The torches along the dungeon corridor flickered low, casting long shadows that danced against the damp stone walls as Mizar descended alone.
His boots made no sound.
After hours aboveground with his family—after heated words and sharper silences—he found himself craving the cold.
It was late. Classes had ended. The castle had begun to still.
And still, the words echoed in his mind:
"You should have told us."
Lycoris hadn't raised her voice. She hadn't needed to. Her disappointment had a particular kind of weight—heavy, but never cruel.
Even Regulus had looked at him like he'd failed some unspoken test.
He hadn't argued. Not once.
He'd only said, "In England, Parseltongue isn't a gift. It's a warning."
And it was true. Here, the sound of that old language slithered like prophecy. Like threat. The symbol of Slytherin House wasn't a lion or a bird or a badger—it was the creature everyone feared when they couldn't see where it might strike.
He had always known that. Always felt it.
The Blacks were already scrutinized. His maternal last name stirred whispers in every corridor she passed. His family didn't just own their legacy—they embodied it. Uncle Arcturus was power incarnate.
The Shafiqs got a minor reprieve just for practing Grey magic instead of Dark and being Ravenclaws but uncle Marwan was war-forged elegance and never shied away from continuing teaching his nephew wandless magic just like their ancestors had done back home in Egypt. He was also married to Noor, precious daughter of a Dark clan and someone who could crush a room with a single phrase if she wanted to. And Lycoris… Lycoris was myth wrapped in flesh and St. Mungo's green.
And Mizar?
He was all of them—and none of them.
He was something else entirely.
He was a Parselmouth.
Even among Slytherins, that meant something ancient. Something rare. Something dangerous.
So he hadn't told them.
Because here in England, snakes didn't signify wisdom or power.
They signified him.
Him—and the boy who had once become a monster.
That's what Dumbledore saw.
He stopped before the entrance to the Slytherin common room. The stone door pulsed faintly.
"Veritas Hereditas," he said softly.
The wall slid open.
The firelight within was low and flickering. The greenish hue of the lake shimmered across the arched ceiling, reflecting ghostlight against the dark stones.
Mizar stepped through the threshold—
And froze.
They were waiting for him.
Nearly every Slytherin in the House.
Younger and upper students. His fellow Prefect Akemi. Even the housemates who didn't like him—Selwyn, Mulciber, Jugson and Malfoy.
They were silent.
Watching.
Some stood.
Some knelt.
Andromeda stood near the hearth, arms folded, her posture giving nothing away—but her eyes flicked towards him the instant he entered. Omar leaned against the far wall, lips pressed into a tight line, his wand in one hand like a nervous habit. Callista was curled catlike in one of the green velvet armchairs, legs over one side, chin in her hand, watching everything with glittering amusement.
A ring of students formed instinctively as he stepped in. The way water parts for something larger beneath the surface.
The silence stretched.
Then one of the younger boys—tall, with a proud jaw and sharp cheekbones—bowed his head low.
"My Lord," Gareth Muldoon, who barely spoke in class but had once hexed a Gryffindor for insulting him.
The words came soft. Reverent.
And were repeated.
By another.
And another.
"My Lord," Soo-Jin Kang knelt and didn't look up to.
The title spread through the chamber like a spell.
Mizar stood still, face unreadable.
Not angry.
Not surprised.
Only quiet.
He had seen this once before—had lived in the shadow of someone who had built a following without trying.
And he remembered where it had led.
His gaze swept across them.
Many looked expectant. Some proud. A few uncertain.
But not one was mocking.
He said nothing.
They knew he wasn't the true heir of Slytherin. Dumbledore had made sure to clarify it and his familial gift was a public record for those who looked beyond the borders of Britain and yet—it meant something.
Mizar was a Lord by birthright, someone who could wield magic without a wand and who could speak to the symbol of their House. He was someone they would look to for guidance.
"Stand," he said softly.
No one moved.
"I said—" his voice dropped, firmer now, older somehow "—stand. All of you."
There was hesitation. But one by one, they obeyed.
Soo-Jin was the last to rise, eyes lowered, but face clear. No shame. Only belief.
He could feel it now—pressing in around him like fog. This wasn't about bloodlines. Not really. It wasn't even about Parseltongue.
It was about the idea of him.
The boy who could cast without a wand. The one who didn't flinch. Who shielded a roomful of students when their professor lost control. Who never bragged. Who never asked for loyalty—but had it anyway.
Slytherins understood power. They respected it. But what they followed—was control.
Mizar looked at his fellow students. Some had mocked him before. Others had simply avoided him. Now, all waited for him to speak as if his words might decide something sacred.
He inhaled slowly. Then exhaled.
"I am not your lord," he said, voice steady. "You have a Head of House. Parents. Some of you have your own Lords and Ladies and even titles you will inherit. You have your own minds."
A ripple of unease passed through the room. He let it hang for a beat before continuing.
"I won't stop you from respecting strength. But if that's all you see in me—then you've missed the point."
Ianthe crossed her arms. "So you'd rather we bow to Dumbledore, then? Or to no one?"
Her brother Walden was displeased with her interest in Mizar.
"I'd rather you stop looking for someone to kneel to," Mizar said calmly. "We're not children begging for safety. We're not soldiers in a war. We're students. And this House—our House—needs more than tradition and fear to survive."
Akemi nodded once, sharp and thoughtful. "Then lead us properly. If not a Lord then a leader. As someone we can look to."
"I will," he said. "But I won't rule you. And I won't let anyone turn me into a symbol of something I don't believe in."
Soo-Jin blinked, then gave a slow, respectful bow—not one of fealty, but something older. Something that said: I hear you. I see you.
Others echoed it.
Omar gave a small nod, voice low. "And if we don't change, we'll rot. You all know it."
Callista leaned against one of the stone columns. "You lot want someone to lead you? Then choose someone who doesn't need it."
Akemi, watching Mizar closely, said nothing. But her nod was slow. Deliberate.
"He's already doing it," she said softly.
The tension bled slowly from the room, but it didn't vanish. It settled instead into something denser, quieter—like the moment after a storm when no one's sure whether the silence means safety or the eye of something still coming.
Mizar remained still.
He hadn't planned to speak. Hadn't rehearsed this. He hadn't known what he'd find behind that wall—only that the dungeons called to him like a low pulse in the ground, steady and inevitable.
Now here he stood, in front of a House that had just tried to kneel.
They hadn't been wrong. Not exactly. But they weren't right either.
He looked across the room again.
Andromeda hadn't moved from her place by the hearth. Her arms were still crossed, her expression unreadable, but the line of her mouth had softened. She had always been the quiet observer—sharp as frost when she did choose to speak.
Now she simply said, "If you'd waited another minute to walk in, I'd have hexed someone."
Callista laughed under her breath, the sound curling like smoke. "I was starting to bet who'd drop to both knees first."
Mizar gave her a dry look. "You didn't stop them."
"Wasn't my job," she said, stretching like a cat. "Besides, it was educational."
Omar rolled his eyes and moved towards the fireplace, settling beside Andromeda and crossing his arms in near-perfect mimicry of her stance. "It's been a weird day."
Mizar let out a breath.
The common room was returning to life. A few murmured conversations resumed. Someone lit the enchanted board of wizard's chess. The first years still looked like they didn't quite know whether they'd been blessed or cursed by what they'd just witnessed.
But the balance had shifted.
Not towards fear.
Not quite towards worship, either.
Towards presence.
Mizar walked to the empty chair near the fireplace and sank into it, finally feeling the weight of the day settle over him like the lake above their heads.
Soo-Jin lingered beside the nearest bookcase, visibly recalibrating everything she thought she knew.
Akemi stood beside her, arms behind her back, expression unreadable—until she finally said, "We'll still look to you. Whether you like it or not."
Mizar tilted his head. "Then look to each other."
"Some of us already do," she replied. "But that doesn't mean we don't want someone to walk ahead of us in the dark."
The fire cracked behind him. The lake shimmered in faint green light across the walls.
He thought of the voices in Dumbledore's office. Of Noor's precision. Of Lycoris's sorrow, wrapped in silk and calm. Of Regulus, standing taller than ever before.
He thought of Harry.
Of being fifteen, and alone, and angry.
Of begging Dumbledore for answers and getting silence.
And now—
Now he sat in a chair warmed by firelight, surrounded by a House waiting to see what he would do next.
"Fine," he said softly. "I'll walk in the dark."
Andromeda tilted her head. "But?"
"But I'm not holding a torch just so someone else can burn with it."
Callista raised a brow, amused. "That sounded almost poetic. Don't do it again."
He smiled faintly. "No promises."
Omar leaned forward, voice quieter now. "You know this doesn't end here, right?"
"I know," Mizar said.
"There'll be more of this. More attention. More politics."
"I know."
"And you'll need allies."
He looked up, gaze steady. "I already have them."
Omar didn't smile. But his eyes said enough.
Callista gave a mock sigh. "Well. I suppose we're not getting out of this year without some kind of prophecy, rebellion, or social restructuring."
Andromeda gave a sharp, dry snort. "We're Slytherins. That's called Wednesday."
Mizar leaned back into the chair, gaze drifting upwards towards the ripple of green against the ceiling. The lake above pressed gently on the world.
He could still feel the phantom weight of the room's expectation.
But it was different now.
They didn't want a king.
They wanted an anchor.
And for the first time in either life, Mizar thought—maybe I can be that.
Even without anyone kneeling.
Especially without anyone kneeling.
He let the warmth of the fire settle into his bones. Tomorrow would bring whispers. Attention. The aftermath.
But tonight, he wasn't the boy in Parseltongue.
He was just… here.
And they were with him.
The following morning dawned with an overcast hush and a bite of cold in the air—standard fare for a Scottish first term. Mizar, cloaked in regulation black and quiet intent, adjusted the strap of his satchel as he stepped out of the Slytherin common room.
He didn't get far.
"Wait up, Snake Prince."
He paused at the voice—light, lilting, and threaded with irritation as always.
Magnolia came limping down the hall from the direction of the stairs, robes slightly rumpled, her wand-cane tapping rhythmically against the stone. Her gait was practiced now—still marked by that slight sideways tilt, but neither uncertain nor apologetic. She walked like she was used to commanding attention even when it wasn't given.
"Is that my new title?" Mizar asked, falling into step beside her. "Very regal of you."
"You should've heard the other Ravenclaws at breakfast," she replied dryly. "Half of them think you're planning a coup. The other half are drafting one to match."
"And which half are you in?"
"The one finishing her Charms essay at two in the bloody morning because some self-serious prefect decided to charm the library tables to sing in Parseltongue."
"That wasn't me."
"Sure it wasn't. You just inspire chaos now, and it politely obeys."
Mizar hid a smile. "You could've asked me for help."
"I'd rather eat doxy eggs."
"Suit yourself."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
Her wand-cane clicked smartly as she changed pace. "You've always been annoying when you win."
"I don't recall there being a competition."
"That's because you're losing."
"Really?" He arched a brow, amused. "You're limping faster than usual. Are you trying to beat me to class for once?"
She jabbed the cane forward, just missing his shin. "Shut your gob up."
He side-stepped smoothly. "Still taking the Elixir of Silent Serenity I brewed you?"
Magnolia hesitated for a breath, caught off guard. "Yes. It helps."
"Good. Let me know when you're low."
"I have half of the phial left," she muttered. "Even though someone put the instructions in ancient Greek on the bottle."
"It's a calming draught, not pumpkin juice. If you can't read the warnings, you don't deserve the benefits."
"Pretentious snake."
"Bookworm eagle."
"Touché."
They walked in silence for a few strides—companions by force of schedule, not affection. At least, not that either of them would admit.
But there was a rhythm to their banter now, like dueling partners who secretly knew each other's next move.
Their path curved towards the Potions corridor when a sharp voice cut across the hall ahead.
"Don't touch that, Mudblood. Morgan knows where your fingers have been."
They both froze.
Around the corner, a tall second-year in Ravenclaw robes stood with his back to them, one hand outstretched towards a first-year Hufflepuff whose shoulders had already drawn up defensively.
"Did you even read the sign? 'Do Not Touch'. Not for peasants to sniff."
The Hufflepuff—small, round-faced, and red with embarrassment—was blinking rapidly. A tiny seedling drooped in her fingers.
Mizar's expression sharpened. He didn't look at Magnolia. He didn't need to.
They stepped into view together.
"Desfontaines," Mizar said evenly, his voice slicing through the corridor like frost on glass.
The Ravenclaw boy turned—and paled the moment he saw who had spoken.
Mizar didn't even let Magnolia, who was the Head Girl react, he simply spoke, he didn't even raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Twenty points from Ravenclaw for targeted harassment, use of banned slurs, and being insufferably stupid in public."
"But she—"
"If you speak again," Mizar said, "I will assign you to assist Professor Sprout for a week scrubbing Venomous Tentacula roots with nothing but dragonhide gloves and your tears."
The boy flushed bright pink. Magnolia took a single step forward, her bangles and bracelets clinking and fixed him with a flat, unimpressed look.
"Go," she said, bored. "Before you start crying and we have to fetch a mop."
The Ravenclaw fled.
Mizar turned to the Hufflepuff girl. "Are you alright?"
She nodded, silent. Still holding the seedling like it was sacred.
He didn't smile, but his voice softened. "You can keep it. Just don't touch the spotted ones—unless you enjoy sneezing slugs."
She gave a tiny squeak of a laugh and darted off.
Magnolia watched her go. Then: "That was… restrained."
Mizar lifted a brow. "Would you rather I cursed him?"
"No," she said, then added grudgingly, "But you didn't have to give her plant advice. You're not that charming."
He turned to her, walking again. "And yet here you are, still beside me."
"Only because you walk like a Victorian ghost with legs too long."
"You wound me."
"You like it."
He almost smiled.
The dungeon loomed ahead, cool and still and smelling faintly of smoke and iron.
Their steps echoed in unison now.
"I still hate you," she said after a moment.
"I know," he replied.
But she didn't limp quite as sharply anymore.
And he didn't mind waiting half a step longer.
Not when she kept pace so well.
By the time they reached the Potions classroom, the torches were dimmed low and the door was still shut. Professor Slughorn, as always, was fashionably late.
Magnolia shifted slightly, favouring her left side, and leaned her wandcane against the stone wall with a practiced clink. "If he makes us brew anything that hisses, smokes, or explodes before I've had breakfast, I'm hexing the first Gryffindor I see."
Mizar arched a brow. "You've got something against innocent bystanders?"
"I've got something against poorly timed curriculum," she replied. "Also, Gryffindors."
"Do Head Girls usually say things like that out loud?"
Magnolia smirked. "Only the honest ones."
Inside the room, muffled voices could be heard—familiar ones. Mizar nudged the door open.
Andromeda Black sat two rows in, already settled at her usual bench. Her braid crown was perfect as always, not a strand out of place, and she had arranged her parchment, quills, and ingredients with the methodical grace of someone who never had to be told twice to clean up. She looked up as they entered and gave a slight nod—poised, composed, but not cold.
Callista, meanwhile, was curled in her seat with one foot tucked under her, half-bent over a piece of parchment she seemed to be doodling on. Her thick brown curls framed her face in soft, untamed spirals. She glanced up as they entered and offered Mizar a shy, bright smile—one that faded the second Magnolia caught her eye.
Magnolia's own curls were lighter and unusually uncovered—her usual rotation of headscarves was nowhere to be seen this morning. She flicked a glance at the two girls at the table and started veering towards her usual seat near the back.
"Omar's late," Mizar said lightly.
Magnolia paused.
He nodded at the seat beside him—Omar's seat. "You can take it. Unless you want Jugson breathing down your neck."
Magnolia glanced at the empty seat beside him—the one Omar always took—and then at Jugson, who was scowling at a vial of dried nettle like it had personally insulted him.
She hesitated for one breath.
She considered it. "Fine. But if he shows up and breathes anyway, I'm leaving mid-boil."
"I'll allow it."
She dropped her bag onto the bench beside him and took the seat with practiced care, setting her wand-cane against the edge of the table and smoothing her skirt under her legs.
Andromeda turned slightly, her dark eyes steady but warm. "Morning, Magnolia. You don't usually sit with us."
"Temporary madness," Magnolia said coolly. "Blame him."
Mizar was already unpacking his cauldron. "She's feeling brave. Or bored."
"I'm feeling curious," Magnolia murmured, flicking her quill open. "I heard your House nearly bent the knee to you last night."
"It wasn't quite that dramatic," Callista said, her voice soft but teasing. "But it was definitely something."
"I told them not to bow," Mizar muttered.
"They still did," Andromeda said, tone level. "That says more than if you'd asked."
Magnolia eyed him with a glint of something unreadable. "You don't seem thrilled."
"I'm not."
"Why not? You've got a House ready to follow you. Influence. Authority."
"I didn't ask for it," he said.
"That doesn't mean it's not yours," she said.
He said nothing.
Andromeda studied him with that quiet, gracious calm she always carried—never harsh, always composed, as if every thought came dressed in polished silver. "You're not the first to be handed power, Mizar. You might be the first not to use it for yourself."
"I'd rather be respected than obeyed," he said quietly.
Callista smiled faintly. "You are."
Just then, boots clattered in the hallway and Omar arrived, breathless and muttering unintelligible curses in one of the three languages he spoke under his breath. His tie was crooked and his robes weren't closed properly.
"Stairs moved again," he muttered, dropping his bag on the floor, ready to slump into his seat. "Someone's hexing the fifth-floor landing, I swear it."
Mizar didn't even look up. "You're late."
"I'm alive," Omar shot back, "and I survived the prank the Prewetts pulled in Arithmancy, so I'm calling this a win."
He blinked when he noticed Magnolia beside Mizar. "Wait. You're sitting there?"
"She got here first," Mizar said, voice smooth.
"She's trespassing," Omar said.
"I'm experimenting," Magnolia said sweetly. "Seeing if I develop magical resistance to smugness by direct exposure."
Callista tried to hide a laugh behind her hand. Andromeda just offered a dry hum, focused on her notes.
"She's upgrading," Mizar said.
"I'm investigating," Magnolia corrected. "Still undecided if the benefits outweigh the insufferability."
Omar narrowed his eyes at Mizar. "You let her take my seat?"
"I extended an invitation," Mizar said calmly.
"She's a guest," Callista piped in, cheerful now.
"A rude one," Omar muttered, squeezing past them. "And I had a dream last night you cursed me in my sleep."
"I can make your dream come true," Magnolia said.
Omar groaned and walked to the end of the classroom to sit with Jugson.
Slughorn finally arrived, humming cheerfully, a tartan scarf wrapped around his neck and a steaming mug of something that smelled suspiciously of buttered rum in his hand. "Good morning, my little darlings! Today we're working on Drowsing Draughts! Do try to keep your wits about you while you brew. I'd hate to watch anyone fall asleep face-first into their cauldron."
As instructions began to appear on the blackboard in enchanted script, Magnolia leaned slightly towards Mizar—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that her voice could carry without effort.
"You know that Hufflepuff girl? From earlier?"
Mizar glanced at her, nodding once. "What about her?"
"She's probably still clutching that seedling like a treasure."
He didn't respond.
"You made her feel safe," Magnolia explained simply. "Most people don't remember the potion they brewed at eleven. But they remember who made them feel like they belonged."
And with that, she turned to her ingredients and didn't say another word.
But her knee didn't move away from his under the table.
Mizar didn't either.