[12,540 Words]
September 3rd, 1975, Wednesday
They stepped out of the Ravenclaw common room into the quiet chill of the corridor. Sylvan Fawley was mid-sentence, his voice low and urgent as they descended the stairs.
"—I'm telling you, it wasn't just a trick of the light," he insisted. "Someone hexed the tapestry outside the library. The thing tried to bite Helena Brocklehurst's quill clean in half—swear on Merlin's knees."
Polaris frowned faintly, half-listening, adjusting the strap of his satchel as they turned a corner. The corridor ahead was beginning to fill with first-years, voices rising in a chaotic murmur. He barely noticed the shift in crowd, distracted by Sylvan's vivid retelling—until a voice broke through beside him.
"Polaris?"
He blinked. Rafiq Mirza had approached, clutching his books tightly to his chest. His tone was careful but edged with something quieter—something bruised.
Polaris looked at him for a long moment, slightly squinting, as though the name had been spoken too loudly in a library. "...That's my name."
There was no sarcasm in it—only genuine confusion.
It was weird how casual the muggle-born called his name like they were friends.
Rafiq hesitated, then said, a little more stiffly, "I thought maybe we should talk. About what happened the other night."
Polaris gave him an odd look, sharp and tilted. His brow furrowed faintly. "What happened?"
Before Rafiq could respond, Polaris's head snapped slightly to the left. Movement—a flicker of grey and pearl drifting just around the corner. The air chilled perceptibly.
The Grey Lady.
He had been searching for her since the moment he arrived. Quietly. Obsessively.
His breath caught.
Without a word, without even the grace of explanation, Polaris turned and dashed down the hallway, his cloak fluttering behind him like smoke. He didn't look back.
Rafiq blinked, bewildered. He stood there in silence; the rejected start of a sentence still stuck on his tongue.
"Well then," Sylvan said after a beat, brushing invisible dust from the sleeve of his immaculate robes. His voice was cool but edged now, less amused than before.
He looked Rafiq over once, then added, "Unsolicited advice, Mirza. You really oughtn't use someone's first name like that. Especially not without invitation."
Rafiq frowned. "I was just trying to be polite."
"To us, that's not polite. It's presumptuous," Sylvan said, more clipped now. "You may not mean offense, but among certain families—sacred ones, mind you—there's tradition. Deference. We don't all throw names around like common sweets."
Sylvan didn't stop there. "Of course, he probably just saw the Grey Lady. Still. It wouldn't kill you to learn the difference between familiarity and disrespect, you're in the wizarding world now. Learn how to live in it."
He turned down the hall without waiting for a reply, leaving Rafiq standing in the lingering chill.
Polaris had abandoned Rafiq without a second thought, robes fluttering behind him as he turned down the narrow stair and into the Grey Lady Corridor.
He saw her at once.
She hovered by the old arched window, pale and near-translucent in the dawn light, as if the morning might burn through her entirely. Her silver-grey gown stirred without wind, her expression distant. She didn't turn as he approached, but he knew she was aware of him. Knew it the way one knows they are being watched from behind a veil.
"I've been looking for you," Polaris said quietly, breath catching in his throat.
She said nothing. Only drifted forward slowly, as though reluctant even to remain in the same space.
"I need to ask—what you said the night of the Sorting—what did it mean?" he pressed. "You said I pull things. That I vibrate too loudly. I don't understand."
Still, she didn't answer.
He took a step closer. "Please."
The word felt strange in his mouth — too bare, too close to asking for something he couldn't control.
At last, she turned her head slightly. Her eyes, when they met his, were impossibly old—like reflections caught in the bottom of a dry well.
Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a breath. "Where the ink has faded, but the magic has not."
Polaris blinked. "What does that mean?"
But she was already retreating—gliding backward, her form beginning to shimmer faintly at the edges.
"Is it a place? A book? What do I look for?" he asked, frustration rising.
She paused only once more, gaze sliding past him to some far place only she could see.
"He wrote of a presence the world had not yet named."
And with that, she turned, her robes whispering against the air as she passed through the wall like mist through stone.
"Wait—!" Polaris started forward, but it was too late. She was gone. He stood there, hands clenched at his sides, staring at the place where she'd disappeared.
The library?
That could mean anything. A section? A spell? A clue? A book?
Polaris exhaled sharply and pressed his fingers to his temple. It felt like chasing riddles with the answers torn out.
Where the ink has faded, but the magic has not.
It sounded poetic. It also sounded useless.
Polaris was still thinking about them as he half-jogged across the wet stone path toward Greenhouse One, the morning dew clinging to the hem of his robes. His boots left faint prints on the mossy flagstones, but he barely noticed.
He was late.
Not scandalously so—just enough to be noticed.
By the time he reached Greenhouse One, the class was already gathered — Ravenclaws and Slytherins in neat-ish rows at the back, their breath fogging the greenhouse's humid glass walls.
Luckily for him, no one was seated yet.
Professor Sprout standing near the front beside a large wooden board with scribbled names and columns. Several long tables stretched across the greenhouse, already lined with potted plants — most of which twitched or rustled in a way that suggested they were at least slightly carnivorous.
He slipped into a spot near a familiar presence — tall, cool, and composed — Senna Greengrass.
She glanced over as he joined her. "You're late."
He brushed past the comment. "Why's everyone still standing?"
"She's assigning seats," Senna said, tucking a dark strand behind her ear. "Something about preventing injury. Or murder."
He tilted his head. "How thoughtful."
Sprout clapped her hands. "First-years, do listen. Magical plants are not tame. Some bite, some squirt pus, some explode — and we'd like to keep you intact, if possible. Seating is mixed-house, in pairs. The chart is posted here. If you have complaints, write home."
Senna leaned in a little, voice low. "Apparently, we can't be trusted to sit where we like. Something about exploding cacti and last year's blood-leech incident."
"Hm." Polaris glanced toward the front. "Sounds… promising."
Table Three: Black, Polaris – Potter, Aurelia
Next to him, Senna was already watching. "Interesting. You're sat with the Potter in green, heard from some of the Slytherins that she's exactly how you'd expect a Gryffindor. She looked ready to hex the Hat when it called it out."
Polaris blinked, curious now. "Didn't want it?"
"Not for a second," Senna said, amused. "Apparently she sat down expecting Gryffindor — you know, the whole Potter legacy thing — and when it said Slytherin, she looked like someone had insulted her ancestors."
Polaris's expression didn't change, but his gaze lingered on the name. "Mm."
"She hasn't really spoken to anyone," Senna added. "But I've heard she doesn't exactly blend in. Loud opinions. Fast wand. Elbows first."
"So… not boring," Polaris said simply.
Senna gave a dry little hum. "She might hate you."
"She can get in line."
Professor Sprout began calling names. Polaris adjusted the strap on his satchel and stepped forward, gloves already in hand.
Senna's voice followed, casual and sharp. "Try not to duel her over mandrakes. I hear they scream."
Polaris didn't look back, but one corner of his mouth tugged upward.
The tables had filled in, pairs settling into their spots with varying degrees of chatter. Gloves were pulled on, sleeves rolled back, some students still fumbling with the ties on their satchels.
Polaris dropped onto the bench at Table Three, folding his gloves neatly beside the tray of mulch and vials. He didn't need to check the name — the girl already seated there made it unmistakable.
Aurelia Potter.
She was slouched back, arms crossed, boots already scuffed with greenhouse mud despite it being barely past breakfast. Her tie was loose, robe collar askew, and a faint dirt-smudge bloomed along the edge of her jaw like she'd wiped her hand there without thinking. Those amber-hazel eyes flicked up as he sat down — sharp, unreadable, not entirely hostile, but not friendly either.
Polaris didn't speak. He just watched her.
She watched him back.
For a moment, neither said a word. It wasn't tension — not exactly. More like a silent standoff to see who blinked first. The only history between them was a boot stepped on during the Sorting. But judging by the look in her eyes, she hadn't forgotten.
Nor had she forgiven.
At the front, Professor Sprout beamed. "Before we begin, I'd like you all to introduce yourselves to your partners. Names and Houses are fine for now — we'll have plenty of time to grow into more. Remember, you'll be working closely together this term. Herbology is a cooperative art."
Around the greenhouse, voices rose in scattered introductions — some awkward, some overconfident. A few Ravenclaws leaned too eagerly into explanations. A Slytherin girl was already reciting her family tree.
Polaris turned slightly toward Aurelia, resting one elbow on the table. "Polaris Black. Ravenclaw."
Aurelia didn't answer right away. Her eyes narrowed faintly, a slow burn of recognition lighting behind them — like the pieces clicked just then.
"You stepped on my foot."
At first she hadn't known he was that Black when they first met. She'd heard Sirius mention the name enough times — not often, but enough for it to stick. Sometimes it was with a frown, sometimes just a shrug, and once or twice with that restless edge he got when he was worried but pretending not to be. She wasn't supposed to be listening — curled on the stairwell while Sirius and James talked late — but she'd caught snatches all the same. Something about Polaris being too much like Regulus these days . Something about how he thinks if he's clever enough, he'll be safe.
She hadn't understood it fully then.
But it left an impression.
Polaris blinked at her accusing tone. "You walked in front of me."
"Because the Hall was open," she said flatly.
"It was a tactical error."
Aurelia raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Is that your version of an apology? Sounds more like a battle report. Who on earth says 'tactical error'."
He tilted his head slightly. "Would you prefer a eulogy?"
A beat of silence. Then, to his surprise, one corner of her mouth twitched — not a smile, exactly, but something close enough to pass for neutral ground.
"Aurelia Potter. Slytherin ," she said finally. "I don't usually get trampled during formal processions, but maybe Hogwarts is full of surprises."
Polaris tilted his head, studying her. "You don't seem thrilled about your House."
"You don't either."
He didn't deny it. "Touché."
His gaze flicked up, pausing on the crooked flower tucked behind her ear — a crumpled violet thing that looked like it had lost a fight with a Cornish pixie. He couldn't tell if it was meant to be decorative or if it had simply fallen into her hair during breakfast and never left. Either way, it looked stupid. Boldly, pointlessly stupid.
Professor Sprout moved to the front of the greenhouse, her muddy boots squeaking slightly on the flagstones. A large pot sat on the worktable beside her — thick green vines curling out of it, twitching subtly as if aware of the attention.
"This," she said cheerfully, "is Devil's Ivy . Not to be confused with its non-magical cousin — this one bites."
The vines gave a visible shudder, a low hiss escaping from the base of the pot.
"A gentle warning, nothing more," Sprout added quickly. "These plants are sugar-sensitive and temperamental, particularly in dry weather. Today, you'll be feeding them a controlled amount of syrup — exactly four drops. No more, no less. Overfeed them, and they get overstimulated. Underfeed them, and they sulk. And nobody likes a sulking vine."
A few students laughed nervously. One of the Slytherins in the back shifted in their seat.
Sprout held up a dropper and let one, two, three, four precise drops fall onto a leaf. The plant shivered… then gave a contented hum, curling its leaf in like a cat's paw.
"See?" she said brightly. "Treat them well, and they'll be perfectly manageable."
She set the dropper down and clapped her hands.
Then Sprout clapped her hands again. "Gloves on, dears! Today we're beginning with Devil's Ivy and its fondness for blood sugar. You'll be feeding it exactly four drops of syrup — no more, no less — or it might start hissing."
Polaris slid on his gloves with precise movements, fingers tugging at each fingertip until they fit snugly.
Aurelia was already uncorking the vial of syrup beside them; her jaw set in a way that made it clear she intended to take the lead.
"The instructions say four drops," she muttered, lifting the dropper.
"I can read," Polaris replied coolly, reaching for the parchment anyway.
She didn't hand it over.
He didn't ask twice — just reached around her and picked up the second set of tongs, inspecting the leaves of the Devil's Ivy, which were already twitching at their approach.
"You're holding it too close," he said.
"I'm feeding it, not proposing to it," she shot back.
"It's a blood-sensitive specimen. If it feels threatened—"
"It isn't threatened. Unless it counts your voice."
He raised a brow. "I was merely trying to prevent your impending mauling."
"Oh, don't flatter yourself," she said, her tone still low but simmering. "You probably think everything you say is a gift of wisdom, but you're just—" She stopped herself short. The Devil's Ivy hissed faintly.
Polaris's gaze narrowed. "Just what?"
She didn't back down. "Just another stuck-up pureblood who thinks they're clever because no one's ever told them to shut up."
"That's bold, spoken like someone who isn't one herself," he said, voice cool. "Especially from a Potter in green and silver. I've heard the way your House talks behind your back."
Her voice was calm, but too even — like someone walking a tightrope over something they really wanted to say.
"And I've heard Ravenclaws muttering about the Black boy who thinks using the M-word in casual conversation makes him better."
Voices rose around them — students beginning to notice the tone shift. A few at the neighbouring tables turned.
The Ivy hissed louder, curling one leaf in warning.
Polaris's voice stayed flat. "If you're going to insult me, at least do it intelligently."
"Oh, I'm saving the intelligent ones for when I actually care what you think."
That did it.
The Devil's Ivy twitched violently, one vine snapping toward Aurelia's sleeve. She pulled back fast, knocking over the syrup vial.
"Enough!"
Professor Sprout's voice cracked through the greenhouse like a thunderclap. She stormed toward their table, robes billowing, hands on her hips.
"Mr. Black. Miss Potter. Do I need to separate you?"
A few people snickered. Polaris stiffened. Aurelia's ears flushed.
"Honestly," Sprout muttered, fixing them both with a sharp look. "This is exactly why I mix the tables. House unity is more than a slogan — it's survival. You won't last five minutes in this subject if you can't cooperate."
She turned to address the whole class now, voice booming over the hissing plants. " No House is better than another. And no student is here by mistake. If the Hat saw fit to put you where you are, then I expect you to learn from each other — not throw barbs like you're in a duelling ring."
Silence.
Dozens of eyes were on them. Polaris stared straight ahead, jaw tight, shoulders still. Aurelia, for all her sharpness, looked vaguely mortified — not because she was wrong, but because she'd been called out.
Sprout sighed, her voice softening. "I don't care if you like each other. But you will work together. That plant nearly bit you, Miss Potter."
Aurelia muttered, "Yes, Professor."
"And you, Mr. Black — smugness is not a substitute for listening."
Polaris didn't speak but nodded once. How was he being smug?
"Good." Sprout exhaled, dusting her hands off. "Now. Start again. Four drops, one at a time. Together."
She walked off, leaving the heavy silence behind her.
Polaris didn't move.
Aurelia didn't look at him.
For a long moment, they just sat in that tension.
Then, dryly:
"…Three more drops," Polaris murmured.
He got a glare in return from Aurelia.
He hesitated. "What did you mean earlier… about the M-word?"
She blinked at him. "You really don't know?"
He frowned, more confused than defensive. "Do you mean mudblood? Isn't it just another term for Muggle-born?"
Aurelia turned away sharply, lips pressed in disbelief. "Merlin, no wonder they talk about you.
He just frowned.
She didn't look at him when she spoke next. "It's not just a word. It's a slur. It's what people say right before they hex someone for having the wrong parents. It's what Death Eaters carve into skin."
Polaris blinked, the pieces not fully connecting.
Aurelia finally looked at him—sharp, tired. "It's not clever. It's not witty. It's hate dressed up in Latin."
He turned the words over in his head the way he might a strange rune — testing the angles, tracing their shape.
Not clever. Not witty.
His fingers twitched at his side, as if reaching for a quill, some instinct to write it out, to see it laid bare in ink so he could make sense of it.
He was quiet a moment, then said—carefully, not sarcastically: "I didn't know that."
She scoffed softly. "Yeah. That's the problem."
"No—" he paused, choosing his words. "I mean… I thought it was just the technical term. Like how some books use it."
Aurelia narrowed her eyes. "Books written by people who think blood makes someone better."
Polaris looked down at the tongs. "You think I believe that?"
"I think you've never questioned it," she said.
And to that, Polaris said nothing. At least now he knows why his muggle-born roommate acted weird that night...
Later that afternoon, the library was quiet, golden light slanting in through the high windows. Polaris sat hunched over a thick, leather-bound journal, his handwriting neat but unusually tense. The Chronologus swallowed his thoughts with silent ink.
Potter said I've never questioned it. She wasn't wrong. It just never occurred to me that I should.
The chair opposite creaked as someone dropped into it with no sense of stealth. Polaris didn't need to look up.
"You're brooding," Bastian whispered, loud enough to earn a glance from a passing Ravenclaw. "Tell me you're writing about the Potter Incident , that happened this morning."
Polaris sighed and capped his ink. "You saw it."
"Front row seat," Bastian grinned, slouching low and pulling out a Chocolate Frog he'd almost definitely smuggled in. "You always pick fights with girls or just the ones who could hex your eyebrows off?"
"She called me weird after class," Polaris muttered, tucking his journal away.
Bastian nearly choked on laughter, slapping a hand over his mouth. A sharp shhh! came from Madam Pince near the Restricted Section.
Polaris glared at him. "Really?"
Bastian wiped his eyes, still grinning. "Sorry, sorry." He leaned in conspiratorially. "But to be fair… she's not wrong."
Polaris narrowed his eyes. "You're meant to be on my side."
"I am ," Bastian said, trying — and failing — to look serious. "At least you weren't stuck next to a mudblood like I was."
Polaris paused. Not flinched — not quite — but there was a hitch in his expression, like something catching in the gears of thought.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing not in irritation, but curiosity. "Did you know that's a slur?"
Bastian blinked, brows pulling in. "What? No. It's just the technical term, isn't it? People are dramatic these days."
"That's what I thought too," Polaris muttered, fingers grazing the edge of his closed Chronologus. "But Potter—she acted like I'd spat in her face. Said it was what Death Eaters carve into people's skin."
That pulled Bastian up short. He didn't laugh this time.
Instead, he leaned back in the chair, expression flattening into something unreadable. For a moment, he just stared at the bookshelf behind Polaris — not avoiding the question, just thinking .
Beside Polaris, his wand — resting beside his ink pot — gave a faint nudge . Its tip angled ever so slightly toward the gated arch of the Restricted Section.
Neither of them noticed.
But the wand had moved.
"She said that?" he asked finally.
Polaris nodded.
Bastian was still, his fingers loosely drumming against the wood in a slow, even rhythm.
"Suppose that explains why she went for your throat," he said after a beat. His voice was low, dry. Not dismissive — but measured. "It's… a bit darker than how it's used at home."
There was weight behind the words, even if he didn't elaborate. Polaris watched him, noting the shift — not just in tone, but in posture, in something tighter behind the eyes.
"You didn't know either," Polaris said quietly.
"No." Bastian's jaw tensed, but only faintly. "But I'm not surprised."
He didn't say why. He didn't need to.
Polaris looked down at the table, then back up. "You think she overreacted?"
Bastian shook his head, once. "I think… people tend to react like that when something really means something."
Then, with a forced lightness: "Besides. She's Gryffindor at heart if not in name. Everything's the end of the world. You should see how dramatic she can get at times in the Slytherin common room."
Polaris hummed softly, neither agreement nor disagreement.
Then, after a moment: "Can I ask you something strange?"
Bastian raised a brow. "You've met yourself, right?"
Polaris ignored that. He glanced down at the closed Chronologus again, fingers tracing the edge of its spine.
"A ghost, more specifically, the grey lady — I saw her after I ran out of the hall during the sorting. She said something odd to me the night we arrived."
"Odd how ?" Bastian asked, eyes narrowing slightly, curious now.
Polaris looked up. "She said I pull things. That I vibrate too loudly. And when I asked her to explain, she said: 'Where the ink has faded, but the magic has not.'
Bastian blinked. "...Right. Well. That's not ominous at all ."
He opened his mouth to ask more—
—but at that exact moment, a loud huff came from the end of the aisle.
"Oh for Merlin's sake," Corvus said, stalking over with a face like thunder. " This is where you two disappeared to? The library ?"
They both turned to him, startled.
"You were supposed to meet us in the Great Hall! With the cards ! We've got a whole unopened set and not nearly enough space to gloat properly."
Polaris frowned. "Sorry. Got sidetracked."
"By books ?" Corvus said incredulously. "You two are sick."
"We're not reading," Bastian offered with a dry shrug. "We're unravelling prophecies from spectral riddlers, actually."
Polaris shot him a look. " Subtle. "
Corvus blinked. "What?"
Polaris hesitated, then sighed. He lowered his voice again. "Fine. But neither of you can tell anyone. Promise. "
Bastian held up his hand like an oath. "Sworn."
Corvus looked more amused than solemn but nodded. "Sure. Secrets in the stacks. Got it."
Polaris leaned forward again. "It happened the night of the Sorting. After I left the Hall—I ran into her. The Grey Lady."
"The ghost?" Corvus said, a little too loudly.
A stern " Shhh! " rang out from the next row.
All three boys froze, then ducked their heads like guilty first-years.
Polaris sighed and repeated what he told Bastian.
Corvus blinked. "That's the most Ravenclaw thing I've ever heard."
Bastian muttered, "What do you think she meant by pull things ?"
"I don't know," Polaris said. "But I think… something's here. In the library. Something everyone else has forgotten."
Corvus squinted. "Like what, a lost book?"
"Or a memory," Bastian added thoughtfully. "A trace."
Corvus groaned, flopping into the seat beside them. "You lot are going to get us hexed. Or cursed. Or worse—detention."
Polaris leaned back slightly, voice still low. "You're in now. Might as well help."
Corvus sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if the books start whispering, I'm out."
Bastian smirked. "Depends what they're whispering."
Another shhh! snapped their heads up.
They all went still.
Polaris, trying not to grin, whispered, "We might want to move this to somewhere less... aggressively silent."
The courtyard was lively- students scattered in pockets across the grass and benches, some practicing spells, others trading Chocolate Frogs or gossip. A few third-years were trying to charm their quills into synchronized dancing, with mixed results.
Polaris sat on the edge of the stone fountain, sketching idle shapes with his finger on the worn surface. Water trickled softly behind him. Bastian and Corvus had flanked him without fanfare, dropped beside him like gravity had pulled them there.
"We don't even know what we're looking for," Corvus said, squinting against the sunlight. "Like, at all . We're chasing fog."
"Not even fog," Bastian muttered. "Fog would at least be visible ."
Polaris exhaled through his nose, eyes distant. " 'Where the ink has faded, but the magic has not.'"
Corvus mimicked a ghostly voice under his breath. " Spooky nonsense… "
Polaris shot him a look.
"I'm just saying," Corvus went on, hands raised in surrender, "it's so vague it could mean anything. An old, enchanted scroll. A cursed diary. A book that bites back. Could be a metaphor for something. We'd be better off asking the Bloody Baron for investment tips."
Bastian rested his elbows on his knees, expression unreadable. "It's a metaphor. Has to be. She's trying to tell you to look for something hidden in plain sight. Something overlooked... my best guess."
"Like what?" Polaris asked, frustration prickling in his voice. "She spoke like it mattered — like it was tied to me . Not just any secret. Something connected."
They were quiet for a moment, watching as a second-year accidentally set a sleeve on fire and frantically patted it out with their wand.
"Maybe it's a book," Bastian said eventually. "One that's technically still shelved, but no one touches. Outdated. Irrelevant. Faded ."
"Maybe it's not a book at all," Polaris murmured. "Maybe it's a memory. A person. A place that used to be something else. Magic clings to things. She said I pull things. What if I'm meant to find it not by searching—"
"—but by vibrating too loudly?" Corvus finished, dry as ever. "You do make a racket in the ether; I'll give you that."
Polaris didn't smile. "What if something finds me ?"
That made both of them pause.
Bastian stared at him a long moment, then said, "Alright, if something possesses you, I'm stunning you and running."
"I'll hold him down," Corvus added.
"Great," Polaris said flatly. "Thanks for the support."
"You're welcome."
Another beat of quiet passed.
Polaris spoke again, softer this time. "I think it might have something to do with the headaches."
Bastian turned slightly.
Corvus frowned. "You still get them?"
Polaris nodded, eyes fixed on the slow trickle of the fountain. "Since I got here. The night we arrived, actually. I thought it was just the train. Or the Sorting. But it hasn't really stopped. It fades sometimes, then flares again."
Corvus squinted. "Do you have one now?"
"A dull one," Polaris admitted. "Like something humming just under the skin."
He rubbed his temple absently, then blinked—something flickering behind his eyes like a reel clicking into motion.
Polaris then spoke again as if remembering. "And then… before she left, she said something I can't get out of my head."
Corvus raised an eyebrow. "More riddles?"
Polaris looked at them both, voice edged with unease. "'He wrote of a presence the world had not yet named,'" he quoted.
Bastian straightened slowly. "Who did?"
Polaris shook his head. "She didn't say. Just… he . Like I should know. Or like I would find out. Then there's something about some room, it was like a specific name, but I forgot it."
Corvus leaned back against the stone rim of the fountain, watching the students around them. "So now we're looking for a room you can't name, which by the way just give up on. Something that hurts your head, and draws a ghost to whisper poetry at you."
Polaris glanced sideways. "Yeah, I think I'm giving up on the room thing."
Corvus was about to respond — probably something sarcastic — when a voice rang out across the courtyard.
"Polaris!"
All three heads turned.
Nate was striding toward them from across the grass, flanked by two Gryffindors. He wore the expression of someone who had already decided the conversation would belong to him. Sunlight caught in his hair, giving him the faint, unfair gleam of someone used to being noticed.
"Oh, great," Corvus muttered, squinting as though the sight physically pained him. "The charm brigade approaches. Look busy"
Nate said something brief to the Gryffindors beside him — casual, clipped — and they peeled off without protest, drifting toward a group practising wandwork.
He approached the fountain with effortless ease, hands in his pockets.
"Didn't expect to find you lot sunbathing," he said, eyes skimming briefly over Corvus and Bastian before landing — unsurprisingly — on Polaris.
"We're not," Polaris said, straightening just a little. "We're—"
"Brooding," Bastian supplied. "Very committed to it, actually."
Nate gave a huff of amusement, like he hadn't quite decided whether to acknowledge them properly. "Can I steal you for a second?" he asked Polaris — not quiet but pitched like it was just between them.
Polaris hesitated, but only for a moment. "Fine," he said, rising and brushing a leaf off his robes. "Two minutes."
Corvus's eyebrows lifted as Polaris stepped away. "Wait—what? You're going with him?"
Nate flashed a small grin, but didn't respond. He led Polaris a few paces away, stopping near a patch of sun-warmed stone.
Bastian leaned over. "Since when are they… friends?"
"They're not," Corvus said flatly. "At least I didn't think they were. Did we miss a memo?"
Polaris stood with arms folded, already tired of whatever this was.
"I just thought I'd say hi," Nate said, with the faint ease of someone aware this might not be welcomed. "Also, Willow and I talked. Sorted things out, I think."
Polaris gave him a look. "And?"
Nate shrugged, unfazed. "Thought you might want to know."
"I don't," Polaris said, his tone clipped. "Not really in the habit of caring what Willow Smyth thinks."
Nate paused. "Fair enough."
A beat.
Polaris started to turn back.
Nate lingered just long enough to add, "I didn't think you'd still be mad about what she said."
"I'm not," Polaris said, without looking at him. "Though surely I'm not supposed to forget her calling me a cousin shagger ."
Nate sighed. "Yeah. I know. I'm not here to defend her — just thought you might want to know where things stand."
"I don't," Polaris said, voice flat. "But if that's all—"
"It's not," Nate cut in. "I was actually heading to the Duelling Club sign-ups. Thought you might be interested." Nate pulled a parchment from his pocket and offered it out.
That gave Polaris pause. Polaris took the sheet, glancing down at the elegant script.
Nate shrugged. "Professor Kettleburn's restarting it this year. Said he wants more inter-House duels. Figured you might want a spot before the Slytherins fill it up."
Polaris studied him for a long moment. "That all?"
Nate nodded once. "Yeah. That's all."
Polaris considered — then let out a breath, the edge in his shoulders easing. "Yeah," he said, more easily this time. "That actually sounds… not terrible."
Nate's mouth quirked. "High praise."
Polaris allowed the corner of his own mouth to twitch — barely. "Don't let it go to your head."
They walked a short way together, not speaking — not needing to. Just before the courtyard path split, Nate lifted a hand in a casual wave.
"See you there, then Polaris," he said, already turning off toward the Entrance
At the fountain, Corvus sat up like he was preparing for interrogation when Polaris made his way back over.
"Well?" Corvus asked at once, peering at him. "Was it about your hair? It is oddly shiny today."
"No," Polaris said, sitting down again. "He and Willow are friends again."
Bastian blinked. "That's… good?"
"Not really," Polaris said. "But it's none of my business."
Polaris then pulled the parchment from his pocket and unfolded it. "Also, Duelling Club sign-ups are today."
That got Corvus's attention. He straightened immediately. "Wait, seriously?"
Polaris handed the parchment to him. "He said they're opening a new round. Kettleburn's running it."
"Oh, I have to go," Corvus said, already scanning the page. "Do you know how many duelling cards Kettleburn has? I've got four of them. Including the one from the Duelling Confederation Tournament — limited release, only fifty in circulation."
Bastian looked thoroughly unimpressed. "I'll pass. I'm not getting hexed in the spleen for house points."
Corvus waved him off. "It's not about house points, it's about glory ."
Polaris leaned back against the stone rim, arms folded again. "He asked if I'd be interested. That's all."
Corvus eyed him. "You're actually going?"
"I might," Polaris said.
Bastian gave him a sideways glance. "Since when do you and Sayre chat?"
Polaris didn't answer.
Corvus narrowed his eyes. "This is getting suspicious."
"Everything is suspicious to you," Polaris said mildly.
Corvus didn't deny it.
They stayed by the fountain a while longer, arguing over whether hexing someone in the face counted as "style" or "desperation" in a duel, until the sun dipped lower behind the castle walls and students began drifting back inside. Eventually, they went their separate ways — Bastian heading toward the library, Corvus off to retrieve a deck of duelling cards he insisted were "purely for research." Polaris lingered near the cloisters, sign-up sheet folded in his pocket, not yet committing to returning to the common room.
Polaris almost didn't notice him at first.
The corridor outside the Ravenclaw common room was dim, quiet—emptied of chatter now that most students had filtered inside after dinner. He was halfway to the eagle-shaped knocker when a shift in the shadows made him pause.
"Reg?" he said, uncertain.
His brother stepped forward from where he'd been leaning against the stone arch, arms folded, as if he'd been waiting a while. The light caught the silver crest on his sleeve, the familiar tilt of his mouth.
"I thought you might try to vanish after dinner," Regulus said simply. "Took you long enough."
Polaris blinked. "You were waiting for me?"
Regulus shrugged, like it was nothing. "Seemed easier than sending a message."
He turned and nodded down the corridor. "Come on. I know a place."
Too surprised to argue, Polaris followed.
They moved through the castle in near silence—Polaris a few steps behind, just close enough to keep pace. He didn't ask where they were going. He didn't need to.
Eventually, they slipped behind an old tapestry of a Quidditch match gone wrong, into a forgotten alcove lined with dust-covered benches and a high arched window that spilled soft blue light across the stone floor. Regulus dropped into the window seat like he owned the space. Polaris stood for a moment, then sat beside him.
Regulus didn't say anything right away.
Then, after a moment: "I heard what happened, from Evan."
"I heard you did."
Regulus leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the flagstones below like they might offer a version of this conversation he was more prepared for.
"I wasn't going to say anything," he admitted quietly. "Didn't want to make it worse. But…"
He glanced sideways at Polaris.
"You handled yourself well. Even if Evan hadn't stepped in, I think you'd have won that duel." A flicker of a smirk tugged at his mouth. "Don't think I didn't notice you stuffing your face in my old third-year books when you thought no one was looking."
Polaris's brow twitched. "They were misfiled."
Regulus rolled his eyes. "Sure they were."
A pause.
"I mean it," Regulus added, more serious now. "You kept your head. That's... more than some manage."
Polaris gave a small shrug. "It wasn't about him."
"No," Regulus agreed.
Another pause.
Polaris clearly wasn't going to be the one to break it, so Regulus spoke again cautiously.
Regulus hesitated. Then, more gently: "You alright?"
There was a long pause.
Then: "No."
He said it so simply. No dramatics. No bitterness. Just the clean cut of truth.
Regulus's throat tightened.
Polaris looked down at his hands. "I wanted Slytherin," he said, like a confession. "Not just for them. For me."
The words hung between them.
"I thought… if I could just do everything right, if I fit where I was supposed to, maybe things would stop feeling so uncertain. Maybe I'd stop feeling like I missed something — some piece that everyone else had. And then… maybe I'd belong."
Regulus didn't interrupt. He didn't need to. The silence between them was permission.
Polaris drew in a breath, fingers curling lightly around his sleeves. "Do you ever feel like you don't? Belong, I mean."
Regulus was still.
Then, slowly, he leaned back against the window frame, gaze tilted to the stars above the castle rooftops.
"I think most people feel like that sometimes," Regulus said carefully. "Belonging isn't... automatic. Especially not in this family. Some wear the name like a crown. Some wear it like armour. Some—" he paused "—just try to carry it without letting it crush them."
Polaris's expression was unreadable, but his posture had shifted slightly — less rigid. Listening.
"Being a Black…" Regulus began, choosing his words, "doesn't only mean them. There's a lot tied to the name. Some of it... isn't theirs to ruin."
For a moment, the words hung there — too honest to be anything but real.
Regulus leaned his head back against the cold stone wall, staring at the ceiling like it might hold answers the floor hadn't.
"Sometimes I wonder what the House of Black will look like when Sirius inherits it," he said idly. "Assuming he doesn't set it on fire first. Hard to know. He's... not predictable."
Polaris glanced up at him. "But he's still family."
Regulus's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Yes. That he is. It'd probably be just as chaotic. Just as impossible. But maybe not quite as cruel."
He paused. Thought. Then added, quieter:
"Maybe that's worse."
Polaris tilted his head.
Regulus gave a faint shrug. "At least when it's cruel, it makes sense. You know what you're up against. But Sirius… he'd make it wild. Unruly. He'd break every rule just to spite the ones who came before him. People would cheer him for it. But the House? The name? It'd splinter."
A pause.
"Still," Regulus added, almost to himself, "there are worse things than splintering."
Polaris was quiet for a long moment, gaze flicking back to the window.
Then, softly: "Maybe we can help him."
Regulus turned, brow lifting.
Polaris didn't look away. "Sirius. When he becomes Lord Black."
A pause.
"It'll be chaos," Polaris admitted. "But maybe it'll be good chaos. Not like now. Not like them. " His fingers curled into his sleeves again, but this time not with anxiety — with thought. "He can do it. He just needs someone to help him hold the pieces together."
Regulus gave a low, disbelieving laugh under his breath. "You want us to help Sirius?"
"I do," Polaris said simply. "You're clever. I can plan. He's fire. It would work."
Regulus stared at him, and for a second — just a second — Polaris thought he might laugh again.
But instead, Regulus smiled. Small. Crooked. Something warmer than his usual calm.
"You're serious," he said.
Polaris tilted his head. "He'd hate that pun."
Regulus huffed, and for once it wasn't tired. "You're unbelievable."
"Only a little."
Regulus studied him in silence for a beat longer, then leaned back against the wall again.
"Well," he said, voice softer now. "If Sirius is going to tear it all down… I'd rather rebuild it with you than without you. If it's worth saving."
Polaris didn't smile, not quite. The look in his eyes said everything.
Regulus looked away first, gaze drifting to the far wall, to the painted crest hanging above the hearth—silver thread glinting in the shape of a serpent, a star, a lie.
A long pause passed before he spoke again.
"You don't remember, do you?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "The day we buried the vault?"
Polaris blinked. "What vault?"
A faint scoff, but there was no bite to it. "Under the Forever Tree. At Blackthorn. You were only four, I think. Sirius had a stick for a spade and declared we were founding a brotherhood. Just us three. Said it had to be secret—properly sealed, like a goblin vault."
Polaris tilted his head slightly. His brow furrowed in concentration.
"You brought a drawing," Regulus went on, eyes still somewhere far off. "You almost didn't put it in. Said you wanted to keep it. Sirius threw a fit, said you couldn't be in the brotherhood if you didn't sacrifice something. You huffed, all stormy, and finally gave it up. Folded it so carefully like it might break." His mouth twitched faintly. "You said it was us under the stars."
Polaris's breath hitched—not obviously, not aloud. But something in his shoulders pulled back.
"I don't remember all of it," he said softly. "But… I remember the drawing."
Regulus looked at him then. "Yeah?"
Polaris gave the smallest nod. "The stars were different colours, our favourite colours. Mine was Silver. Yours was green. Sirius was red, I think. I kept drawing it again and again afterward, but it never looked quite the same."
Regulus let out a quiet hum. "It's probably still there, you know. Buried under all those roots."
Polaris glanced at him, then back at the window, voice softer now. "Do you think we'll ever actually dig it back up one day?"
Regulus shrugged lightly, but there was thought behind it. "When you're of age."
Polaris's lips pressed into a line, then curved faintly. "What about when I'm eighteen?"
Regulus turned to him, brow raised. "Not seventeen, like we said?"
Polaris shook his head, serious. "Eighteen's my favourite number."
Regulus gave him a look—part curious, part amused. "Why?"
Polaris straightened a little, like this was a matter of grave importance. "Because I thought very hard about it. Everyone always just knows their favourite number. Like it just appears in their brain. That felt… lazy. So I made a list. Wrote down every number from one to thirty. Crossed them out slowly. I eliminated odd ones for being unpredictable, then eliminated even ones for being too smug about it. Seventeen felt like it was trying too hard. Nineteen doesn't trust you. Twenty's boring. But eighteen? Balanced. Confident. Not needy. It's the number that knows what it is."
Regulus blinked, then he laughed before saying. "You really did that?"
"It's a serious decision," Polaris insisted. "You can't just pick any number and live with it. It's going to be your favourite forever."
"You eliminated seventeen because it tries too hard?"
"It does ."
Regulus shook his head, still smiling. "Fine. Eighteen, then. I'll make sure Sirius takes note of it."
Regulus's smile faded slowly, replaced by a more familiar stillness.
He didn't look at Polaris when he said it. "You've been spending time with... new people."
Polaris blinked. "What do you mean?"
Regulus didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the window, distant. Thoughtful.
"You're not exactly subtle," he said eventually. "You can sit with whoever you like. Talk to whoever you want. That's not a crime—but it is noticed."
Polaris said nothing. He hadn't thought of it that way. He hadn't really thought of it at all.
Regulus gave a soft exhale, almost a sigh. "Some of them seem fine. Smarter than they let on. But not everyone's going to care about that. They'll care about names. House colours. Bloodlines." His voice turned quiet. "It won't matter what you mean by it. People will make up their own meanings."
Regulus finally looked at him. "Just—mind who you keep close."
It wasn't cold. If anything, it was said too gently. That's what made it land harder.
Surely his brother meant Sayre.
Polaris straightened a little. "You think he's a bad influence?"
"No," Regulus said. "I think you are a Black, and you're already a Ravenclaw. That's two things our family barely tolerates. Add 'wrong company' to the list and it starts looking like a statement."
Polaris frowned. "It's not a statement."
"I know that." Regulus said quickly. "But they won't."
Something in his tone shifted again — lower, firmer. Protective, but not soft. Like he was trying to warn Polaris of the cliff before Polaris even realized he was walking toward it.
"You don't need to be like Sirius to make things harder for yourself," Regulus added. "Even if you're not saying anything with it, people will assume you are. And once that starts, it's hard to undo."
Polaris didn't respond right away. He just stared at his hands, that familiar tension curling around his fingers like thread pulled taut. The comment made something twist uncomfortably in his chest — not because Regulus was wrong, but because he might be right. Polaris hadn't really thought about who he sat with in that way. Hadn't measured friendship on a scale of risk.
He hadn't thought he needed to.
"I'm not like Sirius," he said finally, quietly.
"No," Regulus agreed. "You're not."
But there was something about the way he said it — not relief, not quite warning either — that left Polaris unsure whether that was praise or disappointment.
He let the silence linger between them before he finally asked, softer: "Do you think I'm making a mistake?"
Regulus didn't answer right away. He leaned forward; arms braced loosely over his knees again.
"I think," he said carefully, "you're asking questions no one else in our family dares to. And I think that's going to make some people afraid of you. Or hate you. Or worse—try to twist you into something you're not."
Polaris didn't move. He didn't breathe.
Regulus's voice gentled, but his gaze stayed sharp. "Just be careful who you give your time to. What you let shape you."
Polaris looked back down at his sleeves, thumb brushing absently along a thread near the cuff. What you let shape you.
That night, Polaris wrote only one sentence in his journal: 'Maybe asking the wrong questions is better than pretending to have the right answers.'
September 22nd, 1975, Monday
Polaris had spent hours in the library with Bastian and Corvus — well, tried to. Corvus barely lasted half an hour before he started sighing like his lungs were collapsing under the weight of his own boredom. It was hard enough getting him to be quiet , let alone focus, so eventually Polaris just walked him out, muttering something about "your sacrifice won't be forgotten" as Corvus slunk off, dramatically grateful to be released. At least he'd tried. That was more than Polaris expected from most.
Bastian, of course, stayed. He always did. Diligent, if occasionally distracted — he had a habit of drifting off mid-sentence and coming back as if nothing had happened — but at least he didn't complain. Polaris wasn't even sure what they were looking for anymore.
At some point, the research had spiralled off-course into books about castle architecture, obscure magical artefacts, and then ghosts — a category so vague and oversaturated it may as well have been titled Dead People: A Retrospective .
It felt pointless. He wasn't sure what he was hoping to find. Maybe nothing. Maybe that was the point. There was something kind of peaceful in that — in not knowing, in not having to do anything with what you found. Ignorance, he thought, could be a kind of bliss.
By the time they left, it was brushing up against curfew. Most students had already cleared out of the corridors. Bastian had peeled off towards the dungeons, promising to look into something they'd skimmed over in a footnote.
Polaris, meanwhile, wandered — taking a long detour through the second floor to have more time to himself.
And then — motion.
A head slipped through the wall. Pale, dripping, round glasses catching torchlight.
He froze.
She blinked at him from behind thick lenses. Then the rest of her followed, gliding through stone in waterlogged Ravenclaw robes that left no trace.
She blinked at him, wide-eyed behind thick lenses. Then the rest of her ghostly form slid through the stone, floating just above the ground in sodden Ravenclaw robes that dripped spectral water without leaving a trace.
Her face was dotted with faint, misty blemishes — as if even death hadn't spared her the indignities of teenage skin. Her pigtails hung askew. She looked solid and unfinished, like a sketch drawn too heavily at the edges.
"Oh," she said. "Hello."
Polaris narrowed his eyes. "Hi."
"I haven't seen you before," she continued, drifting closer without hesitation. "You're new. A first-year?"
She was circling him before he could answer — her watery presence making the air feel off, like it was moving in the wrong direction.
He stepped subtly to the side. "And you are?"
"Oh, I'm Myrtle. Myrtle Warren. I live here. Well, haunt. Mostly the bathroom." She gestured vaguely behind her. "No one really talks to me."
"Shame."
That made her blink. She drifted a bit closer. "What's your name?"
He hesitated. Then, "Polaris."
Myrtle let the name settle. "That's strange," she murmured. "Like a star you'd expect to be warm but isn't."
She stared at him longer than was comfortable.
Polaris shifted his weight. "Is there something you need?"
"No," she said brightly. "You're just interesting."
"Why?"
"I don't know." She tilted her head. "I just want to... figure you out, I think. You..." She stopped herself. "Never mind."
He gave her a look before, he started walking.
She followed.
"You're a Ravenclaw too, right? You look like a Ravenclaw. Do you like books? I liked books when I was alive, though they were always wet. Do you like water? You have the kind of face that looks sad all the time. Were you always like that?"
Polaris didn't answer. His pace didn't change.
She kept talking anyway.
"I like your name," she said suddenly. "And I like that you're quiet. Most boys are loud and awful. But you're... not."
He stopped for a moment, turning to her.
"Myrtle," he said, calmly. "Do you always follow people around like this?"
She blinked, then gave a little shrug. "Only the ones who don't tell me to go away."
He exhaled quietly, before he spoke once more, "go away."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't sound angry. If anything, it was too calm — like someone asking the rain not to fall.
Myrtle hovered beside him, head tilted. "You don't mean that."
"Yes, I do."
She smiled — a small, maddening thing, like she knew something he didn't.
"You're still here," she pointed out.
He ran a hand through his hair, fingers brushing the back of his neck where the chill still hadn't lifted. "What do you want from me?"
"I don't know," she said honestly. "I just… do."
Polaris stared at her. She was drifting again, lazily looping in the air beside him like a tetherless balloon, water trailing faintly from the ends of her hair like smoke.
He turned and started walking up the stairs.
She followed.
"You know, it's very rude not to answer people when they're trying to be friendly," she chirped. "I'm being nice. I don't have to be, you know. I can be very unpleasant. Just ask Olive Hornby."
Polaris didn't respond.
"I was just thinking," Myrtle continued, undeterred, "if you don't like people, you should try being dead. You'd get a lot more space."
Still no response.
"I mean it," she pressed. "People are awful. Boys especially. But you — you look like you want to disappear even when you're breathing. That's fascinating."
At that, Polaris stopped halfway up the staircase.
He turned his head slowly toward her, brow lifted.
"Don't you miss your bathroom?" he asked, dry as sand.
She blinked. "No."
"You seemed pretty territorial about it earlier."
"I like having a space," she said with a shrug. "But I like knowing things more. And you feel like a puzzle. A very quiet, very broken one."
He stared at her. It wasn't angry — not even annoyed. Just tired confusion wrapped in a threadbare layer of sarcasm.
"I'm not a puzzle... Nor am I broken," he muttered. "I'm trying to get to bed."
"That's not mutually exclusive," she said brightly. "I can float."
Polaris let out a breath like he was trying not to laugh or sigh — it came out somewhere in the middle. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and turned away again.
Myrtle hovered beside him, swaying just slightly, water trailing off the ends of her hair in slow, weightless droplets.
"You remind me of someone," she said suddenly, voice a little quieter now. "From my year."
He didn't answer, didn't look at her. But she went on anyway.
"Slytherin boy. Orion Black. He was awful. Beautiful, but awful. Always whispering with Mulciber or one of those other snakes. You'd hate him. He hated Ravenclaws. Probably died hating them."
She squinted as if trying to compare two paintings. "You look like him. Not exactly, but—something about the eyes. That cold, too-smart stare. Always like he'd already made up his mind about you and it wasn't going to be good."
Polaris's steps slowed.
Myrtle didn't notice. Or didn't care.
"There was this one time I forgot my wand in the dorm. I was trying to carry all my books from Charms, and I dropped them — all over the floor, halfway up the stairs. I asked him — nicely, I promise — if he could help me levitate them."
She gave a hollow, breathy laugh. "He looked at me like I'd asked him to clean a toilet."
Then, mimicking his voice, she said: 'Why don't you levitate yourself while you're at it? Would save the floor from the rest of the mess.'
She giggled. It was high-pitched and miserable, a sound that echoed far too much in the stairway space.
"He was charming like that. Didn't say much, but when he did, it was always something that could cut you open and leave you saying thank you."
Polaris had stopped walking now.
Myrtle floated ahead and turned to face him, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "You're a Black, aren't you?"
He blinked.
"Of course you are," she went on. "You have that whole... cold, pretty, tragic thing they all had. Except maybe that one girl — you know, the shrieking one with the high collars who thought she was a queen. She hexed me once. Just for being in the hallway."
Polaris's jaw twitched, but he said nothing.
"Even Orion used to ignore her when he could," Myrtle added offhandedly. "Took a certain pride in it, I think. It was the only time he ever looked remotely likable."
Her gaze lingered on him now, unreadable.
"I wonder if you're worse," she said softly. "You don't say nasty things. You just... listen like you're building a knife in your head."
Polaris didn't speak.
He couldn't.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs behind them. Myrtle vanished before the boy even came into view — dropped straight through the banister in a single silent splash of air.
A fifth-year Gryffindor rounded the landing, slowing at the sight of Polaris.
"Was that... was that Moaning Myrtle ?"
Polaris didn't answer.
He was still staring at the spot she'd disappeared, Myrtle's voice replaying in the back of his mind: You're a Black, aren't you?
The Gryffindor tilted his head. "You alright?"
Polaris blinked once, then finally looked up. "Yeah."
"Okay. Well, you better hurry. Filch is doing rounds and curfews in like five minutes. You don't wanna get caught out here."
Polaris nodded once, before he too rushed towards onwards. He just knew that Myrtle was talking about his mother, there was only two female Blacks in that generational and he doubted it was his aunt Lucretia.
When he finally reached the spiral staircase, the bronze eagle knocker greeted him with its usual cool indifference. But something was… off. A cluster of first-years sat slouched along the walls, looking collectively disgruntled.
"You have to let us in eventually," Gilderoy was saying in a voice just loud enough to echo. "What if there's an emergency? What if I'm needed to save someone ?"
"You couldn't save a flobberworm," said Sylvan without looking up from his copy of Magical Theory: A Foundational Guide .
Senna glanced sideways at Polaris as he approached. "Oh good. Another brain to throw at it."
Polaris took in the scene: Gilderoy pacing dramatically, Elias leaning back against the stone with a long-suffering look, Sylvan sitting cross-legged on the floor like this was mildly amusing, and Senna — legs tucked neatly beneath her, her braid looped around one shoulder — watching it all like a queen overseeing a chaotic court.
"What's the riddle?" Polaris asked.
"The knocker asked," Elias intoned wearily, "I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind."
"The answer is obviously 'glory.' Or possibly my name . Both are fitting." Gilderoy announced immediately.
"No, Lockhart," Senna Greengrass said without looking up, "it's not ."
"She didn't even check," Gilderoy huffed.
Sylvan stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching Gilderoy with open amusement. "Go ahead then," he murmured. "Say your name to the door. Maybe it'll swoon."
Elias sat cross-legged near the base of the doorframe, a parchment in his lap. "It's a trick question," he muttered. "It's meant to sound like it has one answer, but it doesn't."
"It does," Senna replied dryly. "You just don't know what it is."
"'What can run but never walks, has a bed but never sleeps, and has a mouth but never talks?'" Polaris mumbled.
Senna glanced at him and asked, "want to take a swing at it, hero?"
Polaris straightened and walked over to the knocker which repeated the riddle.
"A memory," he said, with misplaced certainty.
There was a beat of silence. The eagle remained still.
Senna raised a brow. "A memory ?"
Sylvan snorted. "You really thought you were going to swoop in and save the day, didn't you?"
Polaris's face reddened instantly. He covered it with both hands, groaning into his palms as laughter erupted around him.
"Don't take it personally," Elias said mildly. "We've all guessed wrong. Gilderoy's on his tenth try."
"It was eleven, actually," Lockhart said cheerfully. "And I still think 'fame' fits better than 'memory.'"
"Maybe the riddle just doesn't know who you are yet," Sylvan said. "Give it time."
Polaris peeked out between his fingers to see Senna still smiling, eyes dancing with quiet amusement.
"You were so confident," she said. "Proper noble saviour energy. Very Black of you."
"I hate all of you," Polaris muttered, but his voice was muffled and barely convincing. Their laughter was contagious — infuriatingly so — and his embarrassment slowly fizzled into reluctant amusement.
Senna turned back to the door. "Alright. Let's actually solve this."
But Polaris didn't move away.
His hands had dropped from his face now, red-cheeked and still faintly scowling — but he was looking at the knocker like it had challenged him personally. The laughter had died down to the occasional suppressed snicker, but he wasn't listening anymore.
He repeated the riddle under his breath. "I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind."
At first, it felt too poetic. Too vague. That's why he'd said memory — it fit the intangible nature of it. But that wasn't enough. He needed to break it.
"I speak without a mouth…" he murmured again. "So, something that communicates, but not the way a person does. And it hears without ears, so it responds. It's interactive. Something that receives and sends ."
He could feel the others watching now — Elias looking up from his parchment, Senna pausing, Sylvan tilting his head just slightly. Even Lockhart had stopped mid-pose.
"No body," Polaris continued, almost to himself now. "So it's not alive — not in the way we are. But it comes alive with wind …"
He blinked. That part. That was the real clue.
"Not metaphorical wind," he said aloud, sharper now. " Actual wind. Movement. Air." He snapped his fingers once. "Sound. It's sound."
A moment passed. Then another.
And then — the bronze eagle slowly nodded its head.
"Well reasoned. You may enter."
The door swung open.
No one spoke for a moment.
Then Sylvan let out a low whistle. "Alright. I take it back. That was actually impressive."
Elias was already gathering his things, but he offered a small nod of approval. "You broke it down like a puzzle. I never thought of it that way."
Senna tilted her head, studying Polaris as they all moved to file in. "You know," she said casually, "that was almost worth the theatrics earlier."
Polaris, still caught somewhere between smug satisfaction and residual embarrassment, just gave her a dry look. "Almost?"
Lockhart, of course, was already striding dramatically into the common room as if he had solved the thing. "Yes, yes, well done! A fine group effort."
Polaris rolled his eyes but said nothing. He lingered a moment longer at the entrance, glancing once over his shoulder — back towards the quiet corridor beyond.
You remind me of someone .
That was the last thing he expected to hear when he was at Hogwarts.
Polaris's jaw clenched.
He hated that. Hated it down to the marrow.
He was nothing like Orion Arcturus Black.
And he never would be.
He turned away sharply, stepping into the warmth and soft light of the common room.
September 30th, 1975, Tuesday
The courtyard was half-bathed in light, sun catching in the grooves between ancient flagstones. A breeze swept through, ruffling the edges of cloaks and the pages of forgotten textbooks left open on benches. Polaris walked at an even pace, satchel slung neatly across his chest, his expression composed — unreadable, as usual.
He'd memorised the route to History of Magic already. The rhythm of his mornings was beginning to settle into pattern, even if the castle still felt like it breathed differently each hour.
"Black!"
The voice came before the blond blur entered his periphery — a whirl of manufactured cheer and honeyed charm.
Gilderoy Lockhart trotted into step beside him, practically gliding, like he fancied himself on stage rather than cobbled stone. His golden hair gleamed obnoxiously in the light.
"I hoped I'd catch you!" he beamed, as if their previous conversation had ended on anything more than polite dismissal. "Ravenclaws — we do stick together, don't we? I was just on my way to History of Magic too. Thought we could walk there — makes a statement, doesn't it?"
Polaris didn't slow, but he didn't accelerate either. His eyes remained forward.
"We have the same timetable," he said, voice dry. "It's not a statement. It's logistics."
Gilderoy blinked, then laughed — a little too loud, like it would disguise the sting. "Ha! Right, right — you're very sharp. That's what I admire about you. Razor-edged. Mysterious."
Polaris didn't respond.
Gilderoy continued, undeterred. "I can already see it, you know — our names linked in the annals of Hogwarts. The brilliant recluse and the dazzling prodigy. Opposites attract, after all."
Polaris gave him a sidelong glance. "This isn't a courtship."
That paused Gilderoy for half a step, before he recovered with a grin. "No, of course not — a… collaborative legend, then."
They passed beneath an archway, the cool shadow falling across their path. And it was there — in the opening beyond — that Polaris saw it.
A knot of older students — Gryffindors, judging by the red-lined robes and unearned arrogance. They stood in a semi-circle near one of the old well fountains, blocking the way forward.
In their centre was a first-year Slytherin.
He wasn't fighting back.
Polaris slowed, just slightly. Gilderoy kept talking, but his words became background static.
The boy at the centre — Andrew Travers. Polaris had seen him before. Always on the periphery, a sharp-eyed shadow among the Slytherins. He moved like someone braced for impact, not with fear, but with long-rehearsed resignation. You learned to recognise that sort of thing when you'd grown up at pureblood gatherings — the kind where smiles were sharp and names sharper.
Andrew had never been at any of them.
Which was strange, really — the name Travers should have guaranteed a place in those carefully orchestrated rooms. Sacred Twenty-Eight. Old blood. Unforgiving values. But Andrew hadn't surfaced until this year, until Hogwarts, and even then, only just. The whispers made their rounds quickly in Slytherin — where lineage was gospel and secrets were a currency. Lord Travers had only claimed the boy a year ago, and even that had more to do with face-saving than family.
His mother — a half-blood witch, name unknown — had raised him in the Muggle world. A disgrace, by Travers standards.
Polaris had overheard enough to know: Lady Travers was livid the bastard had been brought in at all. Lord Travers, cornered by perception and propriety, had done the bare minimum.
Andrew's presence was tolerated, not welcomed. Not even within his own name.
And Polaris understood that — more than he cared to admit.
A father who didn't want you but tolerated your existence. One who looked through you when it was easier than looking at you. There was no comfort in the familiarity. Just a quiet, echoing ache of knowing.
But still — that didn't explain the silence.
Andrew stood with his books clutched to his chest, jaw set, eyes locked on the Gryffindors as they circled. He didn't flinch, even when one of them shoved him hard into the stone lip of the fountain. Water splashed up, catching the sun in sharp arcs. Laughter followed.
Still, Andrew didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't defend himself.
To most, it might've looked like weakness.
To Polaris, it didn't.
It looked like calculation.
He wasn't scared — he was waiting. Watching. Like he'd already run the numbers and knew exactly how much it would cost to react.
Polaris frowned faintly. He understood the stillness. Understood the control. But not the inaction . Why not fight back? Why let them think they'd won?
Polaris didn't like being underestimated — didn't like the idea of anyone deciding someone was less than them and being allowed to act like it. And something about Andrew's silence — about his refusal to break and refusal to retaliate — unsettled him.
It wasn't just that the situation was unfair. It was that it echoed in a space Polaris usually kept sealed shut.
He doesn't flinch, Polaris thought. He just waits. Like he knows no one will help him… and that fighting back only makes it worse.
That wasn't fear. That was strategy.
And for reasons he couldn't entirely name, Polaris hated watching it.
"That's appalling," Gilderoy murmured beside him, his smile gone faintly theatrical. "We really ought to do something. You and me — imagine what they'd say if word got out. A Black standing up for a Slytherin. Very noble. Very memorable."
Polaris said nothing.
"Come on," Gilderoy prodded, taking a theatrical half-step forward. "We could make quite the entrance."
Polaris's eyes flicked to him. "You mean spectacle."
Gilderoy hesitated. "Same thing, really, isn't it?"
"No." Polaris's voice was quiet, but final. "It isn't."
Polaris stared at the scene.
He hated what it reminded him of.
So he stepped forward.
Not to rescue. Not to impress.
But because he couldn't stand the idea of anyone like them thinking they were better.
Not than Andrew.
Not than him.
His presence wasn't grand — wasn't meant to be. But it was deliberate. A Ravenclaw uniform. A Black name. A stare cold enough to silence.
One of the Gryffindors noticed first. A nudge to the others. They all turned. Smirking. Testing.
Polaris didn't say a word. Just looked.
One heartbeat. Two.
And then, wordlessly, the tallest Gryffindor muttered something under his breath and backed off. The others followed — casual, unbothered, pretending they hadn't been cornering a smaller boy a moment ago.
Andrew hadn't moved.
Polaris came to a stop beside him. He didn't speak. Didn't look at him straight away. His eyes remained on the retreating figures, calculating the way they slinked off — still smirking, but their confidence already fraying.
Behind him, Gilderoy finally caught up, panting lightly — the picture of someone who wanted to look like he'd had something to do with it.
"You see that?" he said brightly, clapping Polaris on the shoulder. "Didn't even have to lift a wand. That's the power of—"
Polaris shrugged off his hand before the sentence could finish.
He turned, finally, to look at Andrew.
He turned to Andrew, who had finally met his eyes. The boy's stare was unreadable — but there was a flicker there. Not gratitude. Not surprise. Just… assessment.
He wasn't studying Polaris the way someone did a saviour.
He was measuring him.
Like he, too, was trying to decide what to make of the boy who'd just intervened. Who hadn't said a word, but had still made something stop .
Polaris said nothing.
Neither did Andrew.
The moment held for one, two seconds — then Polaris turned and walked on.
Gilderoy hesitated, glancing between them, then hurried after him.
They had History of Magic every Tuesday and Friday — the only class that was just Ravenclaws, which should have made it more bearable. But somehow, Professor Binns managed to leech all life out of even that.
The classroom was dim when Polaris entered, thin grey sunlight slanting in through high, grimy windows. Senna was already in her usual seat by the far wall, quill poised but unmoving. Sylvan slouched beside her, chin resting on his palm, watching Binns drift absently through the chalkboard.
Polaris slid into the seat beside them without a word, setting down his bag with the kind of quiet that came from routine.
"Hero of the hour," Sylvan murmured without looking up.
Polaris rolled his eyes. "If I hear that phrase again I'm hexing someone."
Senna didn't look over, but he could see the small curve of her smirk. "How tragic. And here I thought you liked the attention."
He was spared having to answer by the sudden waft of cold air and the dull shimmer of Binns materialising properly at the front of the class.
"...and as we discussed previously," Binns began, in a low, papery monotone, "the Goblin Rebellions of 1612 were shaped not only by economic strife, but by the introduction of wand restrictions among non-human magical beings..."
His voice was like parchment being slowly crumpled under glass — thin, dry, and somehow both loud and ignorable. Polaris tried to focus, but it was like trying to listen through fog.
Everyone else looked the same — slouched, glazed-eyed, already half-slipping into mental hibernation.
Then it happened.
Binns paused.
Not dramatically. Not for effect.
Just halted. Mid-sentence.
His hand hovered above the board; ghostly fingers still extended toward the word legislation .
His head tilted, just slightly. The movement was almost imperceptible — almost like he was listening for something no one else could hear.
Then, he blinked — or gave the sense of blinking, though his eyes didn't quite work like that — and continued on, just a fraction slower.
It had happened before.
Enough that no one really questioned it anymore.
But Polaris noticed.
He always noticed.
Senna's quill scratched beside him. "He did it again," she whispered.
"Yeah," Polaris said under his breath. "He does it at least twice a lesson."
Sylvan gave a quiet exhale through his nose. "He always looks like he's remembering something he doesn't want to."
Polaris didn't reply.
He just watched as Professor Binns floated a few inches off the floor, trailing chalk dust and decades of history behind him — his voice continuing, but somehow emptier than before.
Ghosts reacted to him. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But they did .
Polaris had a thought... what if it was because of him. At this point he's had his fair share of interactions with ghosts not to mention how Myrtle makes a habit of randomly appearing around him.
The Grey Lady's riddles. Myrtle's excessive rambles about anything and everything. Even the portraits sometimes went quiet when he walked past.
And Binns — who barely seemed aware he was dead — would pause in the middle of teaching like he'd heard a voice from a life he no longer remembered.
Polaris tapped his quill once against the desk, then wrote down a single word in the margin of his notes ' Unsettling.'
Binns eventually continued.
"—a particularly vicious skirmish in northern Albania, 1890, involving a breakaway faction of goblin insurgents. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement suffered seventeen casualties over the course of a week. One of the names recorded in the official logs was a Department of Mysteries operative—Emeric Vass—who vanished shortly after contact was lost in the Drač highlands…"
Polaris sat up sharply. His hand hovered over the parchment, then drifted instead to his hair, fingers threading through it as if to physically grip the thought and keep it from slipping away.
Vass .
He knew that name.
Where—?
His eyes flicked to his wand, lying quietly beside his notes.
He remembered. Ollivander had said it. A war mage, a man who vanished chasing rumours of a ritual. Something to do with soul magic.
He hadn't thought much of it at the time. Just another eccentric wand tale.
But now—?
Now, with the Grey Lady's words still circling the back of his mind—
"You pull. Even the death."
—something shifted.
His gaze dropped to the wand, he picked it up slowly, letting the grain settle into his palm.
The wood was rougher than most, slightly warped to the eye, yet it always fit his grip as though his hand had grown around it. The spiral along the hilt—it wasn't decorative. Not really. It was like it had turned itself that way by need, or by time.
He rubbed his thumb along the twist in the handle, the friction grounding him. The murmuring around the room became audible again, Binns's voice still trudging its way through decades of blood and bureaucracy.
Polaris blinked.
Senna was doodling in the margin of her parchment — tiny goblins skewering each other with quills. Sylvan looked halfway to sleep, his chin propped in his palm.
Polaris's mind was racing.
Souls.
The Grey Lady hadn't said that word. Maybe she didn't need to. Everything about her presence — about Myrtle, about Binns — was tied to what lingered after life.
And they were all reacting to him.
What if something was wrong with his soul?
Not wrong but… different.
What if that's what the wand had recognised?
What if that's why the Grey Lady had spoken to him?
Polaris's fingers tightened slightly on the wand as he thought.
What exactly were you looking for, Emeric Vass?
Not fearfully.
Curiously.