[12,213 Words]
December 23rd, 1975, Tuesday
Another restless night left Polaris drained.
The dormitory was still half-dark when he finally gave up trying. His headache had worsened overnight, and he was already dressed before most of his roommates had stirred.
He didn't feel like eating. He didn't feel like talking. He just wanted to get through the platform, the train, and whatever came next without anyone dragging emotion out of him. That was the plan.
A blue scarf was looped loosely around his neck — Ravenclaw colours, though he barely noticed the chill.
So, when Aurelia Potter cornered him in the corridor outside the Ravenclaw Tower, he almost walked past her entirely.
"I need to talk to you," she said, blocking his path, arms folded tightly across her chest.
He blinked slowly, as if trying to place her. "…Why?"
"I just do," she said, a little too quickly.
Her tone wasn't smug. Not like usual. Something about the way her eyes darted — to the scarf, then to the floor, then to his face again — made him pause.
"You do realise who I am, right?" he muttered.
"What?"
"I'm the person you call a weirdo three times a week in Herbology. Usually while flinging wormwood in my direction."
Aurelia flushed but held her ground. "That's not what this is about."
He gave a flat shrug. "Could've fooled me."
She stepped in closer, lowering her voice. "It's about what happened. Last month."
Polaris narrowed his eyes. "You'll need to be more specific. A lot of things happened last month. Most of them unpleasant."
Her gaze dropped. She tugged at the wilting flower tucked behind her ear — fingers fidgeting, uncertain.
He stared at it for a second too long. "Is that dying?"
She blinked. "What?"
"The flower. It's halfway to mulch."
"It is not —"
"The petal edges are browning. That's cell decay." He frowned, genuinely puzzled. "You look like you pinned a dead plant to your head on purpose. Is that a new Slytherin fashion statement?"
Aurelia's jaw clenched. "Godric, you're exhausting."
"I'm not the one accessorising with compost."
She yanked the flower from her hair and shoved it into her satchel. "Forget it."
"I would've," Polaris said, eyes already drifting past her again. "You didn't actually say anything ."
She hesitated, visibly torn. Then — as if deciding the risk of truth wasn't worth it — she shook her head. "Never mind."
She turned, quick and sharp, but not fast enough to hide the flicker of guilt.
Polaris didn't stop her. He'd seen that look before — not on her, but on his mother. People always seemed to stop just short of telling him the whole thing.
Aurelia glanced back and muttered. "Keep forgetting you were raised by snakes."
She stormed off.
He didn't mean to raise his voice, but it happened anyways.
"You've got dirt in your hair, Potter! Thought you'd want to match your family's moral hygiene!"
A few third-years turned to stare. One of them nearly dropped their toast.
From further down the corridor, a voice called out — dry, familiar, and unimpressed.
"Black," said Padraig Ward, one of the Ravenclaw prefects, "let's aim for a little less 'public performance' next time, yeah? Try playing nice with the other students."
He flushed — faintly. Not out of guilt, but at the sheer irony of it. The one time he bothered to snap back to get the last word, and he was the one caught.
"She started it," he muttered, not even bothering to defend it properly.
Padraig just raised a brow, voice maddeningly amused.
"And you decided to finish it loud enough for the staircases to hear."
That earned a few quiet laughs. One of the portraits tsked.
Polaris clenched his jaw. Aurelia would get to flounce off, untouchable, halo intact — while he was left looking like the one who couldn't keep his mouth shut.
Polaris scowled — mostly at himself — and kept walking, shoulders stiff. He couldn't help but wonder why she had stopped him, what had she wanted to talk about.
— ❈ —
The train rocked gently as it sped through the wintry countryside. The compartment was empty, save for Polaris and his owl — a sleepy, amber-eyed thing perched on the luggage rack, blinking slowly at nothing.
Polaris sat with his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, the weight of sleep-deprivation pulling at every inch of him. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't quite sleeping. He was resting — the kind of exhaustion that hits just before everything goes wrong, when your body gives up before your thoughts do.
He wasn't sure if he was more tired or afraid. But he knew what waited at the end of the line.
The door slid open.
He didn't look up, assuming it was someone peering in before moving on. But then the door clicked shut again, and someone sat down across from him.
Polaris cracked one eye open between his fingers.
Sirius.
He was leaned back with that casual, lazy sprawl that only people with no sense of tension could manage — except Sirius absolutely did have tension. He just disguised it with bravado. He wasn't saying anything. Just… staring.
At Orpheus.
Polaris stared through his fingers.
The owl stared back at Sirius, unblinking.
Polaris exhaled through his nose. "Where's yours?"
Sirius blinked, like he'd been caught mid-duel. "With my friends. I'll get her when we're nearly there." He cleared his throat and shifted. "Decided I'd like to… well. Sit somewhere else for a bit."
Polaris sat up slowly, head resting against the seat now, watching him from under heavy lids. "You mean with me."
Sirius shrugged, not meeting his eye. "Same thing."
The train gave a low, distant whistle. They fell into silence for a while, save for the soft click of the tracks and the occasional rustle of feathers above.
Then Polaris spoke — voice low, quiet, like something fragile being tested.
"You're coming home for Yule… right?"
Sirius didn't answer right away. He just looked at him, expression unreadable, until finally he said simply, "I swore, didn't I?"
Polaris didn't respond. Not aloud. But he blinked — slowly — and turned his head toward the window, though he wasn't looking outside.
Sirius leaned back, crossing one leg over the other with forced ease. "You look like death, by the way. Sleep. I'll keep your owl company."
The owl let out a quiet, disdainful hoot , as if in protest.
Sirius snorted. "Fine, he can keep me company."
Polaris didn't smile, but something in his shoulders eased just slightly.
Just slightly.
He closed his eyes again.
And Sirius's face shifted — only a little — the kind of change you'd miss if you weren't looking for it. Something like worry Something like regret.
— ❈ —
The platform was a riot of sound and colour — laughter echoing off brick, trunks thumping, owls hooting, scarves fluttering like flags in the winter wind. Children flung themselves into arms wrapped in red jumpers. Hands tugged at sleeves. Parents called names with the kind of joy that made people look twice.
And yet — in the middle of it all, stillness.
Polaris stood between his brothers.
Sirius to his left.
Regulus to his right.
They didn't speak.
Sirius's hands were in his pockets, his expression tight, a slight lean toward his brother — like he might step forward, if needed.
Regulus stood straighter than usual, chin tipped up, but his hand brushed Polaris's robe sleeve once, lightly.
Polaris didn't move.
His fingers tingled from the cold, or maybe the adrenaline.
His heart had taken on a strange, off-beat rhythm.
And then he saw her.
At the far end of the platform.
Walburga Black.
Draped in winter silver, fur framing her face like a halo gone wrong. Gloves stitched with dark thread. Chin lifted just enough to remind the world who she was.
She didn't move. She didn't have to.
The tilt of her head was its own language — expectation, disappointment, ownership.
Polaris's breath caught in his throat.
"Polaris!"
He turned halfway before he could stop himself.
Nathaniel Sayre. Standing near the ticket arch, waving — grinning despite the chill, despite the crowd. There were two women beside him, both bundled in navy wool. One held herself like she belonged in courtrooms; the other, younger, kept glancing at Nate with the kind of fond exasperation that said sister.
Polaris didn't lift his hand.
Didn't smile back.
Didn't let himself look too long.
He turned away, posture pulled taut like a puppet on a thread, movements not entirely his own.
Because he couldn't.
Not with her watching.
Nate might've come from old blood — he might've had a family crest stitched into his collar — but none of that would matter to Walburga Black. Not when he defended the wrong people. Not when he made space for Muggle-borns like it was natural. Not when he waved like that.
What need should a Black have for someone like that?
And not when, by the end of this holiday, he'd be expected to forget someone like Nate Sayre had ever mattered.
Nate's hand hovered in the air a moment longer, uncertain. His smile faltered, confusion flickering across his face trying to make sense of something. Slowly, awkwardly, he let his hand fall back to his side.
The older woman leaned toward him a second later, saying something under her breath. Her tone wasn't harsh — probably asking who he'd been waving at.
Nate turned to her, answering too quickly, hands moving in short, half-contained gestures. Trying to explain something.
Polaris was already walking.
One step.
Two.
Three.
He counted them in his head, like he used to as a child walking through the corridors of Grimmauld Place — careful and contained, like each step might wake something best left sleeping.
His eyes locked on the still figure ahead —
Step four.
Step five.
Sirius muttered something beside him — something bitter and under his breath — but Polaris didn't react.
Six.
Seven.
She didn't speak. Not at first. Her eyes were scanning over Polaris with that thin, unreadable gaze —
Her eyes paused on the scarf at his neck.
Just briefly.
A flicker of disapproval, not loud, but enough.
There was a rhythm to how she looked at you — a way of measuring worth by posture alone. He straightened, not out of pride, but out of instinct. Out of fear
Sirius stepped forward slightly, like he might intercept the moment, turn it into something else.
"We're here," he said, forcing a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Lovely greeting, as always. Want to know how the term went or are you skipping straight to the annual inquisition?"
She didn't even glance at him.
Instead, she lifted a gloved hand and made a small, decisive gesture toward Polaris.
Time to go.
looked utterly unimpressed. "Seriously? That's it?"
There was no answer.
Then Regulus spoke, voice quieter, more careful. "We're coming home too, Mother," he said. As if to remind her: you have two other sons standing here.
She turned her head only slightly; her expression fixed in place. "You're big boys," she said coolly. "You'll find your own way."
And then, with a glance at Sirius, her voice colder: "Don't expect Kreacher to take you. He won't."
Her gaze shifted back to Polaris, low and final, she said "We're leaving. Kreature will take care of your luggage."
A soft pop broke the air behind them.
Kreacher appeared, hunched and grey, his ears dragging like wilting leaves. His eyes flicked to Polaris settling on him a moment longer than needed, then to Walburga, then back.
"Mistress calls," he rasped. "Kreacher comes."
He bowed — low and stiff — then reached for Polaris's trunk with gnarled hands and vanished with another pop .
Before Sirius or Regulus could speak again — before Polaris could even draw a breath — she caught his arm with a gloved hand.
And in the next second, they were gone.
The air cracked where they had been.
For a second, it was like the platform went soundless. Sirius stood frozen, staring at the space they'd vanished from. His breath came short.
Then he scoffed — harsh and incredulous, but it didn't hide the edge in his voice.
"That bitch ." he muttered, voice tight. "She just—"
His hands clenched at his sides. " She knew exactly what she was doing. "
Regulus didn't respond right away. He was scanning the thinning crowd, his brow furrowed, eyes clouded with unease.
"We need to get home," Regulus said, voice tight. " Now ."
Sirius rounded on him. "You don't think I know that?" he snapped. " You don't think I remember what she did to me? "
Regulus flinched — not from the words, but the way Sirius's voice cracked halfway through them.
"I swore I'd protect him," Sirius went on, lower now, like the fury had hollowed out into fear. "He doesn't even know —"
"I know," Regulus said quickly, chest rising fast. "I know. Let's just—let's just go."
They were alone on the platform, the world still moving around them — families laughing, embracing, disappearing — while the Black brothers remained, two-thirds unclaimed.
— ❈ —
Polaris was stood in the drawing room. It was quiet...
Not peaceful — never peaceful — but quiet in that particular, sharpened way that made silence feel like a trick of the blade. The green velvet drapes had been drawn just far enough to cast long, slatted shadows across the rug.
Polaris stood in the centre of it, small against the high ceiling, arms rigid at his sides. He did not move. He did not speak. His eyes fixed on a point on the far wall — a peeling corner of the Black family crest — and he forced his gaze to stay there.
Behind him, the measured click of heels.
She was circling him.
He tracked her only by sound — the weight of her steps on polished floorboards, the brush of heavy robes moving in a rhythm. She had yet to say a word since they arrived. This was not about words. This was about control.
Don't flinch.
His heartbeat was too loud. He tried to sink it beneath the silence.
Don't flinch .
Don't give her what she wants.
Walburga Black walked as though she had all the time in the world — the predator with the kill already cornered. Her gloved hands were folded neatly behind her, her spine perfectly straight, and her gaze never left him. He could feel it on the back of his neck, even when she passed behind.
It was always worse when she didn't speak.
Still, he did not move. He knew better.
To look at her was to invite the strike.
She paused beside him at last. Still, he didn't turn.
"Polaris," she said, at last — soft, almost fond. That was the warning. It had to be; he didn't trust that tone.
"I have to admit, I'm disappointed."
Her gloved fingers twitched behind her back, curling once. "So little I asked of you. So little. And yet here we are."
No raised voice. No overt cruelty. Just disappointment, rolled out like a fine rug she was about to ruin.
"I had such hopes for you. But for you to be a Ravenclaw ."
She said the word like it was rotting in her mouth. " Ravenclaw. " As if it disgusted her to even let it touch her tongue.
"When I carried you," she said, more to the room than to him, "I thought — perhaps, this time — I'd get it right. One son. Just one. Who wouldn't humiliate me."
Her voice didn't crack — but her breath did. A slight hitch. Quickly buried.
"Sirius was already difficult by then. And Regulus—" her lips tightened, "—always softer than he should be. I thought, at least with you, I could start over. Shape something better. Something flawless."
She let the silence stretch a beat too long, then continued — clipped now, her calm stretched thin:
"But instead, I get a third boy with excuses. Another child who thinks he can choose."
Her eyes flicked sharply to his, the steel beneath her silk finally showing through.
"Tell me, Polaris. Do you think I wasn't clear?"
Polaris said nothing.
There was a slight tremor in his right hand. Barely noticeable.
There was no right answer. There never was.
She began to walk again — one slow revolution — her heels clipping softly over the carpet. The silence stretched. Her wand tapped once against her palm.
"You must understand," she said at last, coming to a stop just behind him, "this is not a punishment."
Polaris didn't move.
But something in him locked tighter — as if bracing against something colder than pain.
Her hand landed on his shoulder.
" Look at me, Polaris."
He hesitated only for a small moment before he lifted his chin, his eyes meeting hers and she smiled at him.
"A mother's love doesn't yield, Polaris. It corrects."
Her voice was soft, almost warm — almost .
"I wouldn't do this if I didn't care for you. You know that, don't you?"
He tried hard not to look away.
"You're a clever boy. My clever boy. Ravenclaw saw that, even if it made the wrong choice. But cleverness isn't everything ." She let her hand graze his shoulder — the weight of it light but coiled with threat.
"There are things the world won't forgive, Polaris. And being soft is one of them."
She circled again, slow and steady.
"I know this is difficult. But it's necessary. You're learning. That's what life is. And you, of all people, ought to appreciate that."
He stared ahead; eyes fixed to the crest on the wall. His throat burned.
"This isn't cruelty," she said, behind him. "It's correction."
She came to stand in front of him now, her eyes searching his face — not for fear, but for compliance.
"Better I teach you now, while you still belong to me — before the world teaches you far worse."
Then softer — but not gentler.
"I will not be made a fool by my own children."
Her mouth curled like the words tasted bitter.
"Sirius has already made a sport of it. And I was too soft with him."
Her eyes narrowed. "That won't happen again."
And still he said nothing. Because he knew. There was no love in this room that didn't bruise.
Walburga's gaze lingered on him for a moment too long.
Then, calmly, she reached for the small vial Kreacher had left behind. No label. No scent. No hint of what it might be — just clear, clean liquid, glinting like glass.
"For your nerves," she said again, voice light. "You seem… tense."
Polaris didn't move. His breath caught.
She stepped closer.
"I said," she murmured, taking his chin in one gloved hand, "I insist."
He tried to jerk his head back — a flash of instinct, resistance — but her hand caught him too fast. The velvet of her glove was soft, deceptively so, but her grip beneath it was like a vice. Fingers cold with control, pressing into his skin as if to remind him how little of him was still his.
He turned his head away, but her grip tightened. Her thumb pressed into the joint of his jaw, slow and punishing, until a dull ache spread like a bruise. He clenched his mouth shut, the one refusal he had left.
Her other hand brought the vial to his lips. Polaris twisted again, fighting it, but her thumb dug sharply into the hinge of his jaw. Pain flared. His teeth clenched tighter.
She tutted, almost fondly.
"You always were so stubborn."
The tip of her wand was already in her palm.
And then, before he could brace, she flicked it — once — a silent spell.
Something slipped behind his eyes.
It wasn't like a curse. It wasn't pain.
It was weightless. Gentle.
Wrong.
He didn't remember uncurling his fists.
Didn't remember relaxing his jaw.
But his mouth opened — and she poured the contents in.
He tried to spit it out.
But something soft had taken hold of him — not her fingers, not the potion, but something inside. Something whispering don't resist. it's easier this way.
The liquid slid down his throat. Cool. Tasteless. Familiar, somehow.
Wrong.
He blinked hard, eyes watering.
"What—" His voice cracked. "What was that?"
Her hand let go of his face, smoothing down the front of his robes like he was a child being fussed over before a photo.
"Nothing harmful," she said. "Just a little help."
He didn't feel helped.
He felt loosened . Like the inside of his head had gone soft around the edges. Thoughts still existed — but they didn't cling to his bones the way they should. His arms felt too light. His chest too heavy.
He was still in control.
But only just .
And then she smiled — a slow, terrible smile — and said:
"Let's begin."
— ❈ —
He didn't remember falling. Only the way the room had tilted — the way his knees had buckled, like they'd just been waiting for permission to give in.
The floor was cold beneath him. Or maybe he was cold. Everything felt distant — stretched thin and pulled apart at the seams.
His vision blurred at the edges. Each breath came like it belonged to someone else.
The potion was still working.
He could feel it peeling through him — not fast, not violent, but slow and soft, like something patient was unspooling his thoughts from the inside out.
It didn't crush the truth out of him. It coaxed it — gentle, persistent, insidious. The kind of thing brewed not to harm, but to loosen.
He was resisting — some part of him still holding. But the potion didn't care. It didn't smash. It sifted .
His walls were leaking.
He couldn't hold the thoughts. Couldn't always tell which ones were safe to keep and which ones had already slipped. Tears spilled before he could stop them. Not sobs — not yet — just leakage. Just his body giving up pieces of him he hadn't agreed to surrender.
She had asked him question after question.
And he had tried — Merlin, he had tried — not to answer.
Because the truth felt more dangerous than anything she could do to him.
Because if he let himself answer honestly, something in him would break that he wouldn't be able to put back.
So, he fought it.
Even when her magic touched him.
When she flicked and his jaw slammed shut with a sickening crack, tongue locked uselessly, limbs spasmed as if his own body wanted to obey her command of stillness. When her next hex crawled up his spine and settled like iron threads tightening, the pain spreading—hot, then like brittle glass beneath the skin—twitching, raw. His ribs drew in sharp, shallow. He tried to breathe around it.
He shouted once—something that might have been begging—and she cut him with a flick. The sting across his lips was sharp and clean, like snapping ice. Blood bloomed warm on the inside of his mouth, metallic and sudden, and he tasted it with each strained gasp.
He tried to think of anything else. The cracked crest on the wall. The sound of her shoes on the carpet. The tiny motes of dust drifting like slow stars.
But the thoughts didn't stay. The potion chewed through them, slow and sticky, until only the questions remained.
The questions kept coming.
She was fraying now — he could hear it. A shake in her tone, the faint edge beneath her calm.
Resistance, to her, was not fear. Not pain. It had a name: defiance. And she treated it as sin.
It was unforgivable.
She started calling it evil. Whispering about corruption, about darkness, about him becoming something he wasn't supposed to be, and in her voice the punishment was already present before the next spell fell.
When she asked if he was ashamed of the family, the answer didn't want to form. He didn't want to give her anything.
He tried to lie—half a word, a diversion— and something inside seized. Not just from her. From him. His own voice twisted in his throat, mouth caught between two truths, and the lie turned to static.
Her wand moved. His jaw snapped tight again, pressure searing along bone, muscles locking so hard that breathing became work. His hands spasmed, his shoulders clenched, his body a cage of itself.
Another attempt.
Another hex.
At some point, trying to speak became trying not to scream.
And still, she kept asking.
He wanted to disappear.
To sink into the rug, to fall through the floor, to become nothing but air so she couldn't reach him.
Instead, he curled in on himself, a small, sobbing thing that barely remembered it had ever stood upright.
Her hand fisted in his hair.
Not gentle.
A sharp, punishing twist yanked his head back until his eyes watered. His neck burned. His fingers twitched on their own, curling and uncurling in useless spasms.
"Answer me! " she screamed, voice shattering the room's quiet like glass. " Look at me and answer! "
He opened his mouth to deny her — but something else came out.
The potion got there first.
"I'm sorry ." He didn't know why he said it. He wasn't, was he? What was he sorry for, he didn't know anymore. The words fell out like loose teeth.
And then —
She exhaled. Slowly.
"Do you think I'm cruel?"
His heart thudded against his ribs.
He didn't want to speak. Didn't want to give her anything .
But the words were already crawling up his throat, uncontainable, bitter and blood-warm.
"I…" His voice cracked. He blinked hard. "Yes."
Her fingers tightened.
"Yes, I do."
Tighter still.
"I think you're cruel ."
The words were shaking loose, one after another, like something finally coming undone. "I think you like hurting people. I think you enjoy it ."
Her hand trembled slightly against his scalp.
"And I hate you."
Her breath caught.
"I hate you."
He wasn't sobbing now. He was shaking, but his voice came through — a child's voice, thin and hoarse and burning.
"I hate you," he continued. "I hate what you do. I hate what you make me feel. I hate how you pretend it's for me when it's just for you ."
And somewhere deep inside, a wall cracked. One he hadn't meant to give up.
Her wand rose.
"I hate—"
" Crucio ."
The spell hit and the world tore.
Pain bloomed from his spine outward—not fire, not simple heat, but a splintering, internal fracturing, like brittle ribs snapping under invisible weight, nerves shredding in bright, white shocks.
His back arched off the floor with a violent jolt. Arms flailed, legs kicked — not in resistance, but in seizure. His muscles no longer belonged to him. His jaw flew open with a nauseating pop; the scream ripped itself from his chest like an animal chewing through its own trap.
Blood filled his mouth.
He choked, gagged — and vomited. It came up thick and sour, splashing across the floor, across himself. He had no time to breathe before the next convulsion seized him, cruel and punishing.
His bladder released.
He wasn't aware of it, not really. Just the hot shame of wetness, the sharp smell beneath the stench of bile.
" Stop! "
His voice cracked, high and desperate.
" Please ," he rasped. " Please, I'll— I'll be good. "
Tears and spit streamed down his chin. He didn't know if his voice made sense anymore.
Time fractured. He was six again. Then eleven. Then nothing at all.
Thoughts blurred, bled into noise — like too many voices pressed against glass. One of them was his. The others were not.
"Please—please—please—"
But there was no mercy.
No discipline.
Just pain.
He screamed until his throat was raw, until there were no words left in him, only the sound of pain — wild, animal, endless.
His nails scraped against the floor, against his own arms, his own skin — anything to ground himself, anything to make it stop, as if pain had made him feral.
And then, finally —
Her hand let go.
His head dropped.
And he lay there.
Walburga stared down at him, wand still warm in her hand. Her chest rose once, then stilled. The look in her eyes was not rage.
It was disappointment.
But not surprise.
She tilted her head slightly, as if he'd just confirmed what she'd suspected all along.
He hated how calm she looked. Hated how still the room had become, save for the ragged sound of his breathing.
He didn't see her move, only felt her fingers brushing the damp fringe from his temple.
No.
Not that.
He jerked his head weakly to the side — too slow, too late.
She had already uncovered it.
The faint white scar, thin as thread, just above his right temple. The one he always hid.
Her fingers lingered there.
"I've always wondered why hide under this," she said softly, as if it were a joke. "But you never liked anyone touching your hair, did you? You also hate remembering, don't you?"
A flick — and silver shears floated into view.
Polaris's stomach twisted.
"No—" he rasped, voice breaking. "Don't—stop—"
The first snip came.
Polaris froze.
Cold slid along his scalp. The second snip followed—
Snip.
"Stop— please—"
He tried to crawl away. His limbs failed him. Her hand went to the back of his head, anchoring him with a pressure that didn't need force.
Snip. Snip.
He reached as if the motion could undo the sound, the theft, the small pieces of himself falling into his lap and onto the floor.
"Stop!" he gasped, voice broken. "Please, stop—"
She didn't look at him. She kept cutting, humming under her breath—not a lullaby, something colder, each note a measured weight.
"Hair is vanity," she murmured. "And vanity is pride. Pride leads to shame. It's better you let go of all that now."
He watched the tufts pile, helpless. The last shreds of control had bled out with the earlier screaming; now only a hollow endurance remained. He was quiet. Sobbing low, the sound spent.
Then she stood, fist full of hair, and summoned the mirror.
It was long and narrow; the frame blackened with age — he realized too late.
Because when he looked, he didn't see himself.
The reflection wasn't a reflection. It was an interpretation.
He saw what she saw: a small thing, a boy with too-wide eyes, a thin face trembling, a wound at his temple. Weak. Pathetic. Disloyal. The image shifted not by his thought but by some internal acceptance—some part of him already worn to believe it.
A thing made small.
A thing that would always beg.
A creature barely worth correcting.
"No," he whispered. "That's not—"
The mirror held the shape anyway.
And deep down, something in him believed it.
And Walburga — calm, exact — dropped the clippings of his hair into a silver dish.
With a flick of her wand, flame erupted. Curling the severed strands into smoke. The smell of burning hair filled the room.
She didn't look at him as it turned to ash.
"Now," she whispered. "You can start over."
He wasn't sure there was anything left to begin with.
She stepped back. "Come."
Polaris didn't move.
Not in defiance — he simply couldn't. His limbs were unstrung, heavy with pain and shame and disgust . The floor beneath him felt too far from his own skin, like he was floating just above himself, unable to land.
Then a hand, gloved and decisive, gripped his upper arm.
He flinched, a full-body twitch, but didn't resist.
She dragged him from the floor.
Not roughly. Not violently. Like luggage. Like something that belonged to her, even in this state.
His feet stumbled over the edge of the carpet. His bare toes scraped against the cold stone as they passed the corridor threshold. He tried not to look at the portraits on the wall — but he saw anyway, through blurred eyes: the faded Black ancestors, half-sleeping in gilded frames, not watching, not caring.
She led him down into the basement.
He didn't understand — not fully — until the cold hit him, and he saw the door.
A door he'd never seen before.
And something inside him — the part that hadn't fully broken — recoiled.
It wasn't a room.
It was emptiness shaped like a room.
Cold air poured out like breath from a corpse, dry and sour. The stone walls inside were slick with damp. No windows. No light but the faintest silver glint off the doorframe. The floor vanished into shadow. There was no furniture. No fixtures. No reason for it to exist.
It wasn't a room. Not really.
It was too small for that.
Just a box of a room — a hole.
His mother spoke again. "This is where it begins, Polaris. Clean slate. No distractions. No noise. Just you… learning how to be right ."
"No—" Polaris stumbled forward, barefoot and shaking. "Please don't. I—Mother, I'm sorry, I really—"
She turned, expression cold, patient. She didn't raise her wand.
She didn't need to.
He rushed forward and grabbed her sleeve, collapsing to his knees as he clutched it.
"Don't put me in there—please, don't—" His fingers shook violently, grasping fabric like a lifeline. "I can change, I'll learn, I'll do whatever you want—just don't leave me in there—please, I'm sorry—please, Mum—please—"
That word — Mum — fell from his mouth like blood from a wound.
Her gloved hand pried his fingers off one by one.
He clung harder.
He couldn't stop shaking.
"Polaris," she said, voice calm and detached, "get in the room."
"I'll be perfect," he choked, tears pouring now, his whole-body trembling. "I'll be perfect, I swear—I won't disappoint you again—please—please, I'm sorry—don't make me go in there—"
She shoved him.
It wasn't hard.
But he was too weak to fight it.
He stumbled back, arms flailing to catch the doorframe, but his hand slipped on the cold stone. He hit the ground hard, shoulder first, breath knocked from his lungs.
He scrambled up, panic overtaking pain. Crawled toward the open door, mouth open in a silent scream.
"Wait—wait, no—don't—"
The door began to swing shut.
He lunged. "No—Mum—Mum, don't leave me here—please, I'm scared—I'm sorry, I'm sorry— please don't close the door— "
He tried to wedge his shoulder in the frame — anything to stop it.
But she was stronger.
The door slammed shut.
Click. Click. Click.
Each click landed like a verdict.
And then— the hum of magic sealing the room.
"No— no—Mum! " He threw himself at the door. Banged his fists against it. "Let me out—please—I said I was sorry—I'll do better— please —don't leave me—!"
His voice rose, shrill and breaking, the pitch of pure panic.
"I'll be good—don't leave me—don't leave me— Mum, please— "
He banged harder.
Fists raw.
Skin splitting.
And still — no sound answered.
No footstep.
No retreating robes.
Just nothing .
He screamed for her again. Screamed himself hoarse.
Then—
"Sirius!"
His voice cracked.
" Sirius, please —come get me, please—I'm down here—she—she locked me in—"
He clawed at the door.
"Regulus—Reg— Reg! Help me, please— somebody— "
No one came.
And now—he couldn't hear himself.
The room swallowed his screams.
He gasped, staggered back into the dark.
"Please," he whispered, quieter now, to anyone, to no one. "Please— I don't want to be here—I'm sorry—please— "
He backed into the far wall.
And when he reached it—he reached all of it. Every surface. The room wasn't just small.
It was crushing.
A box.
A tomb.
His hands groped the walls blindly, panic rising into nausea again. The darkness felt thick, crawling across his skin. The air was too still. Too dry. He could hear nothing. Not even himself.
Polaris dropped to the floor, curled tight, face pressed to his knees.
He wanted to claw his way out of his own skin.
He wanted to scream again—but what was the point?
No one could hear him.
Not here.
Maybe they wouldn't even know he was gone.
He shook.
He sobbed until there was nothing left.
Then he whispered their names again — Sirius, Regulus — but it didn't feel like words anymore. It felt like remembering what hope used to sound like.
He hated it.
He hated it.
He pressed his hands harder to his scalp, as if he could will it back, as if he could forget what she'd taken.
The walls felt closer now.
They weren't moving — he knew they weren't moving — but his chest couldn't believe it. His ribs were drawing tight, the air too thin, the silence pressing in like a second skin. He blinked into the dark, but it was too dark. Too still. Too wrong.
His breath hitched.
Then caught.
Then staggered into panic.
No. No. No.
Count.
Count something.
"Five," he whispered, barely audible to himself. "There are five steps from the hall to the library. No—six, if you skip the rug. Sirius always skips the rug—"
His voice shook. He tried again, faster.
"One. The first stair in Grimmauld creaks. Two. Kreacher keeps the third shelf alphabetized. Three. My wand core is Thestral tail hair—no, no—start again—"
His fingers clawed at his scalp, not hard, just frantic — grounding. Reaching for the long hair that wasn't there. Nothing to twist, nothing to hold.
He pressed his palms over his ears, curled tighter.
"Four. Four. Regulus sleeps on the left side of the bed—no—no, five—five things I can see— I can't see anything— "
His voice cracked into a half-sob, half-laugh. Hysterical. Unmoored.
His heart was pounding in his throat now, breath hiccupping in shallow bursts.
He tried to count again.
"One. One. One—"
It didn't help. Nothing did.
— ❈ —
Sirius Black was screaming.
Not just shouting — screaming . His fists pounded against an invisible wall where the front door of 12 Grimmauld Place used to be. The wards shimmered faintly under the force but held.
His voice cracked as he shouted again, " Polaris! "
Nothing answered.
"Let me in— let me the fuck in! "
A spark of ward magic lit under his palm as he hit the barrier again — harder — pain blooming through his wrist. He didn't care. He'd break every bone in his hand if it meant getting through.
Behind him, Regulus didn't move. His grip on his wand was too tight, like he was holding himself together with it.
"I told you," Regulus said, voice hoarse but steady. "She rewrote the wards. They don't recognise us anymore."
"She can't do that," Sirius snapped. "We're her sons. This is our house—"
"She can," Regulus snapped, face tight. "And she did. The wards listen to her wand and fathers . Ours don't matter."
Sirius rounded on him, fury gleaming sharp. "Just use yours . You've been studying Ancient Runes like a bloody priest. Do something! "
"I can't ! She sealed them with her wand! You can't rewrite proprietary warding without the key wand signature!"
Sirius let out a sound — something between a growl and a laugh. "You're saying we're stuck out here. And she's in there with him ."
Regulus said nothing. His throat bobbed.
"I'm so fucking useless," Sirius muttered, voice breaking now. "I told him I'd come with him. That I'd protect him. I swore ."
Regulus looked away.
Sirius turned, venomous. "But you're fine with this, aren't you? Sitting out here like nothing's wrong."
Regulus snapped around. " Don't start."
"She's hurting him— right now —and you're just standing there—"
" Don't start! "
Sirius surged forward. "This is what you do, isn't it? You say nothing. You do nothing. You watch. "
" Shut up, " Regulus snapped, voice trembling with rage. "You're so fucking full of yourself it's suffocating !"
Sirius froze — just for a moment.
Regulus didn't.
"Oh, what, nothing to say? You act like you're some perfect brother. You're not . You're the worst of us. You only ever care about yourself."
Sirius's jaw tightened.
"You don't try to understand me. You never have. And all that righteous crap about caring for Polaris?" Regulus laughed, bitter. "Before he came to Hogwarts, you never came home. Not once. Two years — and all he got were a few letters, if that. And now what? You show up for Yule and think you're some kind of hero ?"
Sirius lunged.
Regulus didn't move fast enough.
The impact was violent — not practiced, not clean, just years of rage and grief and guilt colliding. They slammed into each other, fists flying, Sirius shouting something incoherent, Regulus snarling as he shoved back.
"ENOUGH!"
The voice cut through the air like a blade.
Both boys froze.
There, standing at the edge of the garden path, wand in hand, was Orion Black.
And he did not look pleased.
"What in Merlin's name are you two doing?" he asked coldly.
Regulus shoved Sirius off him without hesitation, breath ragged. "Father—she changed the wards. We can't get in. She's alone with Polaris."
Sirius let out a bitter huff of a laugh. "Oh, now you want to ask him for help?"
Regulus ignored him. "She took Polaris and left us on the platform. Just left us . We had to find our own way back."
Orion's expression didn't shift, but something behind his eyes darkened. "She changed the wards?"
"She locked us out," Regulus said, desperate now. "You have to let us in—he's in there alone with her."
For a long moment, Sirius expected silence. Dismissal. Maybe even a cold reprimand, a cutting remark about overreaction. That was the father he knew.
But Orion's jaw clenched—just slightly. He raised his wand.
"No one," he said quietly, dangerously, "has the right to alter this household's wards without my permission."
Then, with a sharp flick of his wand, the air changed.
Magic surged suddenly. A low thrum vibrated through the space, as if the house itself had held its breath and was now exhaling.
The wards cracked.
A shimmer broke across the threshold, silent and final.
Sirius didn't wait.
Neither did Regulus.
They bolted through the door — shouldered it open hard enough that one side slammed into the wall with a bang .
They didn't stop.
They were inside .
— ❈ —
"Polaris?"
It was Regulus's voice. And it cracked.
Polaris didn't lift his head. Couldn't.
He was too afraid.
What if it was another trick? What if she'd brought them here to watch?
His breath hitched. He whimpered before he meant to. Small and broken and utterly involuntary.
" Merlin, " someone whispered. Sirius, maybe.
Another step. Closer. Slow now. Measured, as if approaching a wounded animal.
Polaris tried to disappear again. He shoved his face into his arms. His body shook harder.
"Polaris—hey, it's us," Regulus said, his voice tight and desperate and real . "It's—Merlin, it's me and Sirius. You're safe now. You're safe—she's not here. She's not—"
He was still talking, still trying, but Polaris couldn't catch the words. His heartbeat was louder than anything.
A hand touched his arm—gentle. Careful.
He flinched like it burned.
Sirius swore under his breath. Regulus knelt lower.
"It's okay," Regulus whispered, throat closing around the words. "You don't have to do anything. You don't have to say anything. Just—"
Polaris jerked back, trembling. His hands scrabbled for the wall behind him, trying to make himself smaller.
"No—" His voice was a rasp, breathless and sharp. "No, no, you don't understand—she's not done—she's not done yet. "
Regulus froze. Sirius moved forward instinctively, but Polaris recoiled again.
"She said I could start over," Polaris choked. "That I could be right. But I'm not— I'm not perfect yet. I haven't finished— I haven't thought of all the things I have to fix—"
He tried to stand, but his legs gave out beneath him. He caught himself on the cold stone and winced, panic rising fast.
"You have to shut the door," he gasped. " Please. Before she comes back—before she sees—before she knows I spoke to you—"
He glanced at them, eyes wide and glassy. " She'll hurt you, if she knows you found me."
His fingers twitched as if reaching for the door himself, too weak to move more than an inch.
"You don't understand," he whispered, shaking. "I wasn't ready yet."
Regulus's throat is tight. He looks to Sirius, stricken — because this is not fear of punishment. This is terror wrapped in logic, a child trying to make the pain make sense.
A shift of air behind Sirius and Regulus.
Polaris saw the shadow first.
His eyes darted toward the doorway—and stopped.
His father.
He stood just behind his sons, framed in the broken silhouette of light. His wand was still in his grasp from dismantling the wards. His coat was half-unbuttoned, scarf trailing slightly. He looked like a man who hadn't meant to see this. Like he'd come expecting a scolding. Maybe an argument. Maybe punishment needing moderation.
Not this.
Polaris's breath caught. His body stiffened. His pulse spiked hard enough to make him dizzy.
He tried to push himself upright. Didn't succeed.
"Father—" His voice cracked. "I didn't mean to—I didn't—"
The words tumbled out in pieces, tripping over themselves.
"I'm sorry. I'm— I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disappoint you— I just—please—don't be angry—"
His hands were shaking again. His whole frame had begun to tremble violently. He tried to bow his head but couldn't—his neck burned, the muscles locked too tight.
And Orion just stared.
At the uneven hair. The bruises down Polaris's jaw. The torn robe. The smell of vomit and blood.
he boy on the floor—his son—curled around himself like a thing meant for the dark.
Something cracked.
It didn't show in Orion's face—not quite. But it was there, deep beneath the mask. A flicker. A fracture. The kind that never unfractures.
He had spoken to Walburga after the Sorting. He had reminded her—Ravenclaw was not shameful. Not disgrace. Not disloyalty. It was knowledge, wit, discipline. If anything, it was safe . A respectable compromise.
He had believed—naively, foolishly, or perhaps just conveniently—that she understood. That nothing would happen. Nothing drastic .
Now this.
This.
Polaris, trying to apologise through split lips.
Polaris, terrified of being seen .
Polaris, begging not to be punished—again.
Orion's hand twitched. Briefly. As if he meant to reach for the boy. As if he might help him to his feet.
But he didn't.
His hand dropped uselessly back to his side. He didn't know how to console a child. Not this one. Not any of them. Not really.
He had never been a good father. He would never pretend to be.
But this—
This was unforgivable.
"Kreacher."
The air shifted with a crack. The elf appeared, hunched and trembling slightly.
Orion didn't even glance at him.
"Warm water. Clean shirt. Pain draught. From the cabinet. Not diluted. "
Kreacher hesitated. His eyes flicked briefly toward Polaris—something like shame in them.
Orion's voice cut sharper. "Now."
Another crack. The elf was gone.
Polaris didn't lift his head.
His arms were locked around his knees; his cheek pressed to his elbow. He heard footsteps retreating — Orion's — but his body didn't believe it. Couldn't trust it.
"Hey."
Sirius's voice. Low. Gentle, but not pitying.
No movement. Polaris's breathing stayed shallow.
"C'mon, little star," Sirius tried again, softer now. "Let's get you out of here."
Polaris shook his head. Barely. A tremor more than a gesture.
Regulus shifted closer. He crouched, voice near his ear now. "Pol, it's okay. She told us where you are. She's not down here. Father's gone too. Just us."
Still nothing.
Regulus hesitated. Then:
"Do you want me to carry you?"
At that, Polaris flinched. He curled in tighter, as if the idea of being touched—even kindly—was too much.
Sirius exhaled sharply through his nose. Frustrated. Not at Polaris, but at the world. At her .
Regulus tried, gently. "Can you stand? We'll help—"
" Don't, " Polaris rasped. His voice was hoarse, frayed raw. "Don't look at me."
They stilled.
"I mean it," Polaris whispered, trembling. "Please. Just—just turn around."
Regulus hesitated; mouth parted like he might protest—but it was Sirius who moved first.
Wordless, he turned his back.
Regulus followed, slow and reluctant, lowering his gaze as though that might soften the gesture.
December 24th, 1975, Wednesday
Dragonfire Reserve.
The label on the bottle caught the low firelight, gilt letters winking like old gold. Orion Black swirled the remaining fingers of whisky in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the glow, watching it roll like molten glass along the curve. He wasn't drunk. Tipsy, perhaps. Or just distant enough from himself to imagine the line didn't matter.
The burn of it still sat in his throat—sharp, clean, furious. Dragon-charred casks, they'd said. Smoky finish. Caramel notes. Rarer than truth in this house. It was the kind of thing a man wasn't meant to get attached to. He should've stopped decades ago. Should've learned to sit down without reaching for it. But the moment he was still— truly still—he felt the pull of it. Not the drink. The silence. And what filled it.
He sighed, and the glass hit the desk with more weight than he'd meant.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled over his mouth. Hands dragged down his face, pressing hard at his temples.
This family would kill him — and not with a curse.
If it wasn't his father, it was his sons.
And if not them, Walburga. Fucking Walburga Black.
If there was ever a soul crafted by the universe purely to haunt him, it was her. She found new ways every week to unmake him.
She'd always been vicious, but yesterday—yesterday she crossed a line even Orion hadn't thought she'd dare approach.
She hexed her own son senseless. Cut his hair—cut it —as if peeling sin straight from his scalp. And then, calmly—almost peacefully—she cast the Cruciatus Curse.
On her own child.
Of course he'd known. She'd used hexes before.
Spells thrown in rage, slammed doors, silencing charms laced with spite. He'd seen the edges of it. Heard the aftermath through the walls. But this… this was something else.
Had she done the same to Sirius?
When he was sorted into Gryffindor, had she—?
He couldn't remember.
Had he even been home that day? Or had he been too drunk to notice, too drunk to register the storm that ripped through the house the moment Sirius chose red over green?
He remembered shouting.
He remembered Sirius being sent to his room without food.
But not the rest.
The memory dissolved when he tried to hold it, melted away under the weight of whisky and denial . He didn't know if he'd passed out on the sofa or vanished to the study with a bottle and a slammed door.
What had he missed?
What else had she done?
And what had he done?
It wasn't as if he stood above it. He was no better. There was no denying it.
He'd used curses on them too—not often, but still. As if lessening the frequency softened the crime. As if it wasn't still violence. Still fear. Still pain.
As if they'd forget it.
How much pain had his sons swallowed down while he drank himself into forgetfulness?
He felt sick. Not just from the drink, but from the rot beneath it—the quiet, gnawing truth that maybe he'd been complicit, not by action but by absence. Not a father. A witness who never looked closely enough to see.
Too drunk to stop it.
Too drunk to remember.
Too drunk to protect them.
And it was hard— so damn hard —not to hate himself for it.
Because in the end, he'd been a terrible father. Not because he was cruel. Not even because he stopped caring.
But because he'd never wanted this life.
Because the woman he'd loved—the only one he could've built a future for—had died before they ever made it to the altar. Before the dress she'd sketched in charcoal could be worn. Before the white rose bouquet or the vows beneath starlight.
He was left with duty. With Walburga. With the right bloodline and the wrong soul. And from that hollow place, everything else had followed.
He hadn't loved her. Not once.
He'd loved a memory. And drank to remember her—then drank more to forget the life he'd settled for instead.
And in the middle of it all were his sons.
— ❈ —
The office door clicked open.
Orion didn't look up.
Heavy footsteps crossed the threshold—first one pair, then another. One cane. He didn't need to see their faces to know.
Pollux Black didn't speak. Just walked over, lifted the half-finished whisky glass Orion had set down, and tossed the rest back in one gulp. The burn didn't even make him flinch.
Arcturus made no such gesture. He merely stared at his son—nose wrinkled, eyes narrowing at the bottle on the desk like it offended him by existing. He lowered himself into the high-backed chair with the tired authority of a man who believed the world had failed to meet his standards and now owed him an apology.
Silence stretched.
Then, flatly Arcturus spoke. "She's damaged the boy."
Orion rubbed at his face, dragging a hand down his jaw. He didn't ask which boy. He didn't need to.
"The Cruciatus," Arcturus continued, tone clipped. "Too far. He's still a child, for Merlin's sake. I expected her to raise them properly—not curse them into uselessness. The Black blood is mad enough as it is without us accelerating its decay."
He tapped a finger once against the armrest.
"I'm looking into places to have her sent."
Orion blinked.
His mouth twitched—just slightly—into something like a smile. It was small. Bitter. Almost confused.
His father was sending her away?
But before the relief could fully land, Pollux exhaled through his nose, heavy and derisive.
"She's not going forever," Pollux added flatly. "We'll have her gone until summer. Long enough for her to reflect. By then, perhaps she'll remember she's meant to teach the boys, not turn them into twitching wrecks or useless limbs."
Pollux didn't look at Orion. Just reached into his coat, drew out an Ashenroot Pipe, and lit it with a practiced flick of his wand. The smoke rose in soft, curling wisps — faintly blue, faintly sweet — curling toward the ceiling.
Then muttered, "Maybe that's why the eldest one keeps spitting in our name. Refuses to even say he's a Black. Wouldn't be surprised if she tried to hex the rebellion out of him too."
Arcturus turned his gaze to Orion now, expectant and cold and asked.
"Well? Did she?"
Orion sat back. His shoulders were tense.
"I—I don't know." The admission tasted horrible. "I wasn't… I don't remember the Yule he came back after being sorted. I think I was out. Or drunk. I just remember Sirius being sent to his room without food. I didn't think—"
He cut himself off. What was the point? He sounded like a fool.
Pollux let out a low, mirthless laugh.
"The future is doomed," Pollux said, taking a drag.
Pollux exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling like a curse he couldn't unsay as he took a seat.
"My daughter," he continued, "has always been so keen —so rabidly obsessed—with preserving the House of Black. As if repeating those blasted mottos with enough force could glue the cracks together." His lip curled, not with amusement, but something closer to disgust. "But the way she's going… she might be the one to end it."
That pulled Orion's gaze up.
Pollux's voice dropped, colder now. Drier.
"She thinks she's forging heirs in fire and blood. But what happens when there's nothing left but ash? One child currently rejecting the name entirely. One she's broken so thoroughly, he flinches like a beaten dog. And Regulus—" he hesitated. "Even he will slip through her fingers soon enough, and she'll wonder why they're all running."
He rose to his feet, pipe still between his fingers, and took another slow puff as he turned to face the mural behind him — a storm-dark seascape charmed to shift with the hour.
"No more heirs," he said. "No more boys. Just a cursed manor, a hollow name, and a madwoman howling about blood purity in a house with no blood left to claim it."
Pollux turned to Arcturus then, not pleading—Pollux Black didn't plead—but warning .
"She wants the House of Black to live forever. But at this rate, she'll bury it herself."
Arcturus didn't speak for a long moment. Then:
"She'll be gone by evening. Somewhere this won't become gossip."
Pollux let out a low hum, neither agreement nor protest.
Orion leaned back in his chair, fingers draped loosely over the armrest. His voice came slow, almost idle — but with just enough edge to cut if you listened closely.
"And what of the Dark Lord?"
Silence followed, taut and brittle.
Arcturus looked at him then — not surprised, just tired of being disappointed. "I said," he replied tightly, "I'm handling it. You'd do well not to concern yourself."
Orion huffed a dry laugh. "Right. Of course ." He reached for the empty glass on the desk, remembered it was gone, and let his hand fall uselessly to his knee. "So, I'm not allowed to ask questions now? Even when the Dark Lord is sniffing around my son?"
The use of the title alone was a deliberate provocation. He didn't care.
Arcturus's stare flared sharper. Pollux found himself sitting as if to get a better view of the scene.
Orion leaned forward slightly, something cruel and amused flickering at the corner of his mouth.
"He wants to meet the boy," he said softly, voice laced with disbelief. "The same boy she nearly shattered. But I'm not to worry. Because my father has everything well in hand."
He shook his head, a breath of laughter catching at the end — like it was all just some spectacular joke he'd finally decided to let himself enjoy.
"I mean… come on. Really think about it. A Dark Lord, hanging all his hopes on a prophecy. Like some robed lunatic at the back of a carnival tent. Reading tea leaves. Muttering riddles over crystal balls. You can't tell me that's not funny."
He tilted his head, the mockery in his tone now unmistakable. "Does he expect my son to sprout glowing runes on his skin? Speak in tongues? Or is it subtler than that? Maybe just standing in the same room with a confused, traumatized child will unlock some grand epiphany. A vision. A sign ."
Arcturus stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping hard against the floor.
"Enough," Arcturus said. No bark. Just steel. "You are not to speak of this again."
Orion didn't flinch. Didn't rise. He only stared at the fire of the fireplace — the way it devoured the logs with that same deliberate hunger he saw in men like Arcturus, like the Dark Lord. As if the only way to preserve something was to burn it.
Then, coolly Arcturus added, almost dismissively. "You're drunk; that's all this is."
Orion let out a quiet laugh — not bitter this time, just dry and disbelieving. He turned his head slightly, not enough to meet his father's eyes.
"I'm not drunk."
"You smell like firewhisky."
Orion scoffed. "If I needed to be drunk to see the absurdity in all this, I'd be far more optimistic than I am."
A long pause.
"I'm allowed to think, Father. Even when it inconveniences you."
The room stilled. Even the fire seemed to crackle more softly, like it had learned when to be quiet.
Pollux shifted again — and this time, the corner of his mouth twitched. Just slightly. The kind of expression that wasn't quite a smile but carried the weight of one. Amused, clearly, at how easily Orion could get under his cousin's skin.
Orion leaned back into the chair once more, letting his head tip slightly to the side, eyes fixed on the dancing flames.
Madmen and their riddles, he thought. Fools and their flames.
December 31st, 1975, Wednesday
Polaris lay on top of the bed, fully dressed.
He hadn't moved in a while. Not asleep. Not restless. Just there — spine flat against the mattress, arms at his sides, eyes fixed on the dark silhouette perched near the window.
Orpheus blinked slowly, feathers puffed in sleep, talons curled around the brass rung.
He found himself wondering, quietly, what it might be like to be an owl.
Not in the childish, transfigurative sense. Not to turn into one. Just… to be one. To inhabit that kind of stillness so fully it became a language. To close your eyes and not be asked to explain why. To perch in high places and see everything from above, untouched by the noise below.
He pictured what it would feel like to twist his neck one hundred and eighty degrees — to look backwards without turning — and found the image both unsettling and strangely comforting. There was something admirable about owls. How they could hold so still and still see everything. How they could kill without malice and sleep without dreams.
He stared at Orpheus, with furrowed brows.
Would an owl remember pain? Would it understand it, examine it, store it like a book in a locked cabinet?
Or would it simply forget? Fly. Eat. Rest. Repeat.
He blinked slowly, mimicking the rhythm of the owl. His eyes stung with dryness. He hadn't noticed.
Behind him, the room sat undisturbed.
His trunk rested by the desk, its latch untouched. The edges were scuffed from the train platform, but he hadn't reached for it. Not once.
Not even for his journal.
He couldn't say what the week had been, exactly—just that, at some point, he'd draped the mirror and left it that way.
A scrap of black cloth now hung over the frame, pinned with whatever he'd found at his desk.
The fabric sagged unevenly in the middle, as if someone had meant to fix it and never did.
It wasn't really to hide the glass. He just couldn't bear to see it.
Or himself .
A knock came once.
He didn't hear it.
The door opened anyway.
Narcissa didn't take her time to walk in, her heels silent on the carpet. She moved with the effortless grace of someone who belonged in every room she entered, regardless of invitation. Her hand reached for the window's heavy curtain.
The fabric drew back with a sigh of filtered light.
Polaris flinched at the light.
Not a jolt. Nothing dramatic. Just a small, sharp intake of breath — like a deer caught mid-thought, a creature that hadn't realized it was being watched.
He sat up without thinking. Spine straight. Shoulders tight. As if bracing for something.
Narcissa paused, glancing at him — a quiet, fleeting look — but said nothing. No apology. No pointed comment. Just a flick of her wrist as she adjusted the curtain's fall.
She walked to his desk, where a small pile of unopened letters sat beside a stack of books. The envelopes were still sealed — some worn at the corners, one with a wax stamp slightly smudged.
Two of the crests caught her eye.
House Avery. House Fawley.
She placed the parcel down beside them.
Black paper. Silver ribbon. Neat as a promise.
"You didn't come down for tea," she said.
Polaris blinked slowly, processing the words as if they were in another language. He hadn't expected to see her.
"Didn't seem important," he murmured, more to the room than to her.
His eyes drifted to the parcel.
The silver ribbon caught the light—and for just a second, it looked like the glint of shears.
His breath hitched. Just slightly.
He blinked hard and looked away.
"Nothing does lately," he added, quieter.
Narcissa said nothing. She didn't sit, didn't touch him, didn't fill the space the way others might. She simply remained near the desk, her hands resting lightly on the polished edge—like someone who understood that nearness was enough, for now.
He hated that. And needed it. Both.
Polaris let himself sink back into the bed. Slowly. Carefully. His head settled against the pillow as if it were unfamiliar.
He turned his face toward the ceiling. Stared like it might offer him something.
After a moment, she moved.
She crossed the room and lowered herself into the armchair beside his bed—a deep blue thing with curved legs and carved wood arms.
She sat with quiet grace, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, as though the chair had been placed there just for this.
Her gaze flicked — once — to the corner of the room.
To the mirror. Still draped in black. Still sagging.
She didn't move to reach for it. But her hand paused on the armrest, like she'd almost considered adjusting the cloth — and thought better of it.
A knock followed — softer this time — and the door opened again.
Lucius stepped inside with the posture of someone walking into a room mid-sentence. He hesitated, one polished shoe just past the threshold, before glancing at Narcissa.
She gave him a small nod. Reassurance, or permission.
He entered.
Lucius Malfoy always carried himself with polish, but now the lines were too clean — his spine too straight, his cuff adjustment too noticeable, like a man rehearsing stillness in a room that didn't want it.
"Hope I'm not interrupting," he said smoothly, though he lingered awkwardly by the door before finally settling into the chair at Polaris's desk.
He perched on its edge as though uncertain whether he'd be asked to leave again.
His eyes skimmed the room, pausing a beat too long on the draped mirror.
"Bit superstitious, are we?" he asked, trying for lightness — but the joke landed flat.
Polaris didn't answer right away.
For the first time since Lucius had stepped inside, he turned his head — slowly — to look at him. He didn't smile. His expression didn't shift.
But his eyes, heavy and rimmed red, drifted once more to the mirror in the corner.
Then back to Lucius.
"No," he said. Flat.
No elaboration.
Lucius looked toward Narcissa again. She didn't acknowledge the comment, only folded her hands in her lap and sat still.
Lucius cleared his throat. Lightly. A barely-there shift in posture — as though trying not to disturb the air too much.
"I, ah… We brought something. A small thing. Nothing extravagant."
He gestured, almost offhandedly, to the parcel on the desk. But the tension in his fingers betrayed him.
"That was Narcissa's idea," he said. "I only added a small detail."
"Our Yule gift," Narcissa said gently. "Since we didn't see you for Yule."
Not a guilt. A fact.
Lucius nodded stiffly. "Yes. It was a shame you weren't able to make it to the Yule evening feast."
He meant it. Polaris knew he meant it.
Polaris sat up.
Not all at once — he moved like someone remembering how. The sheets whispered as he shifted, spine curling forward until he perched at the edge of the bed. His elbows rested loosely on his knees, fingers knit together.
He didn't look at either of them.
Truthfully, he just wanted them to leave.
The room was too full. Of watchful eyes and careful silences. Of people who meant well in the way that always seemed to bruise more than it healed.
He'd received gifts for Yule. He hadn't opened any of them.
They were in the storage room downstairs on the third floor, still untouched — despite Sirius's persistence, as if the right present might somehow patch the wrong kind of pain. As if wrapping something in paper made it easier to hold.
Polaris didn't want wrapping. He didn't want Sirius pacing the hallway, talking too loud, hovering like Polaris might shatter if left alone too long.
He didn't want anyone treating him like he was broken.
He wasn't.
Still — it was nice to see Narcissa again.
He glanced at her. Briefly.
Then his eyes moved to the parcel on the desk.
Lucius didn't move his gaze from him for a moment, eyes flicking to his face, and said too easily, "You wear it well, you know. The shorter cut. Makes you look older."
The words snagged something in Polaris's chest.
He blinked once. Then again, slower.
His fingers twitched, curling slightly into the duvet as he shifted.
His shoulders rose — barely — like a tide building under skin.
"It looks awful," Polaris said, voice low and tight.
Lucius's mouth parted, just slightly, like he'd meant to speak — then thought better of it. A crease formed between his brows, subtle and slow, as if the weight of Polaris's tone had landed somewhere he hadn't braced for.
"You don't have to lie." Polaris's voice cracked just slightly on "lie." "You think saying that helps?"
Lucius opened his mouth. But Polaris's next words came fast. Clipped. Shaking.
"You think it makes me look older?" he snapped. "I look like a bloody wretch. She didn't cut it to style me. She did it to humiliate me. So don't pretend it suits me."
Silence.
Lucius sat back slightly, caught mid-motion. The polish slipped — not entirely, but enough to show the strain beneath it.
Narcissa straightened. Not abruptly, just smoothly — like a shift in posture rather than a decision. Still, she said nothing.
Polaris's breath came shallow now, his mouth set hard, jaw clenched like he was physically holding back more.
Then, from that tightening stillness, Narcissa's voice:
"Polaris."
Firm. Calm. Clear.
"No one here is lying."
A pause.
"You might not like it. You might feel… less. But we don't see you that way."
She tilted her head, just slightly. Her gaze stayed level.
"You're handsome. No matter the length."
Another pause.
"You don't have to believe it. But don't call us liars."
Polaris had already looked away. His shoulders were hunched forward now; spine bowed like something protecting itself.
He kept his eyes down — locked on the weave of the bedspread — and breathed through his nose.
Shallow. Even. Shaking.
The room felt like it was holding its breath.
Then—
"I'm sorry," Polaris whispered.
It barely registered as sound.
He glanced at Lucius — then dropped his gaze again like it burned.
"I shouldn't have said that. It's not your fault."
A beat. His throat worked around the next words.
"May I open the gift now?"
Lucius nodded. The pretence had faded from his face.
Narcissa stood and retrieved the parcel from the desk. She didn't return to the chair, but sat beside him on the bed — close, not touching — and laid the gift in his lap.
Lucius rose from the desk chair, to stand beside her where she now sat, watching Polaris stare at the gift.
The silver ribbon caught the light.
His breath hitched.
He closed his eyes. Then opened them. And slowly — very slowly — began to undo the ribbon.
He unwrapped the gift with care, peeling back the folds of paper as if they might tear too loudly.
Inside was a small, lacquered box. Black. Polished. Smooth as stone.
He opened the lid.
Cradled in deep green velvet sat a pocket watch. Silver. Luminous.
Polaris froze.
Not out of fear. Not awe. Something more fragile — a kind of stillness that came when emotion rose too quickly to catch.
His thumb brushed the edge. The metal was cold. Heavier than it looked.
He hadn't meant it, when he'd mentioned it.
Just a passing thought — months ago, maybe longer — about how Uncle Alphard used to carry one. He hadn't actually mentioned his uncle Alphard; he just mentioned the idea of having pocket watch.
He hadn't thought anyone was listening.
On the back, an engraving.
Not late. Not lost. Just yours.
He read it once.
Then again.
Then again.
His fingers hovered, unsure whether to touch or to let go.
Narcissa's voice came gently beside him. "We had it commissioned. Forged from moon-bright silver. The design is traditional… but it's yours."
Polaris didn't look at her.
He lifted the watch.
Delicate etchings curled along the edges — fine scrollwork and arcane sigils, almost imperceptible unless the light caught them just so. The surface felt cool against his fingers, weighty without being heavy. He opened it.
The face was simple, austere. Enamel-white, like bone. Ink-black Roman numerals encircled the dial, each one thin and exact, as if drawn with the tip of a wand. Two thin hands suspended in silence.
Polaris didn't look at her. He just stared at the watch.
Lucius spoke, quieter now. "The engraving was my contribution."
Narcissa gave him a sideways glance.
"He saved you from worse," she said mildly. "I had something far more sentimental in mind."
Lucius gave a soft huff. "Truly horrific. I believe the phrase 'our hearts are never strangers' was floated."
Narcissa swatted his arm, almost fond.
Lucius didn't react. But the corner of his mouth curved — not quite a smile, but something like relief.
"I thought this was better," he said. "You can read it how you like. It doesn't demand anything."
Polaris traced the words with his thumb again.
And then—
He smiled, faintly. He really liked it.
Something shifted in his face — not a breaking, but a loosening, like a knot unwinding behind his eyes.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Narcissa placed her hand on the bed beside her — palm flat. She didn't touch him.
"You're welcome," she said.
Then, gently she added.
"I hoped you'd like it."
Polaris finally looked up at her and gave her a small nod.
Eventually she stood. Lucius followed.
No goodbyes. Just a look between them — not pity, not even worry.
The air felt less heavy. It felt easier to breathe for a moment.
He held the watch in his hand.
His thumb moved slowly over the engraving, once, twice.
Not late. Not lost. Just yours.
He mouthed the words — no sound, just shape.
As if they might mean something different, depending on how he angled them.
As if he could decipher them, if he just looked long enough.
Eventually, he lay back, the gift still in his hand.