarding them as failures? Sirius needed the wildness beaten out of him, not labelled broken. And Regulus—if she'd stop coddling him long enough, he might yet grow a spine.
But of course, patience was never a Black virtue. Only dominance. Only legacy. Only control.
And what was he, if not the result of that same twisted inheritance? He remembered the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder, the sharp sting of Arcturus's disappointment, the silence that followed every mistake—longer and heavier than any punishment. He had been moulded, forged, hardened.
Now he caught himself doing the same.
Trying to iron out Sirius's defiance with discipline. Trying to carve leadership into Regulus with expectation alone. Because that's what had been done to him and look how well that had turned out.
Look what was left of him.
And Walburga? She wanted to start over. Wanted a clean slate. As if the others were defective. As if it wasn't them —the parents—who had failed.
And now, she carried her solution. Her next attempt. Her next Black.
Another Black to break.
"Another heir." His voice was quieter now but emptied of feeling. "Another symbol for your little shrine. That's all he'll be."
She opened her eyes again, watching him. Studying. "I didn't do this alone."
"No," he snapped, spinning on her. "You just made sure I couldn't stop you."
The silence cracked like glass underfoot. For a moment, even Walburga looked uncertain.
Orion stepped closer, brandy glass still in hand, his voice low but laced with venom. "You drugged me. Lied to me. Took what you wanted, as always. And now you want me to pretend this is something sacred?"
Walburga's gaze narrowed, unblinking. "It's ours ."
Something in him snapped.
The glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor, but he didn't even look down. In two strides, he was on her—his hand clamping around her throat, not tight enough to choke, but enough to warn . Enough to tremble with the violence he would not unleash.
Her breath hitched—but not in fear. Her eyes met his, cool and unwavering, as if daring him to go further. As if this was just another power play.
"It's ours ," she said again, staring straight into him. "You can't unmake it, Orion."
His grip tightened for a breathless second—his knuckles white, jaw clenched, every inch of him carved from rage. Then he shoved her back against the cushions and tore himself away, breathing hard, chest heaving like a man just pulled from drowning.
"No," he said, turning from her, voice raw. "It's yours . You own this. Don't try to wrap it in legacy and call it love."
He walked toward the fire, slow and deliberate, as if movement alone would keep him from breaking more than the glass. The shadows stretched behind him like chains, long and grasping.
"He'll be what we make him," he said finally, hollow and final. "That's the point, isn't it?"
And this time, Walburga did not reply.
She only placed a hand back on her stomach and smiled.
March 20th, 1964, Friday
The house did not change when the boy was born.
It remained still and unwelcoming. As always, everything was in perfect order. The silver tapestries still shimmered under torchlight. The ancestral portraits still scowled and murmured their judgments in passing. Nothing in the air hinted at celebration—only expectation, like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting to see if the newest Black would be worthy of the name.
Walburga named him Polaris Rigel Black —a star to outshine them all, she said, as if it were prophecy.
Polaris, the fixed point in the sky. The one the others revolved around, guided by. The North Star. The symbol of unwavering purpose.
Rigel, because of course she would. Orion's brightest star—his own namesake turned into tribute and mockery all at once. She knew exactly what she was doing. A reminder. A claim. A final twist of the knife.
Orion had said nothing. He had already given the child his future. Let her dress it up in starlight if it made her feel clever.
The room was still heavy with the scent of blood and spell-cleansed linens when Arcturus Black arrived, walking through the front door with the chill of old winter clinging to his cloak. His presence required no announcement. The house had long since bent itself around his authority, like ivy grown inward toward rot. He did not smile. Black men rarely did.
He studied the swaddled infant in silence for a full minute before offering a nod that served as approval.
"Strong features," he said. "The line endures."
That was all. That was enough.
Sirius stared through the bars of the cradle with the thin-lipped expression of a child who had been made to wait far too long. He was only four, but already the defiance burned in his eyes—dark and sharp like flint.
"Why is he so small?" he asked.
Regulus stood quietly beside him, a step behind, as he always was. Three years old and already mastered the art of stillness, of pleasing looks, of blending in. His hands clutched the edge of the crib as if unsure whether he was meant to touch or watch.
"He looks boring," Sirius muttered.
Behind them, Orion stood like a shadow cast too long across the room. His arms were crossed. His gaze was not warm, but it was fixed on the infant, and that was enough to spark the quiet bloom of jealousy in Sirius's chest.
"He's just another baby," Sirius snapped. "We already have enough."
"You will hold your tongue," Orion said, voice cutting through the room like drawn steel. "This is not your place."
Sirius flinched—not visibly, not enough to admit weakness, but his scowl faltered.
"I don't want another brother."
Orion turned to him then, slowly, the weight of his stare colder than any reprimand. "And what you want," he said, low and final, "is irrelevant."
Sirius dropped his gaze and bit the inside of his cheek. Swallowed words that no one wanted to hear.
Orion didn't look at his eldest. His attention remained on the youngest, whose eyes were shut, lips pursed like a secret unspoken. The others had cried when they were born. This one hadn't made a sound.
And the longer Orion looked, the more it bothered him.
The child had his nose. His mouth. That slight furrow between the brows that ran like a fault line through the Black men—Arcturus, himself, and now this one. It should have stirred pride. It didn't. It stirred something different. A slow, tight coil of irritation that curled in his gut the way guilt sometimes did, unspoken and unwanted.
You're not a legacy—you're a reminder. Of what she took. Of what I couldn't stop.
There were not many moments Orion could remember that he felt as weak as he did now.
His jaw clenched. He told himself it was exhaustion. Told himself the boy would grow into the name, into the role. Told himself this was the cost of legacy. But the truth was simpler. He had already given the child his future—and now, staring down at him, Orion felt like the boy had stolen something in return.
Walburga sat upright in bed despite her pallor, already issuing instructions to the house-elf and to the nursemaid. Her tone was brisk, commanding. She wore exhaustion like a badge of martyrdom.
"This one will be different," she said for the second time in as many days. "He will not shame the name."
There was no affection in her voice—only intent. As if the child were a plan, not a person.
Sirius didn't understand all of it. Not yet. But he understood enough to know that his mother wanted this brother in a way she had never wanted him. It showed in the way she allowed the nursemaid to linger. It showed in how she didn't immediately order the cradle moved out of sight. It showed in the way Orion—distant, unreachable Orion— looked .
And something inside Sirius closed that day. Not a door, but something smaller.
Regulus said nothing. He never did. But he stayed close to Sirius's side, watching, always watching.
In the weeks that followed, the house did not grow warmer. There were no lullabies, no playful coos. Polaris was held only, when necessary, passed between nursemaids and occasionally presented like a relic to visiting kin. His purpose had been decided before his first breath—not to be cherished, but to be prepared.
He was not the heir. That title belonged to Sirius, by blood and by birthright.
But Sirius had always been… unpredictable. Restless. Unruly in a way no amount of correction had yet tamed. And Orion, though he never said it aloud, had already begun bracing for the inevitable.
Polaris would be raised not merely as a son, but as a failsafe.
He was not born into a family. He was born into a dynasty.
And it showed in every silence, every command, every expectation carved into the bones of the walls. The House of Black did not raise children. It forged legacies.
Sirius would come to hate it for that.
Regulus would come to be consumed by it.
Polaris—Polaris would be made from it, though what he would become remained unwritten.
Three stars cast from the same dying constellation: one burned out too fast, one collapsed inward, and one was still becoming—uncertain, unfinished, not yet claimed by light or shadow. They were named for brilliance, but none of them asked to shine. Not like this.
— ❈ —
And somewhere, far from the sky and its reckonings, a different kind of darkness gathered.
The room was dark—not merely unlit but steeped in a kind of ancient hush that pressed against the bones. Not silence, exactly, but the pause before something begins, or ends. Curtains had long since rotted from the windows, and time itself seemed to retreat in the corners, afraid to move forward. A single seer knelt in the centre, trembling, lips bloodied from biting back screams.
He stood motionless, cloaked in black that seemed to absorb the room around him, a figure carved from night itself. His features were smooth and unnatural, stretched tight like something grown rather than born.
His wand held lazily in one hand. The seer's voice, moments ago ethereal and trembling with prophecy, had collapsed into incoherence. Whatever had possessed him was gone now, leaving only a shivering husk.
The figure spoke, cutting through the silence, soft as silk and twice as dangerous. "Say it again."
"I—I told you everything, my Lord…" the seer whimpered, head bowed. "The vision came—it left—I do not know more—"
A flick of the wand. A whisper of Avada Kedavra .
The seer fell inwards, limbs folding like failed wings, his body robbed of meaning before it met the floor. Voldemort's red eyes lingered on the corpse for a moment, but he did not look disappointed. He looked...curious.
From the far side of the room, where the walls leaned inward like listening giants, Abraxas Malfoy stepped forward. He was still immaculate in pale grey robes, the silver embroidery catching the weak candlelight.
"You believe it held truth?" he asked. "Or was it the ravings of a mind undone by prophecy?"
Voldemort didn't answer at once. He stared at the empty space the seer had occupied, as though expecting the vision to echo there still. When he did speak, his voice was low and speculative.
"When the soul is split beyond its bearing,
And death is denied its due,
The North Star shall rise unbidden—
Lit with truths the dark disowns..."
His voice lingered on that line, almost reverent. Then he turned, sharply. "What do you make of that , Abraxas? 'The North Star shall rise'—what is the North Star?"
Abraxas considered, choosing his words with the care of a man who knew how quickly brilliance could turn to wrath. "The North Star is called Polaris ," he said. "It is a constant in the sky unchanging. A guiding light. For centuries, travellers and sailors have followed it to find their way north. It is a symbol of constancy, clarity… direction. If I remember right, in old texts, some called it the bridge between realms. The fixed point above the axis of the world. A symbol, not only of direction—but of connection. Between what was and what will be."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "A bridge," he echoed.
"Between the broken and the whole. Between past and future. Even between life and death."
That word— death —hung in the air like a challenge. Voldemort didn't flinch.
"A poetic notion," he said after a pause, but there was something different in his tone now.
He began to pace, the hem of his robes dragging like smoke. "This is no idle metaphor. 'The North Star shall rise…'" He paused. "Could it be a person? A place? An object imbued with power?"
"Perhaps all," Abraxas offered carefully. "Or perhaps none. It may not be what it seems. Prophecy rarely speaks plainly."
Voldemort stopped. His eyes gleamed, alight with calculation. " Lit with truths the dark disowns. There is something… unnatural in that. Subversive." He spoke the last word with disdain. " He shall bear the weight of what was cast aside. "
"An heir?" Abraxas mused. "A forgotten lineage? Or someone who carries the burden of others… perhaps even yours?"
Voldemort's eyes narrowed at him, but not in anger. In thought.
"Through him, the pieces shall be drawn—
Not by force, but resonance."
He exhaled slowly. " The soul is split beyond its bearing… A reference to me? To the Horcruxes?" A flicker of rare tension crossed his features. " And death is denied its due... "
"Your immortality," Abraxas said quietly. "Or… its price."
Silence bloomed between them. Then Voldemort spoke again, this time almost to himself. "If this 'North Star' is to rise —then he, or it, does not yet stand among us. Perhaps… he has only just arrived."
A pause. A glance to the eastern horizon, pale and bleak beyond the shattered glass. "There are many born this year," Voldemort said. "The stars are busy."
He turned toward Abraxas with sudden decisiveness. "Find the children born this spring. Those with lineage—power—potential."
"And when I do, my lord?" Abraxas asked.
"If this child is to be the bridge, then I will decide what is crossed. "