The Slytherin common room smelled faintly of leather and polished wood, warm from the crackling fire. Omar's fingers floated over the piano keys, coaxing a gentle melody that mingled with the soft scratch of Narcissa's needle as she embroidered a silver serpent onto deep green silk. Andromeda sat nearby, violin resting on her lap, watching Omar with a faintly stern but approving gaze.
Callista curled into the corner of the couch relaxed among friends. Mizar leaned back, arms folded, a lazy smile tugging at his lips as he watched them all.
Omar hit a playful trill, making Callista's lips twitch into a small smile. "You missed a note," she whispered, nudging him.
Omar grinned without missing a beat. "Intentional flourish. Adds character."
Andromeda snorted. "Character or chaos?"
Mizar chuckled softly. "Slytherin jazz. It's a thing now."
Narcissa glanced up briefly, serene and poised. "Only if accompanied by silk and impeccable posture."
"You should make the dress code official," Mizar teased.
Narcissa's smile was delicate but firm.
The room fell into comfortable silence, music softening to a wistful tune.
Callista leaned her head against Mizar's shoulder. "It's nice… this. No fighting, no schemes."
Mizar's voice was soft. "Just us."
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
All four turned their heads.
Ianthe Macnair stepped inside, her recently straightened blonde hair catching the firelight like spun gold. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tears glistening just before she blinked them away.
Without a word, she moved past the group and out the common room door, heading towards the castle's stone steps.
Mizar stood abruptly. "Wait—"
"She's going outside?" Callista frowned. "At this hour?"
Andromeda's tone was sharp. "That can't be good."
Narcissa set down her embroidery, voice measured. "Ianthe has never cried in public before. Something's happened."
Mizar stood without a word and followed.
The dungeon corridor outside was cool and damp, the torches casting slow, flickering shadows. He caught up to her just past the bend in the stone.
"Ianthe."
She stopped.
He didn't say anything else at first. Just waited.
After a long pause, she sighed through her nose and turned. Her cheeks were pink. Her hair, usually pristine, was slipping out of its straightened perfection.
"If you're here to ask if I'm all right," she said, "don't."
"I wasn't going to," he said calmly. "You're not."
She looked at him then—really looked at him. And something broke.
"I think we're bankrupt," she said softly. "My father finally lost everything. The gambling—the quiet kind, not the fun kind. Wagers on hippogriff races, stupid high-stakes curses, illegal bets on duels in Prague. And now it's come due."
Mizar didn't interrupt. He just nodded, once.
She kept going. "My mother's pretending it's all a misunderstanding. Walden—" her voice faltered, then steadied again "—he's unraveling. Keeps talking about bloodlines and crusades and exchanging secret letters. I found him practicing with an actual guillotine charm."
Tom Riddle. He always knew how to spot weakness and vulnerability.
"And then Haymitch Flint heard us fighting about it," she added bitterly.
Mizar raised a brow.
"He offered to pay the debts," she said. "All of them. Just like that. Said he'd always thought I was poised. Thought I had the bearing of a proper matron. Called me a 'calming presence.'"
Mizar wrinkled his nose. "That's a terrible line."
"Right? But I still said thank you." She laughed once, hollow. "Because I couldn't say no. Because I didn't have anything else. I told him I'd think about it, but what I really meant was: I don't want to owe anyone—but I already do."
Her voice cracked at the edges.
"I feel like I've failed some test I didn't know I was taking."
Mizar leaned against the wall, his voice softer now. "You didn't fail anything. You were cornered. That's different."
"Is it?"
"Yes," he said. "One is a mistake. The other is survival."
She looked away, blinking fast. "I don't even like him."
"That's a mercy. If you liked him, you'd feel worse."
"He's not awful," she admitted. "He's polite. Careful. Smiles the right amount. But it's like he's already halfway to calling me his. As if it's settled."
Mizar tilted his head, thinking. "And now you feel obligated to accept his help but that will leave you indebted to him—to his so-called kindness."
That startled a laugh out of her. A real one. "Circe."
"Honestly," Mizar said, half-dry, "I expected your brother to be more of a man than letting his sister be the one settling debts."
She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I thought I was smarter than this. Stronger."
"You are," he said simply. "But strength isn't about never needing help. It's about knowing when you do and who you trust with it."
"Do you think less of me?"
He looked at her sharply. "No. I think more of you for not pretending you're invincible. That's something Slytherins do far too often, and it usually ends in Azkaban or a memoir."
Was this the turning point to stopping her from becoming the witch who would chase Harry Potter and his friends through the Department of Mysteries?
"I can help you."
She looked up, "who would have I thought I would have two Lords rushing to my aid?" Ianthe let out a humourless laugh.
"I'm not Flint. This would be me lending you a helping hand. You can repay me if you wish to."
"How?"
"You're great at Potions, aren't you?"
"Nowhere near as good as you," she admitted.
"I plan on opening a new Apothecary. My family already owns one in Diagon Alley, I was thinking of opening one in Muggle London, meant for the discreet clients."
Ianthe blinked at him. "You want me to work for you?"
"I want you to work with me," Mizar corrected, gently but firmly. "You're sharp, precise, and don't flinch around volatile ingredients. You'd be an asset."
Her brows pulled together. "So you're offering me… a job?
"I'm offering you a way out," he said. "Something real. Something that's yours. Not your father's mess. Not your brother's spiral. Not Flint's silk-wrapped trap."
Ianthe crossed her arms, lips tight, as if holding in a tremble. "Why would you even trust me with something like that?"
"You said you wanted to follow me the other day when you knelt in front of me alongside all those other students," he pushed his hair out of his face, gold rings glinting in the light, one was a signet ring. "Well, now I offer you patronage. You will be under my protection and your family will be saved from financial ruin."
Ianthe stared at his offered hand for a long, silent moment.
"No one knows," she said finally. "Not even my friends. Just Flint. And now you."
Mizar's expression didn't shift, but the air around him seemed to steady.
"Then no one else ever will," he said. "Not from me."
She looked up sharply, searching his face for any trace of pity.
There was none.
Only a cool, honest steadiness. Not softness—but something stronger. The kind of dignity that didn't need to be spoken aloud to be shared.
Her voice dropped. "If I say yes… if I take this from you—what does that make me?"
His gaze didn't waver. "It makes you someone who didn't let pride bury her for her family's sake."
Ianthe let out a slow, shaken breath. Her arms had fallen to her sides. She wasn't trembling anymore.
"And you?" she asked. "What does it make you?"
Mizar gave a faint smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Someone who's trying to change what power looks like. One quiet deal at a time."
She gave a quiet, almost reluctant laugh. "You do realize what this sounds like, right?"
"I do," he said. "But you know what it is."
There was another silence—heavier, but not uncomfortable.
Then, at last, she placed her hand in his.
It wasn't dainty or hesitant. It was steady. Grounded.
A contract not of debt—but of defiance.
"Alright then," she said, voice quiet but resolute. "Just between us."
"Just between us," Mizar echoed. "Let them keep thinking your hair's perfect and your lips always maroon and your family's Gringotts vault is bottomless."
Mizar glanced at her steadily, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face.
"I'll speak with your parents. I'll fix this debt—quietly, carefully."
Ianthe's lips pressed into a thin line. "Walden won't let that go. He'll try to attack you—figuratively, maybe literally."
Mizar smirked, but there was steel beneath it. "Let him try. I'm not easily intimidated."
She gave a small, tired laugh. "Good. You'll need that."
She glanced down the corridor, then back at him. "Come over during the holidays—before Yuletide. We'll have dinner with my parents. Set everything straight then."
He nodded slowly. "Before Yuletide it is."
Ianthe hesitated, then added quietly, "No grand speeches. Just practical plans."
"Practical plans," Mizar confirmed. "I'm better with those anyway."
For a moment, the weight between them felt lighter—like a fragile truce forming in the cold dungeon air.
"See you then," she said, turning away with quiet resolve.
"See you then," he echoed softly, watching her disappear down the corridor before heading back inside, ready for whatever came next.
Back in the common room, the warm glow from the fire softened the tension still lingering in Mizar's chest. He settled into his seat, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment towards him and uncapping his quill.
Callista was the first to break the silence, eyes sharp. "Where did you go? Did you find Ianthe?"
Mizar glanced up briefly. "Yeah, I talked with her."
Omar raised a brow. "At this hour? What was she doing out there?"
"She needed space," Mizar said carefully. "It's… complicated."
Narcissa's eyes narrowed slightly. "Complicated how?"
Mizar shook his head, unwilling to share more. "Private."
Callista frowned, but didn't press. "Fair enough."
He dipped his quill in ink and began writing, then smiled faintly. "Actually, I'm drafting a letter."
"To who?"
"My uncle, Marwan."
Narcissa's expression shifted to one of surprise, then a subtle grimace when he added, "I'm planning to open a new apothecary. In Muggle London."
The room fell quiet.
Andromeda gave a small, encouraging nod, but Narcissa's eyes flicked away, distant, as if weighing some unseen burden.
Mizar caught it, thinking how different Narcissa was from Andromeda—how she clung to some of the Black family's pureblood supremacist ideas, though not nearly as fanatically as Bellatrix.
He carefully continued aloud, "It's meant for a discreet, select clientele—something new, separate from the family shop in Diagon Alley."
Omar's curiosity was piqued. "You've got a secret plan, huh? And who's going to run this place?"
Mizar's smile deepened but he remained silent about the identity of the person he had in mind. The next morning he would go to the owlery and ask Tammuz to carry the letter to his uncle in London.
The conversation slowly shifted to other topics—less weighty, more familiar. Narcissa spoke about the latest gossip in the castle, Andromeda resumed playing her new violin, and Omar followed her on the piano.