Arthur's dreams were broken things
They didn't come in full pictures anymore—just flashes. A green eye. A scream that bent the sky. The smell of burning fur and grave soil. Claws stretched mid-leap.
And then—Micah's fist.
That part was clearer than most.
Arthur jolted awake with a gasp, his breath catching like frost in his throat. The room was unfamiliar—not his dorm, not the common room, not anywhere safe. Pale sunlight slanted through stained-glass windows, casting kaleidoscope patterns across clean white sheets and flickering spell-globes. The air smelled of antiseptic potion and old magic.
His wrists were glowing.
Not brightly. Just… faint bands of golden light, crisscrossing his skin. Magic restraints.
He blinked. Tried to sit.
His body didn't hurt. No broken bones. No bruised ribs. Physically, he was fine.
Emotionally?
He wasn't sure he had the vocabulary for it.
Something itched at the back of his skull. A buzzing. A memory—or maybe just a shadow of one.
"Kill the One."
Arthur flinched before he could stop himself.
"Finally awake, are we?"
Vivienne's voice cut through the fog like sunlight through ice. She sat on the edge of a nearby cot, one boot propped on the mattress, eating a bag of levitating peach slices. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, and her wand was tucked behind one ear like a pencil.
"You look like you fought a Dementor and lost."
Micah was sprawled across a chair beside her, chewing on something crunchy. He raised a hand lazily.
"You screamed, kicked Vivienne, almost broke my arm, and nearly summoned a snowstorm in spring" he said, voice casual. "Then I had to punch you."
Arthur blinked. "You… what?"
"I punched you. Just once," Micah said, with a shrug. "You were going all Frostbite-paladin-rage-mode. You weren't making sense."
Vivienne nodded. "It was kind of impressive, in a horrifying 'oh gods he's going to explode' sort of way."
Arthur looked down at his hands.
The restraints had faded.
His palms felt normal.
But when he flexed them, something pulled beneath the skin—like a thread of warmth that didn't belong to him.
"You were muttering nonsense," Micah added. "Stuff about blood. About being the One. Real cultish energy, dude."
Arthur closed his eyes. "I don't remember."
"Good," came another voice.
Dorian entered the room like a storm cloud—tall, lean, dressed like he hadn't slept, his robes slightly rumpled, wand holstered but clearly within reach. He crossed the room in three strides, stopped at the foot of Arthur's bed, and stared down at him like someone trying to solve a very annoying puzzle.
"Because if you did remember, we'd be having a very different conversation."
"Morning to you too, cousin dearest," Arthur said dryly.
Liam trailed in behind him, eleven years old and holding a book too big for his hands. He said nothing—just nodded at Arthur, then sat quietly in a corner, already reading.
Typical Liam.
Vivienne leaned in and dropped her voice. "Wren's pissed. Like, actually pissed. Not her usual 'stern librarian with fire spells' pissed. Full-on Headmistress mode. I heard she nearly hexed an agent from MACUSA for trying to take over the wards."
Dorian snorted. "That's optimistic. She did hex him. Man turned into a teacup. She left him like that for an hour."
Arthur tried to smile.
Didn't quite make it.
There was a pause.
Micah finally leaned forward, tapping two fingers against Arthur's chest.
"You still in there?"
Arthur met his gaze.
"I think so."
⋆⋆⋆
Hours later, after three potions, two psychic screenings, and an aggressively cheerful nurse with a manticore tattoo, Arthur was released from the hospital wing.
Wren had ordered that he take two days off classes, and that he remain within magical surveillance range. The professors were calling it "precautionary containment."
He called it babysitting.
His cousins had scattered—Vivienne off to charms, Micah dragged to defensive theory, Liam wandering the east library again. Even Dorian had disappeared, likely off to consult with Wren or file a report with Congress.
Arthur, in an attempt to find quiet, wandered the empty second-floor corridor that bordered the old greenhouse.
He paused at a corner archway.
He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. But the voices were there, just beyond the marble alcove. Familiar. Low.
Daniel.
Wren.
"You felt it too, ma'am," Daniel said. His voice was calm, but edged. "That thing—it didn't attack the school. It attacked him."
"I'm aware," Wren replied, clipped. "We've filed with MACUSA. The Department of Magical Creatures is compiling what's left of it. Their report is pending."
"We don't need a report to confirm what we saw. The Varnhound wasn't targeting at random. Its intent was clear."
Arthur leaned closer, just a fraction.
Wren sighed. "What are you suggesting? That your cousin is a beacon? That the beasts are being summoned by his blood?"
"I'm suggesting that whatever happened in the forest—whatever was done to him before he arrived at this school—is not over."
The words sat like frost in Arthur's lungs.
He looked down at his right hand.
The veins there—just beneath the surface—glowed faintly.
Pale silver. Threaded like vines. Almost alive.
They pulsed once. Then stopped.
Arthur exhaled. Turned away. Quietly.
Whatever this was—it had followed him.
And it wasn't done yet.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur had always thought silence was his ally. That it was better to say nothing than say the wrong thing.
But now, seated in the dim-lit guest chamber, he found silence unbearable.
Cassian Reeves leaned against the archway across from him, arms crossed, his wand dangling loosely in one hand—not threatening, not defensive. Just… tired. The kind of tired that came from years of shouldering secrets and never getting enough sleep to bury them.
He didn't speak at first. Just looked at Arthur. Not like a professor. Not like a commander. Like family. Like a man who had been young once, and hadn't liked what growing up had cost.
Arthur broke the silence first.
"I swear, no matter where I am… some evil mastermind is always after me."
Cassian raised a brow. "You say that like it's a surprise."
Arthur gave a weak chuckle, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I mean, I know why. The prophecy."
Cassian's face hardened just slightly. "...is just random words uttered by a half-deranged individual who once believed his own shadow was cursed."
"But it's true, isn't it?" Arthur leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I was never meant to survive childhood. I guess I have Voldemort to thank for being here. If I had died back then... you'd still have your brother."
A pause.
Cassian didn't deny it. He didn't soften it either.
"Yes. That much is true."
The words landed like a stone in water—no splash, just weight.
Arthur swallowed, his throat dry.
"So? What am you going to do about that? Kill yourself to make fate happy? Run off and hide?"
Cassian stepped forward slowly, the light catching silver in his temples. He stopped just short of Arthur's chair.
"No," he said. "You fight for it. You live despite it. That's the whole point."
Arthur looked up, eyes narrowed.
"Prophecies are just possibilities," Cassian continued. "A blueprint that someone once guessed might be your house. But guess what? You build the house. You choose the stone. You choose the doors and windows. You want something better?" He pointed at Arthur's chest. "Then own it. Change it. It's your choice."
Arthur sat in the echo of those words.
Then, softer: "Then tell me, Uncle... the abilities I have. The things I feel sometimes—the cold, the whispers, the strength when I shouldn't have any. That's not just magic, is it? That's… Reeves blood. Isn't it?"
Cassian's face didn't change.
But his silence did.
He turned, walked toward the window, and stared out for a long moment at the sky. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
"I can't tell you. Not everything. Not yet."
Arthur stiffened. "Why not?"
Cassian turned back, eyes unreadable. "Because what runs in our blood is buried. For a reason. And if it surfaces now... it won't just be you in danger."
Arthur opened his mouth, but Cassian raised a hand.
"No. Not now."
With that, he walked past Arthur, pausing only briefly by the door.
"Rest. And keep that temper of yours on a leash."
Then he was gone.
Leaving Arthur in a room that suddenly felt colder.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Location: Thunderbird Common Room — Late Evening
The Thunderbird common room had mostly emptied.
Only a few students lingered under the towering, storm-painted dome, where enchanted clouds drifted across a glassy ceiling and flickers of quiet lightning danced like candlelight. The hearth still crackled low, casting warm gold across stone and sky-colored tapestries.
Arthur sat alone on the wide sofa by the windows, back slightly hunched, legs drawn up under him like some coiled, quiet animal. His wand rested beside his knee—reclaimed, familiar. His Thunderbird uniform was slightly wrinkled, his storm-blue robe trailing down one side of the couch like a melted shadow.
He was wearing it properly this time: the collar stiff, the badge pinned. But somehow, it looked like armor on him. Necessary. Worn. Not like he belonged to it, but like it kept him from falling apart.
That's when she walked in.
No sound—just presence. The shift in atmosphere when a storm builds behind you.
"Figured I'd find you here," said Evelyne softly.
Arthur looked up—and for a moment, forgot what language was.
Evelyne was in full Thunderbird uniform.
Not just wearing it. Embodying it.
The silver-threaded embroidery on her collar caught the firelight like moonlight through mist. Her white shirt, immaculately fitted, hugged her shape with a quiet elegance he had somehow never noticed before. Her sleeves were rolled once—deliberate, not lazy. Her black skirt fell clean against her figure, the faintest line of blue piping streaking the sides like hidden lightning waiting to strike.
Her robe was a storm in motion. Deep-blue, with a feathered edge of embroidery that shimmered subtly with each step. The hood, down for now, was shaped like wings mid-flight, and the lining seemed to breathe—a real-time sky painted in folds of soft grey.
And on her chest, the Thunderbird House badge glowed faintly—not as a symbol, but as a heartbeat.
For the first time in his life, Arthur noticed how a person could wear the sky and not be swallowed by it.
His breath nearly stopped. Nearly.
Evelyne raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Arthur blinked. "Nothing."
She smirked, stepping closer and folding herself into the armchair across from him. Her robe pooled like weather. "You looked like you were calculating wind speeds."
"Just… noticed your uniform," Arthur said. "It's clean."
"It's the same as yours."
He looked down at himself. Then back at her. "It's definitely not."
Something in his tone made her smile a little.
They didn't talk for a second. Just watched each other over the flickering fire.
"I was serious, by the way," she said finally, voice low. "About earlier. I meant it. You scared me, Reeves."
Arthur flinched slightly at the name. "You're the second person to say that today."
"Guess you're trending."
"Not sure I like the attention."
"You never do." She leaned forward. "But that thing—it was hunting you. Not just chasing. Hunting. That means something, doesn't it?"
He didn't answer.
She didn't push.
Instead, she looked down at his hand, where the veins had glowed faintly earlier.
"You okay?"
Arthur turned his palm over. Nothing. Just skin now. But his voice dropped to a hush. "It's like there's a blizzard inside me. And every time I get calm, something tries to freeze it over again."
Evelyne tilted her head. "Then maybe don't stay calm."
He gave her a look. "You trying to be a therapist?"
"No," she said, eyes gentle. "I'm trying to be your friend."
That caught him off guard. Friend?
For a second, the coals popped. The shadows danced.
And Arthur saw her again—this time not as the clever Thunderbird, or even the one who always said the right thing.
He saw her as someone sitting with him in the quiet.
Not trying to fix him. Not waiting to leave.
Just… there.
He swallowed.
"You're the only one who talks to me like I'm not… something dangerous."
She smiled—wry, sad, but real. "Maybe I'm just too stupid to be scared."
He shook his head. "No. You're the only one who sees past it."
Evelyne leaned back. "Well. Then I guess I'll have to stay."
They sat like that, the two of them, beneath the shifting painted sky of the Thunderbird dome—neither touching, neither speaking much more.
But for the first time in a long while…
Arthur didn't feel like a storm.
He felt like someone was flying beside him.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Location: Stone Corridor, Lower East Wing – Near Faculty Tower
The corridor was cold. Not magically—just old. Ancient stone groaned softly with the wind drifting in from high archways, and candles floated in tired clusters, casting long shadows that stretched like claws down the hall.
Daniel Reeves stood still, arms crossed, spine tight against the wall beside a cracked windowpane. His jaw was locked, eyes tracking nothing. Not the light, not the cold. Just waiting.
Dorian stormed in like thunder with a face full of fury.
"You unbelievable bastard."
Daniel didn't flinch. "Good to see you too, little brother."
Dorian shoved him. "Don't you joke right now."
His shoulder hit stone. He stayed there.
"I told you not to draw it toward me," Dorian hissed. "I told you. I'm not indispensable, Daniel."
"You handled it," Daniel said simply.
"I nearly died."
"You always nearly die."
"That's not funny," Dorian snapped. "That's not leadership. That's not strategy. That's playing with lives because yours has already rotted from guilt."
Daniel's gaze flicked to him then—quiet, unreadable. "You think I wanted you out there?"
"You let it happen."
"No," Daniel said flatly. "I trusted you could do it. And you did."
"You don't get to decide that. Not after— Not after what we lost."⁰
The silence between them cracked.
It wasn't loud. But it broke something.
Daniel looked away.
For a moment, neither of them were Reeves. Not prodigies. Just two brothers stuck between survival and memory.
Dorian's voice lowered. "You keep throwing me into these things, Dan. You think this is a game? That if I die for Arthur, maybe it'll count as redemption for you?"
Daniel turned slowly. "That's not fair."
"You know what's not fair?" Dorian's breath fogged between them. "You know he's not ready. He doesn't even know what's inside him. What he's becoming."
Daniel stepped forward, suddenly tense. "He's worse than us."
Dorian blinked. "What?"
Daniel's voice dropped to a whisper. "Because he doesn't even know what he's carrying."
That hung between them—long and cold and ancient.
Dorian's anger drained slightly, suspicion sliding into its place. "You mean…"
Daniel nodded, barely. "The Fivefold. It's waking up. I saw it today. I mean... Come on. Cryomancy. Beast-Speech. Something else, too."
Dorian's breath caught. "He's not just one."
"No," Daniel said, grave. "He's not."
Silence.
Only the wind between stone slits now, whispering like old ghosts.
Dorian's hands fell limp. "He's the Singular Heir."
Daniel's expression didn't change. But his eyes flicked away.
"I don't know," he said. "But if he is, then it's started. The cycle. The legacy. All of it."
"And if he dies—?"
Daniel cut him off. "We can't let him die. Not like..."
Dorian backed away a step, the name unspoken between them.
"You think he knows?" he asked quietly.
Daniel shook his head. "No. And Dad's not telling him."
Dorian scoffed. "Of course not. Keeping secrets is a family trait."
Daniel's hand curled into a fist. "It's not just a secret. It's protection. Because if that part of him surfaces before he's ready—"
"Then we all burn," Dorian said flatly.
They stood there, shoulder to shoulder, but galaxies apart.
Eventually, Dorian muttered, "We're going to lose him."
Daniel looked toward the stairs where Arthur had last been taken. "We're going to find him first. And then we make sure he survives this. One way or another."
Dorian exhaled shakily.
And for a moment, they were just two brothers again—frightened, furious, and far from finished.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Location: Wren's Office
The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows against the lacquered wood of Headmistress Wren's office. The room, always immaculate, now bore the tension of war—a war whispered, not declared.
Outside the arched window, the castle roofs shimmered with melting frost, the aftermath of the chaos from the pitch still visible in far-off murmurs and restless magical wards being reset.
Wren stood at the edge of her desk, not behind it—never behind it when Elaine Margrave was in the room.
Elaine, pristine in her MACUSA regalia, stood like a statue carved from resolve and steel. Her silver cloak brushed the floor in sharp angles. Her eyes, colder than winter in Vermont, did not blink.
To her left was Cassian Reeves, silent.
To her right—two MACUSA agents in black, their badges dimly enchanted with Congress seals that faintly pulsed like heartbeats.
The silence was long.
Finally, Wren broke it. "It wasn't just another attack."
Elaine didn't nod. She confirmed by not denying.
"No," she said. "It was a test."
Cassian's jaw tightened.
Wren stepped closer, arms folded over dark robes. "Explain."
Elaine turned, her voice quiet, but dangerous. "That Varnhound wasn't feral. It didn't roam. It locked on. There was purpose in its charge, in how it ignored students, professors, containment lines."
Cassian interjected, quietly. "It was after Arthur."
Elaine turned to him. "No. It was after what's inside him."
The words shifted the room's pressure. Magic stirred faintly in the corners, like wind trapped in stone,
Wren's voice dipped. "You're saying this wasn't just a hunt—it was a retrieval."
Elaine nodded. "Something dormant was released. Something old. An echo—no, a command."
Cassian stepped forward. "Are you sure?"
Elaine didn't look at him. "The Varnhound responded the way they do to blood-linked magic. But deeper. The creature didn't just chase Arthur—it obeyed something."
Wren stilled. "Obeyed?"
Elaine's voice dropped. "You probably felt it, Tracy. When the pitch dropped cold. That wasn't the Varnhound. That was him."
Cassian said nothing.
Elaine continued. "The boy's magic flared in five separate streams. Simultaneously. I haven't seen that in years. Not since…"
She didn't finish.
But Cassian's eyes darkened.
Wren exhaled, slowly. "Then we're too late."
Elaine looked at her.
Wren's fingers curled at her side. "Whatever was dormant... has started to burn again."
No one spoke.
The flames in the hearth flared briefly—then stilled.
Elaine finally said, "If Arthur Reeves is who we fear he is… then we've already stepped onto the board."
Cassian turned sharply to her. "He's a boy."
Elaine didn't blink. "He's a trigger. A vessel. The last one was destroyed before she could awaken."
Wren looked at both of them. "What does MACUSA intend?"
Elaine stared into the fire, voice like flint on glass. "To watch. To wait. And if he falls out of balance... to act."
Cassian growled, "He's not a threat. He's family."
Elaine turned slowly. "So was the last one."
Another silence.
Far below the castle, the wards whispered again—rattling faintly, like breath through old bones.
Cassian looked to Wren. "He can't face this alone."
"No," Wren said. "But he might have to."
Elaine stepped toward the door, cloak swaying like a blade. "I'll be watching, Tracy."
"Like you always have," Wren muttered.
The door closed behind them, the lock clicking with quiet finality.
Wren turned to the window, eyes tracking the melting frost on the stone towers beyond. She whispered to herself more than to anyone.
"If he really is the Fivefold… Merlin help us all"