The fire in the Slytherin common room burned low, casting long shadows that flickered across the green and silver tapestry. Most students had long gone to bed, their laughter fading into silence, but Mizar remained at the corner table near the hearth. His quill moved steadily over parchment, the scratch of ink the only sound in the hush.
He paused, rereading the name at the top of the page.
To Alphard Black, at his London address.
Not Sirius. Not Regulus. Not directly, at least. Walburga would tear these apart if they ever reached Grimmauld Place unopened. Alphard, though—Alphard could be trusted. Mizar suspected the man liked being hated by Walburga almost as much as he enjoyed spending his vaults on questionable French wine and contraband books.
The letter to Sirius was written in a careful, firm hand:
"Sirius,
I know you haven't started Hogwarts yet, but when you do — don't let them tell you who you are before you've even had the chance to decide.
You're not your mother's anger. You're not your father's silence. You're not the House you get sorted into.
You're more. I've seen it in you already.
You've got a fire in you that can burn things down. Make sure you learn how to build things too.
—Your Cousin Mizar."
The one to Regulus was gentler, with more room between the lines:
"Reggie,
Keep asking questions. Even the ones your mother doesn't like. Especially those.
You don't have to understand everything right now—just don't stop wondering. That's how you stay free, even in a house full of locked doors.
I'm always here if you need me.
—Your Cousin Mizar."
He sealed them both and slid them into an envelope marked for Alphard. It felt strange—writing to two boys who hadn't yet made the mistakes that would define them. Trying to undo what hadn't happened yet. But if anyone could understand walking backward through time, it was him.
The soft creak of a step made Mizar look up. Andromeda stood in the archway, barefoot and tousled, still in her uniform jumper, robes slung over one arm. Her dark hair was unbraided for once, falling loose over her shoulders like ink.
"You always write this late?" she asked, padding towards the hearth.
Mizar tapped the edge of his envelope. "Only when it feels like something might still change."
She dropped onto the green-stitched couch beside him, curling her legs under her. "Letters for the heir and the spare?"
"To Alphard," he said. "But yes. For Sirius and Regulus."
Andromeda made a soft noise in her throat, neither agreement nor disapproval.
"I know Walburga," Mizar said quietly, eyes on the fire. "And I know Orion. Or rather, I know how he doesn't know how to stand up to her."
Andromeda gave a short, humorless laugh. "My aunt is a nightmare. But uncle Orion… I don't even think he wants to be better. He just wants quiet. Control. As long as no one's screaming, he pretends nothing's wrong."
Mizar's jaw clenched. "I've seen her hex Sirius for talking back. Regulus just watches. Too scared to breathe wrong."
"She calls Sirius 'corrupted,'" Andromeda murmured. "She says he's unraveling the tapestry from the inside."
He looked at her, and for a moment, there was no pretense of age or rank between them—just two kids born into the same dark legacy, trying not to drown in it.
"My father," Andromeda went on, "can be many things—cold, distant, infuriating. But he's never raised a wand to me. Or to Bella or Cissy. He saves all his indifference for when it's his sister tearing into our cousins. Then it's just…" she shook her head. "Silence."
Mizar stared into the flames. "Silence is complicity."
They sat like that for a while, the firelight flickering over ancient stone, until Andromeda spoke again—softer this time.
"Bella's been different," she said suddenly, her voice soft and unguarded.
Mizar looked up, brows lifting slightly.
"She's always been… intense," Andromeda continued. "Even when we were little. But since she left Hogwarts—it's like something's shifted. She sneaks out at night. Comes back late. Doesn't tell our parents anything. And when she does talk, it's all clipped, formal. Like we're strangers sharing a roof."
Mizar's fingers stilled on the edge of the table. "What do your parents say?"
"They don't," she said bitterly. "Mother's thrilled she's being courted by a Lestrange. Father—well, Father never says much, does he? As long as Bella looks presentable at family dinners, he doesn't ask where she disappears to."
Mizar exhaled slowly. "Has Rodolphus been around often?"
"More than I'd like," Andromeda muttered. "He's—slimy. Polished, but in that too-smooth way. Like he's always performing for someone who isn't in the room. Bella likes him. They have the same smile, it's more like a smirk though."
Mizar didn't respond right away. He knew the look Andromeda was describing. He remembered seeing it in the war—on Bellatrix's face when she was no longer Bellatrix, not really. When she belonged to someone else.
She was already meeting him, then. Voldemort. Maybe not publicly. Maybe not by name. But she had stepped onto the path that would lead her there.
Andromeda was watching him. "You think I'm being dramatic."
"I don't," Mizar said quietly.
Her brow furrowed. "Then what are you thinking?"
"That your sister's gotten very good at hiding who she really is."
The brunette looked away.
There was a pause.
"She used to tell me stories, you know," she said after a while. "When I was little. She'd lie on the floor of my room and make up these wild tales—dark fairytales, bloodlines and curses and enchanted swords that only a true Black could wield. And I believed her."
Mizar tilted his head. "You still want to."
Andromeda's mouth pressed into a line. "She's not supposed to scare me."
"She does?"
Andromeda hesitated. Then nodded. "Not all the time. But when she comes back from these late-night things… her eyes are different. Cold. Like she's seen something awful and didn't flinch."
Mizar leaned forward slightly, clasping his hands in front of him.
He didn't speak.
She hugged the pillow closer, her voice suddenly fragile. "Do you think she's capable of hurting someone?"
"I think," Mizar said slowly, carefully, "that Bellatrix Black was always looking for a cause. Something to burn for."
He didn't say the name. Voldemort. Not yet. Andromeda hadn't heard it. Not the way Mizar had. The whisper in the dark. The thing behind the rise of these families, the weight pressing harder on this generation than the last.
But she would know it soon enough.
And still, another thought crept into his mind—a different kind of worry.
Andie should have already met Ted Tonks by now. He knew their daughter. He remembered her.
And yet here, in this version of 1970, Andromeda hadn't even looked at him twice.
What did that mean for Nymphadora?
For the rest of the world?
Had he already changed too much?
However, he couldn't push them together—he was already changing the entire course of history.
Andromeda was watching him closely now. "You've gone broody again."
"Just thinking about how different things feel this year."
She didn't argue.
Instead, she said softly, "You really care about Sirius and Regulus, don't you?"
"They're our family," he replied.
"And that means everything to the people who raised us," Andie surmised.
She tucked her feet up onto the couch and rested her chin on her knees. "If Bella goes too far… I don't think I'll be able to stop her."
Mizar nodded slowly. "You might not. But you can choose a different path."
Andromeda's mouth twisted. "And walk it alone?"
"You won't be."
She glanced sideways at him. "You always talk like you know what's coming."
"I don't," he lied smoothly. "I just know what happens when no one tries."
A beat passed, heavy with things neither of them said.
Then Mizar asked, casually but clearly, "You interested in anyone?"
Andromeda blinked at him. "What?"
"Anyone," he said with a shrug. "Boy. Girl. Just curious."
The witch rolled her eyes. "No. I'm not interested in anyone, thank you very much."
"You say that like it's a public service."
"It is," she said flatly. "Have you met the options?"
Mizar chuckled under his breath. "Fair enough."
Then Andromeda nudged his knee with hers.
"You're infuriating."
"I know."
"But thanks," she added, quieter now, "for not letting me drown in it."
Mizar smiled faintly. "You wouldn't go down easy."
And she didn't smile, but she didn't argue either.
The fire crackled softly beside them, burning down to its last glowing coals.
His cousin lit up the room with her wand and Mizar was struck by his reflection in one of the mirrors.
He looked at the boy in the glass and tried to find Harry in him.
There were echoes, maybe. The eyes were still green—darker now, almost hazel to the untrained eye, definitely clearer, less burdened by the constant ache of survival. But they didn't have the same dullness that Harry's once had, the worn-out tiredness of someone who had learned too young not to expect rescue. Mizar's skin was warmer in tone, olive rather than pale, no longer stretched too thin over bone. His face had filled out—still sharp, but not hollow. Not starved.
He touched his jaw absently, feeling where it was now stronger, more defined. Harry had never had that. Harry had always looked a bit fragile, as though the right wind could break him. Mizar didn't. His body had grown straight and extremely tall—he was as tall as Dean Thomas had been—strong not from desperation, but from freedom. From rest. From the luxury of growing without having to fight for it.
His hair—still dark, but softer, curling when it dried—fell in deliberate waves instead of the stubborn mop Harry had. No scar cut across his forehead. No lightning bolt to brand him with prophecy.
He leaned closer. His reflection mirrored the movement.
Harry had been a boy made by war and hunger. Mizar was not. Mizar had music in his voice, stillness in his hands. He had the chance to become something Harry had never been allowed to be.
And yet, behind the softness in Mizar's mouth, in the flicker of tension around his eyes—Harry still watched. Not gone. Just quieter.
Still there.
The morning of the first Quidditch match dawned crisp and clear, the kind of sky that made brooms fly faster and cheers carry louder. Slytherin versus Ravenclaw. The whole school buzzed with anticipation—scarves in green, silver, blue, and bronze trailing from robes, enchanted banners fluttering with house mascots and charmed slogans.
Magnolia wasn't going.
Her hip had been flaring up since Wednesday—too much climbing, too much walking, and worst of all, she'd run out of her pain blends. The last dose had been stretched thin over the week, but today the ache was sharp and insistent, twisting with every step.
She'd skipped breakfast entirely, curled up in one of the alcoves of the library with her wand resting against the table and a book open but untouched beside her. Her hip had been flaring since midweek, and she'd run out of her pain blends Thursday night. The ache pulsed deep into her spine—too dull to scream, too sharp to ignore. Walking down to the pitch in the cold and fighting through the stairs? Not worth it.
She was halfway through rereading the same paragraph for the fourth time when a shadow slid over the table.
"Don't tell me," Mizar said, his voice a low murmur, "Ravenclaw's brightest flame has gone dim over a match."
Magnolia didn't look up. "Didn't realize Slytherin's most dramatic Seeker had time for reconnaissance before a game."
"I make time." He dropped into the seat across from her, setting a small cobalt-glass vial onto the edge of her open book. "You're out of your blend."
She eyed it without touching it. "You don't know that."
Mizar sighed, "your limping has worsened. That's how I know."
He pulled something out of his robes and held it out.
A small, deep blue vial. Glass stoppered with copper, the seal carved with the falcon crest of the Shafiq family.
Magnolia blinked. "Is that—?"
"Elixir of Silent Serenity."
She eyed the vial, then him. "You didn't offer it before."
"I figured if you wanted it, you'd ask."
"You didn't ask either," she fired back.
"I figured if I offered," he said, "you'd accuse me of thinking you were weak."
He didn't say it like a joke. Not quite.
"I might've."
"And now?"
She snatched the vial from his hand with a muttered, "Still infuriating."
"I've been told," Mizar said, leaning back in the chair. "Two sips. It's the Elixir of Silent Serenity. Won't fog your thoughts, just dull the pain and loosen the joints. Shafiq formulation. Available to just the right clientele."
"You brag about your potions like Omar brags about his biceps."
"I brag because it works. You can stay here and pretend you're not miserable or you can come watch us thrash Ravenclaw."
She rolled her eyes, but her fingers curled slowly around the vial. "I suppose it would be rude to let your heroic catch go unwitnessed."
"Deeply rude," he said solemnly.
She uncorked the bottle. The smell was faint—mint, clove, something cooler underneath—and swallowed half in one go. It warmed her instantly from within, a quiet hum spreading down her spine, the sharpest edges of the ache melting into softness.
When she stood, it didn't hurt.
Much.
"I'm only going because Callista bet ten Sickles you'd crash into a hoop," she muttered, slinging her satchel across her body.
He smirked, rising with her. "Then you'll want the best view possible when I don't."
"You're lucky I don't hex you midair."
"You're lucky I like an audience."
They parted ways just outside the library—Magnolia making her slow but steady descent towards the stands, scarf tucked close, careful with her steps. She made it to the Ravenclaw section just before the match began, slipping into a spot beside Marshall Fawley, just behind Winifred Edgecombe and Bernard Li.
"Look who decided to grace us with her presence," Marshall said as Magnolia settled beside him. His voice was lazy, but his eyes flicked briefly to the cane resting beside her leg.
"Don't flatter yourself," Magnolia said, tugging her scarf tighter. "I came to watch Slytherin lose. Publicly."
"You do know you're sitting behind half the Ravenclaw Charms team," Winifred muttered, glancing at her. "You're basically required to scream when Galen scores."
"I'll scream when someone slams into Mizar midair," Magnolia replied, voice cool. "That's as school-spirited as I get."
A hum of excitement rolled through the stadium as the players took to the pitch. Above the grounds, a magically amplified voice burst through the air.
"Good morning, Hogwarts!" Benjy Fenwick announced from the announcer's booth, already cheerful. "And welcome to the first Quidditch match of the season—Slytherin versus Ravenclaw! It's a beautiful, if somewhat brisk, Saturday morning, and the sky is clear—perfect for brooms, bad decisions, and Bludgers!"
The Slytherin team emerged in perfect formation, dark green robes catching the wind. Omar was at the front of the Beaters, twirling his bat like a showman. He waved dramatically at the crowd, then promptly walked backward into the referee's stand.
"He thinks he's starring in a play," Bernard said with a snort.
"He is," Magnolia muttered. "It's just a very loud, very sweaty play with zero plot and too much flair."
"And now, Ravenclaw!" Benjy boomed. "Led by Chaser Armand Galen, who's spent the last two summers training with the Kenmare Juniors. Also featuring Augustus Boot at Seeker—his sister swears he has perfect eyesight, which might be useful today if Mizar Black-Shafiq doesn't fly circles around him."
High above, a flash of green split off from the formation.
Mizar.
He was barely visible at first—just a glint of Slytherin green against the sky, already higher than the rest. He broke from the formation at once.
Magnolia shielded her eyes with her hand, watching him weave lazy arcs through the air like he had all the time in the world.
"He always does this," Winifred said. She leaned forward, face half-shadowed beneath her hood. "Every game, he opens with a fake Snitch dive to see who'll panic."
As if on cue, Mizar dropped.
Not a lunge—no, that would've been too blunt, too predictable. He folded downward like a falling blade, robes snapping behind him as he spiraled, fast and lethal, straight to the turf.
Magnolia clutched the edge of her seat before she could stop herself, knuckles white around her cane. Ravenclaw Seeker Boot, who had only just begun scanning the sky, jolted in midair—then scrambled to follow.
"Black-Shafiq is diving!" Benjy called, voice rising. "Merlin's beard, and the match hasn't even started! Either he's spotted the Snitch or this is the cockiest opener I've seen since Henrietta Dawson tried to catch it blindfolded in '66."
Mizar pulled up just before impact, his broom skimming the grass like a whisper. The crowd gasped. Slytherins roared.
"Show-off," Magnolia muttered under her breath. But her eyes didn't leave the sky.
"And that, friends," Benjy drawled, "was not the Snitch. That was just Shafiq being an insufferable show-off."
"Boot fell for it," Marshall sighed, frustrated.
"Our stupid Seeker is now chasing shadows," Bernard cursed, his pristine pale forehead now completely wrinkled.
Up above, the game surged to life. Quaffles and Bludgers burst into motion.
Omar was the first to make impact—he darted past a Ravenclaw Beater and slammed a Bludger with theatrical force towards Galen, who only just managed to duck. The ball ricocheted off the goal hoop with a resonant clang.
"Ghaffari Fuentemayor opens strong with a Bludger that nearly shaved Galen's eyebrows off," Benjy narrated. "Not sure if it was intentional or just enthusiastic, but either way, we're awake now."
Ravenclaw answered quickly—Galen darted past two Slytherin Chasers, feinted left, and launched the Quaffle past the Keeper's outstretched fingers.
"First goal to Ravenclaw!" Benjy cried. "Galen with a textbook feint—1–0, and the blue-and-bronze go wild!"
Down below, Andromeda leaned on the railing with arms crossed and eyebrows raised, shouting something that definitely wasn't school-approved language. Callista, beside her, looked more focused, eyes following every turn like she was calculating the odds of collision.
Then Slytherin struck back. Fast.
Omar sent another Bludger screeching through the air. It slammed into the handle of a Ravenclaw Chaser's broom, sending him into a tailspin that nearly took out two teammates.
"One-one," Marshall murmured. "Not bad for an overacting musclehead."
"And Slytherin's Chasers follow it up with a goal! That's a clean 10 points—10 to 10!" Benjy called. "It's neck-and-neck now!"
The match see-sawed. Galen scored again, only for Slytherin to retaliate with a perfectly timed play by their Chasers. Bludgers zipped across the field like cursed cannonballs—one missed Mizar's shoulder by inches.
"30 to 30! No time to blink—these teams are trading goals like Chocolate Frog cards!" Fenwick added.
"I will personally pay ten Sickles if someone ends up in the Hospital Wing," Winifred muttered.
"I'll double it if it's Omar," Bernard said.
"Triple if it's Mizar," added Marshall.
Magnolia said nothing.
She winced as another Bludger nearly clipped Mizar's broom tail—he spun out of the way at the last second, rising sharply above the fray.
And then—
A flicker.
A gleam of gold near the Ravenclaw goalposts, just for a second.
Mizar saw it.
He didn't move at first—just shifted in the air, tightening the angle of his knees, adjusting his grip. Then—
He moved.
He dove harder than before. Not for show. Not a feint. Not this time.
"Black-Shafiq's moving again!" Benjy shouted, voice cracking with excitement. "This looks real! He's locked in, he's—Hecate's lungs, he's going to clip the goalpost—"
Magnolia stood, her hand tightening on her cane.
"He's going to overshoot it—" Winifred gasped.
"He's going to die," muttered Bernard.
But he didn't.
Mizar leveled out just meters from the ground, leaning so far into the dive it looked impossible. His arm extended—and when he rose again, the Snitch glittered in his hand like a captured sun.
"SLYTHERIN WINS!" Fenwick's voice cracked with the force of it. "Black-Shafiq catches the Snitch—190 to 60—and I don't care if you're wearing blue or green, that was bloody brilliant!"
The stands erupted. The Slytherin team swarmed Mizar midair—Omar practically tackled him off his broom, laughing so hard he nearly dropped his bat.
From the pitch, Mizar looked up—towards the Ravenclaw section. Just once.
His expression wasn't smug. Wasn't gloating.
It was something quieter. Calmer.
Like he knew she'd be watching.
Magnolia sank back into her seat as the cheers continued around her.
Winifred gave her a sideways glance. "You're not even mad?"
"I will be when the potion wears off," Magnolia murmured. Her voice was soft. Far away.
Marshall rolled his eyes. "He only caught it because Boot's a moron. Still feels like foul play to me."
"Right," Magnolia said, still watching the pitch. "Foul play."
From the grass, Mizar looked up again—just for a second.
And smiled.
She didn't smile back.
Not quite.
But her fingers loosened on the wandcane.