[6,535 Words]
January 17th, 1976, Saturday
The infirmary was too bright for the hour, all white sheets and cold January light spilling over the rows of beds. Polaris kept his eyes shut against it, curling deeper into the blankets. His head throbbed behind his eyes — the sort of pain that made the thought of moving unbearable.
"Sure, you won't take something for the pain?" Madam Pomfrey asked, not for the first time. Her voice came from somewhere above him, familiar and faintly exasperated.
"Mhm," he muttered, which wasn't quite a yes, but she seemed to take it as one. She sighed but moved on.
There was only one other patient, bundled in the far corner under a heap of duvet. Polaris didn't know who it was, hadn't seen their face, and didn't particularly care.
The infirmary doors creaked open, letting in a rush of footsteps and low voices. Three boys slipped inside, laughter still clinging to them before it fell away under Pomfrey's glance. They drifted toward a corner bed — one with dark, elegant hair; another with wild, windswept locks; and the last with a mop of pale, goldish strands catching the morning light.
Polaris shut his eyes tighter.
"—told you he'd still be asleep," James murmured. "Come on."
He heard them move toward the far bed — Sirius, James, Peter. The warm hum of their talking was directed at the other patient, but there was a subtle pause, a hitch in the rhythm, when Sirius spotted him.
For a moment, the sounds of footsteps and low voices seemed to blur into the background. Polaris's eyelids felt impossibly heavy.
A chair scraped softly against the floorboards beside his bed.
Polaris cracked an eye open. Sirius was lowering himself into it, posture too casual to be natural, grin just a fraction too bright — the kind of brightness people used when they were covering something. Sirius had been doing that a lot lately.
Polaris groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillow.
"What happened?" Sirius asked, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees.
"Nothing."
"You're in the infirmary."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I said I'm fine ." The words came harsher than intended, jagged at the edges. He dragged the blanket higher, turning slightly away from him.
Sirius's smile faltered for a heartbeat — just enough for guilt to slip through. "Pomp said you've been refusing potions."
"Don't want one."
"It'd help."
"Don't want one."
Across the ward, James threw Sirius a side-glance, quick and subtle — the sort of look that meant leave it without saying anything aloud. Sirius ignored it.
Polaris shifted again, pulling the blanket even tighter. "Go sit with whoever you came to see."
"I'm sitting here," Sirius said, still trying for lightness, though it came out thinner now.
Polaris gave a short, frustrated exhale. "Suit yourself."
The chair creaked as Sirius settled in deeper. He didn't speak again, but Polaris could feel him there — all that restless guilt wrapped in forced stillness. It was almost worse than if he'd kept talking.
Polaris hated the way Sirius looked at him — not with anger, or impatience, but with that careful, too-soft pity that made the world suddenly louder than it should be. Like every sound in the infirmary got amplified and distorted, each breath sharper, each whisper heavier.
He clenched his fingers against the thin blanket, trying to push the noise down, trying to will the ache behind his eyes to dull.
January 19th, 1976, Monday
Transfiguration was warm.
Too warm.
The kind of room-heat that fogged windows and made the back of his neck itch, that made his robe collar feel too tight and every breath feel like it was borrowing someone else's air.
Polaris blinked slowly, eyes fixed on the far edge of the classroom window — the stone ledge just beneath it, where the sun was slanting through the glass and leaving uneven, dust-speckled shadows.
He imagined being there. Sitting on the windowsill, legs drawn up, cheek pressed against the cold pane. If he stayed still enough, maybe the castle would forget he was meant to be anywhere else.
Beside him, Sylvan was hunched forward, nose nearly pressed to the open page of Transfiguration: Theory and Practical Foundations . His brows were furrowed in concentration — not the lazy kind, but the kind you used when you were sure the book was wrong, not you.
The section he was stuck on wasn't even complex. Just a dry paragraph on the ethics of Animate-to-Inanimate transformations. But his eyes kept darting back a few lines, then forward again, like the text kept shifting under him.
One of his socks had slipped halfway down his calf. His robe was still neatly fastened, his collar crisp, but his wand hand was twitching — a steady tap against the desk, like a metronome only he could hear.
Polaris didn't move. His own textbook lay open but untouched. His quill rested in the valley of the spine. He hadn't turned the page since the lesson began.
Normally, Nate would've been at his side — maybe making dry comments under his breath, maybe doodling something ridiculous in the margins of his notes. Sometimes Sylvan joined them.
But not today.
Nate hadn't even tried.
He sat two rows over now, beside Keene, head tilted like he was trying to follow the thread of the lecture, though Polaris hadn't seen him look up once.
"…to reduce labour, to simplify transportation, or even to alleviate discomfort," Professor McGonagall was saying crisply from the front of the room. "Yet each of these comes at a potential cost — one we must consider carefully when dealing with living creatures."
She moved with the practiced rhythm, her robes flaring slightly with each sharp turn.
"In light of this," she continued, "I'd like to hear from some of our Debate Club participants today — we've the fortune of several in our midst. Miss Pennyfeather, Mister Finnigan, Miss Lowley…"
Polaris didn't register his name had been said, not at first.
"…and of course, Mister Black."
A chair leg scraped loudly across the floor nearby. Someone coughed.
Polaris blinked — disoriented, the illusion of the windowsill crumbling.
His head shifted a fraction. The temperature of the room seemed to rise by ten degrees. McGonagall was watching him — so was half the class. The other half were trying not to be seen doing it.
"Mister Black," she said, evenly, "I understand you've had quite the interest in ethical frameworks during our past sessions. You've argued, quite effectively, on the boundaries between magical control and moral obligation. I'd be curious to hear your stance on this particular question — is it ethical to transfigure animals for convenience?"
For a moment, her voice felt like it was coming through water. Distant and warped. The kind that makes your heart stutter before it catches up.
He knew the question. He had opinions. He always had opinions. There were angles to explore — about magical agency, about the transmutability of pain, about the difference between altering something and silencing it.
But all he could feel was the air pressing in against his skin.
His pulse was in his throat.
Sylvan glanced at him. Behind, someone muttered, "Bet he's about to go off again," followed by a stifled laugh.
He almost spoke — the first few words forming, the shape of an argument he could've built without thinking. But then the whisper in the row behind sharpened, like they'd leaned in just for him. It wasn't loud enough for McGonagall to hear, but it was meant to be.
Before Polaris could even muster a word, Willow's hand shot up from three rows ahead.
"Professor," she said brightly, "if I may — I think it's wrong to change something alive just because it's inconvenient. Especially if the person doing it… well… isn't exactly the sort to notice when someone else is in trouble. Sometimes, standing on the sidelines is worse than doing the thing yourself."
Somewhere near the front, a stifled laugh hissed through teeth. Nate turned sharply towards her; eyes narrowed at her.
Polaris didn't notice, if anything his gaze shifted back to the window.
McGonagall's expression did not shift — though there was a brief, measuring pause before she inclined her head. "Your point is noted, Miss Smyth. Though in debate, we address the argument, not the debater."
Willow leaned back in her seat, satisfied enough to drop it.
"…Mister Black," McGonagall said again, more directly, "are you ready to answer?"
"Does it matter?" he asked flatly.
Silence.
Not the good kind.
Not the kind that follows a clever point.
This was the kind that made the room tilt. Made the warmth feel like a fever. The kind of silence where even the students who didn't like you started to frown — not out of offense, but out of curiosity.
McGonagall did not answer at once.
Her heels clicked slowly against the stone floor as she stepped forward.
"I believe," she said calmly, "that you would normally argue that it does."
Polaris didn't flinch. But he didn't respond either.
Agnes shifted in her seat, clearing her throat. "I— I actually think it really does matter," she offered, voice bright but nervous. "Especially in cases of sentient magical creatures, or animals with magical sensitivity. There's an issue of implied consent, or lack thereof. Just because we can doesn't mean we should —"
McGonagall nodded for her to continue, and she did — thoughtful, articulate, everything Polaris might've been last term.
He didn't listen. Not really.
His mind was elsewhere again.
Back in the library.
Four down from the barrier.
Jasper Finnigan followed with something predictably passionate but poorly reasoned. Vivienne Lowley gave a smug counterpoint that involved quoting a third-year textbook like it was scripture.
McGonagall let the discussion unfold.
But her gaze stayed on him a moment too long
She didn't press him again. Just studied him in silence, before finally turning away to correct Jasper's phrasing on the definition of magical autonomy.
Polaris didn't look up once, through it all.
He traced the corner of his parchment with a thumbnail, slowly, as though focus could be faked through motion. His thoughts weren't in the classroom. Not even in the castle. They were somewhere else — fraying, looping, spiralling through rope lines and whispered wood and the way people had stared when he didn't answer right away.
The ache in his head pulsed harder now, and his heart was thudding too fast.
— ❈ —
By the time class ended, the air had cooled again. Chairs scraped back. Bags rustled. Sylvan muttered something about an essay and shuffled off without waiting. Agnes gave Polaris a strange look as she passed — not pitying, exactly, but hesitant. Like she wanted to say something and decided not to.
Polaris was one of the last to rise.
He moved like someone preparing for battle. Wand grasped tightly. Notes stacked. Book shut, but not before sliding a folded page between chapter headings to mark where he hadn't been reading.
Then:
"Mr. Black."
He paused. The voice wasn't sharp. It wasn't even particularly loud. But it carried — as McGonagall's voice always did. Not demanding. Not commanding. Just… expectant.
He turned. She hadn't moved from the front of the classroom.
Her expression was unreadable again, but the edges of her sternness had softened. He wasn't sure what to make of that expression.
Polaris's jaw clenched automatically.
"If this is about the debate—"
"It isn't."
A beat.
She took a few steps forward, her hands loosely clasped in front of her. "You've always engaged well with theory," she said. "And even when you don't speak, you tend to listen. Closely. I would never fault a student for silence, Mr. Black."
He didn't answer. Just watched her warily, the way someone might watch a chessboard after a move that came too soon.
McGonagall tilted her head slightly, studying him — not intrusively, not unkindly.
"I won't pry," she said, with a quietness that didn't feel performative. "But if you find yourself needing a moment… or someone to speak with… my door is always open."
Polaris's spine went stiff.
His voice came out sharper than intended. "I don't need to speak to anyone."
McGonagall didn't flinch. "Very well."
"It's nothing." Polaris was quick to add, perhaps too quick.
Something in his eyes had shifted — not rage, not panic, but something brittle.
"Mr. Black—"
"Why are you singling me out?" he asked, too suddenly. "You didn't say anything to anyone else. I'm not the only one who didn't answer. You didn't ask Lowley why she misquoted, or Finnigan why he keeps interrupting. But me—?"
The room echoed faintly with the force of how quiet it had become.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Because I've been teaching long enough to notice when something changes."
Polaris's lips parted — not to respond, but to leave . The air felt heavy in his lungs again, thick with the kind of attention he didn't want. His fingers tightened on the strap of his satchel.
"May I go now?" he asked, voice flat with the kind of tiredness that doesn't ask for permission — only escape.
"I just… I've got stuff to go over," he added, tone even — almost echoing hers.
McGonagall studied him for another moment. Then, with a nod: "Of course."
Polaris turned, already moving—
"But Mr. Black?"
He paused, half a step from the door, shoulders rigid.
She didn't make him turn around. Her voice was cool, measured, and — maddeningly — kind.
"Your last essay on conjuration boundaries was exceptional. As always."
The words landed awkwardly in his ears. Heavy in a different way. Like a compliment he wasn't sure he'd earned — or worse, didn't want.
His mouth twitched — like he might say something — but nothing came.
Rather he gave a small nod and left.
— ❈ —
The cold outside was sharp — not painfully so, but enough to scrape the heat from Polaris's skin, still lingering from the too-warm Transfiguration classroom. He let it. Let the chill cut through the wool of his robe and settle in his collarbones, past the charcoal scarf knotted at his throat.
It cleared his head. A little.
Two seventh-years passed on their way toward the covered archway, voices carrying in the still air.
"…lost a whole limb apparently. That's why Kettleburn's finally retiring."
"Brilliant. There goes the Duelling Club."
"Yeah, it's officially cancelled. Figures — he was the one who brought it back."
"He was actually good, though. If they don't get another decent Defence professor, we're dead for NEWTs."
Their conversation faded into the clatter of their footsteps on stone.
Corvus had found a bench in the sun. He was elbow-deep in a meat pasty, voice muffled around a bite when Polaris sank onto the stone beside him.
Polaris hadn't touched his food. He was watching the corner of the courtyard wall like it might rearrange itself into a map.
"Alright," Corvus said, tone deceptively light, "what's eating you now?"
Polaris blinked like he was surfacing from somewhere deeper. "Nothing."
"Liar." Corvus broke off a corner of Polaris's treacle tart and popped it into his mouth. "You've got that look again — like you've already committed to something illegal but haven't figured out how many crimes it involves."
Polaris didn't deny it.
Instead, he said, "I've decided you can help me now."
That got Corvus's attention. He straightened slightly, eyeing Polaris with an expression halfway between curiosity and concern. "With?"
"There's something going on in the library," Polaris said quietly. "In the Restricted Section. I've been watching."
Corvus made a strangled noise and threw his head back. "Merlin, we never get far from the library do we."
Polaris's jaw tightened. "I'm serious."
"You're always serious."
Polaris adjusted the sleeve of his robe, as if checking the watch beneath — though he didn't pull it out. "There's a shelf. Four down from the barrier rope. Different students keep going there — always older. Slytherins, mostly. They don't browse. They just… stop. Say something under their breath. And the rope twitches."
Corvus raised a brow. "Twitches?"
"Moves. Slightly. Like it's reacting."
"To what?"
"I think it's enchanted," Polaris said. "Not just as a barrier, but as… something else. Something interactive . They whisper to the shelf. And the next day, they come back and take something from the exact spot just past the rope."
Corvus stared at him. "So, what, you think they're summoning books?"
Polaris hesitated. "Not exactly. I think they're requesting them. From whatever's listening."
"…You realise how that sounds, right?"
"I'm not imagining it," Polaris said sharply. "It's consistent. I've charted it. Watched the same three seventh-years cycle through on alternating nights. Always the same place. Always the same motion. I even clocked the rope movement. It's not random."
Corvus whistled low. "You need a new hobby."
"I need answers."
"Let me guess — the encrypted notes ."
Polaris didn't answer.
Corvus rolled his eyes. "Fine. What do you want me to do?"
"We sneak in," Polaris said plainly. "This week."
Corvus froze mid-bite of stolen treacle tart. " Sneak into the Restricted Section ."
"Not into it. Near it."
"Oh, pardon me. Skirting the edge of a magical restricted archive protected by rope and spite — how subtle."
Polaris gave him a look. "I've timed Madam Pince's shelving route. She's out of the back section for thirty-one minutes every evening after eight-forty. She doesn't return to the desk until just before nine-fifteen. That's our window."
Corvus groaned into his hands. "You are going to get us expelled."
"I'm not doing anything reckless."
"You're imitating a ritual you don't understand, directed at a shelf that talks back."
Polaris tilted his head. "I didn't say it talks."
Corvus pointed. "It was a figure of speech Rye!"
"Charming," came a new voice, sharp with annoyance and a little too close.
Corvus dropped his hands. Polaris glanced over.
Bastian stood a few feet away, arms crossed, brow high. "Didn't realise this was a private gathering."
Polaris straightened from where he was sat. "I thought you were eating in the Great Hall."
"I said I might eat in the Great Hall."
Polaris hesitated. "Oh. I thought that meant you didn't want to come."
"It didn't."
"Right."
Corvus sighed and stared at the sky for a moment. "He was having a wonderful conversation with Flint. Clearly would've been rude to interrupt."
Bastian's eyes narrowed. "Don't be childish."
"I am a child," Corvus said sweetly as he stared at Bastian. "So are you. Matter of fact, so is nearly every person in this castle. It's a school ."
"You two always leave me out," Bastian snapped, stepping closer now, like he wasn't entirely sure what to do with his irritation but walk it at them anyway.
Polaris looked up, startled. "Wait—since when do we leave you out?"
Bastian shot him a look. "Since always . You two vanish into corners without telling anyone. You barely even eat in the Hall anymore—"
Corvus rolled his eyes, sparing Polaris a glance before his eyes set back on Bastian. "No. He's being delusional. You're the one who leaves me out any time Flint's around."
"I do not , you're imagining things." Bastian snapped, instantly defensive.
"You do," Corvus said, with the flat confidence of someone who'd decided it wasn't worth arguing anymore. "It's like a switch flips and suddenly I don't exist. Frankly, I'm not sure whether I should be insulted or grateful."
That caught Bastian short. He looked like he wanted to say something sharper—but didn't.
Polaris didn't respond. His hands were folded in his lap, thumb tracing the pale line of a scar on his inner wrist. His eyes had drifted upwards, away from them, tracking the wheeling movement of a pair of jackdaws circling overhead.
Coloeus monedula , he thought distantly. Western jackdaws. Slightly smaller than crows, but not to be confused with choughs—the latter had red legs and a call like a squeaky hinge.
One of the birds tilted in flight, catching the sunlight on its neck feathers. Iridescent blue-black.
The voices beside him had gone muffled again. He didn't like when they fought. He never liked when people fought.
His fingers had started drumming lightly against his knee — a restless, uneven rhythm he didn't notice until it made his leg ache. He pressed his palm flat to still it, eyes fixed on the birds as though their circles overhead could hold the noise at bay.
"…Rye?" Corvus's voice again, this time quieter. "Are you even—?"
Polaris blinked, turning his head just slightly. "Hmm?"
Bastian looked at him, confused. Corvus just sighed, not unkindly, and leaned back on his elbows.
Then—movement.
Out of the corner of his eye, across the slant of stone pillars and pale morning light—Nate.
Their eyes met at the exact same moment.
Polaris froze.
For the briefest second, something flickered behind his eyes—recognition, guilt, then a flat blankness like a door slammed shut. His breath caught, a thin thread in his chest drawing tight. He stood abruptly.
"I need to go," he said, already turning.
"Wait, what—?" Corvus twisted to look up at him.
Polaris didn't answer. He was already walking—head low, back rigid, disappearing through the cloister arch without another word.
Corvus turned his head—and spotted Nate.
"Oh," he muttered, deflating. He flopped back onto the stone bench, letting his head knock lightly against the column behind him. "Well. That explains that."
Bastian followed his gaze, his expression twisting in comprehension. "Is that still going on?"
"Apparently," Corvus said with a dramatic sigh, dragging his hood over his hair like the sky was falling. "He's been avoiding Sayre like he's contagious."
Bastian frowned at the arch Polaris had vanished through, then sat beside Corvus with a thump.
"And what," he said, tone sharp but not unkind, "were you two actually talking about before I showed up?"
Corvus gave him a sidelong look. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Bastian said, pulling one leg up onto the bench, "you looked like you were about to say something serious before I interrupted. What was it?"
Corvus hesitated. Then, eyes narrowing just slightly, he said, "Depends. You going to leave me out of the next three things for not telling you?"
Bastian groaned. "Oh, come off it—"
"Not until you admit I was right about Flint."
Polaris, meanwhile, was already halfway across the courtyard, his pace fast and thoughtless.
He didn't have a destination in mind. He just needed to not be seen. He took the long way around, hugging the cloisters to keep out of Nate's line of sight.
Not by him.
He skirted the edge of a corridor, following the old cloisters that bled into the east lawn, where ivy had started curling thick over the stone. A breeze tugged faintly at his robes as he turned a corner—and nearly walked past a boy sitting on the ledge.
It was that Slytherin. Travers.
The quiet one. The boy who never flinched, never spoke, never fought back. Polaris didn't understand him — and that, more than anything, made him curious about Travers, though he'd never admit it.
Polaris slowed instinctively, gaze flicking to the side. The boy was half-shaded, hunched over a book, his face angled just enough to catch the bruising. One side of his jaw was splotched purple-blue, hastily covered by his collar.
Polaris paused. Then frowned, mostly at himself, as his eyes flicked down to the book's title.
" Greyveil and the Hollow City ," he said before he could stop himself.
Travers's head jerked up. His expression was startled—like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't—and then even more startled to realize Polaris was speaking to him.
"I liked that one," Polaris added, a little awkwardly now that the words were out. "The author's decent. Their endings always have some—structure to them. I ended up reading the next three. The fourth's the best."
There was a pause.
Travers just stared at him, blinking. "...What?"
Polaris blinked back. Then realised how strange this probably looked— him talking to anyone unprompted, much less a Half-blood he'd never spoken to before.
He looked away sharply. "Never mind."
And just like that, he turned and kept walking, as though he hadn't said anything at all.
There was something in Travers's expression — that flicker of caught-off-guard stillness — that felt uncomfortably familiar. The same pause he'd felt when McGonagall's voice had cut through the too-warm air that morning.
Behind him, Andrew watched him go. After a moment, he glanced down at the book, then back at the direction Polaris had disappeared.
Something about the way Polaris had said it — quick, certain, then gone — stuck in his head for a moment too long.
"Weird," he muttered under his breath.
Then, quieter, almost like it wasn't an insult:
"Really weird."
January 20th, 1976, Tuesday
The cold hit first — a thin, biting wind sliding through the gaps in the parapets — and then the quiet, layered with low chatter. The Astronomy Tower's stone floor gleamed with frost under the starlight. Overhead, the sky was perfectly clear, every pinprick of light sharp and cold.
Somewhere down the line, a Gryffindor's scarf whipped in the wind, its fringe flapping dangerously close to the glass of a nearby telescope.
"Watch it!" someone hissed, jerking the instrument out of range before the fibres could brush the lens.
Saturn hung above the western horizon, brighter than any star in its path. Through the enchanted telescopes, the rings were pale silver arcs, as if drawn there by hand.
"Tonight, Saturn is at opposition," Professor Sinistra announced, her voice cutting through the murmurs like the snap of chalk against a board. "That means it is directly opposite the Sun from our position on Earth. This is the best view you will have all year — and I expect accurate, proportional sketches in your observation logs. Any less, and you can redo them in your own time."
It was standard for Sinistra to assign partners at random during practical lessons — and more than once, her selections had seemed suspiciously like deliberate mismatches. Tonight was no exception.
Near the far parapet, Selene Rosier stood at her station with Aurelia Potter, their telescope angled stiffly between them. Her bright blue eyes held a natural edge, the kind that made her look faintly displeased even when she wasn't — which often left people guessing whether she was being polite or quietly cutting them down.
Selene spoke just loud enough to be heard, her voice calm and clear.
"Do you mind? You're upsetting the calibration," she said, as if pointing out a smudge on someone's sleeve. A glance over her shoulder at Aurelia — brief, assessing — made it clear the comment wasn't a request.
"Merlin's beard, Rosier—can you not for five minutes?" Aurelia replied, exasperated, without looking up from her parchment.
Selene's mouth twitched, almost a smile — but not a warm one. "Potter charm at its finest."
"Rosier subtlety ," Aurelia returned, dry as frost. Neither moved to close the small gulf between them.
Polaris set his log down beside the brass telescope — and looked up to find Willow Smyth already at the eyepiece.
"Oh. Fantastic," she muttered without looking at him. "Of course she put me with you ."
He didn't answer, only waited. She finally straightened and stepped back with exaggerated politeness. "Well, don't let me stop you from writing a ten-foot essay on proving the rest of us illiterate."
He ignored that, adjusting the telescope's focus until Saturn's rings sharpened into view. He kept his gloves on as he worked — not for warmth, but to avoid leaving fingerprints on the brass.
Astronomy had always been his favourite. The skies never lied — they shifted and burned and told their stories in plain sight, if you knew how to read them. Maybe it was the family curse of names pulled from constellations, or maybe it was the quiet habit he'd kept for years, slipping to a window at night to see which stars had managed to shine through the London haze. Either way, he trusted the sky more than most people.
Every star had a history, a name, a reason it was remembered — something to hold onto in the dark.
The one he always sought out first was Antares, the red heart of the scorpion. From a distance, people often mistook it for Mars — easy to get wrong until you looked closely.
Sailors and storytellers alike had called it a rival to the god of war. He liked that. Being underestimated was one thing; being mistaken for something entirely different was another.
"It's slightly tilted towards us this year," he said, making a note of the angle. "Northern hemisphere in view."
Willow exhaled sharply through her nose, all mock amusement. "Thank you, Professor Black."
He switched the telescope for the log. "Your handwriting's smudged. Makes the observation notes harder to read."
"It's perfectly—" she began, then stopped, lips pressing together.
He dipped the quill again, letting the silence stretch.
Willow shifted beside him. "You know, for someone who acts like he doesn't care, you've got quite the ego."
Polaris kept writing. "For someone who talks as much as you do, you don't say anything new."
Her mouth curved into something that wasn't a smile. " Funny . You didn't say that when I had your face plastered on half the school—" She bit the sentence short, but it was too late; the words hung there between them.
Of course.
It was entirely in character for her. The petty jabs, the smug little smirks, the way she carried herself like there was always an audience to impress — even when there wasn't.
She'd been the one to decide it was a good joke to twist his words, to pin a name to him like a specimen and let it spread. Even now, weeks later, it lingered in the occasional whispered
"Black the—something" when people thought he couldn't hear.
Maybe if she'd spent less time drawing caricatures of him, she might have actually passed Transfiguration.
This time, he did look up. Slowly.
He didn't say anything. Just studied the side of her face, the flicker of her eyes as she looked anywhere but at him.
Then, softly — almost pleasantly — "That was you."
Willow's head turned a fraction. "What was me?" she asked, feigning confusion so quickly it almost sounded convincing.
Before he could answer, a shadow fell over their desk. Professor Sinistra, robes stirring in the cold breeze, glanced at their logbook. Her eyes flicked to Willow's messy half of the notes, then to Polaris's neat, precise sketches.
"These are accurate," she said, tapping her finger beside Polaris's diagrams. "But these"—her gaze shifted to Willow—"are poorly scaled. Did you prepare, Miss Smyth? I told you last week exactly what tonight's task would be."
Willow opened her mouth, but Polaris spoke first, tone mild. "She's doing her best. Astronomy just… doesn't seem to be her strength."
A faint crease appeared between Sinistra's brows. "Then I expect you to improve, Miss Smyth. Accuracy is not optional." With that, the professor moved on.
Willow's knuckles whitened around her quill.
Polaris returned to the telescope, adjusting the focus with a steady hand. "You're good at getting things up on walls," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear, "not so much at getting your facts straight."
Willow's head snapped toward him. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said quickly, too quickly. "If you think I had anything to do with—" She broke off, giving a tight little laugh. "Merlin, you're paranoid."
His mouth curved faintly — the kind of expression that could pass for amusement if you weren't listening. "Mm."
"I'm serious," she pressed, lowering her voice as if the rest of the class might be listening. "You can glare at me all you like, but I didn't—"
"You're smudging the log again," he interrupted, setting the quill neatly in the ink. "Here. Let me help."
Willow's hand shot out to keep the parchment in place. "I don't need your—"
He was already sliding it toward himself, his expression maddeningly mild. "Just a correction," he said, as if they both knew she'd thank him later. Under the careful cover of straightening her figures, he shifted the position markers on her star chart just a fraction off — not enough that Sinistra would.
"Stop that—" she began, but the words were lost when the telescope gave a faint metallic groan. She turned to check it, muttering about the focus, and in that moment he adjusted the angle so that Saturn's rings blurred into a faint, doubled line.
By the time she looked again, the view was just wrong enough to throw her off.
Sinistra's voice came from behind them minutes later. "Mr. Black — precise as expected." Her eyes moved to Willow's page, and her mouth flattened. "Miss Smyth, you've recorded the planet's tilt incorrectly. Were you not paying attention to the demonstration?"
Willow flushed. "I— I must have—"
"Fix it before next week. And try not to waste Mr. Black's time in the process."
Sinistra moved on.
Polaris leaned in just enough for her to hear him over the scratching of quills. "Consider it a practical lesson," he murmured, turning back to his own work. "Astronomy's all about accuracy."
She said nothing, but the stiffness in her posture was answer enough.
Willow's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. "You did that on purpose."
He didn't look up. "Maybe. Accuracy's not everyone's strength."
"You think you're clever, don't you? Just because you've decided I—"
"You were the one behind it," he said flatly, finally meeting her gaze. "The posters. Don't bother denying it."
Her jaw tightened. "I am denying it. Because it's not true."
Something in his expression tightened— the faint irritation he'd worn all lesson narrowing into focus. "You've been pretending you had nothing to do with it since November. Do you ever get tired?"
"I'm not lying." She said it quickly, too quickly, as if the pace alone could make it sound certain. "And I'm not apologising for something I didn't do."
He leaned forward, voice low but no longer mild. "You will. Eventually ."
No way was he letting her get away with it — not now that he knew.
Willow let out a short, incredulous laugh. "What—because you're a Black and I'm just a half-blood? You think I should be grovelling because of that ?"
Polaris tilted his head, studying her as though she'd just handed him something interesting. "When," he asked lightly, "have I ever said my blood was purer than yours?" His eyes narrowed just slightly.
"Or is that what you want me to say?"
He leaned in, voice soft but edged.
"You keep bringing it up like you're desperate for me to play the villain. Is that it? Want me to call you beneath me so you can run off and tell everyone how right you were about the evil pure-blood?"
Her eyes flashed. "You're a Black! You are evil."
"No," he said lightly, almost bored. "I'm better." He let the word hang there, as if it could mean anything — and very much as if it meant everything.
Willow's shoulders tensed, her quill biting into the parchment. "You're pathetic."
"Mm." His gaze dipped to her notes. "And yet here you are, paired with me, smudging the only decent work on the page. Pathetic's relative."
"Enough chatter," Sinistra's voice cut across the parapet. "Pack up your logs. I want them on my desk by Thursday."
Willow leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, cutting thread. "I didn't do anything — and if you're too paranoid to see that, maybe you deserve to look like an idiot."
Before Polaris could answer, Bastian's voice came from behind them.
"Class is over. Move."
He stood with his satchel slung over one shoulder, weight set into one hip, eyes fixed on Willow as if she were nothing more than a blockage in a corridor. One brow arched, not in curiosity, but in mild, unmistakable impatience.
Willow's eyes narrowed. "Git."
"Mutual feeling," he said without inflection, stepping past her.
"Willow!" Katie called from the stairs. Aurelia stood beside her, arms folded. Willow's expression curdled — whatever she'd been about to say dying on her tongue.
With one last glare at Polaris, Willow slung her bag over her shoulder and went to join them.
By the door, Sylvan shifted his satchel higher, hesitating. His gaze flicked to Polaris — already surrounded by Corvus and Bastian — and then he moved along with the stream of leaving students.
The moment she was out of earshot, Polaris turned to Bastian, incredulous. "She was the one who started the whole poster thing," he said, as if repeating it might make it make sense. "Her. I don't—how does she have the audacity?"
Bastian blinked at him, slow and disbelieving. "Seriously? Didn't think she had it in her." He tilted his head, a faint glint in his eye. "Shame the Dark Lord isn't taking applications. She'd make a decent martyr."
"She'd probably volunteer," Polaris said, almost idly. "Wouldn't know what the word meant, but she'd sign up anyway."
Bastian's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a sneer — before he shifted his satchel higher on his shoulder. "Speaking of idiocy," he said, as if there'd been no gap in the conversation, "Corvus told me what you dumped on him yesterday."
Polaris froze halfway through stuffing his notes into his satchel. "Told you what?"
"That thing you went on about yesterday," Bastian said, eyes narrowing. "And I want in. The whole rope-twitching, book-summoning conspiracy. You've really outdone yourself this time."
Before Polaris could answer, Corvus dropped into the seat beside Polaris with all the grace of a falling book. "You will not believe the hopeless Muggleborn I got paired with. Doesn't know the difference between a planet and a star. Thought Saturn was a constellation."
Bastian didn't even look at him. "You can't seriously think he'd be any use to you."
Corvus's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Bastian said, still watching Polaris with that flat, needling calm. "Half the time he's too busy staging a tragedy to actually do anything."
Corvus frowned, affronted, but also clearly baffled as to what they were discussing. "What are you even talking about?"
Polaris slid the last of his notes into his satchel, the classroom around them already half-empty. Most students had cleared out the moment the professor left; now it was just the three of them.
"Oh, just Bastian mentioning how you told him about my plans," Polaris said lightly, buckling the satchel strap.
Corvus blinked. "Wait— you're not mad about that? It's just Bas, right? Even if he's a traitor who prefers Flint—"
"I'm not a traitor," Bastian cut in, finally leaning back with the air of someone forced to defend themselves against lunacy.
Corvus ignored him. "In fact, Bas practically begged me to tell him what you told me yesterday. Before you ran off—"
"I did not run off," Polaris said at once, shooting him a look. "That makes it sound like I'm a coward."
Corvus shrugged, pleased with himself. "Bastian was jealous you didn't tell him about sneaking into the library."
Bastian scoffed, folding his arms. "You liar."
"Tomorrow night," Polaris interrupted, voice decisive enough to cut through them both. "We'll do it tomorrow night."
"Great," Corvus said, grinning. "Can't wait to avoid detention. Also, you really need to fix your sleep — I'm getting too used to you looking half-dead."
"I'll live," Polaris said, shouldering his bag. "Come on — before someone complains we're still here."