Chapter 51: The Person in the Mirror
The moment the door was pushed open, a dark green light flooded out.
It wasn't candlelight, nor was it firelight; it was something colder, heavier, like the bottom of a lake in deep winter, like moonlight reflecting off unmelted ice. The room was not large and was circular in shape, its four walls empty, with only a magnificent mirror standing right in the center. Complex patterns were carved into the golden frame, and a line of text was etched across the top. The mirror surface itself did not emit light, but what it reflected—that dark green light—made it appear as if it were glowing on its own.
The mirror of erised.
A person was standing in front of the mirror.
A purple scarf, Black robes, and a slightly hunched figure. He stood with his back to the door, facing the mirror, motionless.
"It really is you," Harry's voice came from behind Polaris, not loud, but exceptionally clear in the quiet room.
Professor Quirrell turned around. The stuttering, panicked expression was gone from his face, and a hint of a smile even hung at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were very bright, so bright that he didn't look like the usually cowering man.
"Oh, you two don't seem surprised at all." Quirrell's voice was steady and clear, without a single stutter. "Where exactly did things go wrong?"
"A Professor who is afraid of a Troll—you overacted," Polaris's voice was very flat, like he was answering a question in class. "So you must have been trying to divert attention. Casting a jinx on Harry's broom during the Quidditch match—unfortunately, our companion Hermionesaw it. Also, Professor, right now, you aren't stuttering at all."
Quirrell laughed. The laughter wasn't loud, but it was deep, echoing once in the circular room before disappearing. "As expected of a top student from Ravenclaw." He tilted his head, his gaze lingering on Polaris's face for a moment. "You actually managed to hold back and not tell Dumbledore about me. That's a bit too arrogant."
"Actually, Professor," Polaris's voice remained the same, neither hurried nor slow, "our discovery didn't perfectly prove your suspiciousness. It was just a guess. Accusing a Professor without evidence is a very serious matter."
He paused.
"But now it's different."
Polaris glanced at Harry. Harry reached into his pocket and touched the chat board—the one Polaris had handed to him in the corridor. With a light tap of his wand, a few words were sent out: "Met Quirrell."
In the common room, Hermione gripped the chat board, her face pale. She turned to look at Cho, who was just walking in through the door with a look of relief on her face. "The Astronomy Professor has already sent a message to Headmaster Dumbledore and the others," Cho said. "They'll be back by dawn at the latest."
Hermione handed her the chat board to see.
Cho looked down at it and tightened her grip on her wand.
Quirrell snapped his fingers.
The sound wasn't loud, but Polaris and Harrysimultaneously felt something wrap around their bodies—ropes, winding from wrists to ankles, from ankles to knees, tightening further and further. Polaris struggled, but the ropes didn't loosen; instead, they bit deeper. With a wave of Quirrell's hand, the chat board in Harry's hand flew out and landed in his palm.
Quirrell turned the piece of wood over and over, the smile at the corners of his mouth deepening. "Mr. Black, you truly amaze me."
He tucked the chat board into his pocket and then walked up to Polaris, leaning down and lowering his voice so only Polaris could hear. "Come, child. Join us. Join the Dark Lord's followers. He will bring your talent to its most powerful potential."
Polaris looked up into Quirrell's eyes. There was a smile in those eyes, and anticipation, but also something that made one's skin crawl—not malice, but greed. Like a person seeing something they desperately wanted and was calculating how to get it.
"Professor," Polaris's voice was very flat, "I'm afraid I must decline."
Quirrell's smile didn't change. He straightened up, no longer looking at Polaris, and turned to face the mirror.
"I don't quite understand," he said to the mirror, a hint of confusion in his voice, as if talking to himself. "Is the Philosopher's Stone hidden inside this mirror? Should I—break it?"
He raised his hand, his fingertips almost touching the mirror surface.
"Use the boy."
The voice didn't come from Quirrell's mouth. It came from behind his head—from the spot at the back of his head covered by the scarf. The voice was very soft and cold, like a snake slithering over sand.
Quirrell lowered his hand. He turned around and gestured toward Harry; Harry's entire body floated up, as if being lifted by the collar by an invisible hand, and drifted in front of the mirror.
Polaris looked at Harry and gave him a reassuring look. The look was very subtle, so subtle that only Harry could see it. Harry gave a slight nod.
"Well?" Quirrell stood behind Harry, his voice carrying an impatient urgency. "What do you see?"
Harry looked into the mirror. In the mirror, he saw himself reach into his pocket and pull out a stone—red, not very large, with a polished surface like a rounded gem. His reflection put the stone back into his pocket and then smiled at him.
Harry didn't say it. He opened his mouth, his voice a bit tight but relatively steady. "I see—I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore. He's praising me for doing well. I also see—see myself winning the House Cup. Gryffindor's House Cup."
"He is lying!"
The voice came from the back of Quirrell's head again, sharper and more urgent than before. Quirrell's expression changed, and he reached out to grab Harry—
"Now."
Polaris's voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. Several dark shadows emerged from the walls and the floor, silent as ink dripping into water. The shadows condensed into human forms holding Kunai—not ninja swords, but shorter, more concealable Kunai that flashed in the dark green light as they sliced through the ropes on Polaris and Harry.
Harry was snatched by a shadow's hand and instantly pulled behind Polaris. Polaris stood his ground, a dark purple mask—the mask of ninja—worn slanted across the top of his head. The mask's patterns glowed slightly in the candlelight, and Polaris's expression was as calm as stagnant water.
"So it was you."
The voice came from the back of Quirrell's head, lower and slower than before, each word sounding as if it had been fished out of an ice cellar.
"I recognize you. The day of the Unicorn attack, it was you."
Quirrell turned to face Polaris. The smile was gone from his face, and something was churning in his eyes—not anger, not fear, but something more complex. Polaris stood there, unmoving. He could feel that gaze falling on him, sliding past the edge of the mask and lingering on his face for a moment.
"Polaris Black." The voice spoke his name as if tasting it. "I remember your family. Bellatrix—she is my most loyal servant. And Regulus..."
The voice paused.
"Child, you and I were never enemies. Come back. Return to my embrace—"
Polaris didn't wait for him to finish.
Rabbit Talisman. His body was like a flash of light, instantly vanishing from his spot and appearing behind Quirrell. The power of the Ox Talisman was channeled into his right fist as he swung it toward Quirrell's back. Quirrellwasn't hit—he vanished like a cloud of smoke dispersed by the wind, rematerializing on the other side. His wand was already in his hand, pointing at Polaris as a streak of green light shot out.
Polaris stepped aside to dodge. The green light hit the mirror frame behind him, causing a crack to appear, though it didn't shatter. He gave Quirrell no room to breathe, pressing his hands to the ground. Mountain Demon. The ground shook, and rubble surged up from beneath Quirrell's feet, wrapping around his ankles as if alive. Quirrell glanced down, waved his wand, and the rubble exploded into flying fragments. He charged toward Polaris, waving his wand repeatedly as three streaks of green light fanned out.
Polaris didn't dodge. Snake Talisman—his body instantly became transparent, and the green light passed through his position, hitting the opposite wall and leaving three charred pits. Quirrell froze for a split second, and in that moment, Polaris appeared before him, his right hand open. Water Demon. Moisture in the air condensed in his palm, forming a rope of water that bound Quirrell's wrist. Quirrellstruggled, but the water rope didn't loosen. He raised his other hand, shifting his wand's direction, and a green light shot toward Polaris's chest. Polaris didn't dodge—the green light hit him, and his body swayed slightly, but he didn't fall or get injured. Dog Talisman. Immortality.
Quirrell's eyes widened. "You—"
Polaris didn't give him time to finish. His left hand rose. Thunder Demon. A bolt of blue-white lightning shot from his fingertips, striking Quirrell's wand. The wand exploded into flying splinters. Quirrell was knocked back several steps, the back of his hand charred, but he didn't let go of the water rope. Polaris increased the pressure, the water rope tightening until Quirrell's arm turned purple. He gritted his teeth and looked up, the light in his eyes changed—it wasn't anger, but fear.
"Master—" his voice trembled.
The voice came from the back of his head again. "Useless."
Polaris's palm was already raised. Light was condensing in his palm—not the light of a wand, nor the light of a talisman, but something more primal. Flames erupted from his palm, golden-red and searing with high heat, rushing straight at Quirrell's face. Quirrell was engulfed in flames, letting out a short, sharp scream as he collapsed backward. When the flames died down, he lay on the ground, his robes mostly charred, and the exposed skin covered in blisters. His chest was still heaving, but his eyes were closed.
"It's not over yet." Polaris's voice was cold, unlike his usual self. He shifted the mask from its slanted position to cover his face properly. The dark purple mask covered his entire face, leaving only his jaw and lips exposed. In those eyes showing through the mask, all emotion was gone. There was only calmness. A pure, unadulterated calmness.
That voice drifted out from the back of Quirrell's head. It didn't come from a mouth; it seeped from his skin, from his bones, from every crevice of his body—a greyish-white, shapeless thing. It hovered in the air like an inverted ghost, without a face or eyes, yet you could feel it watching you. That gaze was exactly the same as the night of the Unicornattack—cold, heavy, and bone-chilling.
Polaris charged. The power of the Wind Demon condensed in his left hand while the Water Demon condensed in his right, both powers striking out simultaneously—wind blades sliced through the greyish-white mass, and water ropes bound its edges. It dispersed, only to reconvene elsewhere. The Mountain Demon raised stone walls from the ground, attempting to trap it; the Thunder Demonstruck at its core, dispersing it, but it gathered again. Flame Demon—golden-red flames erupted from Polaris's palm, making the greyish-white mass crackle as it burned. It shriveled and grew smaller, but it was still moving.
A streak of green light shot out from the center of the greyish-white mass, hitting Polaris in the chest. Polaris took a step back and looked down at his chest—a hole was burned in his clothes, but the skin underneath was perfectly intact. Dog Talisman. Immortality. He looked up and continued walking forward.
The greyish-white mass shriveled even further, its light dimming significantly. Polaris's palm rose again, flames condensing in his palm—this time they weren't golden-red, but white, the temperature much higher than before, so high that the air was distorting. Quirrell lay on the ground, dying. The greyish-white mass circled above his head, having lost most of its power. But it was still struggling, moving toward Harry.
Polaris didn't chase—it was too late. Harry used his free hand to block, his palm touching the edge of the greyish-white mass. The greyish-white didn't touch him. It was repelled as if hitting an invisible wall, letting out a sharp, piercing howl. The sound wasn't loud, but it pricked Polaris and Harry's ears like needles.
Harry clutched his head, his face deathly pale. That scar—the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead—was turning red, as if a red-hot wire were being pressed into his skin. He grit his teeth, not making a sound, but his whole body was shaking, and he could barely remain standing.
Polaris did not hesitate; his right hand rose again, palm aimed at the greyish-white mass. Flames erupted from his palm, not golden-red, not white, but something older and purer—the Source Fire of the Fire Demon. It was like a beam of light, like a sigh, like a wind blowing from a very, very distant place, silently engulfing the greyish-white mass.
The howling stopped abruptly.
The greyish-white mass dispersed. It wasn't struck apart; it simply vanished. Like a candle being blown out, like mist being dried by the sun, as if it had never existed. Quirrelllay on the ground, his body no longer moving. His face—that charred, blistered face—was devoid of any expression. The greyish-white mass had left no trace behind.
Harry collapsed as if he had fallen asleep. Polaris stood in place, looking at his palm. There was still residual heat, but the flames had been extinguished. He looked up toward the dark corners of the room; those dark shadows were still standing there, waiting silently.
Polaris knelt down and took the Philosopher's Stone from Harry's pocket. The stone was very light and warm, like a pebble just picked up from under the sun. He held it in his palm, looking at it for a few seconds, and then stood up.
"Hide it," he said.
The dark shadows surged. A hand reached out from the darkness and took the Philosopher's Stone. The hand had no physical form, only an outline, but when the stone was placed in its palm, it was as if it were being sucked in—sinking into the darkness, into a place that did not belong to this world, and vanished.
Polaris walked back to Harry's side, knelt down, and checked his breathing. Still alive. The breathing was faint but steady. He sat down against the wall, looking at the mirror. The mirror of erised still stood there, the cracks on the frame looking like a thin bolt of lightning in the candlelight. There was nothing left in the mirror, only the dark green light and two tired, injured boys sitting by the wall.
Polaris's mask vanished from his face.
He closed his eyes, the exhaustion from using his abilities washing over him, and fell into a deep sleep.
In the corridor, Malfoy leaned against the wall, the chat board in his hand having been silent for a long time. The last message was "Met Quirrell," and since then, nothing. He pulled a healing Potion out of his pocket, put it back, pulled it out again, and put it back once more.
He looked up toward the door at the end of the corridor.
The light seeping through the crack of the door was still dark green, just as before. There wasn't a single sound.
Chapter 52: The Horse Talisman and Embers
When Rhys woke up, it was that familiar ceiling again. Light green, just like every other time he had woken up, with even that tiny crack in the exact same spot. The smell of the Hospital Wing was also familiar—disinfectant, Potions, and the scent of pine from the freshly added wood in the fireplace.
He turned his head; Harry was lying in the bed next to him, not yet awake. His face was whiter than the wall, but his breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling evenly.
The space beside their beds was piled high with things, like two small mountains. The wrapping paper was multi-colored, some tied with silk ribbons, others with cards attached. On top of one pile was a box wrapped in a Gryffindor scarf, with a piece of parchment clipped to the corner; the handwriting was crooked—it was from Hagrid. In the other pile was a flat, dark-blue box tied with a silver ribbon, with a feather tucked under the silk—it was from Cho.
"Good afternoon, child."
Rhys turned his head. Dumbledore was standing by the window, sunlight streaming in behind him, gilding his silver-white beard and the edges of his robes with a layer of gold. He held no wand in his hand, but stood there quietly, like a statue that had lived for a very long time.
"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore," Rhys's voice was a bit raspy.
Dumbledore walked to the bedside, following Rhys's gaze to the two piles of gifts. "These were all sent by your friends and admirers. What happened between you and Professor Quirrell in the basement is a secret—however, secrets always travel fast." He paused, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. "George and Fred Weasley sent you both toilet seats. However, Poppy felt they were unhygienic and confiscated them."
Rhys looked at Dumbledore. There was a gentle light in the old man's eyes; he was trying to lighten the atmosphere. Rhys appreciated the gesture, and the corner of his mouth moved slightly in a faint smile.
"How long... have we been here?"
"Three days." Dumbledore's voice softened. "During that time, Cho, Anthony, Ron, and Malfoy all came to see you. If they knew you were awake, they would surely rush over. But it looks like Harry will need a little longer before he regains consciousness."
Rhys glanced at Harry in the next bed. His eyelashes flickered, but his eyes did not open.
"So you received Cho's letter."
"Yes. Miss Cho Chang was very timely. Both I and the four Heads of Houses received the owl letter from the Astronomy Professor. However, by the time we returned, we only saw you and Harry unconscious, and Quirrell's body nearby." Dumbledore's voice paused. "So, Rhys, can you tell me what happened?"
Rhys recounted the events, starting from entering the fourth-floor corridor, to Fluffy, the Devil's Snare, the keys, the chessboard, the Troll, the Potions, and finally the room with the mirror. He spoke slowly, his voice not loud, but every word was clear. When he spoke of Quirrell and Lord Voldemort, his tone was flat, without any fluctuation, like he was reading a prepared report.
Dumbledore listened quietly, without interrupting.
"For the safety of the Philosopher's Stone, I hid it," Rhys said. "I hid it in a place where no one else can find it."
Dumbledore looked at him but did not ask where it was hidden.
"Quirrell," Dumbledore sighed, "he was once very brilliant. A Ravenclaw student who graduated with honors and had deep insights into Defense Against the Dark Arts. Unfortunately, he failed to stay true to himself and went astray on the path of craving power."
The old man fell silent for a moment, his gaze falling on the distant Forbidden Forest outside the window.
"However, I suspect you were not able to kill Lord Voldemort completely," Dumbledore's voice was very soft. "Perhaps somewhere, he is still gathering strength, waiting to make a comeback."
Rhys's expression did not change. There was no surprise, no worry, not even a trace of thought on his face—just calm. Like a lake without wind.
Dumbledore looked at him.
"Child, you aren't surprised?"
Rhys then realized he was being a bit too indifferent. A normal person hearing the news that 'Lord Voldemort isn't dead' should at least frown. But he hadn't. His face was like a blank sheet of paper, with nothing written on it.
"I can feel it," Rhys said. "The soul my flames incinerated was incomplete." His voice was flat, so flat it didn't sound like he was talking about something he had experienced.
Dumbledore looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded. "A very rare bloodline magic. The East is indeed mysterious."
He did not press further.
"Well then, child," Dumbledore's voice returned to its gentle, unhurried tone, "can you give the Philosopher's Stone to me? It needs to be destroyed."
"What about Mr. Nicolas Flamel and his wife?" Rhys asked.
"I'm glad you noticed that. But don't worry," Dumbledoresaid. "They have left enough Elixir of Life to settle their affairs, and then they will begin a new journey—to face death."
Rhys nodded. "Professor, I would like to borrow Mr. Nicolas Flamel's manuscripts. I like Alchemy."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slightly, and then the corners of his mouth curled up. "I will speak to Nicolas about this. I believe he would also be willing to see his skills passed on. Your chat board is very interesting."
Rhys didn't say anything more. With a thought, a mask emerged from the air, materializing at an angle on the left side of his head. The dark purple patterns glowed faintly in the candlelight, and his expression became colder than before—not just calm, but a coldness like stone, devoid of any warmth.
A hand reached out from the shadows under the bed. It had no physical form, only a silhouette, with long fingers and distinct knuckles. In its palm lay a red stone, warm and lustrous, like a pebble just picked up from the sunlight. Rhys took the Philosopher's Stone from that hand, and the shadow and mask vanished simultaneously. His expression shifted from icy back to that same calm—but still without a smile.
He handed the Philosopher's Stone toward Dumbledore.
Dumbledore took the Philosopher's Stone, his fingers brushing lightly over the stone. He didn't put it away immediately, but instead looked at Rhys's face. There was no expression on that face, but Dumbledore remembered what it looked like a few seconds ago—when the mask was on, there was nothing in those gray eyes; when the mask was removed, there was a little something in the eyes, but not much.
Does it affect one's emotions? Dumbledore thought to himself.
He tucked the Philosopher's Stone into the inner pocket of his robes. "Alright, child. When Harry wakes up, you can tell him what happened. Also, please tell him to come to the Headmaster's Office once he's feeling better."
Dumbledore turned and walked toward the door. When he reached the doorway, he paused, but did not look back.
"Rhys, your parents would be proud of you."
The door closed. The Hospital Wing fell silent, save for the occasional crackle of the fire in the fireplace.
Rhys lay on his pillow, staring at the ceiling. In the next bed, Harry rolled over, muttered something, and didn't wake up. Rhys stretched his right hand out from under the covers and looked at his palm. The lines on his palm were the same as before, but something was different—not the palm, but what was inside it. He could feel fire flowing through his veins; it wasn't hot, but warm, like the breeze in front of a fireplace in winter, like the feeling when Norbertfirst breathed fire at him.
"System," he called out in his mind.
A cold, mechanical voice sounded in his head.
[Present.]
"How can I control fire now?"
[Host, this is because you have unlocked a new talisman. By participating in the trials and completing a key plot point of the Philosopher's Stone incident, you have unlocked the Horse Talisman—the Power of Healing. Ability description: Restores objects or people to their 'most perfect state,' heals all injuries and illnesses, removes abnormal statuses, and repairs damaged items. Simultaneously, as the successor of Shendu, the Fire Demon, you have begun to possess Shendu's fire-control ability after unlocking the Horse Talisman. The Fire Demon's abilities and the power of the talismans share the same source, both being manifestations of Shendu's original power.]
Rhys turned his hand over, looked at the back of it, and remained silent for a moment.
"Summarize all my current abilities now that the Philosopher's Stone incident is over."
The system paused for a second, as if organizing the data.
[Talismans: Rabbit Talisman, Snake Talisman, Ox Talisman, Dog Talisman, Horse Talisman.]
[Demon Powers: Po Kong (Mountain Demon)—Upgraded to Advanced. Advanced Ability Description: Can devour food to accumulate power within the body; when using the ability, the body can become as hard as rock, effectively solving the exhaustion issue after using the Ox Talisman. Xiao Feng (Wind Demon)—Upgraded to Intermediate. Bai Tza (Water Demon)—Basic. Tso Lan (Thunder Demon)—Basic.]
[Masks: Ninja, Murk, Battu, Ikazuki.]
[Overall Evaluation: The host performed excellently in the first-year Philosopher's Stone incident, and multiple abilities have been significantly improved. The Mountain Demon has reached Advanced, the Wind Demon has reached Intermediate, the Horse Talisman has been added, and Shendu's fire-control talent has been unlocked.]
Rhys pulled the covers up slightly, covering his chin. He touched his own face. Expressionless. It wasn't that he wanted to be expressionless; it was that the muscles in his face had no desire to make an expression. Previously, after wearing a mask, he would recover after a while, and his emotions would slowly return. But this time, it was taking much longer than before.
"I've noticed that the time it takes for my emotions to recover after using the mask's power is getting longer and longer."
[Yes. As the frequency of mask usage increases, the duration of its influence on your personality will lengthen. Furthermore, after a demon's ability is upgraded to Advanced, in addition to being able to fully utilize all of that demon's powers, the demon's corresponding markings will manifest on the host's body and face. The demon's Demon Qi will also corrupt your humanity.]
Rhys pulled his right hand out from under the covers and looked at his arm. There was nothing; his skin was smooth, with no markings.
[They have not yet manifested, but with continued use of Advanced demon abilities, the markings will emerge while the power is active.]
"How do I solve this?"
[The only solution to all of this is to obtain the Tiger Talisman, which possesses the Power of Balance. The Tiger Talisman can harmonize the conflicting powers within your body, preventing the demon's power from eroding your humanity, and is also the key to using multiple talismans and demon abilities simultaneously.]
The system paused.
[Until then, the recovery of your emotions can only come from external feelings. Whether you can stay true to yourself will depend on the host himself.]
Rhys put his hand back under the covers. The sky outside had darkened, and the last sliver of orange-red light leaked through the gap in the curtains, falling on the floor like a thin river.
Rhys closed his eyes.
He was thinking about Dumbledore's words. "Your parents would be proud of you." He didn't know if his parents would be proud of him. But he knew they had used powers similar to his. Long Meixiu had used wind and rock magic, and Cepheus's talent for Alchemy had been inherited by him.
Perhaps this was bloodline. Not the kind of bloodline of the pure-bloods, but something deeper and truer—something invisible and intangible that parents leave in their children's bodies, but which will never disappear.
He rolled over, facing Harry's direction. Harry was still sleeping, his breathing steady. Rhys closed his eyes, his consciousness gradually sinking into darkness. Before he submerged, he heard the system's voice, very soft, as if coming from very far away.
[Host, the first-year main plot has been completed. Please continue to grow.]
Rhys did not answer. He was already asleep.
In the fireplace of the Hospital Wing, the fire was still burning. The wood crackled, and sparks flew from the hearth, landing on the stone tiles, flickering a few times before going out.
Chapter 53: The House Cup
When he woke up again, Rhys saw Harry sitting on the bed next to him, holding a cup of hot cocoa, with a dazed expression on his face as if he had just woken up. The two of them made eye contact, and Harry was the first to smile. It wasn't a smile of joy, but one of relief that said, "We're still alive."
"Dumbledore was here," Rhys said, his voice still a bit raspy. "He said when you wake up, you should go to the Headmaster's office."
Harry nodded without asking why.
The doors to the Hospital Wing were suddenly thrown open. It wasn't pushed by one person, but by several people at once. Cho walked at the front, followed by Anthony, Hermione, and Ron, with Malfoy at the very back, still clutching that bottle of Invigoration Potion he hadn't delivered.
Hermione spoke as soon as she entered, her speaking rate twice as fast as usual. "We heard you were awake yesterday, but Madam Pomfrey said you needed rest and forced us to wait until today to visit."
Rhys leaned against his pillow, looking at them. His expression was calm—so calm it didn't seem like an eleven-year-old boy who had just woken from a coma. That calmness wasn't faked; it was as if the muscles in his face truly had no desire to form an expression. Cho walked to the bedside and looked down at him, her gaze lingering on his face for a few seconds before she reached out and gently squeezed his hand. Rhys's hand was cold, while Cho's was warm.
"I'm fine," Rhys said. His voice was flat—so flat it didn't sound like he was comforting anyone.
Cho didn't say anything, she just tightened her grip on his hand slightly.
Malfoy stood at the foot of the bed, switching the bottle of Invigoration Potion from his left hand to his right, then back again. "Fortunately, you're both alright. When the Professors carried you two out, I was scared to death. I thought you—"
"Malfoy's legs went weak," Anthony added from behind, pushing up his glasses. "He was leaning against the corridor wall."
Malfoy's face flushed red, but he didn't argue.
"It's fine," Rhys said. "We can leave the Hospital Wingtoday."
Hermione looked at Rhys, then at Harry. "The end-of-term feast is tonight; luckily you both made it in time."
Rhys nodded.
At half-past six in the evening, the doors to the Great Hallstood wide open.
When Rhys and Harry walked in together, the Great Hallfell silent for a moment. It wasn't that no one was talking; it was that everyone who was talking shut their mouths at the same time, leaving only the crackling of the fire in the fireplace and the faint sizzling of the burning candles. Then, cheers erupted.
"Well done, Black!"
"Well done, Potter!"
Voices surged from all directions. The Gryffindor table shouted for Potter, the Ravenclaw table shouted for Black, and Hufflepuff and Slytherin were shouting too, calling for both. Rhys walked through the crowd and sat down at the Ravenclaw table. Cho and Anthony were already sitting there, having saved him a middle seat. Cho pushed half of the sliced roasted potatoes from her plate onto his, and Anthony handed him pumpkin juice.
Listening to the surrounding noise, Rhys pieced together the full picture from fragments of conversation. His classmates thought they had together defeated Professor Quirrell—the Dark Wizard lurking in Hogwarts. No one knew about Voldemort. No one knew that the grayish, shapeless thing had once been attached to the back of Quirrell's head. It seemed Dumbledore and the Professors had deliberately kept it hidden.
Dumbledore stood up, touching his wand to his throat. "Sonorus." His voice carried to every corner of the hall, and even the candles on the ceiling flickered slightly.
"Another year has gone by. Before we indulge in the feast's delicacies, allow this old man to say a few more words."
The hall fell silent.
"Now, as I understand it, we must first conduct the House Cup award ceremony." Dumbledore pulled a piece of parchment from his robes, unfurled it, and read, "Fourth place, Gryffindor, three hundred and twelve points."
Someone at the Gryffindor table sighed, but not many. Hermione sat there with a calm expression, her never-closed notebook by her hand. Ron was beside her, muttering something under his breath until Harry placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Third place, Hufflepuff, three hundred and fifty-two points." A round of polite applause rose from the Hufflepuff table. Although they hadn't taken first, the result was enough to satisfy them.
"Second place, Ravenclaw, four hundred and twenty-six points."
At the Ravenclaw table, several older students looked at each other and nodded. Four hundred and twenty-six points was much higher than in previous years, but it wasn't enough.
"First place, Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two points."
The Slytherin table erupted in massive cheers. Malfoystood up, with Crabbe and Goyle pounding the table on either side of him as green banners waved above their heads. Flint—the Quidditch team captain—stood to raise a toast, spilling pumpkin juice over half the table.
"Yes, yes, an excellent performance," Dumbledore said, waiting for the cheers to subside before continuing. "However, there are still some bonus points yet to be allocated."
The cheering at the Slytherin table stopped abruptly.
"First—" Dumbledore's voice echoed through the hall, "this year's Quidditch champion is Ravenclaw. For this, one hundred and fifty points to Ravenclaw."
The Ravenclaw table exploded. Roger Davies stood up, raising his cup of pumpkin juice and shouting "Great job!" toward Rhys and Cho. Andrew Spinnet clapped Rhys hard on the shoulder, making him lean forward. Cho sat beside Rhys, the corners of her mouth curved in a restrained smile—her gaze remained fixed on Rhys's face, never moving away.
Dumbledore continued reading. "Next, some individual points."
The hall fell silent.
"First—Mr. Ron Weasley. Through his command, he played the finest game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years. For this, fifty points to Gryffindor."
Ron's mouth opened, closed, and opened again. It wasn't until Harry pushed him that he came to his senses, his face turning bright red, even to the tips of his ears. Hermionepatted his back from the other side, nearly knocking him off his stool.
"Second—Miss Hermione Granger. Facing raging fire, she used cool logic to solve a Potion puzzle. For this, fifty points to Gryffindor."
Hermione nodded, her expression not changing much, but she gripped the quill in her hand tightly.
"Third—Mr. Anthony Goldstein. For his loyalty to his friends, never leaving their side and remaining steadfastly together. For this, twenty points to Ravenclaw."
Anthony pushed up his glasses and looked down to write a line in his notebook. Rhys glanced over; it said "Second Year Goal: Learn to fly faster." He looked at Anthony, who then snapped the notebook shut.
"Fourth—Miss Cho Chang. When her friends were in danger, she sought the help of Professors, preventing them from falling into deeper peril. For this, thirty points to Ravenclaw."
Cho sat quietly and nodded. Rhys noticed her hand under the table grip her robes for a moment before letting go.
"Fifth—Mr. Draco Malfoy. For not abandoning or giving up, for waiting for his friends and preparing healing Potions. For this, twenty points to Slytherin."
The cheers from the Slytherin table were much smaller than before, but Malfoy's applause was the loudest. He stood up, looked toward the Ravenclaw table, his gaze lingering on Rhys's face for a moment, and then sat down. Crabbe and Goyle pounded the table beside him, spilling pumpkin juice once again.
"Sixth—Mr. Harry Potter. For showing dauntless courage and extraordinary nerve when facing a Dark Wizard. For this, sixty points to Gryffindor."
The cheers from the Gryffindor table were louder than any before. The Weasley Twins set off crackers, and golden smoke spread over their heads. Harry, sandwiched between Ron and Hermione, had a "don't know what to say" expression and looked toward the Ravenclaw table.
"Seventh—Mr. Polaris Black." Dumbledore's voice was even clearer than before. "Facing danger with Ravenclaw-like calm and intellect. Protecting his classmates, crafting ingenious alchemical items, casting impressive spells and Transfiguration, and putting Herbology knowledge into practical use. For this, seventy points to Ravenclaw."
The roar was deafening. At the Ravenclaw table, some stood up, some pounded the table, and some threw napkins into the air. Rhys's name echoed through the hall—"Black! Black! Black!"—starting from Ravenclaw, spreading to Hufflepuff, then Gryffindor, and finally even Slytherin was shouting. Malfoy stood on the Slytherintable, leading a group of Slytherins in whistling at Rhys, the sound sharp enough to pierce the entire hall. Not to be outdone, the Weasley Twins in Gryffindor set off an even larger cracker, silver smoke exploding in the air as Georgestood on a chair and shouted, "That's our boss!"
Rhys sat there without standing up. Cho noticed his expression was still as calm as ever—too calm for an eleven-year-old being cheered by the whole school. But under the table, where Anthony and Cho couldn't see, he lightly clenched his fist.
Dumbledore raised his hand. The hall gradually quieted, but it was a different kind of silence—everyone was holding their breath, waiting for him to finish his final sentence.
"Which means," Dumbledore said, "we need to make a few small changes here."
He clapped his hands.
Green ribbons drifted down from the ceiling, turning blue mid-air. Silver banners slowly unfurled, becoming bronze. The Slytherin serpent faded from the walls, replaced by the Ravenclaw eagle—a bronze eagle with wings spread, shimmering slightly in the candlelight. At the High Table, Snape turned to Professor Flitwick and extended his hand. Professor Flitwick stood on tiptoe to take it. As the two Deans shook hands, Snape's gaze moved past Flitwick's shoulder and landed on the Ravenclaw table—on Rhys. In those Black eyes, something flickered. It wasn't pride or relief, but a more complex, indefinable emotion.
Cho sat beside Rhys, watching him. Ever since the Hospital Wing, she had been watching his expression—that calmness wasn't his usual steady composure, but a deeper, emptier calm, like a frozen lake whose bottom couldn't be seen. She remembered Rhys saying his power came from Eastern Bloodline Magic. She remembered him wearing the mask in the Forbidden Forest—the eyes visible through the dark purple mask showed no emotion at all. She remembered after the mask was removed, his eyes would turn from cold back to gray, but that "turning back" took time, and it was taking longer and longer.
"Rhys," Cho said softly. Rhys turned his head to look at her. His eyes were gray and bright, but there wasn't much emotion in them, as if he were looking at her yet also looking through her at something else. Cho pushed a plate of pudding in front of him. "Eat something sweet," she said.
On the other side, Anthony pushed the pumpkin juice even closer to Rhys's hand. "You haven't eaten much since coming out of the Hospital Wing."
Rhys looked down at the pudding, then at the pumpkin juice. He picked up a spoon and took a bite of pudding. Sweet. The pudding dissolved on his tongue, the sweetness slowly seeping in. That sweetness wasn't something he actively felt; it was the taste of the pudding itself, an objective existence unrelated to emotion. But he still took another spoonful.
Cho and Anthony exchanged a look. Cho moved her chair half an inch toward Rhys, her shoulder brushing his arm. Anthony flipped his notebook open and read a section of the point-scoring record he had just written—using an exaggerated tone to repeat Dumbledore's words, adding his own commentary. When Rhys finished listening, the corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile, but it was better than a blank expression.
Cho pushed the plate of pudding a bit closer to Rhys again. "Eat more," she said. This time her voice was softer than before, but more certain.
Rhys took another spoonful of pudding. The sweetness remained, the pudding melting on his tongue, slowly. Outside the window, stars lit up one by one, and the north star was in its old place, quietly shimmering.
Chapter 54: Homecoming and Confession
The Hogwarts Express puffed white steam as it pulled into Platform 9¾.
The scenery outside the window shifted from the green hills and fields of Scotland to the brick walls and chimneys of London, sunlight filtering through the glass to paint bright patterns on the carriage floor.
Polaris leaned against the window, gazing blankly at the scenery outside.
Anthony sat opposite him, a notebook spread across his knees, busy listing plans for the holiday—book lists, spell practice, Alchemy experiments, all written in dense script.
Beside him was Hermione, also making a list, one even longer than Anthony's, already filling two sheets of parchment.
Cho Chang sat next to Polaris, holding a book in her hands, but she wasn't turning the pages, just looking out the window, occasionally glancing down at the same line of text.
"Remember to write during the holiday." Anthony closed his notebook and pushed up his glasses. "My mother said she wants to meet you. She heard about the Philosopher's Stone."
Hermione looked up from her parchment. "I'll write to you too. My parents want me to record everything about the wizarding world, and I have to include your performance during the Philosopher's Stone incident."
"Don't write too much," Polaris said.
"I will record it objectively," Hermione said, her tone like she was answering a question in class.
Cho Chang closed her book and turned to look at Polaris. "I'll write to you too." Her voice was quiet but earnest. The two met each other's eyes for a moment, and Polaris nodded.
The train slowed down. The wheels screeched against the tracks, the carriage swayed, and then it came to a slow halt. Cheers of "We're here! We're here!" and "Finally!" erupted throughout the carriage.
The four of them stood up and took their trunks down from the luggage rack. Polaris's trunk was the smallest—the one with the Undetectable Extension Charm; it held an entire semester's worth of belongings, yet it was as light as an empty box.
The platform was crowded, steam filling the air and obscuring the distance. Polaris carried his luggage, following the crowd toward the exit. Anthony walked on his left, Hermione on his right, and Cho Chang walked ahead, her ponytail bobbing in the crowd, making her easy to spot.
"Mum!" Anthony called out first, running toward a middle-aged Witch wearing lavender robes. The Witch opened her arms to catch him, then leaned past him, spotted Polaris, and waved at him. Polaris waved back.
Hermione's parents stood a little further away, the two Muggles easy to spot among the Wizards—they were wearing ordinary coats, no robes, no pointed hats, and were standing on tiptoe, peering into the crowd. Hermioneran over and was swept up by her mother, while her father stood behind carrying her luggage, his eyes crinkling into crescents.
Cho Chang's parents stood near the exit, her mother in dark blue robes and her father in a black suit. Both had black hair and were quite striking standing together. Cho Chang walked over quickly, her mother taking her luggage, her father resting a hand on her shoulder and saying something as he leaned down. Cho Chang nodded, then turned back and looked toward Polaris. She waved. Polaris waved back.
"Is that Cho Chang?" Aunt Lyra's voice came from behind him.
Polaris turned around. Aunt Lyra stood behind him, wearing dark green robes, her hair tied up meticulously, a "I see everything" smile on her face. His grandmother stood beside his aunt, her silver-grey hair shimmering slightly in the steam, her grey eyes identical to those of Polaris.
"My little north star, welcome home." His aunt took his luggage and leaned down to kiss his cheek. Polaris's face heated up slightly.
"Bangbang and Kreacher couldn't come," his grandmother said, her tone calm, though the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes were deeper than usual—a sign that she was smiling. "But they are waiting for you at home. They tidied up your room early this morning."
Polaris nodded and followed his grandmother and aunt toward the exit. As they passed Cho Chang's family, his aunt slowed her pace, glancing at Cho Chang's back and then at Polaris.
His aunt's voice was very low, but the amusement in her tone was impossible to hide. "A very gentle young girl. No wonder you had me running to so many places to buy pigments."
Polaris's face flushed. "Auntie—"
His grandmother walked ahead without turning back, but her voice came through clearly. "Hmm, you certainly have the same eye as your father."
"Grandmother!" Polaris's face turned completely red. "It's not like that!"
His grandmother didn't say anything more, but Polaris saw her shoulders tremble slightly—she was laughing. His aunt laughed unreservedly beside him, her laughter carrying far through the steam on the platform. Polaris walked between the two, the heat on his face refusing to subside for a long time.
When the door to Star-Swirl Manor opened, Bangbangwas the first to rush out.
"Young Master! Young Master is back!" Bangbang's ears trembled like two leaves in the wind, and tears were already welling up in his eyes. He ran up to Polaris, grabbing the hem of his robe with both hands, looking up at him with his face tilted. He opened his mouth several times, wanting to say so much, but in the end, he only managed to squeeze out, "Young Master has lost weight."
Kreacher followed behind, his pace much slower, his back straight, his slight bow reminiscent of a butler from an old noble family. "Young Master, welcome home." His voice was still gravelly, but there was a restraint in his tone that Bangbang lacked. Polaris noticed that the tea towel Kreacher was wearing today was new, its edges ironed perfectly flat.
"Bangbang, Kreacher." Polaris reached out and patted Bangbang's head gently, then nodded at Kreacher. Bangbang's tears finally fell, but he didn't sob, just wiped his face vigorously and turned to move the luggage. Kreacher didn't cry, but his eyes lingered on Polaris's face for several seconds before he lowered his head to help Bangbang with the trunks.
The long table in the dining room was covered with a fresh tablecloth, white, with the House of Black crest embroidered along the edges. The sunlight from outside shone in, painting a patch of bright gold on the tablecloth. Polaris sat in his usual spot—back to the window, facing the fireplace. Bangbang brought hot cocoa and freshly baked biscuits, and Kreacher set the cutlery before retreating to the side to stand quietly.
Aunt Lyra walked out of the study, holding an envelope and a thin notebook. The envelope was pale yellow, sealed with red wax. The design on the wax was neither the House of Black crest nor the Hogwarts school emblem—it was a star surrounded by complex alchemical symbols. The notebook's cover was dark brown leather, worn at the edges and looking quite old, but well-preserved with no cracks on the spine.
"This was forwarded by Headmaster Dumbledore." His aunt placed the envelope and notebook in front of Polaris.
Polaris opened the envelope first. The handwriting on the parchment was old-fashioned, with fine decorative lines at the beginning and end of each letter, as if written with a quill dipped in thick ink. He unfolded the letter and read it line by line.
"Hello, Mr. Polaris Black."
"I hear from Albus that those close to you call you Polaris. Then please allow an old man who has lived for over six centuries to call you that as well."
"This Alchemy notebook contains all my thoughts on Alchemy and methods for creating alchemical items. Don't let its thinness deceive you; in fact, it is also an alchemical object—the notebook only contains a table of contents. When you wish to view the content, tap the classified item in the directory with your wand, and the record page for that content will appear."
"Additionally, Polaris, I hope you can spare some time for me during your holiday—about two weeks or so—to come here and learn introductory Alchemy. After all, a teacher and a student need to meet at least once."
"Once you have decided on the date, please write to Albus. He will bring you to me."
"Nicolas Flamel"
Polaris finished reading the letter, placed it on the table, and picked up the notebook to flip through it. Sure enough, there was only a table of contents—Basic Principles of Alchemy, The Nature of Material Transmutation, Theory of Philosopher's Stone Preparation, Evolution of the Elixir of Life Formula, Engraving Runes for Alchemical Items... Each line was followed by a blank page, but with a tap of his wand, dense text and diagrams would emerge on the blank page.
"What is it? Is something the matter?" His grandmother set down her teacup and looked at Polaris.
Polaris looked up. His grandmother sat across the table, her grey eyes watching him quietly. His aunt sat beside her, holding a coffee cup, her gaze also fixed on him. Bangbangand Kreacher stood by the doorway, not coming in, but craning their necks.
Polaris thought for a moment. He couldn't hide his abilities. His family were the people he trusted most; they had watched him grow up and knew about every one of his abnormalities—chasing down Bangbang during Apparitionat five, scaring everyone by turning invisible at seven, lifting that oak tree at nine, blocking an Avada Kedavra in Knockturn Alley at ten. His grandmother and aunt had never pressed him about those things, not because they didn't care, but because they were waiting for him to tell them voluntarily.
"Grandmother," Polaris began, his voice quiet but clear, "do you remember when I was young, the times I ran fast and turned invisible?"
His grandmother set down her cup. "Naturally. You scared Bangbang, Kreacher, and your aunt to death that day."
"Yes," his aunt added, her hand resting unconsciously on her chest, "and that time in Knockturn Alley, when you were hit by an Avada Kedavra and were completely unharmed." Her voice tightened slightly; even though it was in the past, she still felt a lingering fear when mentioning it.
Polaris nodded. "It's a type of bloodline talent."
His grandmother's fingers twitched slightly. She didn't ask "what talent" or "where it came from," but instead twisted the ring on her finger twice—the silver ring inlaid with a grey stone, which Polaris remembered as the protective ring passed down through generations of the House of Black. Then she drew her wand, pointed it toward the ceiling, and chanted a spell Polaris had never heard before. Her voice was quiet, but each syllable was heavy, like stones dropped into deep water. A trace-less wave of magic rippled from the tip of her wand, like ripples on water, spreading in circles to envelop the entire manor.
His grandmother lowered her wand. "Now, you may continue."
Polaris looked into his grandmother's eyes, the same grey eyes as his own. He knew what this charm meant—she was using the oldest protective spell of the family to ensure that what was said next would not be heard by anyone else.
"This is the bloodline talent I inherited from my mother," Polaris said. "Ancient Eastern Magic. My mother…" He paused. "She must have been an heir to some ancient Eastern Magic. This ability is very powerful and grows with my age."
He paused to gather his thoughts.
"There are a total of twelve Zodiac abilities, derived from the Eastern Zodiac—just like our constellations. There are eight Bagua abilities, and ten different Nuo mask abilities."
His aunt's mouth opened slightly, and she covered it with her hand, her eyes wide. "How can this be? Is there a price to pay?"
His grandmother said nothing, but her expression told Polaris she was waiting for the same answer. In the view of Western Wizards, relying on powerful ancient magicalways required a price—sacrifices, curses, loss of lifespan, or something even more terrifying.
"Er…" Polaris thought for a moment. "Not really, I suppose. When I use the abilities, my emotions become quite cold, but it gets better over time."
[Host, you are truly impressive. You managed to spin a story out of that.]
The corner of Polaris's mouth twitched slightly, but he ignored the system prompt in his mind. His expression remained unchanged as he picked up his hot cocoa and took a sip.
His grandmother watched him for several seconds in silence. "You have inherited more than your mother."
The cup in Polaris's hand paused. He looked up at his grandmother. "My mother?"
"Yes." His grandmother's voice was flat, as if she were speaking of something long ago that no longer caused pain. "Meixiu once used a Nuo mask. It was yellow, with exquisite patterns, worn tilted on her head. She said it was Eastern power, and the mask couldn't be worn straight on, or it would affect one's emotions."
Polaris's fingers tightened.
"Oh, right," his aunt added from the side. "She could summon an army from shadows, and had the ability to control wind and rock. But it didn't seem as powerful as you described." She tilted her head and thought. "The shadow army was about six or seven people? The minor wind blades were a bit like the Cutting Curse, and the rock was just hardening parts of her skin? Oh, and that invisibility wasn't as complete as yours either."
Polaris looked at his aunt, then at his grandmother. He had been making it all up—he had split the system's abilities into Zodiac, Bagua, and masks, thinking it would sound more reasonable. But what his grandmother and aunt were describing was real. Long Meixiu had actually used these abilities. It wasn't charms, it wasn't demons; it was some kind of Eastern Magic that was extremely similar to the system's abilities, yet not entirely the same.
He frowned.
A mask solidified on the side of his head. It was dark purple, with exquisite patterns, covering the left half of his face. On the exposed right half, his expression instantly turned icy—not calm, not serious, but that kind of cold without any temperature, like a stone in winter.
His grandmother and aunt were both stunned for a moment.
"Six or seven people?" Polaris's voice came from behind the mask, lower than usual and devoid of inflection. He clapped his hands.
The light in the dining room dimmed for an instant. From the shadows on the walls, from under the table, from behind the cabinets, black shadows surged out. They coalesced into human shapes, wielding weapons, and stood silently filling the entire dining room. More than twenty—not six or seven, but more than twenty. Bangbanglet out a small gasp at the door, and Kreacher pulled him back a step.
The mask vanished. On Polaris's right cheek, dark red lines spread from his temple to his jaw, like magma flowing beneath his skin. Mountain. He picked up a dinner knife from the table and stabbed it toward his own arm. The tip of the knife struck his skin, emitting a crisp metallic clatter—not the sound of a blade piercing flesh, but of metal striking rock. The tip of the knife chipped, the blade bent, and there wasn't even a white mark on Polaris's arm.
The lines vanished. Polaris put down the bent dinner knife, and his body became transparent, disappearing into the air. The cushion on the chair sank slightly, proving that someone was still there. A few seconds later, he reappeared, reached out, picked up the hot cocoa, and took a sip.
"It seems," Polaris said, setting down the cup, "that I am much more powerful than the abilities you described."
He frowned in confusion.
"Or perhaps it's because I inherited them more strongly?"
His grandmother watched him for a long time. His aunt watched him too. Bangbang and Kreacher stood at the door, neither daring to say a word.
His grandmother nodded first. "Your mother's abilities only gradually manifested after she reached adulthood. You are only eleven." Her voice was very soft, but every word was clear. "Perhaps you inherited them more completely than she did."
His aunt also nodded, placing her coffee cup back on its saucer. "Regardless, this is what your mother left for you. Use it well."
Polaris looked at them and said nothing more. The dining room was quiet for a moment, with only the fire in the fireplace crackling.
Chapter 55: Conversation
Dinner was the quietest meal Polaris had eaten in the past six months. It wasn't because no one was speaking, but because everyone who should be there was present—not a single person was missing.
Bangbang and Kreacher bustled back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, bringing out dish after dish—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes, vegetable soup, and Polaris's favorite, apple pie. Every time Bangbang brought a dish, he would steal a glance at Polaris, only turning back once he confirmed Polaris had started eating. Kreacher stood by the dining table, his back straight as a board like a dutiful butler, but his eyes remained fixed on Polaris, never wavering.
Grandma sat at the head of the table, cutting the roast beef on her plate. The sound of her silver cutlery clinking against the porcelain was light and rhythmic, like the ticking of a pendulum. Aunt sat opposite Polaris, occasionally looking up at him while sipping her soup with a smile on her lips. It wasn't a smile of pure joy, but rather the relief of 'you're finally back.'
As he ate, Polaris recounted the events of his past six months at Hogwarts one by one. Starting with the Troll—he spoke plainly, as if reading a report, but Aunt's fork stopped when she heard 'the Troll was eight feet tall,' and Grandma's hand paused when she heard 'the wind rushed into the Troll's lungs.'
Then came Professor Quirrell. When Polaris mentioned how he had cast a jinx on Harry's broom during the Quidditch match, Aunt frowned, and Grandma said nothing, simply setting down her knife and fork.
Finally, he spoke of the Philosopher's Stone, the room with the mirror, the voice on the back of Quirrell's head, and the moment flames erupted from his own palms.
"This letter is from Nicolas Flamel." Polaris pulled the envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table. "He has entrusted me with his Alchemy notes and hopes I can find two weeks to study Alchemy with him."
Grandma picked up the envelope and examined the wax seal—a star surrounded by alchemical symbols. She didn't open it, merely looking at it for a moment before placing it back on the table.
"There is one more thing." Polaris's voice was slightly lower than before, but steady. "I want to use Alchemy to turn my Zodiac Ability into charms. That way, the people I care about can use those abilities—for example, the Dog ability, which grants immunity to the Killing Curse." He paused. "I don't know exactly how much of my power the charms will retain, but even if it can only block the Killing Curse once, it will be extremely useful."
The dining room fell silent. Bangbang poked his head in from the kitchen doorway before quickly withdrawing. Kreacher stood perfectly still. Neither Grandma nor Aunt spoke. The fire in the hearth crackled as a log collapsed in the center, sending sparks flying onto the stone hearth where they flickered a few times before dying out.
"Very well," Grandma spoke first, her voice soft but clear. "We will support all your decisions." She looked at Polaris, her grey eyes identical to his own. "However, even with these powerful abilities, you must protect yourself."
Polaris nodded.
"Your other abilities are fine," Grandma continued, "but do not reveal the mask's power too openly. Even when using it, do not summon so many shadows."
Aunt chimed in, her tone much more serious than usual. "Indeed. It's no different from having a private army. These puppets that only obey you—these Shadow Soldiers—if the Ministry of Magic found out, they would place you under strict control. This kind of military force is far too disruptive for the wizarding world. Loyal Shadow Soldiers... neither Lord Voldemort nor the first generation Dark Lordhad as many subordinates as you. You cannot let people discover you have the power to overthrow the government."
Polaris put down his fork. "I understand. Not many people at school know. Headmaster Dumbledore hasn't seen the full shadows; he only saw the hand that reached out to hand me the Philosopher's Stone. I think he believes my ability is the same as my mother's."
Aunt and Grandma exchanged a look but did not comment.
"And when will you go to see Nicolas Flamel?" Aunt changed the subject.
Polaris thought for a moment. "In two days, I think. I'll spend some time with you two first, and after I finish learning, I'll spend the rest of the holiday with you. Fortunately, summer break is two months long, so there's plenty of time."
Grandma nodded, the corners of her mouth curling slightly—it was a very faint smile, but Polaris saw it. Aunt picked up her coffee cup, took a sip, and set it down. "Then remember to write back to Headmaster Dumbledore."
—
Night at Star-Swirl Manor was as quiet as a deep pool of water. Polaris lay in bed, watching the star chart on the ceiling slowly rotate. Silver stars moved along ancient orbits, with an occasional shooting star leaving a thin trail of light. The night sky outside the window was clear and cloudless, with stars shining one by one. The north starwas in its usual place, silent and steady.
Yarnball stood on the windowsill, having finished her dinner and currently preening the feathers on her wings with her beak. Polaris folded the written letter, tied it to Yarnball's leg, and stroked her small head. "Be careful on the way." Yarnball gave a soft hoot and flew out the window, disappearing into the night.
Polaris lay back on his pillow, staring at the star chart on the ceiling. Those stars were different from the ones outside; they were painted on, but so realistically that every single one was exactly where it should be.
"System," he whispered in his mind.
[I am here.]
"What exactly is the deal with my mother?" His voice was calm, but there was something suppressed beneath that calmness. "Don't give me excuses. Those aren't just'similar' abilities. My mask of manny was a physical mask I found in the attic, and only then was the ability triggered. And then there's the awakening of Wind and Water—your explanation that day was very forced. I only gained those after opening that scroll. Don't tell me it was triggered by emotions; my emotions at the time weren't enough to trigger the awakening of two Demon powers."
The system was silent for a while. The silence lasted longer than usual, long enough for Polaris to think it wouldn't answer.
[System scanning—Timeline—Unknown.]
[The source of Long Meixiu's abilities is unknown. They were not granted by the system. This system has only ever been bound to the host and has had no other hosts.]
Polaris frowned. "Then what is the reason? Does this world naturally possess these abilities? Is this a merged world?"
[World Scan—magic Plane. This world exists solely within the Harry Potter worldview and has no other world mergers. System abilities exist independently of the world and serve the host, Polaris Black. Aside from Wizardmagic, no supernatural abilities from other worlds exist in this world.]
"You're lying to me."
[The system never lies to the host. The system is deeply bound to the host; deception is impossible.]
Polaris remained silent. He watched the star chart on the ceiling, watching the silver stars move slowly along their orbits. Yarnball hadn't returned yet, and the night outside was deep. Toward the Forbidden Forest in the distance, nothing could be seen but pitch-black darkness.
"I will find the answer," he said. It wasn't a question, but a statement.
[You will.]
Polaris didn't ask anything else. He closed his eyes, listening to the wind outside, the sound of the last few logs burning in the fireplace, and the faint, breath-like noises the old house made in the night. Star-Swirl Manor was quiet at night, but it wasn't empty. It was filled with things—the sound of Grandma turning a page downstairs, the sound of Aunt's footsteps in the hallway, and the hushed voices of Bangbang and Kreacher talking in the kitchen. These sounds were very light, too faint to make out the words, but Polaris could feel them as clearly as he could feel his own heartbeat.
He rolled over and pulled the quilt up to his chin. The bedside lamp was still on, its dim yellow light falling on the desk and the dark brown cover of the Alchemy notes. Beside the notes lay the Salted Plum Candy Bangbanghad stuffed there, the wrapper glinting in the lamplight. Polaris reached out, took one, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. It was sweet and sour, exactly the same as in his memories. Holding the candy in his mouth, he closed his eyes and stopped thinking about the questions that currently had no answers.
By the time Yarnball flew back through the window, Polaris was almost asleep. She landed on his pillow, nuzzled his ear with her head, and gave a soft hoot. Drowsily, Polaris reached out to stroke her, then tucked his hand back under the quilt and drifted into a deep sleep.