— ❈ —
Chapters 24–25 Summary
Polaris, restless after Yule, drags Corvus and Bastian into a late-night venture toward the library. Tension runs high, he lashes out at both boys and cruelly at Myrtle, leaving fractures in his closest bonds. When Evan Rosier catches them, he offers help with a price. Haunted by guilt, The next day Polaris returns to Myrtle to apologise, only for her to beg him to end her existence. His strange magic nearly destroys him trying. He collapses and wakes in St Mungo's, where his father presses him for answers. Polaris admits he tried to help Myrtle, but Orion warns him to hide what he can do, calling it dangerous and ruinous. Left shaken, Polaris wrestles with guilt, isolation, and the weight of being "different," even as his friends drift further away.
— ❈ —
[7,785 Words]
January 27th, 1976, Tuesday
The night had pushed him out of his room; wandering the corridor was easier than lying still.
He stood barefoot in the corridor, the floor cold enough to keep him awake, though the truth was he wouldn't have dared close his eyes here anyway. Not in this house. Not when he knew what sleep in this place meant—what it had always meant. Sleep here meant betrayal—dreams that turned on him and memories dressed up as comfort.
Now he was in front of her.
The portrait was small, almost forgettable, tucked in between taller frames of ancestors he had no interest in. His mother before she was anyone's mother. Before marriage, before sons, before she'd learned to harden every part of herself into something impenetrable. She looked back at him with softness painted into her mouth and eyes, and that was what he hated most.
He leaned in nearer than he meant to, close enough that his eyes tricked him, as if the strokes of paint shifted with breath.
Polaris lifted his hand, brushed the edge of the frame with two fingers, as if touching it would prove she wasn't about to move, wasn't about to speak. He withdrew at once, thumb pressed hard into his palm, the way he did whenever he caught himself fidgeting. His other hand twitched at his side. He pressed it flat against his thigh, willing it still.
He hated the face looking down at him. Hated how it pretended gentleness belonged to her. That softness was a lie, or worse—a reminder that at some point, it might not have been.
Bitterness crept up the back of his throat, and he swallowed hard, as though he might be sick if he let it stay.
What if she really had been this girl once—someone who might have held a crying child, someone who might have sung? The notion churned in him until he couldn't bear it.
Because if she had been that person—if she had been capable of gentleness—then she had chosen to become what she was now. And that was worse than believing she'd never been human at all.
He'd thought Hogwarts might be an escape, but it hurt too—just in different ways. Here or there, he wasn't sure which place deserved to be called home.
"You should be asleep."
Polaris startled at the sound. His shoulders locked, breath caught sharp in his chest, and for a fraction of a second he thought the painted girl had found her voice. But no—it was his father, standing half-shadowed at the end of the corridor.
His heartbeat began to steady as he turned, though it still thudded in his ears.
He searched his father's face. For a moment—brief, dangerous—he wondered who Orion had been before all this just like his mother. Before marriage bound him to Walburga, before sons were given to him like obligations. Had Orion ever laughed easily? Had he ever smiled at someone, with the kind of warmth that left no doubt it was real?
Questions were dangerous. They invited punishments he knew too well.
But the silence pressed harder than the memory. The pressure of it spilled past his teeth unsteadily.
"Were you ever happy?"
Orion's face shifted—barely, but enough. A tightening around the mouth. A flicker in the eyes. It was enough to make Polaris's stomach sink with the certainty of punishment—he half expected his father's hand, or his voice like a lash in the dark.
Nothing came.
No mark to tend, no wound to trace—only the waiting, the not-knowing, the terrible weight of what Orion chose not to do.
Polaris's throat tightened, but he held himself still. A slow heat crawled at the back of his neck, prickling under his collar as though braced for a blow that never came. "I—sorry," he said, steady enough. "I'll go to bed."
He left before his father could speak—not that Orion tried to.
Only when Polaris's footsteps had faded did Orion move, coming to stand where his son had stood. His gaze landed on the portrait—the young woman with softness in her mouth, in her eyes. His mouth curved into a frown.
He saw it too clearly, and it sickened him. It mocked him, taunted with what had been taken and twisted beyond recognition.
"...Kreacher."
The elf appeared at once, bowing low in the dim corridor.
"Remove it," Orion said, his voice hard with contempt. "I don't want to see it again."
Kreacher's ears twitched as he obeyed, lifting the frame with careful, reverent hands. Orion didn't watch. He turned away before the portrait was gone.
— ❈ —
It had been weeks since Polaris last played a proper game of chess. His fingers hovered over the carved ivory knight, tracing its worn edges before he nudged it forward into place. The satisfying clack as it landed was the only sound in the room besides the faint hum of the enchanted fan Narcissa had idly charmed to keep her cool.
Across from him, Lucius sat far too still, one finger pressed against his temple, studying the board as though the outcome mattered. He looked like he was preparing to argue policy at the Ministry, not play against an eleven-year-old.
Polaris leaned closer, his gaze locked on the grid. He liked the certainty of it — the board was numbers, patterns, rules. No shouting, no surprises. Every piece behaved the way it should, and that steadiness felt almost like air after days without it.
Lucius had been winning, or thought he was. Polaris had let him. Pawns, a knight — nothing worth keeping if it drew Lucius out. But when he gave up a rook without blinking, Lucius's eyes narrowed, the faintest crack in his composure.
"You do that often," Lucius said after a moment, tone deceptively casual. "Give away something important just to keep the game going. Dangerous habit."
Polaris didn't look up, his focus fixed on the board. He adjusted one of his pieces instead, turning it so it sat squarely on its square, every figure facing the same direction. His silence was answer enough.
"Mm." Lucius's pale gaze grew keener, as though he were studying more than just the pieces. "St. Mungo's. I heard it was exhaustion. Though exhaustion rarely looks like that. A vague word, isn't it? Doesn't say whether it was your body that failed you… or your magic."
Polaris kept his eyes on the board, though the words caught in his chest. Exhaustion. That was what they'd told everyone. What they'd forced into him — vials of bitter draughts pressed past his lips, potion after potion until his stomach churned. They called it treatment, but each dose felt more like penance, as though it were his fault his body wouldn't obey. And still, no potion had touched the nights that left him waking in a jolt, or staring at the ceiling for hours while the dark refused to let him rest.
He straightened a rook, aligning it neatly, and buried the thought. His father had already reminded him that morning — as if he needed reminding — that nothing of what had happened was to be spoken of. But even without the warning, Polaris knew better than to answer.
"He doesn't need your interrogation, Lucius," Narcissa said lightly, but the way she caught hold of the enchanted fan made the protest firmer than her tone.
Lucius gave a slight incline of his head, as though conceding her point, but his eyes lingered on Polaris a moment longer than comfort allowed before he leaned back in his chair.
When Polaris slid his next rook into position, Lucius's head snapped up, his pale brows furrowing.
"That," he said slowly, leaning forward in his chair, "is an… interesting choice."
Polaris didn't answer immediately. He was too busy enjoying the intent, assessing look Lucius now gave the board, as though every move he'd made so far had been called into question.
"You're about to lose your bishop," Polaris said at last, turning his head toward Narcissa with a conspiratorial sort of brightness. "Do warn your husband."
Narcissa smiled faintly. Lucius's lips thinned.
"You seem very certain of yourself," Lucius drawled, though there was no real malice in it — just the faintest edge of challenge.
Polaris tilted his head, almost smiling, but not quite. "Only because I know what you'll choose."
Lucius didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned back and rested one hand on the arm of his chair, studying the board with the same care he might apply to a Ministry contract. His other hand hovered over his queen before drawing back again.
"You'll make him paranoid if you keep playing like that," Narcissa said smoothly.
Her gaze shifted from the board to her cousin. "Has your grandfather Arcturus come to see you since you've been home?"
Polaris hesitated at the question, pulling back slightly from the board. No, he thought at once — but the way she asked it made him pause. Narcissa never asked idly; she chose her words the way Lucius chose his moves, always with some end in mind. Was she testing him? Fishing for something Arcturus had done? Or simply gauging whether he was worth the old man's notice?
"No," he said aloud, slower than before. His grandfather had never sought him out — why would he? He wasn't the heir, not even the spare. He was the spare of the spare, too insignificant for Arcturus's attention. "Why?"
Narcissa's fan paused mid-sweep, though her expression remained perfectly smooth. "Just wondering," she replied.
He tilted his head, considering her, then asked in turn, "Have you seen him?"
"No."
"What about Grandfather Pollux?" Polaris asked, his voice mild but carrying an unmistakable curiosity, about the one grandfather that did seem to care.
At that, Lucius's fingers stilled above the chessboard, and Polaris noticed immediately. It was only the smallest hesitation — a subtle pause — but it was there. So there was something they weren't saying. Adults always thought children too dull to notice the silence. He noticed.
Narcissa saw it too. "He's been very busy lately," she said quickly, her tone light, as though that explained everything. Before Polaris could press further, she added, "How is school, Polaris?"
Lucius finally made his move. It was the sort of move that suggested careful consideration — and an inevitable loss.
Polaris hesitated, his fingers idly circling the head of a knight as if stalling for time. "It's… complicated."
"Complicated?" Narcissa pressed, her tone warm but expectant.
Polaris almost left it there. Talking about school felt too close to talking about everything else. Though he did need a distraction "Well, there's this girl—"
"Oh?" Narcissa lowered her fan, her expression immediately brightening. "A girl."
Polaris didn't notice her sudden interest. "She's—" He paused, searching for the right word, and then dismissed the pause with a faint shrug. "Annoying. Always putting on a show if anyone's looking."
The faintest hint of confusion flickered over Narcissa's face. Her smile faltered, just for a breath, before she smoothed it back into place. "Oh," she said, more carefully this time.
"She lies," Polaris continued, almost clinically, "Acts like she's clever when she's not. She knows what bothers people and presses at it, just to see if she can make them react." His tone was even, detached, as though he were describing some unpleasant specimen in a jar.
Lucius finally glanced up from the board, his interest catching. "And what does she press at with you?"
"She flaunts being a half-blood like it's proof of courage," Polaris said, his mouth flattening. "I've never spoken against her blood. Not once. But she turned eyes on me with lies I never spoke, and now I mean to… even the scales."
At that, Lucius's mouth curved into something faint and dangerous.
"Even the scales, hmm?" He sat back, voice silken with disdain. "Then don't squander the chance. A half-blood thrives on defiance because it's all she has — no name, no house, no lineage. Strip that away, and she'll wither. Remind her kindly of her place — and do it in such a way she never dares forget."
Polaris gave no sign he'd heard, though the words sank deep. It wasn't the half-blood sneer that struck him; bloodlines were a game, a currency adults traded in, nothing more — one he was still learning the rules of. What lingered was the reminder of her lies — the way she had twisted his silence into cruelty and made the others look at him as though it were true. That, more than lineage, demanded an answer.
Fairness — that was all he wanted. Not fairness for her, or for anyone else. Just for himself. She had tipped the scales against him, and it felt wrong in a way he couldn't let go. Lucius's words — cut free of their talk of names and houses — gave him something solid: permission, almost. A way to make it even.
Before he could speak, Narcissa spoke. "Lucius," she said sharply, scandalized. "He's eleven."
Lucius gave her a bland, almost amused look. "Not for much longer. March is hardly far off."
Narcissa turned back to Polaris, her expression softening, though her tone remained firm. "Even so. You don't need to lower yourself to her level. That doesn't mean you let her walk over you, either. You're a Black — and nearly twelve. You rise above her pettiness, with grace. Whatever she says, you make sure she regrets saying it without ever seeing you lose your composure."
Her words landed differently than Lucius's — less like an order, more like a challenge. But Lucius seemed to understand better. His advice felt practical, a clearer answer than talk of lowering or rising above.
If she lied and humiliated him, he could make her regret it in kind. That had weight. That felt fair.
He kept his eyes on the board, on the little world that never changed, no matter how much he wished his mind would settle to match it. Thoughts crowded in until his head ached, sharp and useless, one tripping over the next until he couldn't tell where they started or ended.
For an instant he pictured a switch — a childish, blunt wish to click it and silence the noise in his head. The wanting itself felt obscene, and that only made the frustration worse.
He pushed the idea down and moved the knight. Anything was better than listening.
January 29th, 1976, Thursday
Andrew had barely taken three steps toward the staircase before Aurelia caught him. He'd muttered something about needing his book — the one he'd left behind, again — but she wasn't about to let him wander off. Professor Sprout had spares; she'd told him that already.
Aurelia shoved her sleeves higher up her arms — smudges of dirt from that morning — and hooked her fingers into Andrew's sleeve before he could veer off toward the stairs.
"Come on," she said, ignoring his muttered protest. He dragged his feet anyway, which only made her yank harder.
They turned a corner into a knot of voices. A little cluster of Gryffindors leaned against the wall, laughter bouncing between them. Cressida Bell, Idris O'Malley, and Beth Coates — Aurelia knew the lot of them well enough. Not friends, but familiar.
She was about to march past when she caught it — her name, floating clear in the chatter. She stopped dead.
"Potter didn't even sign it," Beth was saying, her Welsh lilt lilting harsher with mockery. "She just gave poor Cadwallader that look."
"What look?" Idris demanded, slingshot flicking in his hands, little sparks jittering out.
"The look," Beth repeated, grinning. "You know. The one that makes you feel like you've just sprouted antlers in class."
Laughter went around. Cressida fanned herself like a stage heroine, eyes rolling. "Imagine begging people to sign a welcome back card for Polaris Black of all people. Honestly, the badger brigade will do anything for attention."
Aurelia slid herself into the group before she'd even thought about it, shoulders squared as though she were staking claim. Better to stand in the centre, where their laughter couldn't box her in, than leave them smirking at her back.
At her elbow, Andrew let out a low groan, his expression souring the longer he lingered. He hunched back a step, gaze skimming over the strangers with the kind of wary distaste that made it plain he'd rather be anywhere else. Small talk was wasted breath in his opinion, and his scowl all but dared them to try him.
"And why," she asked sweetly, "exactly was my name in your mouths?"
The laughter thinned at once. Beth's smirk faltered, Cressida's hand stilled mid-flourish, and Idris lowered his slingshot, sparks dying between his fingers.
One of them — Cressida, lips curling faintly — flicked Andrew a look as though he were something unpleasant tracked in on their shoes. He met it without flinching, eyes narrowing, his stare flat and unblinking until she looked away first.
Andrew shifted behind her, jaw set tight as though the very air stank. He loathed this — groups, noise, the way everyone suddenly stared as if an audience had been conjured out of nowhere. If it were anyone else, he would've left them to it. But Aurelia never backed down, not even when she should, and he couldn't just walk away and let her stand alone. His face pulled tighter, unreadable but unmistakably unfriendly, and he looked ready to bolt if her grip weren't still hooked firm around his sleeve.
Beth recovered first, her smile returning with an edge. "Only remarking that even you didn't sign the welcome back card, Potter. Says it all, doesn't it?"
"I didn't sign because I wasn't going to pretend," Aurelia cut in, her voice brisk. "That's between me and her, not a comedy sketch for the corridor." She let her eyes sweep them — one by one — until they shifted their weight, glances skittering away. "And if you've got opinions about Cadwallader's drawings or her card, maybe you ought to tell her to her face."
Beth's smirk crept back, thinner this time. "Well, aren't you clever. Must be nice, Potter — wag your finger and everyone's supposed to fall in line. Just like your brother, really. Might as well be."
Aurelia bristled. Of course they had to drag James into it. He always got what he wanted, and half the school adored him for it. But she wasn't James — she never would be — and she loathed how easily everyone forgot the difference.
Cressida gave a theatrical little gasp, hand to her chest, then smothered a laugh. "Yes, how dreadful of us to have a laugh. Do forgive us, Your Highness."
Heat rushed to Aurelia's face. Not from their jibes, but from the slip — the crack in her composure they'd seen and pounced on.
She wasn't clever, not like that — not when they twisted things until she sounded as though she were parading her name like a badge. "I wasn't—" She broke off, fumbling, her hands balling into fists.
The words tangled on her tongue and she hated it — hated how it made her look like she'd lost her grip. Every stumble gave them something to feed on, and she could feel her composure slipping.
"You're just—just absolute prigs!" The word landed wrong, too light, and their laughter surged. Even as the sound rang in her ears, Aurelia knew it: she'd wasted her strike. The word was flimsy, and now they'd seen her swing and miss.
Idris barked a laugh, delighted. "Prigs! Merlin's beard, listen to her — posh as a plum pudding." He hunched his shoulders then, pitching his voice into a wobbling falsetto. "Absolute prigs," he echoed, nose wrinkling in exaggerated poshness. Cressida snorted, clapping a hand over her mouth as laughter burst out again.
The laughter flared again, louder this time, and Aurelia's embarrassment flared with it. Her hand darted for her wand before she had even thought —
Andrew moved faster. His hand closed around her wrist, steady rather than rough, his scowl aimed at the Gryffindors, not her. "Come on," he muttered, tugging her back a step. "We'll be late for class." The words were brisk, almost ordinary, but his grip stayed firm as he steered her away before she got herself in trouble.
She spluttered, resisting for half a heartbeat, but then remembered — remembered the words she'd once thrown at him, telling him he was to haul her out when she forgot to think. And now here he was, doing exactly that.
Andrew didn't stop tugging until the Gryffindors were well behind them, their laughter faint now. Aurelia let herself be pulled, shoulders still stiff, cheeks burning. It wasn't only that they'd mocked her — it was that she'd given them the opening. Prigs had fallen flat and clumsy, and the second it left her mouth she'd felt the ground tilt away. They'd laughed because she'd let them, and that stung worse than anything they'd said.
Already, her mind itched with the better words she should have chosen.
She exhaled hard, trying to unknot her jaw, when Andrew finally spoke.
"So… what's a prig?" He gave her a sidelong glance, suspicious as though she'd slipped an insult past him.
"A prig is—well, someone horrid. Rude. Insufferable."
"Hah. You could've just called them tossers. Or arses. Or bloody wankers." His voice was flat, as if offering her options, though the corners of his mouth tugged faintly upward.
Aurelia stopped short, scandalised. "You can't say things like that!"
"Why not?" He shrugged, unbothered. "Better than prigs. No one even knows what that means."
She stared at him, utterly baffled. "You're as vulgar as Willow."
"I'll take that as an insult." His face soured immediately, the way it always did when Willow's name came up.
Aurelia rolled her eyes and quickened her pace, muttering under her breath. He caught up easily, silent for a stretch, before he spoke again.
"Why'd you lie?"
She blinked at him, thrown. "Lie?"
"You said you didn't sign the card." He kept his tone flat, but there was an edge to it, the kind of blunt persistence that didn't let go. "But you did, well eventually."
Her stomach gave a small jolt. "That's—that's none of your business."
He scoffed, eyes narrowing. "Could've just said you didn't want to talk about it."
Aurelia bit down on her lip, cheeks heating again, this time not from the Gryffindors. "Don't be annoying," she muttered, tugging him forward this time, as if momentum could shut him up.
— ❈ —
It had been only a few hours since Polaris set foot back in Hogwarts, and already he felt as though he had stepped into someone else's life. Hogwarts went on in his absence — meals, lessons, laughter spilling out of common rooms — and he walked among it all with the uneasy sense of trespass, as though the stones themselves might question what right he had to return.
He was excused from classes until Friday, a kindness he suspected was less for his sake than for the teachers', and so Thursday stretched into an odd, hollow space, where the day moved around him but never with him.
Whispers reached him even when he tried not to hear them, seeping out of stairwells, carried on the shuffle of passing feet and the scratch of quills against parchment. Every passage felt narrower than he remembered, every archway a mouth waiting to speak.
He did not need to listen closely; the words carried themselves to him — curse, collapse, spell gone wrong — every version trimmed and twisted until it struck him whether he acknowledged it or not. And what unsettled him most was not the whispers themselves, but the certainty that he had nothing to say in return, no defence to offer, no language for what had happened. If he could not explain it to his classmates, nor to the housemates who glanced at him with narrowed eyes, nor even to himself, then what was the use of trying to correct them?
He drifted between the glass cases until the shine of a polished cup caught him, his reflection bent and warped across its curve. For a long moment he only stared, frowning faintly at the distorted boy who looked back — the crease in his brow too deep, the set of his mouth too hard for eleven.
His eyes slid down, tracing the engravings worked into brass and gold until they caught on a name etched into the metal.
Tom Riddle.
He remembered that name, though only once had he seen the man it belonged to — a meeting brief, but enough to leave him wondering. He tilted his head slightly, gaze fixed on the letters.
Riddle had carried himself with a poise that seemed to demand the room, though his name — plain, Muggle, unadorned — had struck Polaris at the time as almost laughably unfitting. Back then he had caught himself wondering, in the moment after their meeting, whether such a name had any right to stand in the same air as a Black let alone the Malfoy manor.
"Curious name, isn't it?"
The voice, mild and unhurried, broke across his thoughts instantly. Polaris's spine stiffened. He didn't need to turn; only one person in the castle sounded as though every word was a deliberate kindness.
Professor Dumbledore drifted closer, hands folded behind his back, eyes drawn to the trophies as though they were old friends. "The room has always struck me as… humbling," he said, conversational. "A record of victories and glories, each one polished, though the children themselves have long since gone. Names endure when faces fade."
A slight frown crossed Polaris's face. Names endure when faces fade. He wasn't sure what to make of it.
Did they? A name without the person behind it felt almost empty—just letters lined up in a row. No voice, no face, no trace of who they had really been. Could that really count as endurance?
And yet the trophies seemed to contradict him. They gleamed as if time had no say, each one insisting that someone had stood here once, that someone had mattered. Maybe that was enough. Maybe not. He couldn't decide.
His eyes flicked to the name again.
"Did you know him?" He hadn't meant it to sound so blunt.
Dumbledore's head inclined, slow. "Yes. I knew him." The words seemed considered, not given lightly.
Polaris studied him sidelong. "I met him once," he said, tone intentionally flat.
Dumbledore went very still. "Met him?" he repeated, his voice soft, yet intent. "And where might that have been?"
Polaris gave a slight shrug, eyes sliding away. "A long time ago," he said, as if the details had slipped beyond recall.
And yet… what did Dumbledore even mean by that? Scars no one would choose to admire. Was he speaking of cruelty? Talent? Something else? It nagged at him, an itch he couldn't scratch.
He tried to remember the conversation he'd had with Lucius after meeting Riddle—something about whether the man was important. His cousin's husband had said something that had caught his attention, curious enough to linger in his mind, but Polaris couldn't recall the words. Only that he had asked the question.
So what was Riddle, really?
And then—he felt it.
A pressure—not physical, but no less real—pressed against the inside of his mind. Familiar. Unmistakable.
It was the wrongness that told him. The sense of something prying where it had no right to be, sliding against thoughts that were his alone.
His defences slammed down in an instant, walls rising with no more effort than breathing. Anger followed.
"Stop it." The word tore out of him before he could mask it.
The pressure lifted at once. Dumbledore's expression stayed calm, but his eyes lingered on Polaris with a hint of uncertainty.
Polaris's fists clenched, trembling with the surge under his skin. "Don't ever try that again."
"I meant no harm," Dumbledore said, and there was strain in it.
"No harm?" His voice cracked, anger rising beneath it. "You tried to force your way into my head."
The words left his mouth before he could stop them. He knew what had been done, and worse, who had done it. If even here—at Hogwarts—his thoughts weren't his own, then nothing was.
Dumbledore's composure faltered. "You are right," he said after a beat, quieter now. "I should not have attempted it. I only wanted to understand what troubled you… but I went too far."
Polaris's breath hitched, his chest aching with the effort to breathe. He barely caught the words. His body thrummed with the memory of that push—that trespass.
How dare he?
The thought burned, rising again and again. Dumbledore — the great defender, the wise headmaster everyone praised as though he were carved from marble — had tried to shove his way inside a child's mind. He had done it casually, confidently, as though no one would ever know. As though it were his right.
If Polaris had been like any other boy — if his mind hadn't braced itself by instinct — Dumbledore would have seen everything. Every corner, every thought, stripped bare.
He could hardly breathe.
"Understand?" Polaris's voice cracked. "You don't get to understand. You don't get to take."
Dumbledore hesitated, only for a moment. "I offer no excuse. Legilimency is no child's burden to bear. I should not have put it upon you."
"It's illegal." Polaris's words rang too loud against the glass cases. His face was hot, blood rushing. "You tried to crawl into my head — mine — like it was nothing. Like I wouldn't notice. You thought—" His throat closed, rage choking into something harsher. "You thought I'd be easy."
The last word fell like a curse.
For a moment, silence. Dumbledore did not contradict him.
Polaris's hands were shaking so violently he had to curl them into fists. He felt trapped — the walls of the trophy room pressing in, the gleam of gold watching him like a hundred eyes. Alone, cornered, with no one to witness.
Unsafe.
"Get away from me," he said, low, shaking. "Stay away."
Dumbledore's expression seemed maddeningly calm, but a flicker passed in his eyes. "You have every right to be upset," he said, choosing his words with care. "I assure you, you are not in danger. Nor would I ever wish you to feel—"
"You already made me feel it," Polaris snapped, cutting across him. His voice wavered, unsteady, but he didn't care about holding back. "Everyone talks like you're so great, like you're some—some saint. But you're no better than the rest of them. High and mighty, pretending to care, and then you—" His voice cracked again. "You tried to force your way in."
He wanted out. Out of the room, out of Dumbledore's reach, out of the castle if he could. His mind spun so fast his vision blurred.
"Polaris," Dumbledore began, a thread of urgency in the calm now, "please—"
"Don't call me that." The words burst out, harsh and trembling. He didn't care how childish they sounded. His name felt soiled in Dumbledore's mouth, as if the man had claimed a right to it too, just like he had tried to claim his mind.
He turned before Dumbledore could answer, moving quickly, trying to put distance between himself and the trophies, the man, the truth—that Hogwarts was no sanctuary.
— ❈ —
He hadn't made it far when Nia found him in the corridor. Her steps were quick, the card clutched to her chest as though she were bracing herself.
"Polaris—wait."
He kept walking. "Not now." His voice rasped, brittle.
She darted ahead, blocking his path. "Just—take it. I made this. Everyone signed it. It's a welcome back card."
"I said not now." His voice snapped. She pressed the card into his chest anyway, and he shoved it aside. It slipped from her hands, scattering across the flagstones.
A hush fell. Passing students slowed, eyes flicking toward the scene. One or two whispered behind their hands, others just stared, pausing as if waiting for the show to go on. The fallen card lay open between them, its cheerful scrawls and signatures exposed — a pitiful spectacle.
And then Polaris saw him. Doyle had stopped, half-turned against the wall; he rested a hand on his friend's shoulder as if to keep him from moving on, a grin already spreading. A low laugh slipped out, small enough to be casual, loud enough for Polaris to hear.
Nia's face burned. "What is wrong with you?" Her voice rose, shaky at first but hardening quick. "I was trying to do something decent—Merlin, everyone was! And you—" She bit off, then spat the words like they tasted foul. "Everyone's right about you. You're awful. You think you're better than everyone else, like no one's worth your time."
The words cut deep, deeper than she could know. Polaris froze, heart hammering against his ribs, the tightness clawing at his throat. He wanted to say something—anything—but he couldn't. Not when he was struggling to remember how to breathe, not with the whispers swelling too loud around him, not when he couldn't stop his hands from shaking.
She bent to snatch the card from the floor, her fingers trembling.
Polaris' vision blurred. His nails dug into his palms as he forced himself not to shake. He couldn't—he wouldn't—cry here, not in front of them.
Still, he could feel it breaking.
He turned on his heel and fled, hating himself for every step that carried him away.
— ❈ —
He slipped behind the last greenhouse, where the stone wall met a lone tree in the corner. Once he was out of sight he sank to the ground, under the tree, knees drawn up, spine against the sturdy trunk, and a shuddering sob broke free. His shoulders jerked with it, and his hands dug into the grass, nails pressing into the damp earth. No matter how he tried, his lungs stuttered and seized, the rhythm slipping further out of reach.
He didn't even know why he was crying. Part of him wanted to put a name to it, but the effort of sorting it all felt impossible. It wasn't a single thing, not really. It was everything, and nothing.
He shut his eyes and dropped his forehead to his knees, surrendering to it at last. The release he had held back for so long poured out of him now, unstoppable, as though his body had decided for him that it would not bear the holding back any longer.
Breath by breath, his chest pulled tighter, a hot sting burning at the back of his eyes. The sounds felt too loud, too ugly, and each broken sob only made his head throb harder. In his mind he could hear her still, clear as if she stood over him: pathetic… disgraceful… no son of mine. The more he tried to choke it back, the worse it came, until the hurt in his head and the ache in his chest left him shaking, crying harder, unable to stop.
"Polaris!"
The voice cut through the rush in his ears, startled him enough that his head jerked up. Nate was running toward him across the grass, bag sliding off his shoulder. He skidded to a stop a few feet away, letting it drop without a thought. His chest heaved, breathless, his face lined with a worry that made no sense to Polaris.
"Sweet Circe—you—" Nate broke off, like he didn't know where to start, only that he had to. "What happened?" He crouched slightly, not daring to reach for him, but close enough to steady him if he broke down further.
Polaris scrubbed at his face with shaking hands, anger sparking hot through the shame. A sob caught in his throat, twisting his words as they tumbled out.. "Why are you here? Don't you—don't you have better things to do?"
Nate flinched slightly, but he didn't move back. "No. Not when you're like this. Was it Nia? Is that it?" His voice came fast, urgent, desperate for something to hold on to.
Polaris shook his head, hard enough to make the world blur again. "No. Not that—no—you don't understand." His words broke against the hitch of his breath, half-gasp, half-sob. "Why would this be because of some Hufflepuff?" The frustration burned hotter than he meant it to, laced with the humiliation of everyone knowing, of never being allowed to just fail quietly.
Nate reeled at the bite, but he stayed where he was, fists clenched at his sides. "Then tell me," he said, voice tumbling out fast, unsteady. "Tell me what it is. Because you've been shutting me out since Yule like I—like I don't exist. You act like you hate me, and if it's not about Nia, then what? What is it?"
Polaris pressed his knees closer to his chest, curling in on himself. His breathing was still ragged, breaking into hiccups he couldn't hide. He wanted to tell Nate to go, to leave him to it, but the words stuck. He didn't want to be left alone. Not really.
It took several tries before his voice came out at all. "I didn't mean to." He dragged the heel of his palm across his eyes, still shaking. "I didn't want to. But at the time—it felt like I had to. I thought—I thought if she knew—" His throat closed, and it took a moment to force the words through. "I couldn't let you—matter." The word stumbled out like something sour.
He pressed his forehead hard against his knees, as though he could push it all back down again, but it was too late. The truth had slipped free.
Nate's voice broke, rough with disbelief. "Couldn't let me—Pol, what the hell does that even mean? Who's she? And why do you care so much what she thinks?"
Polaris' heart raced at the question. His hands had nowhere to go—clenching, unclenching, tugging at the hem of his sleeve until the fabric twisted tight. "My Mother. She said I wasn't perfect. That I ruined everything." The words stumbled, broken, shame burning at the back of his throat. "I told her—I swore—I'd do better. I'd be what she wanted. Just so she'd—" His breath hitched, shoulders shaking harder now. "Just so she'd stop."
"Stop what? Pol, what did she do to you?"
Polaris dragged his sleeve over his face, smearing at the wetness and, stupidly, tried to steady himself as he looked at Nate.
"…She said it was correction." He drew in a breath that shuddered through him. "Made me drink things. Asked me questions. Hexed me when I tried to fight. I— I begged her. Said I'd be perfect. Anything. Just so she'd stop."
He fumbled at his knees, fingers worrying at the fabric there, and the confession kept spilling, unchosen. "Sometimes—sometimes I wake up and it's like it's happening again. The pain—like every bone's breaking at once." He let out a stuttering breath, the sound of someone trying to hold a flood back with a cupped hand. "I feel it when I sleep. I can't—" His voice hiccuped into a sob. "I can't forget it."
Nate didn't speak right away. He crouched a little closer, eyes all question and something like fear, listening as Polaris leaked the worst of it in ruined, fractured sentences. The urgency in Nate's face softened; he kept his hands empty and close to his knees, as if to show he wouldn't grab or fix or judge—only stay.
"I kept thinking—if I could be right, if I could be what she wanted, maybe she'd stop. Maybe I could make her quiet. I didn't—" He broke off, pressing his forehead to his knees to calm himself. "I didn't think about what it would do to anyone else. I just—didn't want to feel it again."
Polaris watched him, unsure, and Nate didn't crowd him — only settled close enough to be heard. "That's not what mums are supposed to do," Nate said, his voice breaking more than he meant. "Mums aren't meant to—make you dream of… pain. They don't… they don't hex their kids, Pol. That's not normal. That's not—Merlin—they don't make you beg."
Polaris's gaze slipped to the ground, his chest tightening. Nate was right — horribly right — and the truth of it left him feeling small, exposed, as though what his mother had done marked him as something apart from everyone else.
Nate pressed on, fierce now. "What did you do, huh? What could you have done that was so bad she thought you deserved that? Nothing. You did nothing."
Polaris's nails dug into his sleeves. His voice cracked as he tried to force the words out. "Then why—why would she—why would anyone—" He couldn't finish.
Nate shook his head, hard. "Because she's wrong. Because she wants something no one can give. My dad says perfection's a trick—no one gets it, not him, not me, not anyone. The best you can do is keep showing up, even when you mess it. That's enough."
His tone softened. "You're enough, Pol. Don't let her make you think you aren't."
For a moment Polaris only stared at the ground, the damp grass blurring under his tears. Then the words slipped out before he could catch them.
"But then… what am I supposed to be?" His voice came out unsteady, thin with hesitation. There was something else beneath it too — a fragile kind of hunger, as if he wanted the answer even while fearing it.
Nate didn't look away. "You. Just you." he blurted. "Not perfect, not what she wants, not—whatever you think'll keep her quiet. Just… you. And if she can't see that, then she's wrong. Not you."
Just you.
He tried to think about it the way he'd been taught to think about charms and equations — weigh the outcomes, lay them out in order.
If he kept pretending to be perfect, what did he get? Quiet, maybe. Her yelling less. The house not feeling so sharp around him. But it meant losing… something. The little things that made the days bearable, the parts of him he didn't even have words for yet. Like he'd just turn into some shadow of what she wanted, nothing real left inside
He blinked, hiccuping again, then lifted his head. The tears had lessened, leaving only a dull ache behind. "I used to think… being perfect meant not messing up. Not saying anything wrong, nothing she could use against me." He said, voice thin but steadier than it had been. "Like if I got it right enough… it'd be safe."
He let the sentence sit, then forced a small, uneven laugh. "That's stupid, isn't it?" The laugh had no humour in it.
Nate's answer came quieter than Polaris expected. "It is," he said. "You don't have to be perfect to be okay and everyone deserves to be okay."
Polaris considered that, the way someone might consider a simpler proof after wrestling with a complicated rune question. It was do-able. "I… I like that," he admitted, the words barely more than a whisper. "Showing up. Even if it hurts sometimes."
A pause opened, and then curiosity edged its way through. "…How did you even know I was here?"
Nate shifted, hesitating before he answered. "…It was Aurelia. She saw you. But don't worry I told her not to tell anyone else — especially Willow. I swear, Pol. I wouldn't let her. This—this is yours, not theirs."
Polaris frowned, the words sitting uneasily in his chest. Aurelia and Willow were close. If Aurelia had seen him, what was to stop her from telling Willow? And if Willow knew… well, she'd never needed much of an excuse to spin stories about him before.
He looked around—the greenhouses, the curve of the wall. Hidden enough, or it should've been. If Aurelia had seen him, then someone else could've too.
And Nate—Nate thought it was enough just to tell her not to say anything. As if the whole world could be kept quiet by faith alone. It was almost laughable.
"Why would you…?" His voice cracked before he finished, the question dangling. He wasn't sure he wanted the answer—but some part of him ached for it anyway.
"Because you're my friend," Nate said, without a pause. "And mates don't leave when stuff's hard. Not ever."
He stopped, as if suddenly aware of how that sounded. "Not—not to say you did. I don't mean that. I just mean me. I don't leave. I won't. Even if you think you've got to push me out, I'm still here."
Something unreadable flickered in his eyes, and he added, softer, "My dad always said you don't really learn friendship when it's easy. You learn it when it costs something. And if it costs—then it's worth it."
Polaris's breath caught. His sleeves twisted tighter in his fists. "…Thanks for being patient. I know I've made it… difficult. Most people would've left. You didn't."
For the first time in a while, he let himself look at Nate fully — and didn't look away.
Nate wet his lips, like the next words cost him. "Then what was it, Pol? Really. What made you—" He gestured helplessly at the tear-streaked mess Polaris was, his voice dropping. "I know it wasn't Nia—you already said so. But… something had to push you, yeah? Did something happen today? Did someone say something?" H seemed cautious the way he said it.
Polaris's chest tightened. He'd thought the sobs had emptied him, but the question scraped something open again. He opened his mouth, shut it.
He shook his head hard, scrubbing at his face until the skin stung. "It's—nothing. It doesn't matter." The words came fast, too defensive to be convincing.
Nate leaned in, refusing to buy it. "Of course it matters. Look at you." His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for him but held back. "Something's eating you alive, and I can't—Merlin, Pol, just tell me what it is."
Polaris's breath hitched, and suddenly the shame was stronger than the ache. He pushed up from the ground too quickly, swaying on his feet. "I can't. Not now." His voice cracked, caught between a plea and a warning. He tugged at his sleeves, fists balled tight. "Please, Nate—just… not now."
The words left a silence.
Nate stayed crouched where he was, looking up at him with a mix of worry and hurt, but he didn't push again. He just nodded once, rough. "Alright. Not now."
For a moment Polaris almost turned away. Then, before he could think better of it, he held out his hand.
Nate blinked, caught off guard. It was only a second, but Polaris saw it—the hesitation, the flicker of surprise that he'd even bothered. Nate's fingers tightened around his knees, then he reached up and took the hand, his grip firmer than Polaris expected. For a beat he just looked at him, relief softening the worry in his face as Polaris pulled him up.