The Slytherin common room pulsed with triumph.
Firelight flickered against the stone walls, gilding silver-trimmed banners and polished boots with warmth. Someone had enchanted the ceiling to mirror the sky above the pitch—echoes of the final Snitch dive danced in ghost-light across the vault, replaying again and again like a living memory. Music thrummed low from a wireless in the corner, and the scent of victory—leather, damp wool, cinnamon sweets, and burnished broom polish—hung in the air like incense.
Omar was dramatically recounting Mizar's dive for the ninth time. He stood on the edge of a table now, gesturing wildly with a butterbeer in hand, nearly knocking over a younger student who had wandered too close.
"…and then he tilts—I swear on Merlin's saggy balls—he's upside down with one hand on the broom and his other hand snatches the Snitch like he's stealing fate from the sky!"
Callista, stretched elegantly across the arm of a sofa, rolled her eyes. "He didn't tilt. He adjusted. He was compensating for the crosswind."
Omar pointed at her with the neck of his bottle. "See? Science and drama. That's why he's our Seeker."
Laughter broke out across the common room.
Mizar stood near the hearth, gloves still on, posture composed but not distant.
He accepted the congratulations with a gracious nod, never leaning too far into the praise, never letting his smirk linger long enough to be used against him later. Eyes watched him even now—some with awe, others with calculation.
He preferred the former. But he prepared for the latter.
His dark green eyes surveyed the room.
Mulciber, sprawled in an armchair like a victorious general, was laughing about the time he hexed a Hufflepuff's mouth shut during Charms. Gone. A boy with no brakes, no soul, only appetite.
Jugson, extremely gone as well. His laughter was always louder when it was someone else's pain. His type would follow Voldemort out of boredom if not conviction.
But Crabbe and Goyle? Mizar's gaze lingered there longer. The two were hunched together, sharing sweets and clumsily reenacting Omar's Bludger swing with half-eaten biscuits. Idiotic, yes. Dangerous? Not yet. They were dull boys, but boys all the same. They didn't hate the world—they just didn't know what else to do with it. If Voldemort came dressed as certainty, as purpose, they'd follow. But Mizar could offer certainty too. Something else. Something better.
He filed their names mentally under possible.
Then Ianthe Flint—still known as Ianthe Macnair. Not her twin brother, Walden—he was halfway to madness already, obsessed with curses and hunting animals and family glory he had no right to claim. But Ianthe. She was quieter. Smarter. She'd straightened her blond hair that summer and had written a shockingly fair critique of wand legislation for the Charms Club bulletin last term.
She was smiling now, gently, at a first-year trying to adjust her house scarf. A kindness that didn't seem calculated.
Mizar wasn't sure about her. But he wanted to be.
Could he fight against family duty and sway her away from violence? Or was violence already cementing in her bones?
Then his gaze landed on the younger ones.
Lucius Malfoy was quiet only because Mizar was in the picture now and yet he still had fire but only when in the presence of younger students. He was already slipping into the role he'd wear as a man though: mouth shut, eyes sharp, cruelty wrapped in cold silk. Sometimes he looked at Narcissa but Mizar wouldn't let him even contemplate asking permission to court her.
Soo-Jin Kang. She had been apprehended at the Department of Mysteries, only to spend one year in Azkaban and then spew terror at Fleur and Bill's wedding accompanied by her husband who had yet to reach Hogwarts.
Mizar could only see a fifteen year old girl with a French bob cut who sulked a lot and didn't have a fortune to secure her place in a House such as theirs. He had heard the whispers, his father had dragged her and her mum from Busan when she was a toddler only to end up abandoning them for a half-breed in Gibraltar.
Mizar recognized how someone like her could be groomed by Tom Riddle. He had tried to do it with Ginny.
She wasn't gone yet.
But she could be, if no one gave her another story to belong to.
His jaw clenched as he stood straighter.
Then the crowd subtly shifted. Heads turned. Conversations dimmed by a notch.
Akemi Watanabe stepped into the firelight.
She wore Slytherin green like it had been stitched for her specifically—robes pressed, black hair gleaming down her back in a smooth, silken fall, not a strand out of place. Her smile was the kind that made other girls nervous and boys suddenly straighten. A silver snake ring glinted at her finger as she raised her glass in silent salute.
She walked towards Mizar like she didn't have to push through the crowd—the crowd moved.
"I'm surprised you're not up on the table with Omar," Akemi said, stepping into view. She stood with her arms folded loosely, a half-glass of something sparkling in her hand, posture poised as always.
Mizar offered a wry smile. "I've learned to let him have his spotlight. It keeps him from trying to choreograph Bludger drills."
Her mouth twitched with amusement. "Sensible."
He stepped closer. Not looming, not imposing. Just… present.
"You're not much of a table-dancer yourself," he said. "But you came to the party."
"I like to see what's worth celebrating."
"And?" He raised a brow. "Did I pass inspection?"
"You did," she said, after a pause. "Even Selwyn had to stop talking for ten seconds."
"That is impressive. Maybe I should retire now, leave on a high note."
Akemi looked at him sidelong. "You know, a lot of people expected you to be Head Boy this year."
Mizar gave a soft, humourless sound. "Yes, well. Dumbledore and I don't exactly write each other letters over the summer."
She blinked. "He doesn't like you?"
"Not particularly," Mizar said. "He thinks since I'm a Black, I'm supposed to be an evil Lord. He isn't much of a fan of the Shafiqs either but I think he would have disliked me less, had I been sorted into Ravenclaw."
She tilted her head, studying him. "You're not exactly shy about ambition. I figured you'd at least want the badge."
"I didn't say I didn't want it," Mizar said mildly. "I said Dumbledore doesn't like me. Which are… unfortunately related."
"You think that's why he gave it to Trueblood?"
"I think Lawrence Trueblood is a good enough Head Boy," Mizar said, with a flicker of something unreadable in his tone. "Polite, clever, inoffensive. Prefers theory over confrontation. I'm sure Dumbledore sleeps easier with him in the position."
Akemi took a sip of her drink. "And you? You prefer confrontation?"
"I prefer truth," he said. "And I don't think it always arrives politely."
They stood quietly for a moment, the hum of celebration around them cushioning the conversation in private sound.
"Still," she said finally, "you and I have patrolled these corridors for two years. You don't exactly lack discipline."
"No," he agreed, glancing toward the fire where their housemates were laughing and slapping each other on the back. "But that's not always what people are afraid of. Sometimes it's what they see behind it."
"And what do you think they see?"
He hesitated—just a second. Then, voice low:
"Someone who could lead. Sooner or later. And they don't know if they'd like where I'd take them."
Akemi's eyes narrowed, just slightly. Not in suspicion—more like calculation.
"That's a dangerous thing to say out loud," she murmured. "Especially in this common room."
"I know," Mizar said simply. "But it's only dangerous if I mean to take them somewhere worse than the alternative."
She arched a brow. "And what exactly is the alternative?"
"You tell me," he said. "We both know which direction the wind's starting to blow. You can hear it in the things Jugson says when he forgets who's listening. You can see it in the way Lucius holds his chin like he's already wearing a title no one gave him when he's barely a spineless sixteen year old."
Akemi's lips pressed into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You think they're the future?"
"I think they want to be. And I think a lot of others are going to follow them because it's easier than standing still. Even the ones who say they think for themselves."
He shifted his weight subtly, almost like he was lowering his voice without moving.
"You know how it goes. Everyone in this house claims to be self-made. But most of them are just waiting for the right Lord to follow."
Her eyes flicked over his face. Carefully. "And are you saying you want to be that Lord?"
Mizar's answer was a breath delayed.
"No," he said. "I'm saying if one's going to rise either way… I'd rather it be someone who doesn't believe blood makes you worth more. Or less."
That made her blink. Just once.
Then, quiet: "You sound like you're trying to recruit me."
"I'm not," Mizar said smoothly. "I don't have a cause. Not yet. No grand plan."
"But?"
"But I do notice the kind of people who think they know what's best for us. And I know what they'll try to make you choose."
Akemi looked down into her glass, then back up. "What makes you think I haven't already chosen?"
"If you had," Mizar said, "you wouldn't still be listening."
She stared at him for a moment longer, searching for something. His posture was relaxed but unshakable. There was no smugness in his tone, no demand. Just… patience. And warning. Both wrapped in charm.
Finally, she exhaled and gave a single, small nod. "You're very sure of yourself, my Lord."
He smiled. "Only on days ending in 'y.'"
That pulled a soft laugh from her. It wasn't a surrender, but it wasn't dismissal either.
"I'm not anyone's follower," she said, tipping her glass back to finish it.
"Neither am I," he said. "But some people you don't follow. Some people you walk beside."
Akemi turned to go—but paused halfway into the crowd. She glanced back over her shoulder, just once.
"We'll see where you end up, Mizar."
His voice was calm, even warm when he answered.
"So will you."
And then she was gone, vanishing into the soft din of Slytherin's victory haze. Mizar didn't watch her long.
He turned towards the fire again, letting the flickering Snitch dive play across his face like a prophecy on loop.
Some would follow Voldemort, he knew.
But not all.
Not if he moved carefully. Not if he lit other paths first.
The music had shifted. Slower now, with an edge of glamor—the kind of track that invited velvet glances and offered excuses to touch. Omar had roped Andromeda into a spin across the stone floor, her dark curls bouncing with every turn, his shirt untucked and sleeves rolled to the elbows like he was dancing at a rooftop bar instead of a dungeon party.
Callista stood beside the hearth, arms crossed. The firelight kissed the edge of her jaw and set off the glint of metal on her fingers. Three of them—index, middle, and ring—were clad in elaborate sculptural gold rings that were made in the same of her fingers and charmed to bend as if part of her anatomy. Not dainty loops, but full gauntlet-like pieces, each one a creature unto itself. One wrapped around her knuckle like a dragon mid-snarl. Another crowned her middle finger with a ruby the size of a small plum, the metal clawed and heavy. The last held an opalescent stone cradled in a spiral, catching the flickers of light and throwing them back like winks.
She took his wrist like she always had—like she had since they were twelve and she still hid behind her hair and let her books do the talking.
"You look like you're plotting dynasties again," she said. "Come dance. You've earned it."
Mizar turned slightly, brow raised. "You don't dance."
"I didn't. Now I do."
Her grip didn't tighten, but it didn't let go either. And that was Callista, really—quiet persistence dressed in elegance. She didn't demand. She invited, and then just… waited.
He let her tug him towards the center of the room. Not because he wanted to dance, but because she did.
A slower song floated in from the wireless, low and dusky, like something borrowed from a jazz club on the other side of the world. She stepped in, one hand on his shoulder, the other still warm around his fingers.
He remembered when she couldn't even meet his eyes.
Back when she whispered before speaking, carried her books like armor, and apologized for breathing too loud in the library. The first time she hexed someone, it was for Omar—and her hand had trembled after. It hadn't trembled since.
"You're light on your feet," she said.
He gave her a sidelong glance. "You're sneaky."
"I'm persuasive."
"Same thing."
She smiled. "I wanted to dance with you before you get too powerful and impossible to schedule."
"You think I'm going to hover above the castle on a throne of ambition and prophetic riddles?"
"I think," she said, "you're going to become something very dangerous. But only if you forget you're still a person."
He didn't answer right away.
Their steps moved in rhythm—familiar, unhurried. They'd sparred before in the dueling chamber. This wasn't so different. No wands. Just words. Balance.
"I think I'm already tethered," Mizar said quietly.
Callista nodded. "Good."
Across the room, Omar twirled Andromeda with zero technique and maximum enthusiasm. She was laughing, loose and lovely, arms overhead like she'd never been told not to be loud.
"I'm going to drop you," Omar warned.
"You won't," she said, grinning, trusting him completely.
Callista and Mizar turned again, closer this time. The music curled around them like a lazy enchantment.
But Mizar's gaze slid past her shoulder—and landed on Lucius.
Lucius Malfoy was crossing the common room with surgical precision, weaving past second-years and first-years like they were furniture. His hair gleamed. His posture—flawless. And his eyes?
They were locked on Narcissa.
She was sitting by the bookshelves, a porcelain picture of composure. Ankles crossed. Gloves on. Her hands folded in her lap like a portrait subject. She was beautiful in the way noble girls were trained to be: quiet, immaculate, untouchable.
But there was something else in her tonight. Something softer around the edges. Her gaze flicked to Lucius as he approached. She didn't smile, exactly—but she didn't turn away either.
Mizar's mouth set into a flat line.
"I need to cut in," he said.
Callista followed his gaze, then looked back at him. She didn't ask. Just let go.
Mizar crossed the room like a shadow under control.
Lucius was leaning forward slightly, saying something—probably about her dress, or her hair, or the match. Something meant to charm. Something that implied ownership disguised as admiration.
"Cissy," Mizar said, warm and composed, "may I have this dance?"
Narcissa looked up at him. There was no flicker of surprise, no drama. Just the faintest exhale of relief.
"Of course, cousin," she said smoothly. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten your manners."
Lucius stepped back with a flicker of annoyance—masked quickly, but not fast enough.
Mizar offered his arm. Narcissa rose with the grace she'd been groomed into since birth and took it.
They slipped into the dance like clockwork.
"I could've handled him," she said softly.
"I know."
"You didn't like the way he looked at me."
"No," Mizar said. "Because I know what he wants."
Narcissa tilted her head. "And you think I don't?"
"You're smarter than he thinks. But you're not cynical enough yet."
She arched a brow. "And that's a flaw?"
"It's… a vulnerability."
They spun once—precise, elegant.
"I like him," she said, tone even. "He's clever. Composed. He'll go far. And my parents would approve."
"Of course they would," Mizar murmured. "He's a mirror of everything they think matters."
Narcissa looked up at him. "You think I'm being shallow."
"I think you're being cornered."
She didn't speak for a beat.
"I don't need rescuing," she said finally.
"I know. That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
Mizar exhaled through his nose. Quiet. Thoughtful.
"It's me reminding you that you don't have to marry someone simply because your parents say you should. You're still way too young to be thinking about marriage anyways."
Her gaze sharpened. "You think that's what I want?"
"I think you want to please them. Because pleasing them feels like control. But it's not."
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn't cold.
They moved in silence for a few more beats, turning in perfect time beneath the green-glassed chandeliers, the shadows of the enchanted Snitch dive still flickering across the ceiling like memory on repeat.
Narcissa's gloves were warm against his hand. Her posture, as always, was immaculate. But her jaw was tight.
"I do want control," she said, at last. "That's the point. I don't want to end up like Lucretia or Cedrella. Blasted from the family tapestry for being reckless and marrying the wrong people."
Mizar's grip shifted slightly—not to correct her hold, but to remind her he was still there. Listening.
"I know," he said. "But control isn't the same as surrendering to what they expect."
She kept her chin high. "He's not like Mulciber. Or Jugson."
"No," Mizar agreed. "He's worse."
Her eyes snapped up to meet his, sharp and unblinking. "Worse?"
"He'll pretend to let you lead. He'll make you feel like you're choosing him. And then one day, you'll wake up and realize everything around you—your name, your image, your power—has been turned into something he owns."
Narcissa didn't flinch. But the way her fingers pressed into the silk at his shoulder—just a little too firm—told him she heard it.
"He's not dangerous," she said, quieter now. "Not really."
"No," Mizar said. "He's careful. That's more dangerous."
The song looped its refrain, slow and curling. They turned with it.
"He won't hurt you," Mizar continued, voice soft but pointed. "He'll just rearrange you. Until the only parts left are the ones that make sense in his story."
Narcissa was silent again. Her expression unreadable—but not uncaring.
And then, softly: "You think I'm weak."
He blinked. "Cissy—"
"You think I'm soft and stupid and trying to buy safety with a marriage contract."
"I think," he interrupted, "that you're playing the only game they ever taught us—and I hate that they convinced you it was the only one."
She looked away then, and for the first time all night, she looked young.
Not untouchable. Not elegant. Not her mother's daughter.
Just a girl in a green dress, trying to survive a house full of futures she didn't choose.
"You could do better," Mizar said. "You could be better. Than all of this. Than him."
She didn't answer.
But her grip eased.
The song wound to its final cadence.
When it ended, Narcissa stepped back. Just half a pace. Just enough to make the distance clear.
She met his eyes.
"You're not the Lord of my House, Mizar."
He didn't flinch. "I'm your cousin," he said evenly. "And I care about you. That's enough."
Something flickered behind her eyes. Not softness—clarity.
"I'll think about what you said," she replied.
He nodded.
"I don't need protecting," she added, more quietly now. "But thank you for doing it anyway."
Mizar didn't smile. But his voice was warm. "Always."
She turned, walking back to her seat near the shelves—back to the same composed posture, the same blank expression.
But she didn't glance at Lucius again.
Not yet.
And for tonight, that was enough.