Poles of Darkness

The morning of September 1st dawned crisp and clear, the first rays of sunlight filtering through the heavy drapes of Polaris’s bedroom. He awoke with a start, a mixture of excitement and nervousness swirling in his chest. Today was the day. Today, he would leave Grimmauld Place for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Polaris dressed quickly, his movements precise, his mind occupied with thoughts of the journey ahead. His Hogwarts robes hung neatly on a stand by the bed, and he donned them with care, making sure each fold was perfectly aligned, every button fastened just so. The robes were heavy and warm, a comforting weight on his slender shoulders.

He paused at the door, taking a deep breath, before making his way down the grand staircase to the dining room, where Kreacher was waiting with breakfast. The table was set with an array of dishes, but Polaris’s appetite was dulled by the butterflies in his stomach. He picked at a piece of toast, his thoughts already on the train ride to Hogwarts.

When he had eaten as much as he could manage, Kreacher led him back upstairs to where his trunk sat waiting. The dark wood gleamed in the morning light, the Black family crest intricately carved into the lid. Nyx, his new kitten, was curled up on top, her yellow eyes half-closed in contentment.

“Is young master ready?” Kreacher asked, his voice low and reverent, his large eyes filled with a mixture of pride and sadness.

Polaris nodded, feeling a lump rise in his throat. “I am, Kreacher.”

The house-elf hesitated for a moment, then reached out with a trembling hand to adjust Polaris’s collar. “Young master looks every inch the heir of the House of Black,” Kreacher murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Kreacher is so proud. Kreacher wishes young master the best at Hogwarts.”

Polaris swallowed hard, trying to suppress the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. “Thank you, Kreacher. For everything.”

With a final nod, Kreacher led Polaris to the portrait of Walburga Black, which had been placed in the hallway for the occasion. The stern face of his grandmother watched him with keen eyes, her expression as severe as ever, but Polaris thought he saw a flicker of something softer in her gaze.

“Goodbye, Grandmother,” Polaris said, his voice steady. “I will make you proud.”

Walburga’s painted lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “I expect nothing less, Polaris. Remember who you are, and uphold the honour of the Black family. Slytherin is your destiny—do not forget it.”

“I won’t, Grandmother,” Polaris promised.

With that, Kreacher took hold of Polaris’s arm, and with a crack, they disapparated from Grimmauld Place, the gloomy walls and heavy curtains vanishing in an instant. They reappeared moments later on a bustling platform filled with witches and wizards, children and parents, all milling about with trunks and pets in tow. The sign overhead read Platform 9¾.

Polaris’s heart raced as he took in the sight of the gleaming scarlet train that stood on the tracks, steam billowing from its engine. The Hogwarts Express. This was it—the beginning of his new life.

Kreacher set down Polaris’s trunk and turned to him, his expression uncharacteristically solemn. “This is where Kreacher leaves young master,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Kreacher will return to Grimmauld Place and keep it ready for when young master comes home for the holidays.”

Polaris felt a pang of sadness at the thought of leaving Kreacher behind. The house-elf had been his only companion, his protector, and his guide. “Thank you, Kreacher,” he said quietly. “For finding me, for everything you’ve done. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Kreacher’s eyes glistened, but he quickly blinked away the tears. “Kreacher was honoured to serve young master,” he croaked. “But young master must not dwell on the past. Young master has a great future ahead. Remember who you are, and make the House of Black proud.”

Polaris nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I will, Kreacher. I promise.”

With a final nod, Kreacher disapparated, leaving Polaris standing alone on the platform. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and then began to drag his trunk toward the nearest carriage. The weight of it was reassuring, a reminder of the legacy he carried with him.

As he moved down the corridor of the train, peering into compartments filled with laughing students, he wondered where he would sit. Most of the compartments were full or nearly so, and he wasn’t quite sure where he would fit in. He passed by a few that were filled with boisterous groups, and others with younger students who looked equally lost.

Finally, he came to a compartment with only one other occupant, a boy about his age who sat by the window, gazing out at the platform with an air of cool detachment. He was strikingly handsome, with skin the colour of deep mahogany, smooth and unblemished, as if it had been polished to a shine. His features were sharp and elegant—high cheekbones that gave him a regal bearing, a jawline that seemed chiselled from stone, and a straight, noble nose. His almond-shaped eyes were dark and intense, framed by thick, curled lashes that added to his air of mystery. His lips were full and perfectly shaped, exuding a quiet confidence. His hair was a mass of tight, black close-cropped curls that framed his face, giving him a slightly tousled, yet effortlessly stylish appearance.

Polaris paused at the door, feeling a sudden surge of nervousness. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice more tentative than he intended. “Is this seat taken?”

The boy turned his gaze from the window to Polaris, his expression unreadable. For a moment, there was silence as he seemed to assess Polaris, his dark eyes sweeping over him with a look of mild curiosity.

Then, the boy’s lips curved into a faint, almost amused smile. “Not at all,” he replied, his voice smooth, with a distinct Italian accent. “Please, sit.”

Polaris returned the smile, though his nerves still fluttered in his chest. He dragged his trunk into the compartment, struggling a bit with its weight, and then settled it on the overhead rack with some difficulty. Once he had managed to stow his belongings, he took the seat opposite the boy, smoothing his robes as he did so.

“Thank you,” Polaris said, trying to appear as composed as possible. “I’m Polaris. Polaris Black.”

The boy’s eyebrows shot up slightly at the name, a spark of recognition in his eyes. “Black?” he repeated, his tone one of mild surprise. “As in the Black family?”

Polaris nodded, extending his hand in greeting. “Yes. That’s right.”

The other boy hesitated for just a fraction of a second before taking Polaris’s hand. His grip was firm, his touch warm. Polaris couldn’t help but notice how different the boy’s hands were from his own. They were darker, the skin a deep, rich mahogany, smooth and unblemished. His fingers were long and elegant, with well-manicured nails that spoke of a life far removed from the hardships of a mudblood. Polaris felt a strange sense of relief—this boy was clearly of good breeding, someone who could potentially be his first friend at Hogwarts.

The boy released Polaris’s hand and offered a small, polite smile. “I’m Blaise Zabini,” he said, his accent giving his name a musical lilt.

Polaris returned the smile, though inwardly he was already turning the name over in his mind. Zabini—it wasn’t a name he recognized, but it certainly sounded foreign, exotic even. He made a mental note to ask Kreacher about it later.

“Zabini,” Polaris repeated, as if testing the sound of it on his tongue. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Blaise.”

Blaise’s smile widened slightly, a hint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Likewise, Polaris. I have to admit, I didn’t expect to meet a Black on the train. I thought there weren’t any left apart from Cygnus Black and…” He trailed off, his expression shifting slightly as he hesitated to mention the name. “And Sirius Black, of course.”

Polaris’s expression remained carefully neutral, though the mention of Sirius sent a small jolt through him. He had heard the accursed name Sirius Black mentioned several times before, of course—his infamous bloodtraitor uncle who had been imprisoned in Azkaban for supposedly betraying his friends and causing their deaths. Kreacher and Grandmother had cursed Sirius for running away from their family, betraying the very meaning of what it was to be a Black, consorting with those below his status as a pureblood. But that was not a subject he wished to discuss, especially not with someone he had just met.

Blaise seemed to sense Polaris’s guardedness and smoothly changed the subject. “So, tell me more about your parents, then. Before meeting you, I didn’t know there was a Black heir. Mother mentioned that the line would die out with Sirius or his uncle.”

Polaris hesitated, weighing his words carefully. “My father was Regulus Black,” he said slowly, “and my mother was Ariadne Wilkes. They died when I was very young, and I was raised by my grandmother, Walburga Black, until she passed away. After that, a family friend took care of me and kept me away from the public eye.”

It wasn’t a complete lie—Walburga had been his guardian, in a manner of speaking, even if only as a portrait. And the details about his parents were technically true, even if the full story was far more complicated. But Polaris knew better than to reveal too much, especially to someone he had just met.

Blaise gave him a sympathetic look. “That must have been hard, losing both your parents so young. But it sounds like you’ve been well taken care of.”

Polaris nodded, though he kept his expression neutral. He wasn’t about to mention that he had been raised by a cranky, slightly insane house-elf who was fiercely loyal to the Black family. Blaise seemed like a perfectly nice boy, but any information that Polaris gave away could be used against him. His grandmother had insisted that he understand this—that trust was something to be earned, not given freely, whilst information was a weapon that could only be used against him. This warning echoed in his mind even now. And while Blaise might seem like a potential friend, Polaris wasn’t about to tell him everything, not until he was sure he could be trusted.

Blaise seemed to accept this explanation with a nod, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes, as if he were filing the information away for later. “I see,” he said slowly. “Well, it’s good to know there are still Blacks at Hogwarts. Your family has a long and distinguished history.”

Polaris inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, though he kept his expression neutral. “Thank you. I intend to live up to that history.”

There was a brief silence between them, a moment of mutual assessment. Polaris could feel Blaise’s gaze on him, appraising, but not unfriendly. He could tell that Blaise was someone who valued appearances, someone who understood the importance of status and lineage. It was a relief, in a way—Polaris had been worried about how he would be received at Hogwarts, but if this boy was any indication, there were still those who respected the old families, who understood the importance of tradition.

After a moment, Blaise broke the silence with a smile. “So, Polaris, where do you hope to be sorted? If you’re anything like the rest of your family, I suppose Slytherin is the obvious choice.”

Polaris felt a rush of relief at the question. Blaise’s words suggested that he had already made some assumptions about him, assumptions that Polaris was happy to let stand. “Yes,” he said, returning the smile. “Slytherin is definitely my first choice. It’s where my father was, and his parents before him. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

Blaise’s smile broadened, a genuine warmth in his expression. “Good. My mother says it’s the only house that truly understands the importance of power and ambition, although she says that Ravenclaw wouldn't be bad either, particularly considering that their image is sightly less toxic than that of Slytherin's these days. Mother says that it may be prudent to be an Eagle, in order to avoid unwanted attention from the Headmaster and others, who might suspect you of certain nefarious activities otherwise. However, the simple truth is that there is still the odd mudblood or two in Ravenclaw, whilst Slytherin has held strong, she says. Slytherin is pure.”

Polaris nodded, feeling a sense of camaraderie with the other boy. “Your mother sounds like a wise woman.”

Blaise chuckled, a low, rich sound that was strangely comforting. “She is. She’s the Italian ambassador to the British Ministry of Magic, actually. That’s why I’m here at Hogwarts. My father was an African-American hit wizard—he trained on the professional circuit. I’m an only child, though my mother’s been married seven times in total.”

Polaris blinked, caught off guard by the casual way Blaise mentioned his mother’s numerous marriages. “Seven times?”

Blaise’s grin turned slightly cheeky. “Yes, seven. My father was number five. All of her husbands have died… mysterious deaths, you might say.”

Polaris felt a cold shiver run down his spine, his mind racing as he processed this information. “And… and your father?”

Blaise shrugged, his expression turning thoughtful. “He was killed by a stray curse during training. I don’t think my mother had anything to do with it, though. She actually had a child with him, after all.”

Polaris felt a mix of horror and fascination at Blaise’s casual tone. The idea of someone being married so many times, with each husband meeting a mysterious end, was both unsettling and intriguing. It was like something out of a dark fairy tale, and yet Blaise seemed entirely unfazed by it.

Blaise seemed to sense Polaris’s discomfort, and with a grin, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, rectangular object. “Here, have a look at this,” he said, handing it to Polaris.

Polaris took the object and realized it was a Chocolate Frog card, the kind that came with the famous wizarding sweets. As with the usual depiction of a famous witch or wizard, this card featured a stunning woman with dark, flowing hair, slightly tanned skin and striking features. Her eyes were a deep, smouldering brown, and her lips were painted a bold red. She was dressed in elegant, form-fitting robes that emphasized her hourglass figure, and there was a dangerous, almost predatory gleam in her eyes.

Underneath it was a brief description:

Chiara Zabini: A renowned beauty and femme fatale, Chiara Zabini is the Italian ambassador to the British Ministry of Magic. Known for her charm, intelligence, and mysterious allure, she has been married seven times, each husband meeting a tragic and untimely end. Despite the rumours that surround her, Chiara Zabini remains a respected figure in the wizarding world, admired for her political acumen and her unerring ability to navigate the treacherous waters of international diplomacy.

Polaris stared at the card, a mixture of awe and unease swirling in his chest. The woman on the card was undeniably beautiful, but there was something about her that sent a shiver down his spine. The description only added to the mystique—femme fatale, seven husbands, tragic and untimely ends for each of them. It was like something out of a gothic novel.

“She’s… she’s very striking,” Polaris said, his voice a bit shaky as he handed the card back to Blaise.

Blaise took the card with a grin, tucking it back into his pocket. “She is, isn’t she? She always says it’s important to make an impression, and she certainly does that.”

Polaris nodded, though his mind was still reeling from the image of the woman on the card. “I can see that. She sounds like someone who’s not to be underestimated.”

“Exactly,” Blaise agreed, leaning back in his seat with a satisfied smile. “She’s taught me a lot about how to survive in the wizarding world. You’ve got to be smart, play your cards right, and never let anyone know what you’re really thinking.”

Polaris felt a flash of kinship with Blaise. His grandmother had given him similar advice—never show your hand, never reveal more than you have to. Perhaps this boy understood more than Polaris had initially thought. But still, he knew better than to let his guard down completely, even now. Perhaps when Blaise and others proved themselves and Polaris was at a less vulnerable age (particularly regarding potential custody battles) then he could open up a little bit more. Until then, his lips were sealed.

Instead, Polaris decided to steer the conversation away from his own past. “So you're hoping to be sorted into Slytherin too, right Blaise? We can leave the Ravenclaws to their bookish ways,” he grinned.

Blaise’s smile returned, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “Yes, Slytherin, of course, whatever my mother says. It’s the only house that truly understands ambition, power, and the importance of connections. My mother says it’s where the real leaders are made, at least if they manage to avoid being shunned for being too 'dark' or something like that.”

Polaris felt a surge of relief and delight at Blaise’s words. This was exactly what he had hoped for—a potential friend who shared his ambitions, who understood the importance of power and legacy. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said, smiling back at Blaise. “Slytherin is definitely the house for us.”

Blaise nodded, his smile widening. “Then here’s to Slytherin,” he said, raising an imaginary glass in a mock toast. “May we both find our place there.”

Polaris returned the gesture, feeling a sense of camaraderie with the other boy. Perhaps Hogwarts wouldn’t be so bad after all. With a friend like Blaise Zabini by his side, the future seemed a little less uncertain, a little more promising.

As the train began to move, the compartment filled with the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks, the two boys settled into a comfortable conversation, exchanging stories and laughter. For the first time in a long while, Polaris felt a sense of belonging, a feeling that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

And as the countryside rolled by outside the window, Polaris couldn’t help but feel a flicker of excitement. This was only the beginning—the start of a new chapter in his life, one filled with possibilities, challenges, and perhaps, if he was lucky, lasting friendships. And as he glanced at Blaise, who was now talking animatedly about his favourite Quidditch team, (the atrocious Appleby Arrows), Polaris couldn’t help but smile. Yes, Hogwarts might just be the place where he would finally find his place in the world.