Arthur had never thought love would be something he'd need to go looking for—at least, not like this. But here he was, trailing behind his cousins through the snow-dusted courtyard of the school, his gloved hands buried in his coat pockets, and his usual deadpan expression doing little to conceal the awkwardness etched into his frame.
Micah's face was a blend of disbelief and amusement, eyebrows high, mouth slightly parted as if still trying to find the words.
"I need to get a crush," Arthur had told them earlier that morning, completely serious, as if he were discussing the weather.
Micah nearly choked on his breakfast. "Do you even know how that works?"
"It's a nice thought," Vivienne had added dryly, crossing her arms with a skeptical glance, "but come on… you? Feeling an emotion of need for something?" She gave him a once-over, like she half expected to find strings and screws instead of a heart and soul.
Arthur didn't flinch. "It's not about want. It's necessity. If I'm going to keep the 'dark side' at bay, I need something stronger tethering me here. Something… good. A crush could help embed me in that—give me a reason to feel."
The silence that followed was long and uncomfortable. Micah blinked at him like Arthur had grown a second head.
Now, two days later, they were still at it.
To their credit, both cousins were trying. Vivienne, ever the strategist, had compiled a mental list of "potentially crush-worthy candidates" from different houses, while Micah dragged Arthur to clubs and study lounges under the pretense of "running into people naturally." None of it was working.
Arthur just… didn't feel.
As they approached a cluster of benches, a trio of first year Pukwudgie girls spotted them and waved. Their badges—forest green with coppery etchings—gleamed in the sunlight.
"Arthur Reeves! Right?" called the tallest, her dark curls bouncing. "I saw you in Beast Bonding 101—your wolf is magnificent."
Arthur blinked. "Alpha says hello." He managed a small nod.
The second girl grinned. "Oh, he said hello? That's… adorable." She glanced at his cousins. "Your cousins are the Reeves, right?"
Micah gave an embarrassed wave. Vivienne returned a polite nod.
The third girl leaned forward, curiosity bright in her eyes. "So, Arthur—what house mascot do you think suits you best? I'd peg you for a Pukwudgie."
Arthur shuffled. "I'm… fine with Thunderbird." He meant it—he liked the storm and sky imagery—but his voice was void of enthusiasm.
The first girl tilted her head. "You're quiet. Thought Thunderbirds were all about—passion?"
Arthur considered that. "Not really my style." He looked away, scanning the courtyard. "I—uh… have someplace to be."
The Pukwudgie girls glanced at one another, disappointed but not unkind.
"Good luck," the tallest said, offering a genuine smile. "If you ever need study help, let us know." They drifted off, leaving Arthur standing awkwardly.
Vivienne sighed. "See? Girls think you're interesting. You just… don't respond."
Micah snorted. "You're like a rock with eyebrows."
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. "I can't pretend to feel something I don't." His breath puffed in the chilled air.
Vivienne crouched to look him in the eye. "You learned to survive dragons and basilisks. You can learn to survive this too. Try asking a question—something real."
Arthur nodded slowly.
They moved to a sunlit bench near the oak doors leading to the Horned Serpent common room. A lone third-year Horned Serpent girl practiced wandwork, her silver-and-cobalt badge flashing. She caught their approach and straightened.
"Mr. Reeves," she said, bowing her head slightly. "I'm Liora Gwyn. I saw your… performance in Practical Sorcery today." She tapped her own badge. "House pride and all that."
Arthur forced a polite smile. "Thank you, Miss Gwyn."
She offered him a leather-bound tome. "I thought you might like my notes on nonverbal wards. Might help with your—um—wandless defense work."
He took the book, surprised. "That's… generous." His voice wavered. "I appreciate it."
Liora's smile widened. "I like helping people who don't ask for it." She paused, studying him. "Is everything all right?"
Arthur's throat tightened. He wanted to reply honestly—"No, not really"—but found only silence.
Vivienne stepped forward. "We'd better get going." She touched Arthur's arm. "Thank you, Miss Gwyn."
As she and Micah guided Arthur away, Liora called softly: "Good luck, Arthur Reeves."
Arthur nodded again, almost feeling a flicker of warmth—then it vanished.
The cousins gathered on a stone ledge beneath a carved Thunderbird emblem. Arthur opened Liora's book and turned the pages absentmindedly.
Micah nudged him. "See? You get the compliments—you just… you disappear on them."
Arthur closed the book. "I'm working on it."
Vivienne rested a hand on his shoulder. "One day, you'll feel something. And it might not be what you expect."
Arthur stared at the swirling courtyard. Students of all four houses streamed past—Wampus, Horned Serpent, Pukwudgie, Thunderbird—each moving with purpose and feeling. He sighed. "Tomorrow, we try the stands."
Micah grinned. "Wampus vs. Horned Serpent Quidditch match. Loud, crowded, colorful. You'll feel something."
Arthur allowed a faint smile. "Let's hope so."
Above them, the towers of Ilvermorny glowed as dusk settled—a silent promise that, somewhere in this ancient school, even frost could melt.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The stadium pulsed with sound.
A sea of enchanted banners fluttered overhead—blazing Wampus and cunning Horned Serpent. The enchanted sky above the Quidditch pitch shimmered between sunshine and scattered cloud, tuned to the rising pulse of the crowd. Cheers burst like thunderclaps. Brass horns blared. Confetti spells exploded midair, releasing bursts of colored smoke.
Arthur sat still in the middle of it all, wrapped in the Thunderbird section but disconnected. Students around him wore wide grins and house-painted faces. Some danced. Some screamed. None of it reached him.
Beside him, Micah leaned over, chewing on caramel popcorn and visibly vibrating with excitement.
"Come on, Arthur," he said, raising his voice over the roar. "This is literally the loudest, most colorful thing on Earth. Feel anything yet?"
Arthur didn't blink. His eyes followed a golden snitch that zipped between towers. He didn't even register the sound of nearby girls giggling and whispering about him, stealing glances like he was some puzzle-box they were desperate to unlock.
"Mild annoyance," he said, flatly.
Vivienne snorted behind her sunglasses. "Should've stayed in the library with the ghosts. You fit their whole vibe."
On the pitch, brooms darted like meteors. A Wampus beater swung with precision, knocking a bludger away from their Seeker. The Horned Serpent chaser twisted midair, wand guiding the Quaffle in a sharp arc through one of the rings. The crowd surged. Cheers swallowed the air. Micah jumped to his feet.
"Did you see that? That's a new maneuver—they call it the Slipstream!" he said, pointing. "That's Horned Serpent innovation, baby!"
Arthur clapped. Once. Slowly. "Riveting."
And still, nothing inside him stirred. Just that emptiness again. Like trying to light a match underwater.
The roar of the stadium faded the deeper one walked into the woods. Beyond the last rows of enchanted barriers and cheering students, the trees thickened—tall, skeletal pines that swallowed sound and bent slightly, like they were leaning in to eavesdrop.
Near the treeline, where sunlight broke in filtered shards, the hooded woman crouched.
She was cloaked in shadow, her face hidden beneath a low cowl, her breath misting slightly despite the warm air. Her gloved hand rested on the creature beside her—a thing better left in nightmares.
The Varnhound shifted its weight from one grotesque limb to another. Its skin was a patchwork of matted fur and chitin. The back legs resembled a panther's, built for pouncing. The front... something else entirely—crooked, clicking, vaguely insectoid. One eye glowed an unsettling green. The other blinked in stiff, mechanical twitches, leaking a line of dark fluid down its cheek.
It breathed like it was fighting the act—like it had to remember how to be alive.
"Shhh," she whispered, scratching beneath its chin with delicate care. "I know. You smell him, don't you?"
The Varnhound growled low. A pulse fluttered beneath its hide like something else was moving inside it—something alive.
"Patience, my sweet. All in good time." She leaned closer, her voice like silk wrapped around steel. "He is near. The boy. You remember his scent. His blood."
The creature tensed. Its gaze snapped toward the stadium.
The woman smiled. "Go."
It didn't wait for another word.
The Varnhound bolted into the shadows, faster than any living thing had a right to be. No sound. No warning. Just the rustle of disturbed undergrowth and the ghost of its scent—metallic, wrong, like burnt wires and grave soil—lingering in the air.
The woman remained, kneeling.
She reached into her cloak and retrieved a small vial. Blood shimmered within. Thick. Dark. Not fresh—but potent.
She held it to her lips.
"Soon, my love, your balance will tilt. And when it does..."
She crushed the vial in her hand.
The forest swallowed her whole.
Brooms zipped through the air like bolts of lightning. A Horned Serpent Chaser ducked under a Thunderbird Beater's swing, flipping midair before tossing the Quaffle to his teammate. The crowd went wild.
Banners shimmered with charm-enhanced glow. Spells fired occasionally—legal showmanship spells meant to dazzle, not harm. The commentary boomed from enchanted megaphones across the stadium.
Arthur sat like a stone in the middle of it all.
Vivienne was leaning forward, eyes glued to the sky. Micah was on his feet half the time, fists clenched every time someone from their house scored.
Arthur just sat.
Micah looked over, exasperated. "Feel anything yet?"
Arthur didn't even blink. " Still mild annoyance."
Vivienne gave him a sideways glance. "We dragged you out here hoping your soul would spark. Nothing? No pride? No competitive rage?"
Arthur turned his eyes skyward, following a bludger as it smashed into a Horned Serpent Beater's shoulder. "I don't get it. I know it's all happening. My brain registers it. But it feels like someone else's memory."
Micah sighed. "You're a broken biscuit."
Then, Arthur's eyes unfocused.
Something… shifted.
The air around him seemed to bend.
He sat up straighter, suddenly alert. Not scared. Not excited. Just… listening.
A voice.
Faint.
Not heard by ears but through something deeper—older.
"Kill the One..."
Arthur's breath hitched. His gaze swept the stands. Hundreds of students. Professors. Flags and magic and joy.
But the voice slithered beneath it all, like a song only he remembered.
"Kill the One..."
Micah saw the change. "Arthur?"
Vivienne followed his gaze. "What's wrong?"
Then—
A scream.
Not from the crowd. Not from the pitch.
From the sky itself.
Students began rising in confusion. The game stuttered as brooms paused midair.
Then a Varnhound burst from the treeline.
It didn't stalk or prowl or growl.
It exploded onto the pitch.
One moment, the grass rippled. The next, something terrible stood in its center—limbs twitching, breath rasping, too many joints moving the wrong way.
Its green eye flashed.
Its mechanical one whirred.
And for a moment… the world froze.
Then—
Screams.
Panic broke like a wave. Students began fleeing the stands. Professors leapt to their feet, wands already drawn.
A few gasped in horror.
"Merlin's bones—"
"Is that—?"
"It can't be—!"
Headmistress Wren appeared at the edge of the field, robes billowing, voice amplified by magic.
"PROTECT THE STUDENTS!"
But it wasn't the students the creature was looking for. Maybe just one.
It lifted its head. Sniffed once. Twice. Then slowly turned…
Its gaze locked on Arthur.
Micah and Vivienne froze.
Others had run. Thunderbirds, Horned Serpents, even professors pushing students toward the exits. But the three of them stood still.
Arthur's body refused to obey. He could feel the Varnhound's mind pressing against his.
Not words.
Commands.
"You. The One. Must obey. Must kill the One."
The world faded.
Arthur didn't feel fear.
He didn't feel anything.
Then the beast moved.
Not toward the field—not toward the staff—it leapt straight for the stands.
The moment its paws left the earth, the ground cracked beneath it.
The crowd barely saw it coming.
It was mid-air, maw wide, claws out—
—and then BOOM.
A shield spell burst into light, knocking it sideways with a roar.
Arthur staggered as the shockwave hit him.
Beside him, Daniel appeared like a shadow parting fog, wand still glowing from the cast. "You okay?" he said sharply.
Arthur couldn't speak.
"Get him out of here," Daniel ordered, turning to Micah and Vivienne. "Now."
Vivienne grabbed Arthur's arm. "Come on!"
The professors were closing in around the creature. Dorian was there too—wand blazing. The air shimmered with tension as defensive spells formed a perimeter.
The Varnhound stood again, growling, fury in its mechanical eye.
Its prey had gotten away.
So it screamed.
A sound like a blade dragged across bone and fire.
Then it turned to face its new opponents.
And charged.
=============
DANIEL REEVES' POV
A Varnhound?
Seriously?
Daniel stood still for a second too long, wand gripped but not raised.
He thought they were done with those.
Apparently, they were not.
The creature snarled across the pitch, jaws slick, eyes—one organic, one mechanical—glowing with a hellish glint. Every instinct Daniel had screamed to act. And yet, somewhere deep inside, there was a weary sigh.
He instinctively reached for his Beasttongue. Not the tongue itself—no spell, no incantation—just the raw connection. The gift. He'd used it before. Risked it.
"Maybe I can reason with—"
The Varnhound's mind lashed back, a wall of static, rage, and command-strings echoing only one thing:
"KILL THE ONE."
Daniel staggered back, clutching his head. Nope. Definitely didn't work out well this time either.
"Stun it!" someone barked—maybe Derwin, maybe Wren. Spells flew in all directions.
Red flashes lit the pitch like a rave gone wrong. Stunning spells, paralysis jinxes, even a slow-burn binding chain curse. None of it stuck. The Varnhound kept moving, shrugging off the hits like gnats buzzing its hide.
Daniel's stomach tightened. They needed a new plan—and fast.
He turned to the Headmistress, breath steady even as chaos buzzed in the air.
"We need to get it out of here."
Wren didn't hesitate. "I agree, Reeves."
Daniel's eyes found his brother—Dorian—firing stunning spells in clean, clinical bursts. He was moving in rhythm with Derwin, the two of them trying to herd the beast, but it was like trying to cage a thunderstorm.
"Dorian!" Daniel yelled. "Get it out of here!"
Dorian snapped back, ducking under the creature's swipe. "How exactly am I supposed to do that, dear brother? In case you don't remember, I nearly died last time!"
Daniel didn't blink. "Just do it."
Dorian groaned like a martyr about to die for a cause he didn't believe in. But he didn't argue further.
He raised his wand, mouth tightening, and fired a violent spell Daniel hadn't seen since his third year exam—something that shoved the Varnhound back with a bone-rattling crack.
The beast tumbled, rolled—then sprang back up.
Its eyes locked onto Dorian.
Dorian stared for a heartbeat. "Yep. It's angry."
Then—he ran.
Not away.
Lured it.
Through the outer wards and toward the forest. Fast. Too fast.
Daniel blinked. He couldn't help it.
Proud. Also jealous. Mostly proud. Still annoying though.
The Varnhound gave chase, claws ripping the earth behind it. The ground shook.
Daniel stepped back into command mode.
"Professor Wren," he said tightly, "has the Congress been notified?"
Wren's voice was iron. "Immediately it arrived."
Good. But not good enough.
A burst of light near the woods. Someone screamed.
Then—another figure arrived through the floo gate near the Quidditch shed, disheveled robes flapping as he jogged toward Wren and Daniel.
Deputy Headmaster Layne.
"They've replied," Layne said, breathless. "MACUSA's on their way. Some of the Department of Magical Creatures—"
Daniel's mind stuttered. "Wait—Dorian."
"Already on it," Layne replied.
From the other end of the pitch, a tactical unit was closing in—robes armored, wands drawn, formation tight. It was like watching an ambush form in real time. But the Varnhound moved through it. Spellfire burst around it, but it ducked and swerved unnaturally.
The ambush fell apart.
Then—they arrived.
The Department of Magical Creatures.
Daniel saw the strike team first—uniformed agents raising their wands in unison, casting coordinated, snapping attack spells that actually sent the Varnhound sliding back.
And at their head—
Director Elaine Margrave. Impeccable as always, eyes cold as a glacier.
Beside her—Cassian Reeves. Deputy Director.
His father.
Daniel straightened, face locking into official form. He said nothing, only nodded. It was an official occasion, after all.
Elaine approached the cluster of professors and staff. Behind her, the Varnhound was being pulled into a tighter ring of hexfire and containment barriers. Grunts and growls echoed behind them.
Elaine didn't waste time.
"Professor Wren, what happened here?"
Wren raised an eyebrow. "Um… isn't that obvious, Elaine? We were attacked."
Elaine's eyes narrowed. "I know that much, Tracy. What was it after?"
Daniel spoke before anyone else could. "Same as last time. A Reeves. Arthur."
Behind Elaine, Cassian closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.
Like he'd been expecting the answer. Hoping it wouldn't come. And now that it had, he could finally stop pretending.
Even here. Ilvermorny.
Arthur still wasn't safe.
Elaine turned her sharp gaze to the Reeves—both of them. "I think it's quite evident who the 'One' is. Question is… why?"
Cassian's voice was low. "I think you'll find that none of us hold the answer to that question, Elaine."
Elaine didn't like the answer, but she didn't press. "Where is he?"
"Safe," Wren said simply.
In the background, the battle raged on. A violent crack echoed as a spell finally knocked the Varnhound back into a containment snare.
Deputy Headmaster Layne muttered under his breath, "Why are professors so restricted on using attack spells, and yet… it's like the rules don't apply to them?"
Wren cleared her throat sharply.
Daniel caught the flicker of agreement in her eyes, even as she silenced him.
He returned his gaze to the line of agents and his father.
So much for Ilvermorny being safe.
The Varnhounds weren't done.
And whatever was after Arthur… had just begun.