Hammersmith, Warwickshire, West Midlands.
The frost outside thickened overnight, frosting the mullioned windows of Hammersmith with icy lace. Inside, the air smelled faintly of pine, smoke, and wax from the floating Yule candles. The ancient house was silent but alive—its shadows dancing in candlelight, its history whispered in every creak of the wooden floors.
Mizar sat cross-legged in the vast library, the flickering fire throwing orange-gold light across the spines of leather-bound books stacked high on every wall. His fingers toyed nervously with the tassel of his radiant yellow robes with gold stitching, something his father would have wanted him to wear, but his eyes were distant, caught in a storm of thoughts no six-year-old should carry.
He had pieced it all together, in the quiet moments when no one watched.
This Yuletide of 1959, this was the year his Uncle Regulus Black—the first Regulus—was supposed to die.
Mizar had read it all in his time. In the hidden letters tucked behind cursed portraits in the future, in notes of the clinical histories of the Black family members, he had even heard a Phoebe Black talking about poor Regulus' health—she hadn't meant Regulus Arcturus but rather Regulus Oberon.
Regulus had been ill since boyhood, his lungs fragile, his blood cursed by some inherited flaw that no healer could mend. As a man, he'd grown increasingly reclusive, brittle with bitterness, brilliant but already fading.
But here, now—everything was different.
Since the moment Mizar arrived, since the moment Regulus had cradled him for the first time and whispered in awe that he had Lycoris's face—something had shifted. Mizar had felt it. As if his mere presence had tugged at the threads of fate.
Regulus had made a decision.
He had chosen to live.
He drank the foul potions prescribed by St. Mungo's specialists. He left his tower room to walk the gardens daily, even when the wind bit through his cloak. He laughed again, tentatively, at first with Lycoris, then more easily with Arcturus, even with the house-elves. And when he looked at Mizar, he no longer looked like a man counting down borrowed time. He looked like a man anchoring himself to the world through the living proof that legacy could be beautiful.
And Mizar knew why.
It was because of him.
Regulus wanted to stay. For Lycoris.
To watch his nephew grow.
Lycoris, his mother, was warm and watchful, her dark eyes sparkling as she fussed over the Yule preparations. She was the glue holding this complicated family together. Regulus and Arcturus—her brothers—were both brilliant but brooding men.
Arcturus was holding his newborn grandson Sirius—the silver-eyed child who was destined for greatness—in his arms this Yule.
Mizar needed to stay cheerful, to be playful, to blend in with the other children during the feast. But his mind was always racing, always calculating.
He watched Regulus closely.
That evening, after the feast's laughter faded and the adults gathered by the fire in the drawing room, Mizar found himself alone with his uncle.
Regulus was sitting by the hearth, the glow highlighting his sharp cheekbones and the deep dark eyes that mirrored the family's fierce pride. He looked stronger than Mizar remembered from the future—the sickly, fading man he had read about. Now there was a steady strength in his posture and a spark in his gaze.
Mizar swallowed hard. His voice came out steady, belying the storm within.
"Uncle Regulus," he said, stepping closer. "I want to learn how to duel."
Regulus lifted his gaze, eyebrows arching in surprise.
"You want to duel?" Regulus asked gently, voice quiet but edged with curiosity.
"Yes. I want to be able to protect mum and you. And uncle Arcturus. And cousin Sirius."
Regulus blinked, then smiled, a slow, rare curve of his lips.
"You're very serious for a six-year-old."
Mizar forced himself to nod. "I have to be."
Regulus's eyes softened. "You are Lycoris's son, after all. There is more to you than meets the eye."
He stood, his movement fluid and graceful despite the months of illness he had once endured.
"Come with me," Regulus said.
They stepped outside into the crisp, silver-lit night. The snow muffled their footsteps as they crossed the estate's grounds towards an overgrown duelling ring hidden behind the hedge maze. The stone circle, cracked and dusted with snow, glowed faintly when Regulus lifted his wand.
"Illuminare."
Runes etched deep into the stones flared to life in golden light, melting away the frost. The old magic responded to his presence.
"This is where you will train," Regulus said. "Not just to duel, but to survive. To stand when others fall."
He handed Mizar a wand, sleek and polished—a wand of yew, eleven inches, balanced perfectly for small hands.
"It belonged to Misapinoa Black. It will serve you well."
Mizar gripped the wand tightly, feeling its warmth, its promise.
Regulus knelt down to meet Mizar's eyes.
"Dueling is not about winning or proving strength," he said. "It is about control. Precision. Knowing when to attack—and when to defend. When to strike—and when to hold back."
Mizar nodded solemnly, hiding the flood of memories beneath his calm facade.
"You will cast your first spell."
Mizar raised the wand, recalling every lesson Lycoris had ever taught him in whispers—the flick of the wrist, the roll of the fingers, the certainty in the voice.
"Expelliarmus!"
A spark leapt from the wand, a small burst of light racing towards Regulus. It fizzled harmlessly at his robes.
"Again," Regulus said, a hint of a smile breaking through.
Spell after spell, Mizar practiced—light charms, blocking spells, counter-jinxes—his small frame concentrating fiercely. Each attempt edged closer to power and control.
After nearly an hour, Regulus finally lowered his wand, eyes shining with approval.
"You have the fire, Mizar," he said softly. "But more than fire, you have the will to use it wisely. That is what will save you."
Mizar felt something he hadn't allowed himself before: hope.
Later, lying in bed beneath heavy blankets, Mizar stared at the ceiling. The room was silent except for the occasional crackle of the fire.
He thought of Sirius—the bright, fearless baby sleeping peacefully down the hall. The boy who would grow up to fight the darkness.
He thought of his mother, strong but vulnerable.
Of Regulus—his uncle, once destined to die, now strong because he chose to fight.
Of his uncle Arcturus, the backbone of the Black family.
Mizar was here now. He would not let the timeline unravel.
He had to protect them all.
But how?
He closed his eyes and whispered a promise to the stars beyond the window.
I will keep you safe. I will rewrite fate. I will be the shadow in the dark.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the careful mask of a six-year-old pretending to be normal, the spark of something greater began to burn.
Hammersmith, Warwickshire, West Midlands.
1964.
Mizar worked alone by candlelight in the library, tracing magical ley lines and recent Ministry records of known werewolves. His wand hovered over a chart pinned with red ink and golden thread—connecting sightings, disappearances, and Ministry interventions.
In the center of the tangled mess was a single name, circled three times: Greyback, Fenrir.
Mizar exhaled slowly.
He'd found the interview weeks ago—an obscure print in The Practical Defensive Magic Quarterly—where Lyall Lupin had, with brutal precision, declared that werewolves were "soulless, savage beasts" who did not deserve rights, only containment. The quote echoed in Mizar's head like a curse. Not because it was obviously wrong and extremely prejudiced—but because it would be remembered by the wrong person.
Fenrir Greyback didn't just remember. He hunted.
Mizar had tried tracing the exact moment he set his sights on the Lupins, but there was no obvious paper trail—only the certainty that, within the year, Remus Lupin would become the next of Greyback's twisted trophies.
Not this time.
He leaned forward and scribbled down a name and address, then carefully folded the parchment and slipped it into an envelope. It wasn't to Lyall Lupin—that wouldn't work. Any direct message would be dismissed as paranoia. Mizar knew men like Lyall: logical, respected, arrogant. It would take something undeniable to shift his path.
So the letter was sent to Hope Lupin, wife and mother. In it, Mizar used a tone of gentle warning, cloaked in empathy.
"You don't know me. You may never know who I am. But I know your son is in danger. There is a man who hunts children to make monsters of them. He is coming, not because of what you've done, but because of what your husband said. Protect your son on the next full moon. Lock the doors. Use iron if you have it. Keep lavender and vervain near his room. And whatever happens—do not invite anyone in, even if they sound like someone you know."
He added no name. No return address. Just a small rune pressed into the wax seal — a protective sigil rooted in ancient Egyptian magic. He hoped it would give her pause. Maybe even give her time.
He didn't warn the Ministry. He didn't try to expose Greyback. He had already learned that most attempts to stop him before the act would be ignored. After all, the wizarding world rarely acted on warnings. It only reacted to tragedy.
But if Hope believed—even for a night—she could save Remus.
That had to be enough.
The next morning Mizar joined his uncle Marwan and aunt Noor, trunk packed and boots laced for their journey to Egypt. His fingers lingered over a small warded pouch inside his satchel: protective stones, shielding talismans, and a black notebook full of names and dates.
He couldn't be everywhere. Not yet. But he could delay the nightmare.
Remus Lupin would still carry scars. But maybe, just maybe, this time he wouldn't get them at four years old.
Shafiq Estate, Faiyum, Faiyum Oasis.
The air shimmered gold over the oasis as the last light of day bent through the reeds. Evening came in soft and amber, gilding the sandstone walls of the Shafiq estate. Nestled in the fertile Faiyum basin, the ancestral home was older than most buildings in the Ministry of Magic, and far quieter. Magic didn't hum here—it breathed.
Mizar stood in the courtyard, sandals on warm mosaic tiles, a half-eaten fig in one hand and a book on Phoenician wandwork balanced in the other. The call to prayer rose faintly from the nearby Muggle village, and his owl, Tammuz, wheeled in the cooling sky.
The summer had been rich and instructive. Uncle Marwan and aunt Noor had brought him here every year since he turned seven, just as his grandparents had done for his late father and uncle. When he was younger, he would still come every summer but always accompanied by his mother, after his seventh birthday, Marwan convinced Lycoris to entrust her only child to him.
Though they all lived in England, Egypt was more than just a summer retreat. It was the root of their identity.
"Your magic will always remember the Nile," Marwan had said once.
Mizar believed him
This year, more than any before, he had stepped fully into his paternal side. He'd sat in on meetings with other prominent magical families from Egypt and even Morocco and Tunisia. He'd watched trade agreements sealed with wandtips in Libya, displayed the etiquette of North African magical councils his uncle had taught him, and walked the halls of ancient, unspoken power. And all the while, he was careful—always careful—to smile with childlike wonder, to ask thoughtful questions, to pretend he was a small heir on his way to becoming a Lord.
The Shafiqs were pureblood, their pride came from preservation. They were keepers of Grey magic. Neutral, ancient, deliberate.
This morning, however, Mizar wasn't thinking of prophecy or timelines or wars not yet begun. He was thinking of the future as any boy his age should—he was hoping the letter would come today.
And then it did.
The owl landed with silent grace on the balcony rail, feathers dusted with sand. Mizar froze, quill in mid-air.
It wore no badge, but he didn't need one.
He set the quill aside with shaking fingers and rose slowly to retrieve it.
The envelope was thick. Heavy. Wax seal crimson. Ink green. The letters unmistakably English.
Mr. M. Black-Shafiq
Northern Wing Bedroom
Shafiq Ancestral Estate
Faiyum, Faiyum Oasis, Egypt.
He stared at it for a heartbeat, his chest tightening. He'd waited so long—not for admission, but for this. For the moment the future began to move towards him again.
He cracked the seal.
"Dear Mr. Black-Shafiq,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…"
There were more words, but they blurred.
He let out a slow breath. It was real. It was happening.
Marwan found him minutes later on the balcony, the letter clutched in both hands.
"Well?" his uncle asked, voice already amused.
Mizar held it up, unable to stop the grin breaking over his face.
Marwan whooped and swept him into a hug. "We'll celebrate with pistachio qatayef and mint tea. Noor!"
Marwan took it, read it, and grinned. "Hogwarts. Merlin's bones. I remember the day mine came—your father nearly set the rug on fire trying to open his and bragged about getting to go before me."
"You'll do well there," Marwan said, appraising his nephew and future head of their clan. "You've always had that old soul look in your eyes. Like you've lived before."
Mizar gave a small, careful smile. "Maybe I have."
Marwan chuckled, mistaking the cryptic comment for a joke.
Aunt Noor arrived soon after, radiant in her red robes, her face lighting up as soon as she saw the letter in Mizar's hands. She kissed both his cheeks and pressed a hand over his heart.
"You've waited for this," she said quietly. "I can see it in your eyes."
"I did," Mizar whispered, careful not to say more.
They dined that night under the stars, the estate's courtyard transformed into a private oasis. Floating lanterns drifted above the date palms, and the tiled fountain sang in the background. Marwan conjured gentle sparklers in the shape of hippogriffs and fire lilies, and Noor blessed his trunk with traveling wards. She had always said he had old magic in him—and she was right, though not in the way she thought.
"We're leaving for England tomorrow?" Mizar asked over sweet cakes and fruit.
"Yes," Marwan said. "I promised Lycoris you'd be back by August. She'll want to take you to Diagon Alley herself."
Mizar smiled. "She's working double shifts at St Mungo's lately. She sent a letter saying they've had a dragonpox outbreak."
"Even so," Noor said, "she'll make time. She always does for you."
Mizar nodded, throat tight.
Lycoris Black, Mediwitch, storm-walker, and fierce mother, had carved a space for him in the world with blood and will alone. She had raised him with jewelled hands and a laugh like thunder, reading aloud from textbooks while treating spellburned patients, making up lullabies about when he had frequent nightmares.
And now he was leaving her for Hogwarts.
"You'll write her tonight?" Noor asked.
"Yes."
That evening, in his guest bedroom overlooking the southern wall, Mizar composed his letter by wandlight:
"Dear Mum,
It came.
I got my letter—just like you said I would. Uncle Marwan says we'll be back at Hammersmith by lunchtime tomorrow.
I miss you. I can't wait to see you.
Yours always,
—Mizar."
He folded the letter and sent Tammuz off into the night sky, the owl's pale wings catching the moonlight.
When he lay down to sleep, he stared up at the silk canopy and let himself feel it—what eleven should feel like. Excitement. Fear. Hope.
But beneath it all was that old steel certainty:
This time, he would do it right.
He would walk into Hogwarts not just as Mizar Black-Shafiq, but as the quiet storm meant to save them all.
Diagon Alley, Wizarding London.
The scent of parchment and polished wood mingled with the faint sweetness of sugar quills drifting from the nearby apothecary. Diagon Alley was bustling as always in late summer—families brushing shoulders, owls shrieking indignantly from their cages, school trunks wobbling behind distracted parents.
Mizar stood just outside Flourish and Blotts, a slim list of books clutched in one hand, and his mother's arm looped tightly through the other.
"Don't wander," Lycoris warned gently, though there was more amusement than reproach in her tone. "This crowd will carry you off if you let it."
"I wouldn't go far," Mizar murmured.
She glanced down at him—at the serious set of his jaw, the way his eyes already held a weight beyond his eleven years. Does he ever have fun? she wondered suddenly, a quiet ache blooming in her chest. Did I pass down too much of my own grief?
Inside Flourish and Blotts, the air was full of fluttering pages and hurried voices. Mizar slipped easily through the narrow aisles, selecting books with methodical precision: The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration.
He hesitated only once—his fingers brushing the spine of Curses and Counter-Curses by Vindictus Viridian.
Lycoris raised an eyebrow. "That's not on the list."
"No," he said, "but it could be useful."
"Useful how?" she asked, watching him carefully.
Mizar paused, as if weighing his words. "In case someone ever tries to hurt someone I love."
Her breath caught. That answer was both so simple and so heavy. She studied him for a long moment, then silently took the book from his hands and added it to the pile.
Outside, as they gathered their purchases, Lycoris couldn't help but ask, voice softer now, "Do you ever want to… just play? Run around and be like the other boys?"
Mizar shrugged, eyes fixed on the floating books. "I guess I like thinking better. Fighting is easier when you know the spells."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Maybe it's okay to not be like them. Just don't forget how to laugh."
He looked at her then, a small, tentative smile flickering. "I'll try."
They passed Ollivander's. "We'll save that for last," Lycoris said.
They moved on towards the apothecary. Inside, the air was rich with crushed herbs and copper. Mizar chose his brass scales with care, comparing weight and craftsmanship like he'd seen his Uncle Marwan do with goblin-made instruments in Egypt.
"Cauldrons next?" Lycoris asked, eyes narrowing slightly as she spotted a gaggle of loud, shoving boys in front of the cauldron shop. "Or do we brave the Menagerie first?"
"Cauldrons," Mizar said firmly. "We're not getting another kneazle. Phobos scratches me all the time."
"Phobos doesn't scratch me," Lycoris said, arching a brow.
"That's because he likes you better," Mizar muttered.
"He has taste," his mum smirked.
The cauldron shop smelled of soot and iron, the sharp tang of fire-brewed potions still clinging to the walls. Pewter, brass, and copper models gleamed in the lamplight. Mizar examined each as if they were puzzle boxes instead of cooking pots, running his fingers along their rims, checking for dents, imperfections, or even spells disguised as craftsmanship.
"Standard size two," Lycoris reminded him. "No matter how elegant that silver-rimmed model is."
Mizar gave a small, thoughtful nod and eventually selected a sturdy brass one with minimal embellishment. Practical. Balanced. It reminded him a little of his mother.
Once they'd arranged for it to be sent to their townhouse, Lycoris glanced up at the sun, narrowing her eyes against the light. "Wand next."
The single word changed something in Mizar's posture.
He said nothing, but his hand curled slightly, as if expecting to hold it already.
They walked back the way they'd come, past families with new pets in squeaking cages, past students already nibbling licorice wands and peppermint toads, and finally stepped beneath the sign that read Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The shop was quiet—too quiet after the chaos of the alley outside. Dust motes drifted like memory through the narrow beams of light that came from the high windows. Wands lined the shelves like rows of sleeping spells.
Garrick Ollivander emerged from the gloom like he'd always been there.
"Lycoris Black," he said softly, smiling with something like fondness. "I knew I'd see you again. And this… must be your son."
"Mizar," she confirmed.
Ollivander stepped forward, examining Mizar as if he were not a boy but a riddle. "Yes. I thought I felt something shift this morning."
The wand choosing began.
Boxes floated down as if summoned by thought. "Let's try something classic first," he murmured. "Ten inches, hawthorn and unicorn hair. Resilient. Steady."
Mizar took the wand and gave it a small flick.
A loud pop echoed from the back room. A drawer burst open, hurling spare wand polish in all directions.
Ollivander calmly took it back. "Not that."
Another. Eleven and a quarter, alder and phoenix feather. Too hot. It crackled at Mizar's fingertips like it wanted to burn its way out of his hand.
"No," he said.
A third. Nine and a half, willow and dragon heartstring. The wand shivered before he even touched it, then flung itself off the counter entirely.
"No again," said Ollivander, eyes now glittering with something sharper than amusement. "Very well."
He moved deeper into the shop. Dust stirred where no feet walked. Mizar waited, heart quick, breath tight.
Then the wandmaker returned—carrying a box unlike the others.
It was not plain.
It was lacquered, sealed with a green wax rune neither Mizar nor Lycoris had seen before. Ollivander handled it with reverence as he set it down.
"I don't usually offer this one," he said. "Not unless it asks."
He undid the seal. The lid hissed open like breath escaping from stone.
Inside lay a wand unlike any Mizar had seen.
It was carved entirely into the shape of a serpent—elegant, coiled, and sinuous. Its shaft wound in a spiral, the snake's head forming the tip, fangs bared, mouth half-open. The wood was deep brown, dark as dried blood in places, polished to a gleam. And along the snake's body were small green stones—malachites, Mizar realized—smooth and cool, nestled like scales catching starlight.
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Then Ollivander spoke, voice low and almost reverent. "Yew wood. Eleven inches. Core of kelpie heartstring. Unyielding. Temperamental. Protective. Ancient. The wandmaker who made it was my great-grandfather. It hasn't been chosen in nearly a hundred years."
Mizar didn't hesitate. He reached for it.
The moment his fingers closed around the wand, something shifted.
A hum—not a sound, but a feeling—curled around his spine. The hairs on his arms rose. The malachite flared faintly, and the carved snake seemed to settle into his grip, coiling into his fingers like it had been waiting.
A gust of wind shot through the shop, tugging parchment and stirring boxes from their rest. The flame of a single candle flared green, then snapped back to gold.
The wand had chosen.
Ollivander stared, eyes wide with something close to awe.
Lycoris stepped closer, and even she—Lycoris, who had walked through fire carrying and giving birth to her son—was silent.
Then the wandmaker let out a breath.
"Well," he said softly. "That wand will not suffer fools, nor will it lend its power lightly. But it has chosen with purpose."
Mizar looked down at it—the cool gleam of malachite shined like a promise.
"I know," he whispered.
Lycoris said nothing for a long moment.
Then, quietly, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "It suits you."
Ollivander nodded. "It will be a wand of protection, but also vengeance. Of legacy. It remembers what came before. And what is still to come."
Mizar met his gaze evenly. "So do I."
They left the shop in silence, the new wand tucked safely in its velvet-lined box.
But in Mizar's hand, the phantom feel of it remained.
Alive.
Waiting.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scottish Highlands.
The Great Hall buzzed with whispered excitement and the faint crackle of magic in the air. Candles floated overhead, their flames flickering gently as if breathing alongside the students below. The enchanted ceiling stretched wide, mirroring the dusky sky beyond, where twilight bled slowly into night.
Mizar stood among the first years, his robes feeling unfamiliar, heavy with expectation. Around him, new students fidgeted nervously, casting anxious glances towards the towering four House tables. His eyes drifted to the Slytherin table, where Bellatrix sat—her dark curly hair cascading over one shoulder, a predatory gleam in her sharp eyes. She smiled with bared teeth, an expression that made Mizar's heart tighten.
Beside him, Andromeda, Bellatrix's younger sister and Mizar's cousin, stood quietly, her calm presence like a tether. "Remember," she whispered softly, "we're family. No matter what."
Mizar nodded but kept his gaze on Bellatrix, whose reputation loomed large even here—already weaving her place in the house.
The Sorting Hat sat patiently on its stool, a silent judge awaiting each new mind.
Names were called, students stepped forward, the hall alive with murmurs and anticipation. Then, the moment came. "Black-Shafiq, Mizar."
A hush fell.
He moved forward, each step echoing in the cavernous hall. When he reached the stool, the Hat was lowered onto his head. The leather was cool and soft, folding around him like a second skin.
The Hat's voice echoed inside his mind, calm but probing.
"Well, well. A Black and a Shafiq. Ambition and cunning swirl in your veins. Your father and uncle—last Shafiqs I saw—were Ravenclaws, sharp and clever. But you… you carry something darker. A hunger not just for knowledge, but for power, for protection."
The words stirred a memory deep inside him.
In another life, another timeline, when he was Harry Potter, the Sorting Hat had whispered softly in his mind, "You'd do well in Slytherin."
He had laughed then, a youthful defiance shining through the uncertainty.
But here and now, the choice felt heavier.
The Hat hesitated a moment longer, then declared, "Slytherin!"
Applause rose quietly from the emerald table. Bellatrix's smile deepened, a spark of approval lighting her eyes.
Mizar pulled off the Hat, feeling the weight of its verdict settle around him like a mantle. He walked towards the Slytherin table, each step a quiet acceptance of what was to come.
Andromeda followed closely, her gaze steady.
Bellatrix leaned in as he took his seat, her voice a low whisper, "Welcome home."
Mizar's thoughts lingered on that other Sorting, that other life—a reminder that destiny is never fixed, only shaped by choices yet to be made.
From just behind his cousin, a tall, pale boy with sharp features and slicked-back hair leaned forward with a smirk. Augustus Rookwood, one of Bellatrix's classmates, studied Mizar with a cool, calculating look.
"I thought you'd be a Ravenclaw like all the Shafiqs," Augustus said, his tone teasing but edged with genuine surprise.
Mizar stiffened, feeling the weight of the expectation behind the name.
Bellatrix's eyes narrowed, and she leaned back slightly, voice dripping with icy confidence. "The Black blood runs deeper than any Shafiq cleverness," she said smoothly. "Don't mistake lineage for loyalty. Mizar's no Ravenclaw."
Augustus chuckled softly, nodding. "I suppose Slytherin needs more like him."
Bellatrix's lips curled into a dark smile. "We always do."
The hall buzzed with whispered speculation, but Mizar kept his gaze steady. He was no longer just a boy stepping into the unknown—he was part of a legacy, tangled in blood and ambition, ready to carve his own path.
As he settled beside Bellatrix and Andromeda, the flicker of a challenge lit in his chest.
This was only the beginning.