Grimmauld Place Number Twelve, Muggle London.
July 31, 1970.
The ancient townhouse was unusually alive tonight, its usual shadowed stillness replaced by flickering candlelight, the soft murmur of conversation, and the faint scrape of polished shoes on worn wooden floors. The House of Black had gathered in celebration.
Mizar Black-Shafiq's seventeenth birthday ball was in full swing.
The grand parlor had been transformed into a solemn yet elegant venue worthy of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. Heavy black drapes hung alongside silver-trimmed tapestries, bearing the House's sigil—a sable star entwined with a falcon's wing, honoring the merging of the Black and Shafiq legacies. The Shafiq family motto shined alongside the Black's.
With the Eye and Insight, We Rule.
Mizar stood tall near the hearth, the flickering flames casting sharp angles across his angular face. His dark eyes swept over the room, briefly catching on familiar figures.
Omar Ghaffari Fuentemayor, his closest friend, was deep in conversation by the fireplace, laughing softly at something Callista Bulstrode had said. Omar's warm brown eyes and relaxed demeanor contrasted with the usually rigid formality of the Black family, but he moved among them with ease, the years of loyalty earning him their grudging respect.
And the curly haired elusive Slytherin girl had finally become their friend. It had taken time for her to actually trust them but now the boys were dear to her.
Portraits of long-dead ancestors glared down from their frames, as though judging this new generation's worth.
Lycoris Black, regal as ever, greeted guests at the door with practiced poise, her black hair with silver tresses pinned meticulously. Her gaze briefly met Mizar's, offering a rare, encouraging smile.
Arcturus Black, now older but no less imposing, spoke quietly to a small group near the library alcove. His approval of the evening's gathering was a silent boon.
The gathering was not without tension. Walburga's sharp glances cut through the room like daggers whenever she caught sight of Sirius, now a boisterous ten-year-old running around with reckless abandon, the wildness of youth stark against the stern decorum of the adults.
A fifteen-year-old Narcissa was dancing with her maternal cousin Evan Rosier—already too tall for his age. His glossy black hair stood out strikingly amid the sea of blond heads that made up the Rosier family, a sharp contrast even to his mother's soft Dumort brown curls.
Walburga had already berated Sirius for not behaving more like Evan—a future Lord his own age, who carried himself with the poise and elegance Sirius seemed determined to shed.
Mizar's eyes flicked to teenage Lucius with a hard edge. He remembered the promise he had made—to Draco—that he would never let Lucius claim Narcissa's hand in marriage. Tonight, beneath the weight of family expectations, that promise felt heavier than ever.
At the room's edge, Marwan—Mizar's uncle, with a commanding presence softened by a genuine smile—rose from his seat. His wife, Noor, followed, cradling their youngest son, baby Ahmed, while their bright-eyed daughter Fatima, barely five, clung shyly to Noor's side.
The music paused, and a hush fell over the gathering.
Marwan lifted his glass, his deep voice ringing clear and warm. "Tonight, we honour Mizar—seventeen years old. I would like to take this moment to announce to all the other Lords and Ladies and esteemed guests present tonight, that come next Monday, I will no longer serve as the interim Head of our family for our new Lord has come of age."
Noor smiled warmly beside him. "We have watched him grow with pride, and we know the path ahead will not be easy. But with strength, honor, and the love of family, he will carry us forward."
Fatima, encouraged by her parents, stepped forward timidly and held out a small bouquet of dark roses to Mizar, her wide eyes shining. Mizar knelt slightly to accept the gift, a rare softness touching his usually reserved features.
Marwan nodded approvingly. "To Mizar—may his days be long, his heart steady, and his resolve unbreakable."
Glasses raised, the family echoed the toast, voices mingling in a chorus of loyalty.
His mum was the first to hug him. She crossed the room before anyone else could reach him, her black coloured robes with silver lining silver—a huge contrast to his golden yellow ones with gold stitching—whispering across the floor. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close in a way that made him feel six years old again—small, protected, and entirely hers.
She drew back slightly, hands resting on his shoulders. Her dark brown eyes searched his face, soft with pride, but lined with a sorrow time hadn't quite erased.
"You've grown into him," she murmured. "Not just in name, but in grace. Your father would be so proud of you, my star."
Mizar met her gaze and for a moment, he couldn't speak. The words rose slowly, from some deep, old place inside him.
"I think about him every day," he said. "Not in the way people talk about the dead. I mean… I carry him. The way he stood, the way you spoke about him. I've tried to be what he might've been, if he'd had the chance."
Her eyes glistened. She touched his cheek.
"You're more than he ever got the time to become."
Mizar looked down for a second, his voice low. "Do you think he'd like the man I'm trying to be?"
What was it about him that in both timelines he didn't get to have a father? It didn't matter whether he was Harry or Mizar—a dead father always clinged at the edges of his life.
She smiled—not a bright one, but a real one. "He'd love you more than you'll ever know. And he'd tell you to stop worrying. That you already carry the House well. And that you still have time to be a boy."
Mizar gave a small laugh at that. "Too late for that, I think."
"Maybe," she said, brushing a wrinkle from his collar. "But you're still mine. And I still see the boy who remembers all the constellations."
He exhaled, quiet but steady, then leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers.
"I'll make it count, Mum," he whispered. "For him. For you. For all of us."
She closed her eyes and held him again, as if the night could be paused just for them.
Pollux and Irma congratulated him, although Mizar could tell Pollux was envious of his new position but that was normal. He always had that edge to his words whenever he spoke to the main Black family line. At least he was nicer to him than he was to Sirius.
Nearby, Cygnus and Druella guided their daughters through a precise inquisitive circuit of grinning family members. Each girl paused to curtsey before Mizar; Bellatrix shot him a challenging eyebrow raise, Andromeda smiled gently and hugged him. She was more friend than cousin. Narcissa gave a gracious nod.
"Don't forget to breathe," Andie whispered in his ear. "You still get to be human under all that gold."
Behind them, Druella stepped forward with her usual polished elegance. "You carry the weight well, nephew," she said, tone warm but measured. "And I expect you'll continue to rise with it."
She was actually his cousin-in-law but the big age gap allowed her and Cygnus to call him nephew.
Her eyes shifted sharply towards the boy behind her. "Evan."
Evan Rosier, tall and already cut from a sharper cloth than most of his peers, stepped forward at his aunt's urging.
"My Lord," Evan said, with crisp diction. "May your leadership be as formidable as your legacy."
Lord Rosier, Druella's brother, joined them a moment later with his wife. Mizar thought of how much Evan stood out in appearance in comparison to his parents. He clasped Mizar's hand briefly. "Blood binds, but respect is earned. You have ours."
"Thank you," Mizar replied smoothly, not breaking eye contact with Evan. "I'll hold you to it."
Dorea Potter, flanked by Charlus, came forward mid-dance. "Seventeen," she whispered affectionately. "Such a fine age—and such a fine Lord." She pinched his cheek before spinning away with Charlus.
Arcturus Black emerged from the alcove, his imposing frame softened by a rare, genuine smile. He clasped Mizar's shoulder firmly. "Well done, lad. You've carried the House with both strength and honour tonight."
Beside him stood Melania Black, serene and kind. She offered Mizar a gentle nod and warm words: "You've honoured your lineage, my dear. Any House would shine the brightest because of you."
Then came his uncle Regulus, Mizar had spent a good amount of his childhood being tutored by Arcturus but it was Regulus who pulled at his heartstrings the hardest.
He hugged him. "My nephew the Lord. You're a man now, Mizar."
Mizar laughed into his shoulder. "Don't say that. Makes it feel too final."
Regulus pulled back, eyes twinkling.
From behind, a small figure charged towards them—Sirius, now ten, cheeks flushed and dress robes slightly askew, nearly crashed into Mizar's legs.
"Did you see me dance with Aunt Cassiopeia? I didn't trip once!"
Mizar laughed. "That's more than I can say for myself at ten."
Young Regulus, barely eight, stood shyly behind his brother. Mizar extended a hand. "Come here, Reggie."
The boy stepped forward, but Walburga, ever alert, hissed through her teeth. "Regulus," she snapped. "Not Reggie. He is a Black. Not a common schoolboy."
Mizar raised an eyebrow, arm still extended. "Funny. Reggie sounds like a Black to me."
Orion stepped forward before his wife could respond, his tone far more even. "You're a Lord now," he said. "And still our Mizar. May both names serve each other well."
Mizar inclined his head. "They will. Thank you."
Across the room, Cassiopeia Black, the legendary duellist, raised her flute in a toast. "If you don't take up duelling by Christmas, I'll disown you personally," she called with a grin.
"I'll owl you in the Easter holidays, aunt," Mizar answered, to scattered laughter.
Then came Calidora Longbottom, tall and stately, arriving with Harfang at her side. Her gown was dark green with silver embroidery so fine it looked like vines curling up from the hem.
"I remember when you were all knees and elbows," she said, kissing both his cheeks. "And now you look like you could lead an army."
Harfang nodded. "Let's hope you never have to. But if you do, I know which side I'd want to be on."
In the distance Mizar saw a pair of teenagers dancing and laughing together—a pale brunette with sea blue eyes and a tall tan boy with a dark thoughtful gaze.
"Rumour has it your nephew is quite taken with Alice Fortescue," said Mizar casually.
Callidora's expression tightened. She didn't hide it. "Ah, yes… the girl. Augusta's very much fond of her."
"And so are my brothers," Harfang added with a mild shrug. "She's clever. Steady. Gryffindor to her bones."
"She's also a nobility chaser," Calidora muttered, not quite under her breath. "Her grandfather made a fortune in Muggle shipping and speculative potions patents. That kind of wealth never breeds restraint. It buys table settings, not breeding."
Mizar didn't flinch, but he catalogued the words carefully. Calidora had always been a barometer for old family standards—chiseled in marble, polished by generations of privilege. Alice, for all her bravery and skill, was still a Fortescue. And Fortescue meant new money. Business ventures. Commerce.
Not aristocracy.
Still, Mizar had seen enough of the future to know the girl's worth. She would become an Auror. A fighter. A martyr. But not this time.
"She seems like a fine young lady," he said diplomatically, keeping his tone neutral, almost idle. Mizar remembered to always keep an eye on Alice and Frank. They would graduate Hogwarts in a couple of years and join the Aurors—but this time no crazy cousins of his would torture them into madness.
And she loved Frank, he remembered. Fiercely.
"She's not one of ours," Callidora replied with a sniff, "but I suppose not everyone marries for the tapestry."
Harfang raised a brow at his wife but said nothing. He'd learned, long ago, that arguing with Calidora Black about bloodlines was like yelling into a storm.
Mizar inclined his head, unmoved. "Some tapestries benefit from a new thread or two. Depends on the weaver."
Speaking of crazy cousins, his mother's cousin Charis, Calidora's younger sister, and her husband Lord Casper Crouch reached them to congratulate Mizar. Charis wore the sharp green of her younger days, and a silver fox brooch pinned at her collar. She kissed Mizar once on each cheek.
"Our Mizar a Lord now," she said with amusement in her voice. "How strange it feels to say that. You used to hide behind your mother's legs, and now look at you."
Casper bowed his head in genuine respect. "The honour suits you, my lord."
They were flanked by their grown children. Bartemius Crouch, tall and hawk-eyed, stood beside his wife, who kept a gentle hand on the shoulder of their small son—Barty Jr., barely eight, already watching the room like it was a map he needed to conquer.
Aquila, Charis and Casper's eldest daughter, wore deep navy robes lined in red, her wand holster gleaming with silver runes. She held her two-year-old son on her hip, the boy tugging at her mother's braid with quiet fascination while his four year old sister twirled around. Aquila's wife, a stern-looking witch with rune tattoos trailing up one arm, nodded politely.
And there was Titania, the youngest of the Crouch children, her diamond gold ring glinting as she adjusted her embroidered shawl. Recently engaged, cheeks flushed with something between joy and terror, she curtsied lightly to Mizar.
"Congratulations," she said sweetly. "You look… terrifyingly regal."
Mizar chuckled. "That's the goal."
"Just don't forget to be kind, too," said Aquila with a knowing smile. "The good ones are rare."
Mizar caught her gaze and nodded. "So are the brave ones."
Mizar knelt slightly to meet Barty's gaze head-on, the boy's eyes wide, bright, and unsettlingly still. Eight years old and already so alert—too alert. Like a child watching for patterns only he could see.
"Curious sort," Mizar murmured, ruffling the boy's hair out of instinct. "That'll take you far—if you remember where your loyalties lie."
Barty blinked up at him once, solemnly. "I already know where they lie."
The words hit Mizar like a gust of cold wind. Not because they were wrong—but because they were true. Barty did know. Even now, at eight. Even now, when he still had the soft face of a child.
In another timeline, Mizar had faced him behind another man's face.
Polyjuice. Deception. The twisted grin of "Professor Moody" in fourth year. The moments when Harry—Harry, not Mizar—had trusted those fake growls and gritted lessons on constant vigilance. Barty had fooled them all. For almost a year. He had turned the Triwizard Tournament into a coffin.
And in that same war-ridden timeline, the real Mad-Eye Moody had lost his leg battling Evan Rosier—who had taken a slice of him with a curse so brutal it left scars on the bones.
Evan, who now stood across the ballroom, tall and young and breathing. Quiet and still half-formed. Not yet dangerous. Not yet dead.
Mizar looked at the child again. Not with pity. Not with hatred.
With calculation.
Not this time.
He offered a slow, even smile. "Good," he said quietly. "Keep it that way."
Behind Barty, Charis Crouch gave a proud little nod. "He's clever," she said. "Takes after the Crouch line."
Her husband Casper added, "And the Black, of course. That's why we've always believed in strong unions between our Houses."
Mizar's eyes flicked up to meet Charis's.
"Yes," he said. "Strong unions… and stronger choices."
Across the room, Bellatrix laughed at something Rodolphus Lestrange had said, hair shining like lacquered ink under candlelight. Still untouched by war. Still untouched by fate.
Mizar turned from the Crouches, giving Titania a polite nod and murmuring something soft and congratulatory about her engagement before making his way towards the edge of the ballroom.
He needed air. Just for a moment. Just enough to remember who he was, what year it was, and why—despite all the charm and celebration—this wasn't just a party.
It was the first ripple in the pond. And he intended to redirect the tide.
Just as Mizar turned to slip away, a peal of laughter drew his eye—Sirius, flushed and wild, was chasing after enchanted sparklers that zipped through the air like dragonflies. And beside him, to Walburga's utter horror, was Alphard.
The infamous uncle. The outlier.
Alphard Black wore wine-dark robes lined in bronze, a cigarette hanging unlit between his fingers as he performed a dramatic stumble into one of Sirius's conjured obstacles, drawing shrieks of laughter from the boy. He winked, then let Sirius tackle him to the carpet.
"Caught me! I surrender to the future Lord of Mischief!" he declared, flopping over like a puppet, arms outspread.
Sirius howled with joy.
Across the room, Walburga's lips thinned to a dagger line.
"That man," she hissed under her breath to no one in particular, "is an embarrassment."
"Then don't look," Alphard called lazily without even glancing her way. "You'll wrinkle."
Mizar bit back a smile.
Alphard rose, tousling Sirius's hair, then made his way towards Mizar with a practiced swagger that masked sharpness. He tossed the unlit cigarette into the flames.
"Well, look at you," he said, voice low and unmistakably proud. "Golden robes. Crown of thorns. You wear it like you were born for it."
"I was," Mizar replied, half-smiling.
"Mm," Alphard nodded. "And yet somehow you still turned out decent."
He clapped a hand to Mizar's shoulder—firm, but not performative. Not like the others. "They'll expect you to be many things, cousin." It might have been his fear of getting old that made him always refer to Mizar by the right term: cousin. "Stoic. Leader. Pure. Try to be happy, instead. That's the real rebellion."
"I'll keep that in mind," Mizar said. "You're staying long?"
"Long enough to drink half the wine and convince Sirius to let me teach him how to swear in five languages," Alphard grinned.
Mizar chuckled. "Six, and I'll cover your tab."
Walburga looked like she might ignite on the spot.
Mizar glanced at her, then back at Alphard. "You're playing with fire."
"I'm always playing with fire," Alphard murmured, turning slightly to watch Sirius light a napkin on fire with his wand and then stomp it out in a fit of glee. "But some flames are worth it."
Then he leaned in, voice quiet, private.
"Happy birthday, Mizar," he said. "And if you ever find yourself forgetting who you are beneath the House… come find me."
Mizar nodded once, slow and grateful.
"I will."
And just like that, Alphard melted back into the room—half a shadow, half a spark, dragging Sirius behind him like a comet-tail. Somewhere, Walburga's hiss grew sharper, and Orion rubbed his temple.
But Mizar stood a little taller.
The tide, after all, would need more than formality to hold it.
It would need fire.
Mizar stepped through the tall glass doors that led out to the narrow balcony, the cool night air wrapping around him like a balm. The sounds of celebration dimmed behind him—the clink of glasses, the hum of conversation, the muted chords of music—and for a moment, he let the silence settle.
The sky stretched vast and velvet above Grimmauld Place, pinpricked with stars he'd once traced with childlike wonder. Orion's Belt. Canis Major. Lyra. His namesake was somewhere above, burning steadily in the dark.
He gripped the balcony railing, gold-threaded sleeves whispering against stone. The marble was cold beneath his fingers. Solid. Grounding.
He had survived birthdays before. But never one like this.
"Found you."
The voice came lightly—mischievous, unbothered.
He turned as the doors swung open again. Andromeda stepped out, her silver-blue robes gleaming faintly in the starlight. Behind her trailed Callista Bulstrode, reluctantly pulled along, arms crossed and clearly unamused.
"Honestly, Callie," Andromeda said with a grin, tugging her further onto the balcony. "We agreed we wouldn't let him sulk alone."
"I didn't agree," Callista muttered. "I was threatened with hair-hexes."
"That still counts."
Mizar arched a brow. "I'm not sulking."
Andromeda ignored that. She stepped up beside him, resting her elbows on the rail. "You've been doing your brooding-lord routine for fifteen minutes now. Thought we'd intervene before you went full tragic poetry."
Callista huffed. "Or started dueling the moon."
Mizar gave a low laugh. "So what's the plan? Drag me back to the ballroom like a debutante?"
"No," Andromeda said. "I'm going to remind you that Aunt Lycoris arranged for your favourite singer to perform, and you're out here breathing in London soot instead of dancing."
Mizar blinked. "Wait—she didn't actually get—?"
"She did." Andromeda's grin widened. "Yanis Myrros himself. All the way from Athens. He's inside right now warming up and looking very uncomfortable by my grandfather Pollux's prodding around the rumour that his cousin is the mistress of the new French Minister of Magic."
"I love him," Mizar muttered in disbelief. "He wrote Constellations and Storms."
"I know," Andromeda said triumphantly. "Which is why you're going to stop hiding out here being broody and come dance."
Mizar opened his mouth to protest, but Callista cut in, voice dry: "I'm not dancing. I came to supervise."
"We will all dance. Once we get Omar out of the clutches of Mortimer Warrington," Andromeda said sweetly. "Mizar?"
He hesitated for a fraction too long, so she seized his wrist with a decisive tug and started walking backwards into the house. "Come on, Lord Golden Robes. It's your night. Let someone else orbit you for once."
He followed.
In a quieter alcove off the main ballroom, Druella stood with a flute of champagne poised delicately between two fingers, watching her daughters from afar. Cygnus hovered near, his posture alert but not tense, the stiffness of his collar offset by a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
Andromeda, ever the poised middle child, was engaged in easy conversation with Mizar while they danced. Their friends nearby. Her laugh was unguarded, her posture relaxed, and Mizar—yellow-robed and steady—listened closely.
"Do you see the way she looks at him?" Druella said quietly.
Cygnus didn't answer at once. He watched the pair for a long beat before offering a noncommittal, "She's always admired him."
Druella's mouth curved into something sly. "Admiration has many forms."
Cygnus glanced sideways at his wife. "Are you suggesting—?"
"I'm suggesting," Druella interrupted smoothly, "that our middle daughter is at the age of forming attachments. And your second cousin has just become Lord of an ancient House with ties in the Maghreb and Britain. If she were to show interest, it would not be unwelcome."
Cygnus arched a brow. "He's my second cousin."
Druella gave a light, silvery laugh—the kind that never quite reached her eyes. "And your own sister married your second cousin. It would be almost the same," she said, taking a sip of her drink. "Honestly, Cygnus, if we start drawing lines now, we'll find out everyone in this ballroom is related."
He hummed, unconvinced. "She's fond of him, I'll grant you that. But Mizar sees her more as… a confidante. A companion, maybe."
"Exactly." Druella's voice was silk with a thread of iron. "The best unions begin with companionship. With trust. They're not children anymore. Andromeda is a Rosier as much as a Black, and Mizar is the culmination of two lines too proud to kneel. Their marriage would be a legacy, not just a contract."
Cygnus still watched them. Andromeda said something that made Mizar smile—not the formal, composed smile he offered to adults, but something warmer. Realer.
"I wouldn't be opposed," he said at last. "If she were to come to me about it."
"Andromeda thinks for herself. That's why it matters what direction she's steered," Druella said, her voice crisp
She turned her gaze back to the crowd.
"We can't afford to let the future be shaped by whim alone, Cygnus. Especially not her future. If we don't guide her carefully, she'll drift."
"And if Mizar doesn't want her?" Cygnus asked softly.
Druella shrugged. "Then it was only a thought. But a worthwhile one. It might take years but we're wizards, we're not running out of time."