[6,308 Words]
March 15th, 1975, Saturday
Polaris had thought he would be as excited as Sirius and Regulus were when they received their Hogwarts letters, but he wasn't. He didn't feel much but boredom because it wasn't the same if his brothers weren't there too, they were at Hogwarts, and he was stuck struggling to find something to occupy himself with.
When Sirius had gotten his letter, all three of them had gathered around, elbows bumping as they'd leaned over Sirius's shoulder—Sirius grinning like he'd just been handed a sword, Regulus silent but wide-eyed, Polaris's small fingers clinging to the edge of the parchment.
And when Regulus's letter came around Yule, Sirius had whistled low and ruffled his hair. They'd opened it near the tree, glittering with Yule charm-lights. Polaris had stood a little behind, but close enough to see Regulus's name in the fine black ink. That had been a warm morning. Not this—this long, dull stretch of nothing.
Polaris' own parchment just sat to the side, after he had opened it. It was expected, yet no excitement came from it.
He flipped another page and blinked down at a line of angular symbols etched in the old scholar's neat hand.
"Rá-kil dromos vi tharn."
The text translated it as "Path of rising stone, closed to the unworthy."
Polaris frowned. "No," he muttered. "That's not right."
He set the book against the cushion beside him, balanced the pencil, and gently scratched out the line with a clean diagonal line. Beneath it, in smaller handwriting, he wrote:
"Path through rising stone, veiled from the unseeing."
A better rendering—closer to the root structure of "kil" as passage rather than closure, and "tharn" in this dialect leaned more toward "sightless" than "unworthy." Polaris chewed the inside of his cheek, considering whether the mistake was intentional. Maybe the translator assumed poetic flourish meant obfuscation. How l azy .
He leaned back into the settee and stared at the ceiling, as he gave a long sigh.
He wasn't even enjoying this. He'd read the passage three times already and he hadn't been paying enough attention to have caught the mistake, but it was better than staring at the letter and pretending it mattered. His fingers reached for the parchment almost absently, dragging it closer.
Tomorrow, his mother had said, they would go get his wand. That was all. Just the wand. Everything else had already been handled—robes, measurements, books. Even the cauldron had apparently been ordered ahead of time, the receipt filed away somewhere in the upstairs study as proof of her efficiency.
She hadn't even let him come along for the robes. Just held a measuring charm to his arms one morning after breakfast, muttered something about not slouching, and then walked off.
He had wanted to do it all in one day—buy his wand, try on cloaks that were too long in the sleeves, press his hands to the cool glass of the apothecary jars, and maybe, maybe laugh with Corvus over the odd smells rising from the cauldron shop. He'd thought, foolishly, that he might be allowed that.
But when Lady Avery had suggested he accompany Corvus for his shopping, Polaris' mother had refused with that frozen, unblinking tone she used when she wasn't about to explain herself. As if she suddenly cared to spend the day with him. As if they were going to share some sacred mother-son bonding over a wand fitting.
The truth was simpler. The week before, she and Lady Avery had argued—again. Something about bloodlines and politics, or maybe someone's lack of discretion at a recent dinner party. Polaris hadn't been listening closely, but the tension had hung like frost in the corridors for days.
So now, instead of going with Corvus, instead of being part of something that felt fun, Polaris was left with this: a quiet room, a book of runes too advanced for his age, and a half-promise of one errand. One wand.
He sighed and leaned his head back against the settee, he didn't want to talk. He didn't want to be talked to.
He just wanted to be at Hogwarts already.
He needed a break.
He missed the noise in the house because he was getting too used to the silence.
March 19th, 1975, Wednesday
Polaris walked beside his mother in silence. She hadn't said much beyond, "Chin up, you look like you're skulking," and he hadn't replied. He had just adjusted his posture, but not by much. He wasn't slouching exactly—just moving at his own pace, head tilted slightly as he watched the shop signs blur past. He didn't skulk . He observed. There was a difference.
His mother sighed. There was a rhythm to these outings—one she didn't expect him to break. He was dressed in charcoal robes with silver fastenings, his hair combed neatly, mirror-worthy precision. Somewhere along the way he'd learned that the less he said, the prouder she seemed. Or at least, the quieter she stayed.
"You're not walking into a duel," she said. "Try not to look like you're planning one."
Polaris arched an eyebrow but said nothing. He wasn't planning anything. He just didn't like being paraded around like a prize-winning Kneazle.
They were only a few shops from Ollivander's when a voice called, airy and pointed.
"Walburga."
His mother stopped. Polaris did, too, though he was already trying to anticipate how long they'd be delayed.
"Selena," Walburga Black returned, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. "Fancy seeing you out so early. I'd heard the Notts preferred August."
Lady Nott laughed—a sound like wind in a glass jar. "Only for the rabble. Kalen insisted." She cast a glance toward her son, who stood half a pace behind her, dark-haired and lean, already taller than Polaris remembered.
"Well," Lady Nott added, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, "you know how some boys are. Impatient."
"Yes," Walburga murmured, "and some know how to wait."
Kalen looked at Polaris then, a flicker of recognition passing between them—not warmth, not hostility. Just: I know you. I've watched you watching everyone else.
"Hello, Polaris," Kalen said, voice low but clear. It wasn't quite a greeting; it sounded more like a statement.
Polaris nodded, cool but not unkind. "Kalen..."
They weren't friends. But they weren't strangers, either. They'd circled each other at enough parties, sat across from one another while Corvus Avery dragged them into debates about Quidditch teams or to trade Wizarding Duel Cards. Kalen was sharper than he let on, and quieter than most expected. Polaris had never decided whether he liked him or not.
He glanced toward Ollivander's, its crooked windows already tugging at his attention. He wanted the wand—not for power, not even for magic really, but for the shape of it. He wasn't really sure why. Every wizard needed their wand; he just wanted his already.
"Well," Lady Nott said, tone clipped as she caught sight of someone across the street, "we mustn't keep your father waiting. Kalen."
Walburga's eyes narrowed slightly as Lady Nott drifted away, Kalen offering Polaris a nod before following, Polaris gave one back.
"Go on," she said quietly, her eyes now fixed on the women speaking across the alley—Lady Nott had stopped beside another witch, pale and overdressed, whispering. Whispering in plain view, it was clear Polaris' mother assumed they were talking about her.
Polaris looked back at his mother, surprised. Was she really leaving him to go interrupt their gossip?
She didn't meet his gaze. "I said go ahead, Polaris. You don't need me for this."
He hesitated—but only for a breath. Then he turned.
It didn't bother him.
She was there when Sirius got his wand.
It didn't... bother him .
She was first in the shop when Regulus was getting his wand.
...Maybe it did bother him.
Behind him, he heard the swish of her robes, firm and composed as she moved across the cobblestones.
The shop loomed ahead.
He could already see in before he opened the door, the shop seemed empty, was it too early for other incoming first years to be getting their wands? Perhaps then again there was so much time until September. The bell chimed once when he entered.
Ollivander appeared almost at once from behind a curtain, his eyes pale and restless.
"Mr. Black," he murmured, as if he already knew.
Polaris didn't answer. He simply nodded. His hands stayed at his sides. He's already seen this man twice before, first time it was Sirius getting his wand, second time it was Regulus getting his wand, both those times all three brothers stood in the shop.
Ollivander studied him for a long moment, before going to the back.
Then— crash .
Polaris flinched, his breath catching in his throat. The sound had been loud and unexpected.
"Nothing to worry about," Ollivander called, though his voice sounded more distracted than reassuring. Polaris heard the scrape of boxes being righted, a mutter, a creak of old wood.
When Ollivander returned, he was holding a wand box. A long, narrow container. The wood was darker than the others, the corners unusually reinforced. A soft black sheen seemed to cling to it.
"How curious…" Ollivander said, half to himself.
When he opened it, even the air seemed to pull back.
"Blackthorn," Ollivander said, voice quiet. "Twelve and a quarter inch. Thestral tail hair core. Unyielding."
Polaris didn't look at him. He was staring into the box.
The wand inside was unlike any he had seen. Not glossy or elegant, not etched with silver or gleaming lacquer. It was matte, almost charred-looking, with an uneven, knotted texture—more like something grown than carved. At the handle, a faint spiral twist curled through the grain, not decorative, but... instinctive, like it had wound itself that way.
He couldn't explain it. He didn't hear anything—not really—but he felt as though something inside him was being listened to. The kind of stillness that comes when you're not alone and you know it, even if no one is speaking.
He swallowed. "It feels like it's… watching," he said, not sure if that made any sense.
Ollivander tilted his head slightly, not surprised. "It has waited."
Polaris looked up, uncertain. "You seem certain this is my wand."
Ollivander didn't answer directly. He simply extended a hand toward the box, palm open, inviting. "Go on."
Polaris hesitated, then slowly reached in.
The moment his fingers touched the wand, the warmth surged—not bright, not gentle- more like heat from something that had been burning for a long time. His skin prickled. As he gripped it, it almost settled in his palm, like it had been reaching back. The spiral twist fit against his fingers as though it had known them.
The lamps in the shop didn't flicker. There was no burst of light. But the air shifted, the way it did before a storm—pressing in, expectant.
Ollivander watched quietly, his pale eyes sharp beneath his unruly white brows. Then he nodded once.
"This wand does not choose lightly," he said, voice low. "Or twice."
He stepped closer, his gaze falling squarely on Polaris—not through him, not around him, but at him.
There was no fear in the old man's face. No awe, either. Only a kind of solemnity. A recognition.
"That wand has seen death, Mr. Black," Ollivander said. "It will see more."
He paused. Just long enough for Polaris to hear the silence press in behind the words and frown.
"Just be certain it sees it for the right reasons."
Polaris's fingers tightened around the wand. His mouth opened, then closed, before he finally said—more sharply than intended— "What do you mean death ?"
Ollivander didn't flinch.
"You make it sound like I've already decided to go around duelling people . Or worse." Polaris added with politeness razor thin.
Ollivander raised a single white brow. "Have you not?"
Polaris's jaw tensed. "No. I haven't. And I don't appreciate the assumption."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't snap. But his shoulders squared, chin lifting slightly in that dignified way he'd learned from Walburga and perfected in front of Arcturus, his grandfather.
It wasn't just the implication. It was that familiar look people gave when they heard his name—Black—and thought they knew what that meant.
He forced himself to take a breath. "I didn't come here to be told what kind of wizard I'm going to be. I came here for a wand ."
Ollivander didn't look away. "And you have one. A wand that chose you with no hesitation."
Polaris hesitated. His knuckles were pale where they wrapped around the wand.
"I didn't ask for one that's— connected to death," he said. "I'm not planning to kill anyone."
The older man nodded, expression unreadable. "Nor was I suggesting you would. Blackthorn doesn't seek death. But it answers to those who walk near it. Who don't turn away."
"That doesn't sound like a compliment," Polaris muttered.
Ollivander's tone softened, just a fraction. "It isn't meant as one. It's meant as a truth."
He stepped back, folding his hands behind his back.
"Thestral tail hair," he said softly. "Core of the unseen. Only those who've seen death can see a thestral, Mr. Black—but those bound to one need not have seen it yet. Only that they will."
Polaris swallowed hard. The wand hadn't cooled in his hand. If anything, it felt more alive now, like it was listening.
"You said it's seen death," Polaris said. "How?"
Another pause. The wandmaker's voice was distant now, as if remembering something.
"That wand," he said slowly, "was made in 1870. Not by me—but by my grandfather, Gerbold Ollivander. It was a rare experiment. Few wandmakers dared pair Blackthorn—wood of hardship and endurance—with thestral tail hair. Thestral hair is elusive. Wilful. It rarely binds with any wood at all. Not unless the wandmaker understands what death means —not destruction, but the truth of it. The kind that waits, and watches, and doesn't look away."
Polaris's expression tightened. He glanced down at the wand. It didn't look strange.
"It was commissioned," Ollivander went on, "not for a student—but for a war mage. Emeric Vass. A quiet man, grim and gentle, who served in the Department of Mysteries during the last Goblin Rebellions. He was no Auror. No soldier. He was something harder to name."
Ollivander's eyes grew shadowed. "The wand bonded to him immediately. Served him loyally for twenty years. Until he disappeared in Albania, chasing rumours of a soul ritual hidden deep in forest ruins. He never returned. His body was never found."
Polaris didn't speak. He wasn't sure he could.
"The wand was recovered nearly two years later," Ollivander said. "Scorched. Crusted with residue. Its core... silent. Not broken. Not spent. Simply... finished. It refused every hand that tried to claim it. Not with rejection. With stillness. As though it were waiting."
Polaris stared down at the wand in his hand, before looking back at Ollivander.
"No child since had matched with it. Not in eighty-three years. Until you."
Ollivander folded his hands behind his back.
"The wand is not cursed," he said. "But nor is it innocent. It does not forgive waste. It does not tolerate frivolity. It was made for those who carry death, not wield it. For those who know that power is often grief in disguise. To put it simply, a man walked into darkness and never came out, And the wand mourned him quietly. It remembered. And it waited."
Polaris's chest ached—not from fear, but from something more complicated. The sense that the wand hadn't chosen him for greatness… but because it recognized something broken in him. Which was stupid.
He wasn't broken.
It's just a wand . Just wood and hair and a silly story, who is to say it's true. Polaris sighed before paying what was owed for what was to remain by his side his whole life.
The wand had remembered a man who never came back.
And now it had chosen him.
Polaris didn't speak as he left the shop. He held the wand box close to his chest. Surely, he was supposed to feel excited? After all he finally had a wand, yet he didn't, which was odd.
Why wasn't he excited? Why had he been more excited when Sirius and Regulus had gotten their own wands? Why did his chest feel so heavy?
Some part of him wished he had been chosen by a different wand.
By the time he got home even the wand seemed to feel heavier in his grasp, as he walked through the house.
Ignoring the way his footsteps softened over the thick carpets, the way the portraits stilled. He barely looked up, even when the sharp voice of his mother called something indistinct from behind. His hand tightened around the package from Ollivander's.
He didn't stop until he reached the top of the stairs, then down the quieter hall that led to his bedroom.
When he opened the door, he stilled.
There, perched on the windowsill like it had been waiting, was an owl.
Polaris blinked. It wasn't just that the bird was there—it was that it shouldn't be. Sirius hadn't received his owl until the week before school. Regulus had complained about having to wait as well. Polaris had assumed the same for himself. But this owl… it looked nothing like theirs.
Its feathers were black—not the soft, mottled black of a barn owl or even the soot-grey of a common tawny. These were dark as wet ink, sleek and layered like raven feathers, catching the fading afternoon light with a strange shimmer. Its eyes were gold. Not yellow, not amber— gold , bright and clear, like coins heated in fire.
It didn't hoot or shuffle. It simply watched him.
The moment Polaris stepped further into the room, the owl shifted—wings flaring slightly, as if ready to take flight. It didn't. It didn't even back away. Just… flared. A warning, maybe. Or a question.
Polaris froze.
He wasn't sure how he felt about animals. He'd never had one of his own. Creatures in the house were usually pests. The family dogs his grandfather kept were more beast than companion. There had been a family cat once, briefly, but it had vanished before Polaris was old enough to remember if it liked him. The house-elves didn't let creatures linger.
Still, he didn't move away. The owl hadn't attacked. It hadn't left either.
He took another step forward. Slowly.
The owl's feathers rippled faintly, but it didn't retreat. Its gaze followed him—not nervous, not hostile. Just… attentive.
Polaris exhaled softly, letting the tension leave his shoulders. Then, carefully, he crouched.
"I didn't think I'd have one yet," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "You're early."
The owl blinked, then tilted its head slightly, gold eyes sharp with intelligence. It made no sound.
Polaris studied it, unable to help the quiet flicker of excitement in his chest. He'd read about owls—how magical ones bonded not just by training but by instinct. Some breeds could navigate storm wards, carry letters through illusions, even find their masters halfway across the world. But this one… he didn't recognize it. It looked like something out of a book he wasn't meant to read.
He liked owls. Had read about them. Studied their wingspans and migration patterns and magical subspecies.
"Are you mine?" he asked quietly. "Or just visiting?"
The owl didn't answer, of course. But it didn't fly away either.
He stood slowly and moved toward the window, pausing just before the owl's perch. It didn't flinch when he reached out—tentatively, not to touch, but to offer his hand beside it.
The bird lowered its wings, calm now. It tilted its head the other way.
His fingers hovered near its feathers. Still, he didn't touch. Instead, he smiled, just slightly.
"I think I'll call you Orpheus," he whispered.
The owl blinked.
"I read about him," Polaris went on softly, voice dropping into that tone he used only when alone—when it was safe to sound like he cared too much. "He was a musician. A poet. He went to the underworld to bring someone back." His eyes drifted down, then up again. "It didn't work. He looked back too soon. But the thing is… people always talk about how he failed. They forget he walked into the underworld alone. That he tried and that's better than doing nothing . "
The owl remained silent. Listening.
"Orpheus means 'darkness of night,' I think. Or maybe just 'the darkness.'" Polaris gave a faint smile, lopsided. "Fitting, isn't it?"
He took another step forward. The owl didn't move.
Polaris sat down fully now, cross-legged on the floor, looking up at the creature perched above him like a shadow stitched to the world. "You're not like other owls," he whispered. "You're like…" He trailed off, shook his head once. "Never mind."
He glanced toward the door, the walls, then back at the owl.
"Who brought you here?" he murmured.
The owl said nothing. But it blinked slowly, a movement that felt almost… knowing.
He leaned back on his hands, gaze steady. "Well," he said softly, "I guess we'll find out together."
The owl shifted.
Just a slight movement—wings tightening, weight adjusting on the sill—but it was enough to draw Polaris's eye again. That's when he noticed it.
A small piece of parchment, tucked neatly into the thin leather band around the owl's leg. Subtle.
Polaris stood carefully and stepped closer. The owl didn't move. He reached out slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the parchment before slipping it free. The paper was thick, expensive. Folded twice. Sealed with a pressed wax crest he recognized: the Black family sigil—but not the main seal of his father's household.
Pollux's.
He stared at it a moment longer before breaking the seal.
The note was brief, handwritten in the neat, upright strokes of his grandfather's script.
To my grandson, Polaris—
Consider this an early birthday gift. I will not be able to see you on the day, but I trust this owl will serve you well as you begin your new chapter. He is rare—both in breed and in temperament. Not bred to carry errands, but to accompany someone who does not lose his way.
Choose a name for him. Make it one worth carrying.
—P.B.
Polaris's brow furrowed, his thumb lingering on the edge of the parchment. Pollux Black didn't do sentiment. But there was something in the phrasing that made Polaris pause.
"Not bred to carry errands, but to accompany someone who does not lose his way."
It sounded like praise or warning... or maybe both?
He looked back up at the owl—at Orpheus—and felt the smallest pull of something he couldn't name.
"Orpheus," he said aloud, as if confirming it. The owl watched him still, unblinking.
Polaris folded the note and tucked it away in the drawer of his desk, beneath a sheaf of untouched parchment and a small bottle of ink still sealed with wax. His hand hovered for a moment over the thin, navy-blue leather-bound journal resting beside them—his Chronologus , embossed with his initials in silver on the bottom right corner: P.R.B .
A magical journal, a gift from his cousin Narcissa a few Yules back. It had become a habit for him to document his life within its pages — nearly every day, noting what he did, what happened, how he felt, what he wanted. It was the closest thing to a confession he allowed himself. Not that anyone else could read it. The Chronologus was made to respond only to its owner; without the proper touch, its pages remained blank and sealed.
"I'll have to remember to write about today."
Orpheus blinked once, then tucked his wings in, clearly uninterested int what Polaris had to say.
Polaris' eyes drifted from the bird—and then narrowed. There it was again. That sound.
It was a faint ringing – like the whine of glass under pressure... it wasn't exactly loud, but it was unnerving, and he wanted it to stop. It hasn't been the first time he's been hearing things. There's always a strange sound here and there, the first few times he dismissed them as his imagination and now he couldn't keep ignoring it.
Was there something wrong with him? Was he sick?
He waited for it to fade but it didn't, even when he pressed his hands against his ears. His temples throbbed, as he forced himself to move, with uncertainty he moved towards the door to the corridor. The pressure spiked, a high whine splitting through his head like a tuning fork struck too hard.
Before he knew it, he'd made his way downstairs and was now standing in front of his father's office.
His heart ached. He was nervous—even though he knew his father wasn't home. His father hated anyone entering the office without permission. All three brothers had learned that the hard way when they were little.
And truthfully, he hadn't been inside for years.
The last time he had...
That was when he got his scar.
Polaris hesitated, fingers hovering over the brass handle, then turned it slowly. The door creaked open.
He didn't linger in the doorway. His head was pounding again sharp and strange, like the ache was coming from outside him. He stepped in quickly, the wooden floor cool beneath his bare feet.
He rushed towards the desk, because surely that's where that noise was coming from- on the desk there was a mirror... surely it couldn't be this? Could it?
It sat atop the polished desk as if someone had only just set it down—deliberately, carefully. And yet, something about it felt old . It was large for a hand mirror, oval-shaped, set in a heavy silver frame. The handle was thick and cool, tarnished in places where the metal had dulled with age. The silver curled into delicate scrollwork along the edges, etched with runes too faint to read, but not quite asleep.
Polaris stared at it, he felt uncertain.
But the pressure behind his eyes sharpened the longer he looked at it. His hand lifted, hesitant, as if the thing might shatter from being noticed.
He took a step closer.
He didn't touch it.
He didn't need to.
The magic inside the mirror was already awake .
A soft pulse thrummed through the room. Not loud. Barely perceptible. But Polaris felt it, somewhere beneath his ribs, like a second heartbeat out of time with his own.
It wasn't rejection. The mirror had tried to match with him—and failed, violently. Not because he was incompatible, but because his presence disrupted the soul-binding magic at its core.
The spell work buried in its silver bones twisted, seeking something familiar in him: a match of blood, a bound name, a fragment it recognized. But what it found was... noise.
Polaris blinked, eyes watering. The pressure behind his eyes had become a spike.
The mirror flickered.
Only for an instant—but the glass warped , as if it had tried to show something and failed. A shape nearly formed, then snapped away, leaving a smear of grey static across the surface.
Polaris flinched. He hadn't moved. He hadn't done anything.
The mirror trembled.
Thin cracks spread across the glass, delicate as veins under ice, webbing out from the centre with a sound too soft to be real. The runes along the silver frame gave a single, fading pulse—like a breath held and released—before going still, their glow extinguished for good.
The mirror broke.
The pressure in Polaris's skull vanished all at once.
And then came the pain.
He gasped—sharp, involuntary—as a spike of heat shot through his chest. Not like fire. Not even like magic. More like something inside him had been twisted and let go too fast.
His knees buckled.
He grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself, but the room was already tilting. A single drop of blood slipped from his nose, bright against the floorboards.
Polaris pressed his sleeve to it, confused more than afraid.
He hadn't touched anything.
And yet... his body was reacting like he'd just tried to channel something far beyond his reach.
A low nausea coiled in his stomach. Not sickness, exactly. Not normal. It felt like something inward had been pulled too hard, like a thread that wasn't meant to stretch. His vision pulsed at the edges.
He sank into the nearest chair and sat very still, hand still clutched to his nose, staring at the cracked mirror on the desk as he tried to make sense of it all...
Nosebleeds paired with auditory phenomena. What did that suggest?
Spellshock? No—he hadn't been duelling, and there were no outward hex marks.
Residual curse-burn? Maybe. But he hadn't touched the mirror until after it cracked. And he hadn't cast anything .
Inherited curse? Some older pure-blood lines carried recessive magical faults. The Nott family had those compulsive chanting fits. The Bulstrodes—madness that smelled like rotting lavender. But the Blacks? No. There were things wrong with them, yes, but not this .
Maybe a strain of veiled aural sensitivity ? Some curse-breakers had it: picking up sounds tied to residual spells or soul echoes. But Polaris had never—
He cut the thought short.
The mirror.
He glanced at it again. Still cracked. Still.
He hadn't seen a flash. No runes flaring, no glyphs exposed. Whatever enchantment had been woven into it, it was hidden deep, laced under silver and intent.
What could've broken it? Magic didn't just stop . He hadn't done anything. No wand out. No incantation. No intention.
Polaris's breath caught. A flush of cold sweat beaded at the back of his neck, as the slow realisation of his situation dawned on him, the fact that he was in his father's office.
Panic twisted in his chest. He wasn't supposed to be here.
He wasn't allowed to be here.
You broke it.
He backed away, hands shaking now, fingertips cold.
You broke it, you broke it, you weren't even meant to touch it, and now it's—
His thoughts crashed into each other. His mind was too loud. That sound from earlier—it was gone now, but it had wormed its way into him, left a pressure behind, and now it was building again.
What if it wasn't the mirror that was cursed? What if it was him ?
Polaris gripped the back of the chair like a lifeline, but the world was still tilting. His ears were ringing. His vision blurred at the edges again bright and white and wrong.
What if he'd done something without realising it? What if it was the wand?
His wand.
He thought of Ollivander's voice—soft and distant and final:
It was made for those who carry death, not wield it.
No child had matched with it.
Not in eighty-five years.
Until him.
The blood in Polaris's veins felt wrong. Heavy. Like it was moving too slowly. Or maybe too fast.
Maybe something had broken inside him.
He stumbled back a step. His mouth was dry. He tried to draw in a breath, but it didn't come easily.
He was dizzy.
Too warm.
Too cold.
His chest hurt.
What if this was the beginning of something awful? Something irreversible?
What if he was dying?
That thought came quietly—too quietly. And it stuck.
His pulse surged. He sank to the floor hard, knees folding under him. The room was too big suddenly, the air too thin. His lungs fluttered uselessly in his chest, catching on nothing. His hands shook. He couldn't stop them.
He pressed them to his ribs, as if he could hold himself together.
I didn't do anything I didn't do anything I didn't—
His mind was spiralling. The mirror. The sound. The blood. The wand.
The wand that had waited for someone who wouldn't come back.
The wand that had remembered death.
And it had chosen him.
Maybe it saw something in him that he didn't.
Maybe there was something wrong with him.
His breath came fast now—too fast. He couldn't slow it down. Couldn't make sense of the shapes around him. His thoughts tumbled past one another, each worse than the last.
He pressed his forehead to the wood floor. It was cool, grounding. He just needed to stay still.
Stay still. Don't move. Don't break anything else.
His vision pulsed again—and then blanked.
Polaris didn't remember falling the rest of the way.
He stirred sometime later, drifting at the edge of sleep, heavy-limbed and aching. His head throbbed. Heat pressed behind his eyes, sweat clung to the nape of his neck, but everything around him was quiet, muffled. Dim.
A voice—distant, female—was asking him questions.
"…can you hear me? Polaris? I need you to answer me, dear. How's your head? Are you dizzy? Any sharp pain?"
His lips parted, but he didn't know what he meant to say. The words didn't come.
"…just stress," the voice said again, this time softer, to someone else in the room. "And magical sensitivity. High empathy thresholds, I'd wager. These types… they burn too bright when they're young."
A pause. Then the sound of movement, the rustle of fabric. A gentle hand, warm and dry, pressed to his forehead.
"Fever's still high. But he'll be fine. Rest, fluids. Cool compress. He'll wake properly soon."
He must've drifted again.
Sometime later—minutes, hours, he couldn't tell—he floated up again, pulled toward the surface of wakefulness by voices that wouldn't leave him be.
"Polaris." This time, it was her again. The same voice, a little clearer. Closer. "Polaris, listen to me. Do you remember anything from before the fainting spell? Anything unusual?"
He shifted slightly, a crease forming between his brows.
"There was a sound," he murmured. "And then… nothing. I don't know. I don't remember."
"You don't remember seeing a mirror?" she pressed, more gently now. "Something reflective. Anything at all—?"
His eyes fluttered open briefly, bloodshot and dazed. He turned his head just enough to bury it into the pillow.
"I said I don't remember," he muttered, the frustration threading faintly through the rasp of his voice. "Please… I just want to sleep."
A beat of silence. Then a sigh, and the sound of someone standing.
Then, from somewhere near the doorway, a voice spoke, low and calm. "That's enough. Let the boy rest. There's time for questions later."
No one else spoke after that.
When his eyes opened next, the light had changed—more grey than gold. Evening, maybe. The fever still clung to him like a second skin, but his thoughts were clearer now, clearer enough to realize he was back in his room, tucked beneath the heavy duvet. His head hurt when he tried to remember what happened after naming the owl.
And there—standing near the window—was his grandfather.
Pollux Black.
Not a word, not a sound, just the figure of the man, outlined by dusk, his posture severe as ever. But his gaze was not on Polaris. It was on the owl.
Orpheus.
The sleek, black-feathered bird sat calmly on the perch that had been set near the sill.
Polaris blinked slowly, throat dry. "…Grandfather?"
Pollux turned his head slightly. "You're awake."
Polaris shifted, winced. His head still felt packed with wool. "What… what happened?"
"You don't remember?" Pollux asked, voice even.
"No." Polaris shook his head, then immediately regretted it. The world tilted a little. "Not after… the owl. There was a sound. I followed it."
Pollux's eyes narrowed, but not unkindly. "You were found collapsed in the study. By the desk. You're lucky you didn't crack your skull open."
"I don't remember going there," Polaris murmured.
"I believe you," Pollux said simply. Then, after a pause, "You've always been too sensitive to your surroundings. Magical pressure, emotion, intent… they wear on you. And when you don't have the words for it, your body reacts. That mediwitch said as much."
Polaris frowned. He hated when people said he was sensitive , if he was, he would be reacting all the time, but he doesn't surely that isn't sensitivity it had to be something else.
His eyes flicked toward the owl.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For him."
Pollux arched a brow. "The owl?"
Polaris nodded. "I… didn't expect to get one yet. And he's not like the others. He's—he's strange. But not in a bad way. He stayed with me."
"I thought he might suit you," Pollux said, tone unreadable. "He doesn't obey out of habit. He chooses."
Polaris looked at Orpheus, who blinked once, slow and watchful. Then he looked back at his grandfather.
"I named him Orpheus."
Pollux's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker in his eyes. Approval, perhaps. "A fitting name."
Polaris hesitated. "The note said he was meant for someone who doesn't lose his way."
"It did," Pollux replied.
"…But I did. I lost mine. I don't even remember why I went to the study."
Pollux stepped closer to the bed. "You went because you're curious. And because you heard something others didn't."
He paused, looking Polaris over as if measuring something not entirely physical.
"You lost your footing, not your way."
Polaris didn't respond right away. He stared at the folds of the duvet, unsure how to feel. The shame of collapse still sat in his chest like a weight, but so did the quiet knowledge that someone had found him. That someone had brought him back.
He glanced once more at the owl—his owl.
"…Do you think he'll stay?" he asked.
Pollux didn't answer directly. Instead, he reached out, adjusting the blanket near Polaris's shoulder.
"He chose you, didn't he?"
He didn't answer at first. Then nodded, once.
"Then he will."
The room was quiet again. Orpheus turned suddenly on his perch, eyes fixed not on Polaris, but on the far corner of the room—where the shadows were thicker than they should've been.
Polaris followed his gaze. But saw nothing.
Still, the owl didn't look away.