Bones Manor, Cotswolds, Gloucestershire.
That night, Mizar wore gold like it was armour.
Not the metallic shine of pompous Ministry robes, nor the gaudy displays of nouveau blood families—but a finely cut yellow tunic, stitched through with golden thread that shimmered like sunlit silk. The collar was high, trimmed with protective embroidery, and the cuffs clasped with serpent-shaped fastenings. On his fingers, three gold rings gleamed—one set with obsidian, another with a tiny snake curling around a black opal, and the third plain, engraved only with the Shafiq sigil: a falcon in flight.
The Bones Manor's ballroom was all floating lights, hovering garlands of frost-veined holly, and music performed by invisible instruments. Wizarding nobility had turned out in full: flocks of Fawleys in purple-toned dress robes, the Macmillans gleaming in citrine, Lord and Lady Rosier were whispering in French near the ice sculpture of a rearing pegasus.
And across the ballroom, gliding towards him, was Callista.
She wore a red ball gown with long sleeves and gold embroidery. Her curly dark brown hair was threaded with gold thread and her fingers were adorned by multiple gold rings including the one Mizar had gotten her—where other girls preferred simplicity and considered beige a real colour, his best friend was a dazzling flame of shades and textures.
At her side walked her father.
Olivier Bulstrode was dressed in stiff midnight-blue robes and an expression that curdled wine. His thinning black hair was slicked back without a single charm, and he walked with the square-shouldered stiffness of a man who had been taught posture before kindness. His eyes—narrow, unreadable—moved across the room like a hawk assessing prey, calculating who had smiled too freely and who had looked too long at his daughter.
Mizar straightened subtly as they approached. He didn't dislike Olivier—but he recognized the kind of man he was.
Uncle Pollux, Mizar thought immediately.
Pollux Black who sneered at what he couldn't inherit and let bitterness poison his spirit.
Olivier Bulstrode wore the same bitterness like a badge. Cadet branch to the end. Not a Lord. Not a patriarch. Just a footnote in a greater family's record.
And he despised it in spite of said greater family funding his entire existence and giving him unearned respect. Main lines from lower Houses with much bigger fortunes weren't regarded in such esteem as him and he didn't even value it.
"Lord Black-Shafiq," Olivier said curtly when they stopped before him. "Your entrance was noted. As always."
Mizar inclined his head. "Mr. Bulstrode. I'm sure it was."
Callista's heels clicked softly on the marble as she stepped half a pace forward. "You'll survive the spectacle, Father. You always do."
Olivier's eyes flicked towards her, then back to Mizar. "And yet, every year, it becomes harder to distinguish between tasteful legacy and theatrical display."
Mizar smiled politely. "I find legacy only offends those who believe they should've inherited it."
The corners of Olivier's mouth twitched—but he said nothing.
Callista, already slipping her hand into the crook of Mizar's arm, leaned in slightly. "And here I was hoping you'd have the good sense to bite your tongue tonight."
"I merely offered an observation," Olivier said coldly. "One can't help but notice the company one's daughter keeps."
"Oh, you noticed," Mizar murmured. "That's all that matters."
Callista squeezed Mizar's arm, half-warning, half-amusement. "We'll rejoin you before the toast."
"You'll rejoin me when I say—"
However she was already steering Mizar away, robes swishing behind her like trailing smoke. Mizar glanced over his shoulder just once, meeting Olivier's dark, narrowed gaze.
When they were far enough from the icy tension, Mizar said under his breath, "Do you think he practices being that condescending, or does it come naturally?"
Callista smirked. "Both. He rehearses in front of his mirror and thinks it makes him taller."
Mizar let out a soft laugh. "He reminds me so much of uncle Pollux, it's almost uncanny. The posture. The carefully banked resentment. The conviction that the world conspired to keep him in a cadet branch."
"You forgot the obsession with inheritance." She plucked a champagne flute from a passing tray and handed it to Mizar. "Your uncle Pollux—who unfortunately happens to be Andie's grandfather—is named just like every other bird in the Black family tree and still manages to act like he hatched from one with brighter feathers."
"And Olivier acts like bloodline is proof of divinity," Mizar muttered. "And yet somehow blames everyone else for not being crowned."
Callista sipped her drink, lips twitching. "It's amazing, really. All that bitterness, and yet he still thinks it tastes like honour."
Mizar clinked his glass lightly against hers. "Cheers to generational delusion."
They wandered towards one of the wide arched windows that overlooked the frost-glazed gardens, the noise of the ballroom muffled slightly behind the drapes of silver-threaded velvet.
Callista glanced sideways at him, golden light dancing off her rings. "Did you wear gold to match me or to blind my father?"
"I wore it," Mizar said dryly, "because yellow is a colour your father would never dare touch."
She let out a delighted laugh. "You're insufferable."
"You like that about me."
"I tolerate it."
He turned to face her more fully, one hand still curled around his glass. "You look beautiful, by the way."
She arched a brow. "Obviously."
"And terrifying."
"Better."
The warmth in her expression, however, softened her usual fire. There was something a little too quiet in her eyes—subtle, but present.
He tilted his head. "He said something before you came down tonight, didn't he?"
Callista looked out at the garden again. "Nothing new. The usual lecture. That I should be careful. That I shouldn't put too much trust in names that glitter more than they anchor."
Mizar frowned. "He thinks I'm dangerous?"
"No," she said, turning to him. "He thinks you're free. And he hates it."
Mizar was silent for a beat.
Then, softly: "Is that why he planned on being by your side all night?"
She shrugged, but the movement was tight. "You're not the only one who has to remind people what you are. Showing up on his arm reminds them I'm a Bulstrode. Leaving with you reminds them I'm not just a Bulstrode."
He reached out, adjusting the collar of her gown as though it had shifted. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone. Least of all here."
Callista smiled faintly, the expression both fond and sharp. "That's where you and I differ, Mizar. You were born into the perfect amalgamation of legacies. I was born holding on to one."
"You've already carved your place in it," he said. "Whether your father sees it or not."
He offered his arm again. She took it, her grip familiar, strong.
"Ready to face the rest of them?" he asked.
"I've been ready since I put this gown on."
They returned to the main floor just as the orchestra shifted into a slower piece, and murmured conversation bloomed again like petals under warming light.
Andromeda Black looked lethal in midnight green. Her dress clung like armour—simple, sharp, and utterly uncompromising. A single emerald gleamed at her throat, and her hair had been swept back to reveal cheekbones that could slice glass. She didn't so much walk as stalk through the crowd, parting nobles with the mere tilt of her chin.
Omar Ghaffari-Fuentemayor trailed just behind her, grinning in a way that suggested he'd already offended half the room and was proud of it. His robes were cream silk trimmed in copper thread, artfully wrinkled like he'd dared them not to be. His mother had probably hexed them flat before he left the house.
"Mizar," Andromeda said, sharp as a snapped wand.
"Andie," he greeted, raising a brow. "Looking particularly merciless tonight."
She smirked. "I aim to impress."
"You succeed," Callista said, reaching to squeeze her hand. "Though the dress almost killed a woman in the stairwell. She tripped over her own envy."
Andromeda gave a satisfied hum.
Omar, meanwhile, tilted his head at Mizar, pretending to shield his eyes. "Merlin. Are you trying to blind the entire Wizengamot with this outfit?"
"It worked on Kingsley Shacklebolt," Callista quipped. "He nearly walked into the fireplace."
"I was aiming for Flint," Mizar muttered, glancing across the room to where Lord Flint's son Haymitch was now frowning into a glass of wine with more suspicion than taste. "Missed by a metre."
"You'll get another chance," Andromeda said. "There's still the toast."
"Unless Callista's father kills him first," Omar added, shooting a glance at the far side of the ballroom. "Bulstrode looks like he's about to demand trial by combat."
Mizar didn't even look. "He couldn't win a duel with a training dummy."
"True," Omar mused. "But he'd probably throw a contract at you mid-fight and call it honour."
Andromeda rolled her eyes. "Can we not waste the evening discussing our families?"
Mizar nodded. "Agreed. Let's talk about people who actually matter."
"Like us," Callista said with a smirk.
"Obviously," said Omar.
They paused near the towering ice sculpture of the pegasus, now gently shedding snowflakes that vanished before they touched the floor. The temperature near it dropped noticeably, a welcome contrast to the warm crush of dancers and drink.
Each of them got their own glass from the waiters that kept circling around the room.
"You're both in a good mood," Mizar said, arching a brow as he sipped Nightshade Noir. "Who did you insult already?"
"Only Lord Selwyn," Omar replied, straight-faced. "I said his cravat looked like it owed me money."
Andromeda tilted her head thoughtfully. "It did look vaguely criminal."
A flicker of a smile tugged at her mouth, but it didn't last long. Her gaze had already shifted across the ballroom. "Well. There they are."
Mizar followed her eyes and immediately spotted them: Lord Rosier, Andromeda's uncle, with his polished blond hair and need to suck up to Mizar; Lady Rosier, regal in storm-grey velvet, watching the crowd like it personally offended her; and just beside them, standing stiller than any child his age had a right to, was their son.
Evan Rosier, nearly eleven, hair ink-black and combed neatly back from a pale brow. He wore formal dress robes in black and silver, his hands clasped behind his back like a miniature adult at a Ministry function.
He wasn't fidgeting. He wasn't even blinking.
"He looks like he's calculating the structural weaknesses of the chandelier," Omar said quietly.
"He probably is," Callista muttered. "He once asked Andie what sort of poison was legal at school banquets."
"I told him the answer is: none," Andromeda said flatly. "He looked disappointed."
"He looks like he's in mourning," Mizar added. "For his childhood."
Andromeda's voice was dry. "He's a Rosier. His coldness should be expected but he takes it to the next level. My mother at least smiles and hugs us. I don't think Evan really got that."
Omar leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Do you think if I waved at him, he'd vaporize me with his eyes or just scowl until I combust?"
"I dare you," Callista murmured, swirling her drink with a lazy finger. "But you'd owe me ten Galleons if he actually flinches."
"No flinching," Mizar said. "He'd just… catalog the gesture, assign it a threat level, and file it away for future revenge."
Across the ballroom, Evan's gaze flicked to them for precisely two seconds. Expressionless. Evaluating. Then back to whatever invisible blueprint he was studying behind his mum's shoulder.
"Baba Yaga's hut," Omar muttered. "I think he just assessed the tactical viability of my shoes."
Mizar raised his glass. "To the next generation: colder, smarter, and almost definitely plotting our demise."
"I'll drink to that," said Omar.
Callista lifted her glass as well, but her eyes had gone thoughtful, still on the boy. "You know what's odd?" she said softly. "He's like a mirror of what our parents wanted us to be. Polished. Perfect. Empty."
No one replied for a moment.
Then Andromeda shrugged. "Maybe. But mirrors crack. And my cousin's still young."
Mizar turned his gaze back to the child standing like a statue beneath the flickering chandelier.
"And statues fall," he said. "Eventually."
He would make sure of it.
As the music shifted—this time to a slower, older waltz—one of those ancestral compositions laced with the ghosts of a dozen wizarding weddings and duels, Mizar's gaze flicked across the ballroom. Eyes followed him, as they always did, but he had long since learned not to care.
Except tonight.
Tonight, he noticed the glances linger a little longer when he crossed the floor.
He found Ianthe near one of the high-laced archways overlooking the hall. Her silver gown shimmered faintly under the candlelight, understated yet elegant in a way that didn't demand attention but refused to be ignored. She wasn't speaking to anyone, merely observing the room with the calm precision of someone who had learned never to blink too long in the presence of ambition.
Mizar walked straight to her.
"You look like you're waiting for a duel," he murmured.
Ianthe's lips curved faintly. "And you look like the duel."
His eyes danced. "Is that a compliment?"
"That depends on who wins."
A beat passed.
"Dance with me," Mizar said. Not a question. Not quite a command.
Her brow arched. "Won't that ignite inappropriate rumours?"
"Let them burn."
He offered his hand, and after only a second's pause, she placed hers in his.
They stepped onto the dance floor just as the strings deepened into the next measure. Mizar's movements were fluid, precise—trained not by charm but by choice. Ianthe matched him effortlessly, her posture impeccable, her expression cool. But he could feel it. The tension beneath her grace. The sharp intelligence behind every turn.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked as they spun.
"As much as anyone can at a gathering where half the room would rather hex you than toast you."
He smiled slightly. "That's still better odds than usual for me."
She looked up at him then, eyes dark and unreadable. "Did you already settle the debt?"
The question came soft. But it landed like iron.
Mizar didn't falter. "Of course I did. I'm a wizard of my word, Ianthe."
"You shouldn't have—"
"I didn't do it for them."
The music swelled, and they pivoted.
"Then for who?"
"Ianthe," he said quietly, "I'm opening a business. I needed a partner. One who knows how to survive in a room full of teeth. One who understands poison and polish. One I trust."
Her gaze flickered, just briefly.
"And if the world finds out what you did?"
"They won't," he said simply. "Your father's… gambling associates signed a nondisclosure clause. Even if they wanted to gloat, they can't."
Her voice dropped. "And your uncle?"
"Uncle Marwan only knows about the apothecary. He thinks I'm hiring you because you're discreet and precise."
"Which I am."
"Exactly."
They turned again, slow and deliberate, moving past a group of elder Greengrasses murmuring near the enchanted holly. Mizar's golden yellow tunic caught the light like flame. Ianthe's hand remained steady in his.
"And when it opens?" she asked.
"Then people might whisper I set up a business for you simply because you're pretty," Mizar twirled them around the floor. "Which is certainly not a lie but I assume if they knew me better, they would for sure know brunettes are more my type."
Her maroon painted lips perked up in a smile, "like Callista?"
Mizar faltered for half a second—just enough that Ianthe noticed.
It wasn't a stumble in step, just the smallest hitch in breath. But on him, it was a revelation.
He looked at her then, brows raised. "Callista?"
Her smile sharpened. "Come now, Mizar. Everyone thinks it."
"That Callista and I—?" He blinked, actually startled. "They think we're what, involved?"
She shrugged, elegant and controlled as ever, but there was something wry in her voice. "You're attached at the hip. You match robes every once in a while. You glare down half the room for her and she rolls her eyes when someone tries to flirt with you. If it were anyone else, I'd say it's only a matter of time."
Mizar snorted softly, spinning them into a smooth turn. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it?"
"Yes," he said, and this time, the word held no hesitation. "I adore her. She's family. She's my—" he hesitated for a word, one that wasn't overused, one that wasn't best friend, though that's what she was, and Theo's mum in his old life but not in this one, never in this one—"my mirror, in many ways. Nevertheless I don't believe we have the same vision for the future."
When the war became more obvious and devastating, he would have to become ruthless and he didn't know if Callista or Omar and Andromeda for that matter, would still want him around when the time came.
Ianthe's eyes flicked to his—bright blue against dark green. "But others think you could build one together."
He didn't look away. "Others don't know what they're talking about."
"Does she know that?"
There was no accusation in her tone—only curiosity, smooth and cutting.
Mizar exhaled slowly. "Callista would hex me if I even suggested it. And I'd deserve it."
A pause.
He added, more quietly, "She's the first person who ever believed I wasn't just a title with a pulse. That doesn't make her mine."
The blonde tilted her head. "So you've never—"
"Not once." His voice was firm. "And we never will. That's not what we are."
Her maroon lips curved again, thoughtful this time. "Then perhaps you should let the rest of the world know."
Mizar's mouth tugged upward. "Why? Let them misunderstand. It keeps things interesting."
"Mm. Until someone else gets caught in the crossfire."
He met her gaze. For a moment, the ballroom around them blurred—just flickers of robes and candlelight, of champagne and suspicion.
Ianthe had always addressed him with measured respect—more so after the world learned he was a Parseltongue, a wandless magic practitioner, and again after he pulled her family back from the brink of financial disgrace. He never let her call him my Lord, and even if he had, Mizar knew no title could ever cage the sharp wit and quiet fire behind her gaze. Deference, from her, was a choice. Never submission.
He sighed, eyes steady on his dance partner. "There will be rumours, Ianthe. The apothecary is discreet by design, but some of tonight's guests are on the client list—and they'll be at the opening. Your parents already believe I might harbour… some hidden interest for you."
His voice dropped, colder now. "And what disturbs me is that they'd be content if that interest reduced you to a mistress."
She didn't flinch. She never did.
Although the daughter of a Lord and the granddaughter of a Lady—with her mother being the second child of Lady Lightbody and her wife, Ianthe was still from a lower House, maybe she had grown up with more money than some of the other guests tonight but her name wasn't as noble as theirs.
Her parents knew and that was why had Mizar been a different wizard, they would have agreed with mistress becoming their daughter's title.
"I need you to develop thicker skin for what's ahead. Let them whisper," Mizar said. "Let them guess wrong. You keep your head high and your name sharp."
Ianthe held his gaze a moment longer—calm, unreadable—and then gave the barest nod. Not obedience. Not gratitude. Agreement.
Understanding.
Respect, matched.
They moved again in silence, gold and silver circling through the firelit dark.
The orchestra shifted into another waltz, its notes trailing like smoke, and Mizar's gaze flicked past the chandelier towards a cluster near the northern archway.
The Bones family had regrouped for a toast.
They moved not like a parade—but like a dynasty.
At the centre was Lady Seraphina Bones, unmistakable in violet robes. Her hair, a cascade of silver-auburn, was pulled back into a coiled braid. An Order of Merlin First Class gleamed modestly on one shoulder. A Potions Mistress who had valiantly protected Muggles from a rogue Common Welsh Green dragon in Ilfracombe alongside her aunt maternal aunt Tilly Toke when she was freshly out of Hogwarts.
Beside her stood her husband, Lord Jacob Branwell, long-faced and scholarly, spectacles glinting beneath the floating lights. He wore his dignity the way others wore charm: quiet, bookish, understated.
Their eldest son, Edgar Bones, cut a fine figure in yellow robes and a pin bearing the family's sigil: a torch. His husband, a brown Asian wizard with soft features and a honey-voiced laugh, stood at his side with a practiced grace. Their three children, all well-dressed and better behaved, clustered just behind them—eyes bright, hair neatly done, already trained in the art of standing still while being evaluated. Still too young for Hogwarts.
Then came the middle child, Henry, broad-shouldered and good-natured looking, chatting with a cousin and balancing a glass of Firewhiskey like he'd rather be elsewhere but wouldn't say it aloud.
And finally—Amelia.
Fifteen, pale freckled skin, her copper hair twisted up with a silver pin. Her dress a simple navy, her expression unbothered, sharp-eyed. She stood just to the left of her brothers, half-listening to a conversation while watching the room with the vigilance of someone who already understood the weight of expectations. In Mizar's past life, she would go on to become the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement until she died.
Until she was murdered.
He didn't let his expression shift, but something hollow curled in his chest.
When Harry Potter had arrived in the wizarding world, the Bones family was a fractured remnant—just Henry, a reluctant Lord, his daughter Susan and Amelia but here and now, they were a formidable unit. Dozens of Bones relatives flanked the main branch—cousins and uncles and aunts in periwinkle robes, a younger child chasing a charmed peppermint around a column.
A family in full bloom.
And Harry had only ever seen what was left of the tree.
Mizar's gaze drifted to Lady Seraphina again. Her smile was slight but firm, her presence absolute. He remembered the portrait. Hung in a less-travelled corridor near the back entrance to the hospital wing. Not many students lingered there—but Harry had.
She hadn't spoken, of course—she was not one of the interactive ones—but he'd always thought her expression seemed to hold the faintest trace of approval.
He wondered now if that memory had ever been real. Or just a tired boy, imagining approval where none was given.
Mizar turned slightly back to Ianthe, his voice quieter now, as though brushing dust from a memory. "Lady Bones is about to speak."
And she did.
The orchestra softened to silence, a ripple of stillness sweeping the ballroom like a charm. All heads turned as their hosting Lady stepped forward, her goblet raised, robes glinting like a midnight sky charted in thread.
Her voice rang clear, precise—not loud, but the kind of voice that made silence obey.
"Witches. Wizards. Friends. Family."
A pause. Not performative. Just enough for the weight of the moment to settle.
"This year has brought with it change. For some, it has brought restoration. For others, reckoning. We have lost traditions worth forgetting, and recovered some worth remembering. And still, we endure."
"At times like these," she continued, "it is tempting to look only behind us. To what we were. To who we were taught to be. But I would challenge you, tonight, to look ahead."
She glanced around the room, gaze sweeping the old bloodlines, the rising heirs, the careful enemies.
"To the ones dancing now who will lead tomorrow. The ones born into old names and the ones brave enough to make new ones. The children of history—and the architects of what comes next."
Mizar Accio'd his glass and Ianthe's.
Lady Seraphina smiled. "Raise your glasses. To legacy—not as weight, but as invitation. To wisdom worn with grace. And to the future, which waits for no one—but might just favour the ones who stop waiting for it."
The crowd raised their drinks.
"To the future," they echoed.
Crystal clinked like windchimes as Mizar lifted his own glass.
The orchestra swelled again, a new piece rising with the golden fizz of celebration and expectation. Dancers swept back to the floor, swirling like planets caught in new orbits. Andromeda was already dragging Callista towards the musicians with an unholy grin. Omar was flirting too obviously with Mortimer Warrington. Laughter rang somewhere near the dessert table.
Mizar looked down at Ianthe once more, a quiet breath between them.
"One more turn?" he asked.
She nodded, lips just curving. "Lead on, my Lord."
He didn't correct her this time.
Outside, midnight arrived like a held breath released.
The grounds of Bones Manor shimmered with frost and moonlight, the air thick with anticipation as guests began drifting from the ballroom towards the snowy veranda and the enchanted gardens beyond. Cloaks floated from waiting house-elves like wings onto shoulders. Mizar didn't bother with one—his tunic, woven with charmed thread, repelled the cold like a second skin.
Ianthe had excused herself to find her brother. Callista and Omar were already arm-in-arm, marching straight to the hill where the view would be best. Callista's parents followed last while Omar's parents walked right behind his friends, the Ghaffari Head reminded Mizar to have tea with him at a cafe overlooking the Bosphorus in the summer to talk with another Iranian Ambassador who was looking to open a trade from Iran to Britain through Turkey.
Andromeda fell into step beside Mizar, her expression still sharp but softened by the warmth of wine and good company.
"I forgot how much I like the Bones' fireworks," she muttered. "They don't try to impress. They just… do."
"They don't need to," Mizar replied, hands in his pockets. "It's tradition. That's always louder than spectacle."
The rest of the Black family trailed behind them. His mum lamented the fact that Marwan and Noor had to go to a ball hosted by her best friend in Ukraine but Mizar understood. Just like uncle Marwan had a duty to him, he had an even bigger one to his wife and Noor deserved time with her friends and family.
A soft bell chimed across the gardens. One minute to midnight.
Everyone turned towards the open sky.
High above, spells began to flicker like stars awakening. A pause, a breath—and then the first firework exploded into bloom. Gold and violet spirals, a phoenix wing unfurling across the stars. Then another—blue, silver, streaks of crimson spiraling outward like a rose in motion.
Gasps and applause rose from the crowd.
The entire hill lit up with shifting light, sparks falling like confetti over the frosted lawn, vanishing before they touched the ground. The magic was deliberate—ancestral. Each spellcraft older than the next, woven together by Bones family charmwrights to retell a story: a serpent curling through flame; a broom spiraling across the stars; a stag leaping through gold and more creatures.
Uncle Regulus leaned closer to Andromeda, pointing up at one swirling shape. "Is that a thestral or just a particularly emaciated hippogriff?"
Andromeda grinned. "Thestral. Definitely. They added that last year."
"Bit bleak," said Lord Arcturus. "But tasteful."
At the final stroke of midnight, the sky split open with a crown of fire: dozens of stars cascading in synchrony, each bursting into a single word, glittering and fading across the clouds.
HAPPY NEW YEAR
Cheers erupted all around. Champagne glasses clinked. Someone near the lake shouted a toast to new ventures and old enemies.
Aunt Melania turned to Mizar with a rare smile. "A good omen, I think."
Lycoris nodded. "A turning of pages. Just make sure you write the next ones wisely."
Mizar glanced at Andromeda, who raised her brows and gave the tiniest nod, as if to say: we will.
And he believed it.
He looked to the sky one last time as the final firework soared—no shape, no story. Just a flash of pure white light that bathed them all for a breathless moment.
And then it was gone.
Leaving only stars—and the year ahead.
Sirius and Reggie were so excited that Walburga's sour face couldn't dampen their mood.
Reggie clapped and tugged on Lycoris' sleeve. "Did you see the dragon? Did you?"
"I saw it," Lycoris murmured, drawing him closer, "but I think you could do it better."
Uncle Regulus looked down at Reggie and smiled, "don't give the lad ideas to count while he waits to get his wand."
Sirius, trying not to smirk, leaned up beside his grandfather. "Do they let you keep fireworks if you catch one?"
Arcturus snorted. "Only if you want your eyebrows removed."
Melania sighed fondly. "He's asking for future experiments. Aren't you, Sirius?"
"I'm just asking questions," he said innocently.
Andromeda whispered to Mizar, "look, even Bellatrix is smiling. That only happens once a century."
"She's probably planning to hex someone in celebration."
"She already did. That Fawley boy who bumped into Cissy. Didn't you hear the pop?"
"Ravenclaw Fawley or Hufflepuff Fawley?"
"Ravenclaw," Andromeda murmured. "The bookish one with the tragic haircut."
"Ah. The one who quoted Hogwarts: A History to Malfoy once," Mizar said, raising a brow. "Bold strategy."
"Didn't help him this time either," Andromeda took a sip of champagne. ""She vanished his shoelaces. Mid-waltz."
"Brutal."
"Efficient," Bellatrix corrected, gliding past them with her chin high and their younger sister trailing behind her like a moon in orbit. Narcissa looked mildly scandalized.
Druella smiled at Andromeda and Mizar. Narcissa couldn't understand why her mother was doting on her older sister more than she did on her. She used to be her favourite, maybe because she was the prettiest or because she took after the Rosier side but now all her parents talked about was Andie—even after she embarrassed them with uncle Arcturus in order to become a violinist. Her parents had sour looks when they got home after that dinner, her father practically seething, only for Druella to murmur that perhaps it was for the best that Mizar had been so quick to defend her.
The comment had cooled her father's anger. And Narcissa had felt, for the first time, something sour and sharp twist behind her ribs despite being happy that Andie got her wish to come true.
Across the garden, more guests exchanged toasts and hugs. The Bones family gathered together near the frost-lit topiary arch, Seraphina pulling Amelia into a long embrace before turning to listen to one of her nieces argue about potion patents. Edgar and his husband were speaking with the Pakistani Ambassador and his wife, children dozing against velvet and silk-clad knees.
Closer by, Omar had already conjured glowing sparklers for himself and Callista. They were writing animals in the air, laughing as the light fizzled behind them.
"I'm not drunk enough for this," muttered Omar.
"You're not drunk at all," Callista replied, waving her sparkler in the shape of a phoenix. "Try harder."
"I'm trying to sparkle, not commit arson."
"Both are valid."
Mizar smiled faintly at them and turned back just in time to hear Sirius shouting, "I definitely could've ridden that dragon—did you see the wingspan?!"
The year 1971 had begun.
And despite everything he'd known, everything he'd lost once before, Mizar—Harry—felt, for the first time in a long time… ready.
He turned back to the people he'd chosen—his family, his friends, the children of a world that hadn't yet torn itself apart.
"And so it begins," he murmured.
Andromeda raised her glass beside him. "Again."
They clinked.
And above them, the stars kept watch.