The frost had begun to melt along the edges of the Black Lake, but the sky above Hogwarts still held the brittle light of winter. Snow clung to the tops of the towers like aging lace, and the scent of parchment and damp stone drifted through the hallways—a smell that only ever belonged to January, to new beginnings disguised as endings.
Mizar stood at the top of the Astronomy Tower, scarf whipping in the wind, looking down at the castle that had shaped and witnessed more of him than most people ever would. Below, the Quidditch pitch was half-frozen. The Forbidden Forest curled dark and silent in the distance. In a few months, it would all be memory.
He didn't feel nostalgic. Not yet. He just felt… sharpened.
A familiar voice floated up behind him.
"If you're planning to throw yourself off, at least let me get a good angle. I can sell the memory to Rita Skeeter's mother."
Mizar turned, smirking. "Good morning to you too, Callista."
She stepped up beside him, her cheeks pink from the wind were framed by her curls. Her robes were pressed—but her earrings were tiny gold coiled serpents, glinting in the light.
"I saw Filch muttering about the east wing again," she said. "Said someone hexed the suits of armour to sing Celestina Warbeck whenever anyone sneezes."
Mizar didn't blink. "Omar."
Callista raised a brow. "You're sure?"
"Because he told me. Five minutes ago. While laughing so hard he choked on his toast."
Callista snorted. "It's almost poetic. Our final term. Final chance to outsmart the system."
"You say that like we haven't already."
"We've outlived it," she said. "That's different."
A pause.
Mizar asked, "Do you think we'll miss it?"
"No," she said, too quickly. Then added, softer: "But I think we'll remember it more than we admit."
Down in the courtyard, two third years were trying to turn each other's shoes into puffskeins. One of them succeeded. The other turned hers into a live chicken that promptly ran to the greenhouses.
Andromeda arrived ten minutes later, her cloak swirling like a cape, wind catching the edges of her skirt. She looked like she'd already threatened a first-year before breakfast.
"You're both up early," she said, joining them at the railing. "Plotting or mourning?"
"Both," Callista replied.
Mizar shrugged. "She's mourning the idea of missing me."
Andromeda raised a brow. "You'll be unbearable in the real world."
"More than usual?" Callista asked.
"Uncontainable," Andromeda said.
They stood in silence for a moment, the three of them framed by wind and stone, looking out over the castle grounds.
Then came the unmistakable sound of Omar's voice shouting from below.
"THERE'S A CHICKEN IN GREENHOUSE THREE!"
They leaned over the railing.
Omar was standing next to a very confused Professor Sprout, gesturing wildly. His Slytherin robes flapped behind him like a storybook prince's worst laundry day.
"I didn't do it!" he was insisting. "But if I had, I'd have picked a flamingo. Chickens are derivative."
Andromeda straightened. "I'm going to kill him."
Callista smiled. "Not before I get his notes for History of Magic."
Mizar laughed under his breath.
The hallway leading towards the east staircases had always been quieter than most—just beyond the reach of the Great Hall, not close enough to the library for it to be crowded before lessons. Still, it surprised Mizar to find it nearly empty as he turned the corner, his satchel slung lazily over one shoulder.
And then he heard it—the soft, rhythmic tap of a wandcane against flagstones.
He didn't need to look. He knew the sound.
Magnolia.
She rounded the far corner, as she always did—shoulders square, pace measured, hair neatly tucked underneath a navy silk headscarf. Her robes were sharp, her Mary Jane's were polished, and her wandcane caught in a beam of sunlight like a blade. She walked like someone used to enduring pain with silence, and confronting the world on her own terms.
Mizar slowed. Just slightly.
So did she.
They met in the middle of the corridor, and she didn't blink when she said, "You're walking slower than usual. Overslept or brooding?"
He smirked faintly. "You noticed."
"I notice many things." Her tone was crisp, but not unkind.
They walked in step without discussing it, the Arithmancy classroom still several turns ahead.
"Did you enjoy the rest of the holidays?" he asked mildly.
"My mums did." She paused. "We did a tour of the Loire for a week to celebrate the new year. History, family, matching scarves. The usual. You?"
"Managed to avoid all major political incidents." Mizar's smile twitched. ""Though only just. We had dinner with my uncle Arcturus last night and he called half the Wizengamot 'brainless turnips' over lamb."
Her mouth almost curled. "So… a success."
"On paper." He tilted his head. "Which city did you fancy the most? I quite liked Nantes the last time Mum and I visited, but I preferred the quaintness of Amboise."
"Orléans," she said immediately. "We visited the Muggle side of town. The story of the siege—," she hesitated, almost catching herself. "Forget it. Not that you would know about it."
He glanced over, amused. "You think I don't know about Joan of Arc?"
That startled her more than she let on.
"I'm a pureblood," he added, "not a dunce. And I also know that Amboise was where Da Vinci spent his last years. Château du Clos Lucé, right?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Most purebloods wouldn't bother."
"I'm not most purebloods."
She didn't argue with that.
Magnolia slowed just a little more, then reached into the inner pocket of her robes and held out a small black velvet pouch. "By the way."
He accepted it automatically, the drawstring soft between his fingers. "What's this?"
"A thank you." Her voice lowered slightly. "For the gift."
He glanced at her, but her eyes stayed forward.
Mizar had sent it anonymously, of course—a wrapped box left in her dormitory on the last day before the train. Silver ear cuffs shaped like delicate vines and tiny constellations, charmed to adjust perfectly to her ear. One had a small pearl. The other, a silver drop carved like a mango seed.
"You weren't supposed to know it was from me," he said.
"Please." Magnolia gave him a sideways glance. "The mango gave you away."
He snorted. "Should've gone with something vague and floral."
"Then I wouldn't have liked it." She paused. "But I do. Very much."
There was something quiet in her voice, a shift just beneath her usual armour.
He took it. "Should I open it now?"
"You can. Or wait but don't lose it."
He loosened the pouch, glanced inside. It was a pin—brass, delicately forged into the shape of a falcon mid-dive. Its wings swept back with elegant ferocity, and etched on its underside there were three runes: Algiz, Raidō and Wunjo.
"For your cloak," Magnolia said, too quickly. "It's spelled to repel minor hexes. Subtle enough not to break dress code."
Mizar blinked. "You made this."
"I repurposed it." She adjusted the strap on her wandcane, expression unreadable. "You get me perfume. I get you defense."
He looked down at the pin again. Then back at her.
"I think we have very different definitions of sentiment."
"No," she said, finally meeting his eyes. "I think we just show it differently."
"Then put it on me," he said, voice low.
Her brows lifted. "Now?"
"Now."
Magnolia hesitated, just enough to be noticed, then extended the pin towards him. "Hold this," she said, and handed over her wandcane. Her fingers brushed his as she passed it off.
He took it carefully, adjusting the weight in his hand. It was heavier than it looked—elegant, yes, but built with purpose. Like her.
She stepped in close. Even standing straight, she barely reached his collarbone. At 5'7, Magnolia was taller than most girls at school—not tall enough to command a room like the Black sisters but enough to look level into most faces. But next to Mizar, who stood just shy of 6'6, she had to rise onto her toes to reach the clasp of his cloak.
"I should've brought a ladder," she muttered.
"You could've just said thank you," he replied, almost smiling.
"I am," she said, unpinning his clasp with precise fingers. "With runes and brass. That's more meaningful than words."
Her gloves brushed the fabric of his robes, steady and practiced, until she found the right place just beneath his collarbone and fastened the falcon pin with a soft click. She smoothed the fabric once, her hand lingering a fraction longer than necessary.
"There," she said, taking a step back.
He looked down at it. Then at her.
Their eyes met—and something unspoken but not unnoticed passed between them.
She stepped back, shoulders straightening. "It'll hold through most minor hexes. Especially if they're petty and emotional."
"So anything cast by someone who's ever spoken to me."
"Exactly." She rolled her eyes, but her expression softened. "Don't lose it."
"I won't." His hand hovered briefly over the pin. "I like it. It's… fierce."
"Good," she said quietly. "So are you. On occasion."
"You know," he added, after a beat, "if I'd known a mango seed would give me away, I'd have gone with durian. Real sabotage."
Magnolia wrinkled her nose. "You would've lost your ears."
He grinned. "Worth it."
They walked the remaining length of the corridor in step, the silence comfortable now, almost companionable. Just before they reached the classroom, he looked down at her again.
"You really did like the cuffs?"
"I wear them," she replied, not looking at him. "That's proof enough."
They reached the Arithmancy corridor. The classroom door was already open, light spilling out over the threshold.
Callista was inside, naturally—already seated, sleeves rolled, parchment neatly aligned. She looked up the moment they appeared, eyes flicking from Mizar to Magnolia with a lift of one brow and nothing more.
"You're late," she said.
"I know," Mizar replied, sliding into the seat beside her.
Magnolia took the one behind him. The silence that followed was measured, but not uncomfortable.
Professor Vector swept in seconds later, her robes crisp and her eyes sharp behind thin spectacles.
"Wands away," she said by way of greeting. "Quills out. This term begins with celestial harmonics and runic drift. If you're still mentally on holiday on a beach somewhere, I suggest you disembark immediately."
Mizar reached for his quill. Magnolia's wandcane clicked softly against her desk as she adjusted her seat.
The final term of Hogwarts had begun.
And it wasn't going to be quiet.
Two hours later the door to the Arithmancy classroom swung open with a soft creak as students began filing out, parchment tucked under arms, ink-stained fingers adjusting cloaks. Callista flipped her notes closed with a snap, and Magnolia walked just her, her wandcane tapping in steady rhythm as always. Mizar let the girls go first and flanked their rear.
"That was unnecessarily brutal for a first lesson," Callista muttered, tucking her curls behind one ear.
"She gave us the same thing third year," Mizar said. "We've just forgotten how awful it is because we've had time to suffer worse."
"Don't remind me." Magnolia rubbed her temple. "I still have runic drift buzzing in my skull."
They were halfway down the corridor, almost to the staircase landing, when raised voices echoed around the corner—sharp, splintered, unmistakably tense.
Mizar's pace slowed. "That sounds like…"
"Malfoy," Callista said at once.
"And Longbottom," Magnolia added, already veering towards the noise.
They rounded the corner just in time to see Frank Longbottom and Lucius Malfoy squared off in front of the tall windows, light casting long, knife-edged shadows behind them. A handful of students had frozen nearby, watching with the sort of rapt attention people reserved for broom crashes or duels.
"I said, you don't talk about her," Frank growled. His wand was already in hand, knuckles white.
Lucius stood with his usual posture of infuriating elegance—one hand gloved, the other idly adjusting the cuff of his sleeve like none of this deserved his full attention. But his smirk was razor-thin.
"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," Lucius replied calmly. "Your little Gryffindor slag is a gold digger, isn't she?"
Callista cursed under her breath. Magnolia stepped forward without hesitation.
"Enough."
Lucius turned his head slowly. His expression didn't change, but his tone dropped to a glacial drawl. "Head Girl. I wasn't aware we needed a chaperone."
"Lower your wand, Longbottom," Magnolia ordered, her tone flat but commanding. "Now."
Frank didn't move for a heartbeat—but then, slowly, reluctantly, he stepped away.
"That's not enough," she added. "Put it away."
Frank shoved the wand into his pocket, still glaring. "He insulted Alice."
"Then take it to McGonagall. Or Dumbledore. Or anyone not currently trying to hex someone in a school hallway," Magnolia said, eyes flashing.
"And what will they do?" Lucius said, folding his arms. "Offer him a medal for chivalry and send me to detention?"
"Then allow me to educate you," Magnolia said, her voice cutting clear and steady. "This is your final warning, Malfoy. I don't care who your father is or how many galleons your vault has. You threaten another student, or provoke a duel in these halls, and I will make sure you lose every single Hogsmeade weekend for the rest of the year."
Lucius's jaw twitched—just a fraction. "You can't—"
"I can," she interrupted. "And I will. If you'd like a demonstration, keep talking."
Frank didn't calm down. "He's been baiting her all week. Ever since Alice corrected him in Defence."
"And now he's trying to prove he's still superior," Mizar muttered. "Poor form, even for you, Lucius."
Magnolia didn't look away from Malfoy. "Calm down, Frank. I won't repeat myself."
Frank hesitated, still breathing hard—then finally retreated. "He's lucky you got here first."
For a long, tense moment, none of them moved.
Then Lucius tilted his head, voice silk and venom. "Your authority is temporary. Blood is not."
"And yet," Magnolia said coolly, "it's always the ones who talk most about blood who bleed easiest when challenged."
That earned a short, surprised laugh from someone behind them.
Then he turned, slow and theatrical, and swept down the corridor with a flourish of his cloak, ignoring the gawking students. "This school is crawling with mediocrity," he murmured to no one in particular as he passed. "No wonder it's falling apart."
"Do you think if I hexed his laces together, anyone would really tell?" Callista said under her breath.
Mizar crossed his arms, watching Malfoy disappear around the bend. "Only if you failed at it."
Frank exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. "Thanks."
"I'm not finished," Magnolia said, turning on him now. "You don't get to draw a wand on a student in the middle of the day, no matter how personal it feels. You're lucky it was me and not McGonagall who saw it."
Frank nodded stiffly. "Understood."
"Do you think he'll try it again?" Mizar asked quietly.
She gave a short nod. "Yes. But next time, I won't just warn him."
And with that, she turned and walked back to class—each tap of her cane against the stone like a countdown.
Later, in the quiet of the library's upper floor, with the sun low and winter light pooled golden on ancient pages, Mizar sat alone in the back alcove with a half-written essay and no intention of finishing it.
He wasn't thinking about Arithmancy.
He was thinking about the ring.
About the cursed house on the hill in Little Hangleton where Marvolo Gaunt's ring with the Resurrection Stone was still hidden, pulsing dark and hateful with the piece of Voldemort's soul trapped inside it.
He should've gone over the holidays. Should've taken the chance while the castle was quiet, while the Ministry was distracted and the days short.
But he hadn't.
Because Sirius and Reggie had stayed with him, and he wasn't about to leave them alone. Not again.
And then he found out about Marius and Mary had her magical outburst, shaking the walls of their family. He was now about to become her godfather once summer came around and they could officialize it at the Ministry. The Black family would certainly object to it but he didn't care. He knew his mum would support him even if it hurt her that he hadn't told her right away.
And then there'd been the Macnair debt but settling that had meant steering one Death Eater away from her future. Now Ianthe had a different path and wouldn't become the woman he had met in his old timeline.
Nevertheless, once he graduated—once he walked out of this castle for the last time as a student—he would go to Little Hangleton. Alone. With every protection he knew and none of the hesitation he felt now.
He would destroy the Horcrux. Shatter it beyond magical recognition.
And then—he would take the Resurrection Stone.
Not for power. Not for immortality.
But because he needed to understand it. Because it was one of the Hallows, and Tom Riddle had known what it was and still twisted it into something corrupted. Because Mizar needed to know what it could show. What it could teach. What it might take.
He let out a slow breath, fingers tightening around his quill.
And after that?
He was considering coming back.
To Hogwarts.
To teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.
A dozen reasons told him not to. The position was cursed—everyone knew that. Ever since Tom Riddle had been turned away from it, the job had become a revolving door of misfortune and magical instability.
Mizar knew curses though. More importantly, he knew how to break them.
And if he could—
Then he could stay.
Stay to protect Sirius and James and Remus and even Peter although he would have to contain himself from killing the little rat the moment he saw him. They would be starting at Hogwarts that September, all wide-eyed and reckless and ready to take on the world.
Stay for Reggie, who would arrive two years later, too small for the weight already on his shoulders.
Stay for what mattered. For the people who still needed someone watching the shadows.
He didn't want glory.
He wanted to make sure they made it through.
Then a light went on in his head. His uncle Marwan.
He had the habit of sending books upon books to Mizar at Hogwarts—most gotten through Noor's mother who harvested massive collections of rare and old grimoires from the Maghreb and the Middle East.
Mizar stood abruptly, the bench scraping the stone floor behind him. Madam Pince glanced up from her desk, narrowed her eyes, and opened her mouth to warn him about noise, but he was already moving, tucking his essay and ink bottle into his satchel with automatic grace.
The dormitory would be empty right now—everyone down at dinner. He could check the pile without questions or eyes. Without anyone seeing the moment he found it.
Because he knew, now.
This wasn't going to be a vague dream anymore. This was going to happen.
He would go to Little Hangleton after graduation. He would destroy the ring.
And then he would take the Resurrection Stone,
And if he found the right text—the right magic—then the DADA position would no longer be cursed.
He could claim it. Remake it.
Maybe Hogwarts didn't need a hero.
But it might need him.
The stack of books his uncle had sent leaned precariously by his trunk, titles pressed together like secrets trying to suffocate each other. He lit a single floating candle and pulled the first one free: The Brazen Spire: Sealed Magics of the Andalusi Diaspora, by Samira El-Hammani, a polymath cursebreaker said to have disarmed thirty-seven hexes using poetry alone. The pages were dense, the margins crowded with annotations in Andalusi Arabic and fractured French. One chapter detailed the weaving of silence into stone; another described how certain bloodlines, when anointed with opal oil and prepared with precise incantations, could resist spells of madness. Beautifully written, fiercely intelligent—but not what he needed.
The next was The Merging Veil, attributed to Heliodora Skye, who had vanished mid-lecture at Mahoutokoro and was rumored to have walked into another dimension. This one was less book and more collision: theories of magical entanglement, curses folded through space, stories of a failed ritual that fused a manor with a basilisk and resulted in the creature being granted sovereignty. Fascinating, yes. But no use.
Next came The Tongue of the First Flame, a treatise on proto-wizardry by Khoury al-Rashid, a scholar who claimed to have once argued philosophy with a sandstorm. It was all raw magical theory, heavy on language, light on practicality. Al-Rashid described magic as intention given breath, and some passages suggested that true curse-breaking required the unmaking of language itself—reversing the harm word by word. One ritual involved burning a ribbon of truth in a silver bowl while exhaling with "a lunar breath." Brilliant. Useless.
The candle burned low. He replaced it automatically, barely noticing. Page after page, spell after spell, legacy after legacy. He read of Zainab the Brave, who drank her own spell to dissolve a prison of thought. Of Gregor the Kind, who survived twelve fatal hexes and wrote only about the ones that didn't kill him.
And still, nothing.
Nothing on curses tied to pride and vengeance. Nothing about unraveling a spell sewn into a place, not a person. Nothing that could explain how to sever the DADA post from the spite of a boy who would become a monster.
Mizar leaned back, eyes aching, jaw clenched. The light trembled in the air like the room was holding its breath. Somewhere in this stack, he thought, running a thumb over a cracked leather cover, it was waiting. The right book. The real one. He would find it, even if it meant turning every page in the world.