[9,106 Words]
The Great Hall went still.
Not the usual hush after a Sorting. Not the polite confusion when a student surprised the room.
This was stillness . Breathless. Brittle. Every eye turned. Every head tilted slightly, like they hadn't heard right.
Ravenclaw?
Polaris didn't move.
He sat on the stool, motionless, hands gripping the wood like he might fall through it if he let go. The Sorting Hat had been removed, but his gaze hadn't lifted. His spine was too straight. Too fixed. Like if he blinked, the entire room might shatter.
And then—
A sound again, worse.
Not the students. Not the Hall.
His vision tunnelled.
His breath caught.
Somewhere, someone whispered, "A Black—?"
Another voice, sharper: "Not Slytherin?"
Then—
" Yes! "
Sirius's voice broke the silence like a firework through fog. He was on his feet , grinning so widely it looked like it hurt. "That's my brother!" he shouted, turning to the Gryffindor table with open arms. "Told you! Didn't I say he'd surprise you all?"
It broke the spell. The Hall erupted. Applause—cheering in Ravenclaw, scattered claps elsewhere, polite and confused. Students looked between Sirius and the staff table like they were waiting to be told whether or not it was okay to be impressed.
But Polaris couldn't see any of it.
The applause echoed like thunder beneath water.
His wand—tucked up his sleeve—was warm. No. Hot. Not searing, not scalding, but sharp enough to sting. As if it had felt the magic shift too.
He couldn't breathe.
He was supposed to move. To get up. To walk to the Ravenclaw table.
He didn't.
He stayed.
Until his legs gave way.
The motion was sudden—clumsy. He stumbled down from the stool, catching himself with one hand on the stone floor, knees hitting too hard, the slap of his palms too loud.
A few gasps.
Someone laughed nervously.
Professor McGonagall took a step forward, voice steady but laced with concern.
"Mr. Black…?"
He didn't answer.
He couldn't.
The walls felt like they were pressing in. The singing— that hum —hadn't stopped. If anything, it had deepened, threaded through the air like old strings being pulled taut. The House tables were too close. The torches too bright. The faces too many. The noise too—
He ran.
Turned, bolted through the Hall without a word, robes whipping behind him.
He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care.
He just needed out .
He didn't know how far he ran.
Stone blurred beneath his feet. Hallways bled together—arches, sconces, a flickering tapestry here, a portrait there. He turned corners without thinking. Up one flight of stairs, then another, chasing distance from the echo of his name in that room.
When his legs gave out, it wasn't dramatic. No cry, no stumble. Just the sudden refusal of his body to keep moving.
He dropped to his knees. Both hands gripping his head, elbows braced against the cold floor. His breath came in short, choking gasps.
His forehead pressed to the stone.
Make it stop.
And then—Something shifted.
In the temperature.
He opened his eyes — just barely — and saw her.
A pale figure. Gowned in silver-grey, faintly luminous. Her presence didn't surprise him, not exactly. It felt almost expected, like she'd simply been waiting for the right moment to step in.
The Grey Lady hovered just a foot above the ground, her expression unreadable.
Her eyes, though — her eyes were hollow.
Not empty. Not lifeless.
Haunted.
She tilted her head, studying him.
"I haven't heard the castle sing in decades," she said softly. "Not like this."
Polaris blinked, sweat sticking to his temple, his breath catching.
"I didn't—" he rasped. "I didn't do anything."
She drifted a little closer, but did not kneel. Did not comfort.
"You make it harder," she said, more to herself than to him. "Harder to stay. Even for the dead."
He stared at her, confused. "What does that mean?"
Her gaze stayed fixed on him, like she wasn't looking at his face so much as looking through it.
"You vibrate too loudly," she whispered. "The castle hears you. The objects wake. You don't mean to, but you pull. "
Polaris's hands shook slightly.
"Do you know what's wrong with me?" he asked.
But the Grey Lady didn't answer.
Instead, something like fear—or grief—passed across her face. Barely there. A flicker of something too long buried to name.
"Stay away from lost things," she said quietly. "Stay away from the Room of Requirement."
He tried to sit up straighter. "What? What do you mean lost things? And the room of what ? Why are you telling me all these things?"
But she didn't answer.
She only looked at him for a long moment more—eyes hollow, mouth parted as if to say something else—then turned and drifted backward through the stone wall without another word.
The sound had faded, enough for him to at least hear his thoughts as he ignored the sound.
Polaris remained on the floor, breathing hard, eyes locked on where she'd vanished. He didn't know how long he sat there.
Long enough for footsteps to echo down the corridor behind him.
Professor McGonagall rounded the corner, robes sharp, wand drawn in her hand. When she saw him crumpled on the stone, her eyes narrowed—not with anger, but concern.
"Mr. Black?"
He looked up.
His voice was hoarse. "I'm fine, professor."
"You most certainly are not ," she said, crossing the space to him in brisk steps. "You bolted from the Hall mid-ceremony. Several students believed you'd fainted."
"I just…" He hesitated, reaching for his wand. "I felt sick."
McGonagall gave him a long look, not unkind. "You should be seen by Madam Pomfrey."
"I don't need the infirmary," he said quickly, too quickly. "It's passed now. I swear."
She pursed her lips. "Very well. But I will be keeping an eye on you."
Polaris nodded stiffly, trying to gather the remaining threads of his dignity.
McGonagall softened just a fraction. "Would you like me to walk you back to the Hall?"
His throat tightened as he hesitated.
Back to the Hall?
The question felt simple, but it lodged somewhere deeper than it should have. His hand flexed around his wand, fingers twitching once, twice.
Then, in a low voice—calm, but clipped—he said, "I made a fool of myself."
McGonagall didn't answer right away.
Polaris didn't look up at her. His voice remained even, but his eyes were on the floor.
"I panicked in front of the entire school. I ran. Like a child." He exhaled, quietly. "And now I'm expected to return and act as if I didn't humiliate myself in front of the four Houses, the ghosts, the professors, and every legacy-minded pureblood in the bloody room."
He wasn't angry. He wasn't even upset.
He was ashamed .
It only made it worse when he remembered the way Sirius cheered like he had won a price.
But he folded that shame neatly, like a pressed robe, and tucked it into his tone.
McGonagall finally spoke. "You had a moment," she said, more gently this time. "That does not make you a fool. That makes you human."
"I don't know how to be that," Polaris said, almost without thinking. Then he blinked, stiffened, and added quickly, "Not in front of all of them."
A silence settled between them again.
Then, with careful precision, Polaris drew himself upright—shoulders square, chin level, as if nothing had happened. He wasn't sure why he told her all that, he probably shouldn't have.
"I'm ready now," he said.
And he was.
Not in the way that meant healed. Not in the way that meant steady.
But in the way one walks into a room knowing everyone has already seen them fall.
He followed Professor McGonagall back through the winding corridors. Her pace was measured—not too fast to make it a march, not too slow to draw out the silence. She didn't speak again, and he was grateful for that. There was something oddly dignified in her quiet: she did not pity. She did not pretend.
The doors to the Great Hall opened without fanfare.
No announcement. No ceremony.
And yet—
The room noticed.
Not in a dramatic, head-turning way. But with a slow, perceptible shift. A pause in the ambient hum of clinking cutlery and murmured conversation. A soft hush, like the castle itself had inhaled.
Polaris didn't flinch.
He walked the length of the Hall—eyes forward, back straight, movements careful. Measured. Like he belonged here.
He reached the Ravenclaw table.
The bench was colder than he expected. He slid into the space between two other first-years—a girl with dark braids and a boy whose tie was already crooked—and kept his eyes down. Platters hovered and shifted along the table, spilling the scent of roast chicken and gravy, but the air felt thin. He wasn't hungry. Not really. But he forced himself to pick up his goblet, hands moving stiffly, deliberately.
No one said anything right away. Not to him. But he could feel them looking.
The girl beside him shifted, glancing at him sidelong. "Hey," she said, quiet but clearly intended to be friendly. "Are you alright?"
He didn't respond. Not because he meant to ignore her—he didn't even register it.
The Grey Lady's voice echoed in his skull like it had been carved into the bone itself.
"I haven't heard the castle sing in decades,"
What did that mean?
What did she mean?
The castle sang ?
Castles don't sing. Castles creak, they groan, they settle into stone and silence. They echo footsteps, yes. They whisper through draughty corridors. But singing—?
He didn't know whether it was a metaphor or a magical fact. And somehow, not knowing was worse.
Was it something to do with magic? Was it the wards? The stones? The ghosts? The Founders? Him?
What had he done differently? No, the right question was what was wrong with him.
"Hey," the boy beside him tried, a little louder this time. "Polaris, right? That was… dramatic. But cool. Like—unexpected. Anyway, welcome to Ravenclaw."
Still nothing. Polaris's fingers curled tighter around the goblet. He was still thinking, even so it didn't mean the ringing had stopped.
"Stay away from lost things."
"Even the dead."
"You pull."
He needed to find her again. The Grey Lady. She'd known something. Not just about what he was enduring—but about him . She'd looked at him like she was reading a page already written. She had warned him. Had she meant to? Or had it slipped out?
"Right," the girl said under her breath, drawing back slightly. "Never mind, then."
The boy next to her chuckled awkwardly. " Purebloods , too many of them are like that. Thinks we're beneath him."
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. The girl beside him had turned her head slightly toward the boy, murmuring something behind her hand. Polaris blinked, his gaze flicking to the other side—another Ravenclaw looking at him, then quickly looking away.
His brow furrowed.
Why were they—?
Were they talking about him? Perhaps they didn't know what box to place him in. Black, but not a Slytherin. A boy who ran, and worse, a boy who came back.
He remembered the warnings—his mother's voice like iron lace: "You are a Black, Polaris. You do not falter, and you do not fail. Do our house proud, just like Regulus."
What would she say to him now, draped in blue like a stain? Would she punish him as she did Sirius for being robed in red? Would it hurt just as much? Would there be the cold clang of the lock behind his door, the silence afterward where all the furniture had once been—stripped away save for the mattress on the floor, the ceiling his only companion? Would his meals stop coming too? Would she look at him like he was no longer her son, but something she regretted bringing into the world?
He had been Sorted, and that was that. What was the point in worrying now? It was done.
There was no way to unpick the magic, no bribe or threat that could claw the name off the record. He had already failed the House of Black in the one moment that mattered most to them. That was fact.
So, he accepted it.
Not because he was brave. Not because he didn't care. But because dragging it with him like a stone would ruin everything. Hogwarts was supposed to be a place for learning—for becoming something, wasn't it? He didn't yet know what he was meant to become, but he was here now.
He sat still, his knuckles curled white in his lap.
Maybe Sirius would make a better Lord of the House of Black than their grandfather ever had, then their father ever would.
Maybe he would burn it down, that ancient, blood-sick empire—torch the whole damn thing so children like Polaris wouldn't have to be afraid of being Ravenclaws. So they wouldn't have to measure themselves in silence, in bruises not given by fists but by expectations, by shame.
"Excuse me, coming through—sorry—terribly sorry, didn't mean to elbow your soup."
A familiar voice.
Polaris turned sharply to see Corvus slipping between benches like he belonged there—which he decidedly didn't. His emerald-green Slytherin trim practically screamed across the sea of Ravenclaw blue.
"Move over, ghost-boy," Corvus said cheerfully, sliding onto the bench beside him without asking. "You look like you're three seconds from having an existential crisis over your mashed potatoes."
Polaris blinked, mouth parting. "You—what are you—?"
"I'm rescuing you," Corvus said, grabbing a dinner roll with shameless entitlement. "Obviously."
A second figure followed behind, slower, quieter, and already looking mildly exasperated.
Bastian Yaxley, robes just as green, expression dry as stone.
He sat on the other side of Polaris with the heaviness of someone doing a necessary job he wasn't thrilled about.
"'Rescue' is generous," he said. "He got himself hexed by Elora Parkinson and stormed off like a scorned duchess."
"Oh, please ," Corvus groaned, tossing a bit of bread onto Polaris's plate like an offering. "She hexed my chair . That's practically an act of war."
"You insulted her family's peacocks," Bastian said flatly.
"I insulted her taste ," Corvus corrected, scandalized. "Which is fair, because she said my haircut made me look like a milkmaid. A milkmaid , Bas. At my own House table."
Polaris blinked. "Do you… even know what a milkmaid is?"
Corvus turned to him, horrified. "Do you ?"
"No," Polaris admitted.
Bastian, deadpan: "It's Muggle ."
"Oh. That explains why she said it like a curse."
"Probably was."
Corvus sniffed. "Well, she's just bitter she couldn't get sorted into the Parkinson family ego. It was too full."
"You're being dramatic," Bastian said, slicing into his roast chicken with clinical precision.
"I'm being attacked , Bas."
"You're being you."
Polaris opened his mouth, then hesitated. "Haven't you known Elora since you were—?"
"Since nappies," Corvus said darkly. "And somehow she's been holding a grudge the entire time."
Bastian murmured, "You did try breaking her toy broom when you were four."
"It was hideous."
"Polka dots, I think," Polaris offered.
"Exactly, well, she's just bitter she couldn't get sorted into the Parkinson family ego. It was too full." Corvus said, as if that vindicated everything.
"You're being dramatic," Bastian said, slicing into his roast chicken with clinical precision.
"I'm being attacked , Bas."
"You're being you ."
Polaris sat back, stunned by how suddenly the world felt… tolerable again. The tension in his chest hadn't vanished, but it had loosened. Like a clasp undone.
He stared at the roll Corvus had thrown onto his plate.
"You came to the wrong table."
Corvus shrugged, unfazed. "And yet here we are. Don't worry, I bribed the prefect—"
"You did not," Bastian interrupted.
"Well, I smiled at her, which is nearly the same thing."
Polaris glanced at the prefect at the end of the table—currently glowering at them like they were scuffing up the entire academic reputation of Ravenclaw with every breath.
"You're going to get told off." Polaris said, it was clear that eventually they would. After all surely sitting at other table during important days like the sorting ceremony weren't allowed. He wasn't sure why the professors hadn't said anything, seeing as they've gained their attention, including that of the headmaster.
"Already did," Corvus said with a shrug. "Gave us five minutes. Generous, considering Bastian was scowling like someone insulted his family crest."
"It was generous," Bastian said. "We're pure-blooded guests in the eagle's nest. Don't get too comfortable, Avery."
"Oh, I'm never comfortable in blue. Does nothing for my complexion."
Polaris snorted before he could stop himself. It just slipped out.
Corvus caught it, eyes lighting up. " There he is. You've been sitting here like you saw death."
"I did," Polaris murmured. "Sort of."
Bastian's eyes flicked up—watchful, quiet—but he said nothing.
"Spooky castle gets everyone their first day," Corvus said breezily, nudging Polaris's elbow. "Between the ghosts and the bloody singing hats, I nearly fainted into Parkinson's bouillabaisse."
"You just didn't want to sit next to her," Bastian muttered.
"Correct."
Polaris was still holding his fork, motionless. But something in him had steadied. Corvus hadn't said a word about Ravenclaw. Not a single jab, not a single comment about how he was supposed to be in Slytherin. He hadn't even looked at the colours.
And Bastian—quiet, critical Bastian—had followed. Just to make sure Corvus didn't end up in trouble alone.
"Right, that's quite enough," came a clipped voice from behind.
Polaris turned to see two Ravenclaw prefects standing stiff-backed just behind them—one tall boy with sharp cheekbones and a prefect's badge polished to a mirror shine, the other a dark-haired girl with a look that suggested she'd been patient far longer than she liked.
"We gave you leeway," she said, arms folded across her chest. "That leeway has expired."
Corvus glanced up, mouth still full of stolen roll. "Oh, was that the official timer? You should announce it next time. Maybe with a gong."
The male prefect narrowed his eyes. "You're in the wrong place, wearing the wrong colours, and disrupting the table."
Bastian Yaxley looked up slowly, chewing, then dabbed his mouth with a napkin like he was dining at the Ministry. "We're leaving."
Corvus leaned back, exaggerated. " Already? But I was about to rate the Ravenclaw mashed potatoes. They've got character. I think they whisper about you when your back is turned."
The girl gave him a tight, fixed smile. "Five points from Slytherin for cheek. Each."
Bastian stood. "Lovely. We'll bill the House for our trauma."
Polaris looked between them, suddenly unsure. "You didn't have to—" come to his table he wanted to say.
Bastian met his eyes, briefly. "We know."
Corvus popped the last bite of roll into his mouth and stood, brushing off his green-trimmed sleeves with dramatic flair. "I regret nothing ," he said loudly to no one in particular. "Except maybe sitting next to you lot. All the books, none of the fun."
"Out," the male prefect snapped.
Bastian tugged Corvus by the sleeve, not unkindly, and the two of them turned to go. But just before he followed, Corvus paused—just for a second—and looked back at Polaris.
He didn't smile.
But he tipped his head, a quiet nod. Like a reminder.
Still friends.
No matter the colours.
The two Slytherins fell into step side by side, as the moved back to the table beside the Ravenclaw table.
For a while, Polaris remained sitting, staring at the spot where his friends had been, then back down at the roll — now a little misshapen from being tossed about — resting on his plate.
He pressed it briefly between his thumb and forefinger. There was a strange, comforting warmth in its softness — a small, ordinary thing amid the upheaval.
Eventually, the platters began clearing themselves — a shimmering sweep of magic removing food, dishes, and cutlery in a matter of seconds — when Dumbledore rose once more from his seat at the centre of the High Table.
Dumbledore pressed his hands against the wooden podium and addressed the school in a voice that seemed to illuminate the very air.
"Before we send you all off to your houses this evening, there are two appointments I wish to bring to your attention." His piercing blue gaze fell briefly on the seventh-years sitting at their respective tables. "It is my great pleasure to introduce this year's Head Girl and Head Boy — two students who have demonstrated maturity, compassion, and service to their fellow witches and wizards."
He paused just a moment — letting the silence deepen — then nodded.
"Frank Longbottom of Gryffindor — Head Boy for 1975–76."
A chorus of cheers rose from Gryffindor — who banged their goblets on the table in approval — and Frank stood, a little nervous, a little proud. His face turned faintly red under the acclaim, but he nodded back, gravely, and sat down again.
"And Marissa Higgs of Ravenclaw — Head Girl for 1975–76."
This time it was the Ravenclaws who responded, clapping warmly, a few standing to show their appreciation. Marissa remained composed, smiling gracefully as she rose and nodded to her peers, then to the professors, before sitting once more.
Dumbledore pressed his hands together. "I have every confidence they will lead this school with fairness and dignity. Please show them your support in the year to come."
As the cheers fell away and the students turned back toward their conversations, the first-years were dismissed under the guidance of their respective prefects.
"It's time, first years."
The voice was firm, composed — a rich alto that seemed to cut through the chatter without needing to raise its volume. The dark-haired girl prefect from before stood at the head of the table now, hands neatly folded in front of her. The taller boy stood beside her, a silent, somewhat intimidating silhouette against the shimmering Great Hall windows.
"All first years, please follow us. We will be escorting you to Ravenclaw Tower."
A ripple of movement went through the first years — benches scraped back, goblets were put down, napkins discarded.
The first years fell into a kind of single file as the two prefects led them up yet another staircase — a spiral made of smooth stone that seemed to hang in the air without a centre. The movement fell into a rhythmic silence, punctuated by the occasional nervous whisper or scuffle of feet against the steps.
He fell back a step or two near the rear, letting the small knot of first years move forward without him immediately. His pulse seemed a fraction off from their rhythm — not quite in, not quite out — a disquiet that gnawed at him.
The sound was faint, but still there, to the point he could only ignore it like he did most days. Maybe they were right, he was sensitive to magic to a degree.
He forced himself to detach, to observe instead of react. Pure observation — a Black should be able to do that, at least. His gaze fell on the two prefects first. Ava Harper's confidence seemed effortless, Thomas Patel's silence purposeful — two very different expressions of Ravenclaw, a contrast that made him wonder where, exactly, a person like him was meant to fit.
Some first years walked close together in nervous clusters; others fell back into their own worlds. His eyes darted briefly from face to face — the eager, the unsure, the brave. There were purebloods amongst them — children raised with the same traditions, the same "suitability" — yet none seemed to carry it in quite the way Black children were meant to. There were Mudbloods, Half-bloods, pure-bloods… a rich mixture. His curiosity pressed against his prejudice, making him reassess, against his will, all the stories he'd grown up believing.
He remained silent, letting conversations flow past him. He felt more comfortable this way — a shadow amongst a bustling group — a careful, hidden observation. But when a girl fell into stride beside him, nearly without a ripple, it forced him back into the present.
"Black, isn't it?" she said quietly, with a confidence that seemed more earned by ancestry than age. "We crossed paths a few summers back… at a Ministry gala, I believe."
For a moment, Polaris remained silent, letting the silence hang just a little longer than seemed comfortable. Then he nodded, a small, courteous tilt of his head. "Greengrass."
"I appreciate proper introductions, but we're first years together now." There was a softness creeping into her voice — a consideration — and it made something in him falter.
"May we use first names?"
He seemed to consider it. Pureblood formality was a hard habit to break at times when unfamiliar with someone. "Of course… Senna."
She fell into step more naturally then, less stiff, less distant. "I must admit… Mother will be quite… disappointed I'm not in Slytherin."
He pressed his lips together, choosing his words carefully. "My whole family expected me there."
"For a Black, I imagine it was a given."
"It was." His knuckles tightened briefly on the banister. "Most of my friends… or at least, those I'm meant to associate with… are Slytherins."
Senna nodded, understanding without needing more. "It must be strange. To find oneself… elsewhere."
"It's an adjustment." He glanced at her, adding quietly, "I suppose we have that in common."
She sighed, a little dramatic. "I'm not the first Greengrass to break tradition… or to disappoint." She turned back toward him with a mischievous glimmer in her otherwise composed face. "But… I'm glad, honestly. Ravenclaw feels… more me."
He remained silent for a moment, then nodded. "It suits you."
"It might suit you, too." She let her gaze linger on him just a little longer. "You… look decent in blue."
He raised a brow. "Decent?"
"It's a start." She tried, and failed, to keep a small smile from creeping into her voice. "How about me?"
He sighed quietly, as if the question required careful consideration. "…About the same."
Her eyebrows rose. "About the same?"
He nodded. "Respectable."
Before Senna could respond, a shock of blond hair fell into their view — a face framing piercing blue eyes and a charming, if somewhat manufactured, smile.
"Pardon me for interrupting"—The blond hopped gracefully into stride beside them, nearly bouncing on his toes—"but I couldn't help overhearing. Black, isn't it? And… Greengrass. A pureblood powerhouse if there ever was one."
Senna pressed her lips together, not quite hiding her suspicion. Polaris remained silent.
"Gilderoy Lockhart, by the way." He pressed a hand against his own chest in a dramatic introduction. A half-blood then, Polaris assumed since the boy knew the house of Black and Greengrass and the fact Polaris didn't recognise the name Lockhart.
The blond continued talking, admiration in his gaze. "A Black in Ravenclaw — it's… unconventional. It's dramatic. It's noteworthy. The kind of story people remember."
Polaris remained non-committal. "Not all stories need an audience."
Gilderoy faltered briefly, then pressed on with his charming confidence. "Ah, true… true… But when the time comes for your story to be told, you'll want someone there who knows how to… illuminate it properly."
Senna sighed under her breath — a pure, refined expression of exasperation as Gilderoy prattle on.
Polaris remained silent as Gilderoy fell into stride beside him, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet with each step.
He kept his gaze forward, letting the prattle rush past him.
Senna made a small, decisive movement — a turn of her shoulder — and threaded herself forward through the knot of first years, putting literal distance between herself and Gilderoy's chatter. Whatever Gilderoy Lockhart was — charming or ridiculous — it seemed not worth her time.
For a moment, Polaris contemplated following her — letting the silence absorb him once more — but then the flow of their fellow first years closed in and it was Gilderoy's voice, not the crackling silence, that filled his ears.
Gilderoy remained obliviously enthusiastic. "…and when I do become someone of note — a proper celebrity — it will be friendships like this that people remember. The first years who walked side by side with me on our way to Ravenclaw."
To Polaris, the words seemed distant, manufactured — a script Lockhart had already decided upon for himself. His own first impressions were sharper: Gilderoy was someone who filled silence to avoid it.
It was then that a drawling voice cut through the monologue, dripping with a subtle, sarcastic amusement. "Merlin's knickers… can someone please tell the peacock to be silent?"
Gilderoy faltered. "Peacock?"
The owner of the voice fell into stride beside Polaris — taller, thinner, a shock of brown hair falling into piercing blue eyes. His hands were in his robe's pocket, his tone a perfect blend of boredom and irony.
"Fawley, Sylvan Fawley." His delivery made the name a formality more than a friendly introduction. "We met once… at a dinner… I doubt you remember." His gaze was on Polaris as he introduced himself.
For a moment, Polaris tried to place him — a face in a room full of pureblood children, a voice adding a witticism or two when conversations grew pompous — then it clicked. "…I remember. Black, Polaris Black" His own voice was quieter, less dramatic, a small acknowledgement.
Fawley extended a hand, Polaris shook it. A brief clean handshake.
Fawley nodded once and fell into a comfortable silence alongside him. His piercing blue eyes remained forward, but Polaris could feel him taking in everything — Gilderoy's ridiculousness, the shifting formations of their fellow first years, the nervous glances from those unsure of their future in Ravenclaw.
"It's a bit much, isn't it?" Fawley said quietly, not needing to raise his voice to be heard. "Some people talk just to fill the silence."
Polaris pressed his lips together — a nearly invisible acknowledgement — and nodded. "Some do."
Gilderoy seemed to realize the two were ignoring him. His voice faltered briefly, then fell into an uneasy silence, his confidence gone a little threadbare.
As the group turned a corner, a rush of anticipation rose in Polaris, a feeling hard to admit even to himself. Whatever lay at the top of these stairs — the Ravenclaw Common Room — was a place entirely unknown to him. His family hadn't described it; pureblood traditions seemed to omit it altogether, choosing instead to celebrate the dimly majestic dungeons of Slytherin.
He pressed forward, letting curiosity conquer nervousness. Whatever the Common Room held, it was a world separate from his ancestry's plans for him — a place where a Black might become something else.
They climbed higher, and higher still, until the castle grew quieter around them, the air thinner, cleaner somehow. Light pooled more generously through arched windows, carrying the cool clarity of altitude. Somewhere along the way, Polaris noticed the pressure behind his eyes had faded — the tightness in his temples, the dull ache that had hovered since he first arrived, gone.
By the time they reached the top — one of the three highest towers in all of Hogwarts — he felt oddly unburdened.
At last, the two prefects came to a halt on a small landing. The first years pressed forward in a nervous knot, peering past their guides to see what lay above.
Before them stood a wooden door, rich and ancient, its surface entirely smooth — without handle or keyhole — save for a large, majestic knocker in the shape of a bronze eagle's head. The metal glimmered dimly in the glow of the nearby wall sconces. The knocker's piercing gaze seemed almost alive, a silent guardian to whatever lay within.
Ava Harper turned back to face the first years. "This is the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower."
Thomas Patel nodded. "To enter, you must solve a riddle. The knocker will pose a question; answer it correctly, and it lets you in."
Some first years exchanged nervous glances; a few whispered to each other in disbelief.
"It's meant to reflect Ravenclaw's greatest trait — wit, curiosity, the ability to find answers where others may falter." Ava explained. She paused briefly, letting this sink in. "Would anyone like to try first?"
For a moment, silence fell. Few were brave enough to step forward immediately. Some avoided the prefect's gaze; others seemed unsure whether a mistake might reflect badly on them.
Then a small, composed voice cut through the hush. "I will."
Senna stepped forward from the group, back straight, hands neatly at her sides — pure confidence without a hint of showiness.
Ava nodded and turned back toward the knocker. The metal eagle seemed to come alive under their gaze, tilting its head forward.
The knocker's voice — rich, deep, almost musical — filled the corridor:
"I fly without wings, I cry without eyes.
Where am I?"
The first years fell into a nervous silence.
Some whispered amongst themselves; a few exchanged confused glances.
Senna remained composed. She seemed to consider it briefly — then nodded once. "Cloud."
The knocker remained silent for a moment — then, with a deep, resonant "click"— the door opened inward just a fraction.
Some first years sighed in relief; a few nodded in admiration.
Behind her, Polaris remained silent — nearly invisible in the crowd — but in his mind, the answer fell into place a split-second after the riddle was finished. Cloud . Obvious, really.
Riddles like that weren't meant to be hard, he thought — not exactly. They were meant to turn your mind sideways, to make you see ordinary things from a slightly stranger angle. He liked that. There was something almost playful about it, like the door itself was testing not just your cleverness, but your willingness to be surprised.
He didn't mind staying quiet. He preferred to linger in those in-between moments — the hush before an answer, the breath before a door opened — where things still held mystery. Others wanted to prove they were right. Polaris liked the wonder of not knowing, just long enough to feel it unfurl inside him.
Ava Harper addressed the first years once more. "This will be your entrance from now on. The knocker's riddles will change, and sometimes you may find yourself stranded outside until you solve it."
Some nodded eagerly; others seemed nervous at the thought of having their wits constantly tested.
"It's meant to keep you thinking, growing, and trusting your ability to find answers."
With a slight flourish of her hand, the rest of the group followed Senna through the opened door — into a world that was theirs now, for better or for worse.
the first years fell into a deep hush — a collective intake of breath — as the Common Room revealed itself.
The space was vast and filled with light, a perfect marriage of knowledge and artistry. Soaring, arched windows made of leaded glass opened directly toward the heavens, framing a dramatic view of the Great Lake glimmering under a purple-black sky, the Forbidden Forest sprawling in shadow, and the mountains beyond, purple ridges against a deepening horizon.
The midnight-blue carpet beneath their feet seemed to absorb their nervous energy, letting it settle and calm. The ceiling above was a domed masterpiece — a rich canvas of deep blue adorned with shimmering gold stars — a mirror of the heavens outside. The effect was awe-inspiring; a literal feeling of standing under the universe.
Across the room, rich blue and bronze silks draped gracefully from the walls, adding softness and warmth to the space. Large, comfortable seats were grouped around small tables, perfect for reading or conversation. The furniture seemed to invite quiet reflection, curiosity, and exploration — a true sanctuary for those who valued knowledge above all else.
The first years remained in a tight knot near the entrance at first, unsure whether to venture forward. Ava Harper and Thomas Patel walked back toward them, smiling warmly.
"This is home now." Ava said quietly, letting her voice carry just enough to be heard in the large room. "The Ravenclaw Common Room — a place for curiosity, creativity, and refuge."
Thomas nodded. "Here you can pursue knowledge for its own sake… or find peace when the world outside feels overwhelming."
He turned back toward a small group waiting near a side lounge — the rest of the Ravenclaw prefects.
"It's time you met the rest of your guides."
Ava Harper and Thomas Patel — the two sixth-year prefects who had guided the first years up from the Great Hall — remained at the forefront as the rest of the Ravenclaw prefects fell into view.
Ava nodded toward the two fifth-years — Aria Daniels and Padraig Ward— who stood nearby, hands neatly folded, smiling in their composed, somewhat reserved way.
Behind them, the two seventh-years — Ananya Gupta and Robin Cadogan — stepped forward from their seats near the large windows. There was a quiet confidence about them, the kind that came from years of navigating these corridors and understanding the traditions of their House.
Together, the six of them made up the Ravenclaw prefects — guides, role models, and guardians for the first years who were about to find their place here.
The first years listened quietly, letting the names and faces sink in. There were many people here who might help them find their place — or become obstacles — depending on their choices.
As the introductions drew to a close, a small, energetic figure hopped up a step to be more visible — Professor Filius Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw and Charms Master. His piercing, kind eyes darted across the first years, noting their nervousness, their awe.
"Welcome, my Ravens." His voice was light and musical, full of warmth and a mischievous spark. "This is a place to grow, to learn… and to fly."
Flitwick paused to let his words settle, then continued, "Your timetables will be delivered in the morning. Please be sure you're up and ready for your first classes. Punctuality, curiosity, and kindness — these are the virtues we value here."
He hopped back down with a spryness that seemed impossible for someone his age, then addressed a final piece of business. "And remember… the riddle knocker will challenge you each time you wish to enter. Embrace it. See it not as a barrier, but as a key — a key to knowledge and a mind unfettered."
For a moment, silence fell, a rich, deep silence filled with anticipation and a strange feeling — that in this place, whatever their futures held, there was a path forward.
Flitwick nodded once more and dismissed them. "Your prefects will show you to your dormitories now."
The first years were left to their own, allowing them to look around by themselves and find out who their roommates were after being shown the side for the boys and the girls.
The Ravenclaw first-year boys' dormitory sat near the top of the western tower, just beneath the dome of the star-painted ceiling. It was an elegant room — round, with tall arched windows that stretched nearly to the ceiling and cast pale moonlight across the stone floor.
A slow, flickering blue flame hovered above each of the five beds, floating lazily in glass orbs like starlight caught in a bottle.
Five beds. Five trunks. Five very different boys.
Polaris entered first.
He moved without hurry, his posture straight and his hands tucked neatly behind his back, eyes sweeping the room like a catalogue. He did not speak. He did not smile. He carried himself with the practiced, dignified restraint of someone who had already learned that silence could be power. There was nothing soft about him — not in his expression, not in his stillness. A Black. The name clung to him like a second skin, and he wore it well.
He did not claim the central bed, nor the one nearest the window. He chose the one in the corner, back against stone, with a clear view of the entire room.
A shadow stirred on the bedpost.
Orpheus was already there — feathers ruffled from sleep, gold eyes blinking slowly in the half-light. The moment Polaris sat down, the owl shifted just slightly, turning his head and flaring his wings in silent acknowledgement.
Polaris reached out absently, brushing two fingers along the sleek, dark feathers of the owl's chest — a quiet, grounding gesture. The smallest hint of calm softened his shoulders.
Of all the people he'd left behind, Pollux was one of the few Polaris truly missed. It was hard to believe they were even related to his mother. He had the same sharpness, the same iron in his voice — but none of her spite. Still, the way she bowed her head when he scolded her proved the blood was there. Cold and exacting as he was, Pollux had believed in Polaris. And somehow, that belief felt solid.
Part of that was Narcissa, of course. She was his favourite cousin — always had been. The warmest, the kindest, the only one who ever seemed to see him. She never pushed him aside for being too small or too curious. If anything, she made space for him. Soft smiles tucked behind proper manners. A steady hand on his shoulder when the room grew cold.
She made him feel wanted. He missed her, too. More than he liked to admit.
He missed Alphard, though those memories came in flickers. Laughing eyes. The smell of ink. The way he'd slip Polaris sweets wrapped in dragonhide parchment, whispering stories of cursed islands and star-magic when no one was listening.
It was the little things he remembered best. Like the night he'd pulled the blankets over his head after another cold, silent dinner and wished — with the stubborn ache only children know — that Uncle Alphard was his father instead of Orion Black.
Andromeda was more a question than a memory now. A half-dream of someone who once let him hold her wand and told him he could do anything — anything — if he dared.
But they all felt far away now.
He barely remembered Alphard's voice. Just the warmth. And Andromeda… she might as well have been a ghost now.
He didn't think he'd ever see them again.
Polaris let his hand fall back into his lap. The owl blinked once, slow and solemn.
"You're here, though," he murmured.
The door creaked again.
A thin boy stepped in next — pale, with unruly black hair and dark circles under his eyes. He hesitated just inside the threshold, hands nervously tugging at his knuckles before he noticed Polaris already seated. Their eyes met for a brief moment. Harper's gaze was large, watchful, unreadable — the kind of look that belonged to someone who observed before he spoke. He gave a small nod — respectful, but not deferent — and chose the bed closest to the window, then began methodically unpacking his things.
Next came a soft footfall.
Felix Kim entered with the poise of someone already accustomed to performance. His dark eyes scanned the room in a smooth arc, then landed briefly on Polaris. The flicker of recognition there was subtle — not alarmed, but cautious. He straightened his already-straight robes and offered a practiced, polite smile to no one in particular.
"Charming," he murmured to himself, noting the high ceilings and moonlight as if he were reviewing a suite at a hotel. He settled into the bed farthest from the door, angled slightly away from the others — a small gesture of tactical distance.
Then came a soft curse and a thud, followed by the sound of a trunk bumping hard into the doorframe.
Charlie Moon entered in a puff of frustration, dragging his belongings with both hands and already muttering about leverage ratios under his breath. He was of average height and neat build, but there was something scattered about him — not unkempt, just always five steps into a different thought.
He paused when he saw the others. His eyes flicked from Polaris to Harper to Felix. The room had quieted.
"Right," he said, voice low and thoughtful. "Group dynamic reads chilly."
Then he smiled — not wide, not forced, but genuine — and claimed the bed nearest the bookshelves, tossing his trunk on it without ceremony.
Finally, the last boy entered—not timidly, but with a kind of careful energy. Rafiq Mirza was somewhat large for their age, broad-shouldered and sturdy, with thick black hair that curled slightly at the edges. His eyes were filled with curiosity, his hands steady as he pushed the door shut behind him. He paused, took in the arrangement, and smiled slightly when no one spoke.
"I take it we're not a chatty bunch."
No one answered, but the corner of Charlie's mouth lifted faintly. Harper didn't look up, but Polaris saw the slight stilling of his hands. Felix just returned to smoothing the fold of his blanket.
Rafiq didn't take offense. He nodded to himself — as if confirming a theory — and selected the bed beside Charlie's.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Five boys. Five silences. Not quite tension — but the kind of wary, brittle quiet that follows when assumptions are being drawn in real time.
It was Polaris who broke the stillness.
He spoke without looking up from the book he had already retrieved from his trunk — his tone even, clear, and edged with certainty.
"Let's keep the snoring to a minimum."
It was strange, sharing a room. All his life, Polaris had slept alone, in a space that was wholly his. Now, surrounded by four unfamiliar boys and their scattered belongings, he felt the invisible weight of proximity. He wasn't used to the shuffle of feet, the presence of breath just metres away. But he masked the discomfort easily, as he always did.
It earned a few reactions. Felix's brow arched. Charlie barked a soft laugh. Harper's expression didn't change, but Polaris saw the corner of his lip twitch. Rafiq, ever warm, grinned.
Polaris closed the book with a soft snap .
Solitude was his normal. The idea of falling asleep with four other boys mere feet away felt... intrusive. No one had touched his things yet, but they could . That was enough.
Without a word, he turned towards the door as his hand reached the door handle-
"Where are you going?" Felix asked, the only one bold enough to say it aloud.
Polaris didn't answer. He opened the door, stepped through it, and let it shut behind him with a quiet click.
His roommates exchanged brief glances, but said nothing. Polaris moved too deliberately to be stopped — like he knew exactly where he was going. Even if he didn't.
He didn't wander aimlessly. There was a reason he left the room. He walked quickly, but without panic, letting instinct guide his feet — down the curling Ravenclaw stair, past the cold-brushed tapestries, through two archways and a slanted hallway that dipped slightly before rising again.
His earlier encounter with the Grey Lady haunted him — not with fear, but fascination.
He found them in the common room: two of the prefects — Aria Daniels and Padraig Ward — seated near the arched window, murmuring over a game of chess.
They looked up as he approached.
"You alright?" Padraig Ward asked, his accent unmistakably Irish. "Trying to change rooms already?"
Polaris ignored the question. "What do you know about the Grey Lady?"
Aria blinked. "You saw her?"
"She spoke to me."
That gave them pause. Padraig sat back, curious now. Aria, more cautious, narrowed her eyes slightly.
"She rarely ever speaks," Aria said. "You must've caught her in a mood."
Polaris tilted his head. "Do you know where she tends to go? Is there… somewhere she stays?"
"She doesn't really stay anywhere," Padraig replied. "She floats. Avoids crowds. But most of the time, she's seen near the Grey Lady Corridor — it's just past the Middle Courtyard. Overlooks it, actually."
Polaris leaned forward slightly. "Where is that?"
Aria gestured toward the far archway. "It's near the Ravenclaw Tower staircase. You'd take the left-hand passage before the portrait of the mermaid — then up a narrow spiral stair. Opens onto a corridor that leads into an old chamber and a lookout. It's not locked, but no one really uses it anymore."
Polaris nodded, grateful for the help. "Thank you."
Aria raised an eyebrow. "Why do you want to find her again?"
He hesitated. Then, simply: "She said something I didn't understand."
The two prefects exchanged a glance, but didn't press further.
"Well," Padraig said, almost kindly, "be careful. Ghosts remember things differently. And they don't always say what they mean."
Polaris gave a faint nod of acknowledgement, before he turned away. Aria stood, smoothing her robes.
"It's past nine," she said, her tone matter-of-fact but not unkind. "Curfew was mentioned at dinner. You shouldn't be out."
Polaris stilled. "I won't be long."
"That's not really the point," she said evenly. "The staff take the rules seriously, especially the first week."
Padraig, less stern, shrugged one shoulder. "You can always go tomorrow, once the tower clears out. Easier to think when the corridors are quiet — and technically allowed."
Polaris said nothing to that, but a small flicker in his eyes suggested he would be going regardless, just not while being watched. Aria noticed, but let it slide.
He turned as if to go, then paused. "I'm Polaris Black, by the way," he said, as though he'd only just remembered the necessity of names.
Padraig tilted his head. "We figured."
"I've heard of the Wards," Polaris said mildly. "My grandfather respects your family."
Padraig's brows lifted. "Lord Arcturus? That's mutual. My grandfather knew him back in the Wizengamot. Old-school, but sharp. Said he never missed a name or an insult."
Polaris didn't smile, but his expression softened by a fraction — which, for him, might as well have been a grin.
"Well," Aria said after a pause, her tone shifting, "if anyone gives you trouble — about the name, the House, whatever — you come to us. Some people won't know what to make of a Black in Ravenclaw. And not everyone will be polite about it."
"We'll sort it," Padraig added. "Quietly."
Polaris inclined his head, the gesture measured but genuine. "Thank you."
"Get some sleep," Aria decided to add. "And maybe wait until daylight before you go ghost hunting again."
He gave no promises — only turned, footsteps soundless on the stone floor, his mind already retracing the prefects' directions toward the Grey Lady Corridor.
Polaris couldn't go now; he had to wait and waiting needed entertainment.
Polaris had begun to learn his roommates' names and edges—their quirks, their blood status.
Felix Kim and Elias Harper were pure-bloods, each carrying the weight and expectation of their families in different ways. Charlie Moon was half-blood, bridging worlds without much fuss. Rafiq Mirza was Muggle-born , still wide-eyed and curious about the strange magical customs swirling around him.
Around the small, battered table in the corner, five figures gathered, the newly shared space between them feeling both unfamiliar and charged with silent expectations.
Polaris sat rigidly on one side, pale fingers ready and eyes sharp. Across from him, Elias tugged nervously at his knobby knuckles, a thoughtful gleam in his deep brown eyes as he watched the cards. Felix, his hands stiff and expression taut, folded his arms with a hint of impatience. Charlie, calm and deliberate, waited his turn quietly. And Rafiq, still struggling to grasp the rules, leaned forward.
"Ready?" Elias asked, voice low but steady.
Polaris didn't answer, but the tension between them was almost electric. From the start, the game was a test of reflexes and wit—cards flipped, matched, and exploded with bursts of smoke and sparks that sent everyone flinching.
Elias and Polaris were clearly rivals, slapping cards down almost simultaneously more than once, each matching pairs with razor-sharp timing. "You're fast," Elias admitted grudgingly, flashing a brief smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Practice," Polaris said shortly, flicking a card down with precision. It was a game Polaris played with Sirius and Regulus many times.
Rafiq's brow furrowed as a card exploded near his face, leaving a faint scent of burnt parchment. "How do you even know what to look for?" he asked, baffled but amused.
Rafiq was the only muggle-born in the room, therefore they had to teach him the rules yet he still seemed confused.
Felix rolled his eyes, exasperated. "You have to match the pictures, not just slap randomly. Surely you have something like it in the muggle world."
Rafiq shot him a look.
Charlie, slow and deliberate, finally made a match and gave a small, polite smile. "Patience wins, sometimes."
Polaris glanced at Rafiq as he sat back, hands resting on his knees, eyes still wide. There was something honest and genuine about him, something Polaris wasn't used to but didn't reject outright. He kept his distance—neither warm nor cold, simply watching.
Then, in a moment of off-handedness, Polaris said, "Must be difficult, having to prove you belong when you come from… well, Muggles ."
It wasn't meant as a jab—he was genuinely curious. But tone was a language he hadn't yet learned to translate. What he thought of as neutral often came out barbed.
He added, almost as an afterthought, "I mean—being a mudblood and all."
The word sat there, sharp and ugly, but Polaris didn't notice. He'd heard adults use it all the time—lectures, family dinners, correctional reprimands—it hadn't struck him as wrong . Just… traditional.
Rafiq's smile disappeared. His fingers twitched slightly as he set his cards down. "I… I don't think you should say that."
Polaris blinked, clearly confused. "Say what?"
"No, it's fine," Rafiq said quietly, standing and gathering the cards with a calm finality. "Maybe I'm just not used to this game… or the company."
The room fell silent, the glow of the cards dimming as Rafiq gathered his things. Felix muttered something under his breath, Elias looked away, and Charlie simply sat back with a slight frown.
What did I say wrong? he wondered, staring after the retreating figure.
Felix muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for anyone but himself to hear, "Typical sore loser..." His voice carried that sharp edge of irritation—not exactly sympathy, but more annoyance at the sudden awkwardness disrupting their game.
Charlie looked away, his fingers tightening into small fists in his lap. His calm façade faltered for a moment, a flicker of unease crossing his face. He felt bad—for Rafiq, for the tension in the room—but wasn't quite sure how to fix it. Quietly, he shifted, avoiding eye contact.
Charlie wasn't sure who he was angry at — Polaris, for not knowing better? Himself, for not stepping in? Or the room, for being exactly the sort of place Rafiq feared it would be.
Elias raised an eyebrow, glancing quickly between Polaris and Rafiq. He caught the pause, the silent discomfort hanging thick. Wondering if the game was actually over or if they were still supposed to be playing, he nudged the deck slightly.
Elias shifted, tapping the edge of the deck. "We could start over," he said finally. "If… anyone wants to."