"To win, sometimes you must become the piece no one expects you to sacrifice."
- Unknown.
.....
Morning crept into Ilvermorny without ceremony. No storms. No alarms. Just mist over the forest and the kind of silence that made Arthur suspicious.
The castle breathed like nothing had happened — like no one had nearly died two nights before.
He walked the halls alone, every footstep tapping like a countdown on polished tile. Students passed by him in clusters, chatting about classes, weekend Quidditch, some new imported candy from Japan that sparked when bitten. Laughter swelled, comfortable. Careless.
It was all wrong.
His sling had been replaced by a wrapped brace, light and barely visible under his robe. A few students looked his way, then looked away fast. Like they didn't want to catch whatever he was becoming.
Too calm.
Too clean.
Like someone wiped the chessboard mid-game and reset the pieces.
The first class was Practical Sorcery.
Arthur took his seat near the back, wary. Professor Ignatius stood at the front with his usual robes — black, gold-trimmed, stiff as his posture. But his face... his face was different.
Smiling.
Not the cold, wry curve he used when mocking someone's incantation or roasting their ancestry. No. This was polite. Warm. Like he'd read a book on being likable and decided today was the day.
"Mr Reeves," Ignatius said mid-demonstration, "I must say, your grasp of matterforms has improved. Very clean work."
Arthur blinked. Nearly dropped his wand.
He's smiling," he thought. "I think I preferred it when he hated me."
Even Micah noticed, tossing Arthur a wide-eyed glance from two seats away.
"Is this a prank?" he whispered. "Should I check for illusions? Is this... is this man possessed?"
Arthur got no answer. Just stared straight ahead, every muscle tight beneath his skin. Something was wrong. Off. Warped at the edges like overheated glass.
Someone even called his name in the hallway afterward — a fifth-year he didn't know well. Waved. Smiled.
Arthur didn't wave back.
He just kept walking.
As students streamed into Charms next period, Arthur lingered just outside the classroom, staring down at the deep vein of marble running through the floor. A girl brushed past him and smiled. He didn't smile back.
He stepped inside.
Professor Adair was already instructing the class, notes appearing midair as she explained the structure of spectral wards. Arthur took his seat. Micah leaned in from behind him.
"Hey, Icebrain. You okay? You've got that 'I'm-about-to-explode' vibe."
Arthur almost replied. Almost. But instead, he just stared forward.
He was smiling
Something's weird.
Because today, everyone was pretending the sky wasn't about to fall. Not that they knew.
The Dining Hall shimmered with midmorning sun, casting golden bands of light across the long mahogany tables. Students murmured over their meals, their voices a low, steady hum, like distant waves brushing a restless shore. The smells of roasted potatoes, charred beef, and enchanted cider hung warm in the air.
Arthur barely tasted a thing.
He sat rigid, fork unmoving, pushing a smear of mashed potatoes into a slow spiral. His eyes flicked across the room. Everything was too... normal. Too composed. Laughter spilled from the far end where the 3rd years usually sat. A group conjured dancing lights over their dessert, mimicking tiny fireworks. Even the faculty table bore an unsettling peace — Professor Ignatius calmly sipped something steaming from a metal flask, looking almost pleased with himself.
Arthur's skin prickled.
This wasn't calm.
This was quiet before collapse.
Then the bench creaked beside him.
Vivienne.
She didn't speak. Just sat with a gentle rustle of her cloak, setting her untouched plate before her. Her black hair was tied back today in a single braid, threads of it catching the light. She didn't look at him.
Arthur didn't look at her either.
The silence between them wasn't cold. It was tight. Like strings pulled taut across a chasm — neither willing to speak first, but both aware the bridge was breaking.
Whispers rose nearby — fragments of gossip drifting like smoke.
"...That ice blast in Transfiguration—"
"—nearly froze me—"
"He snapped again, didn't he?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. He clenched the fork harder.
Vivienne didn't react to the rumors. She never did. She simply placed a folded napkin on her lap with all the elegance of someone who belonged to a different century.
"Are you going to ask?" he said at last, voice low.
She turned, her eyes soft — too soft.
"I don't need to," she said.
That pierced more than he expected. He swallowed and looked away.
"Of course you do. You see everything, don't you?" His tone came out sharper than he meant.
Vivienne didn't flinch. "Not everything. Just what matters."
He opened his mouth to respond—but stopped.
She knew. She always did. But she wasn't here to accuse or correct him.
She was here because she was scared too.
Before either could say more, the bench groaned again. Dorian slid in on Arthur's other side, a half-smile on his lips, his usual storm-blue coat dusted with leaves and parchment stains.
"You two look like someone cancelled Christmas," he muttered, dropping a satchel beside his foot. "Relax, yeah? They didn't execute you yet, Arthur."
Arthur huffed. "Funny."
Dorian leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Got a new wand finally. Thing sings in my hand. Ash wood, unicorn hair. Twelve inches, stubborn core. Same as my old one but this one's better balanced."
He waved it subtly under the table and muttered something — a quick Aquilus. A tiny puff of wind stirred the corner of Vivienne's braid.
She didn't smile. Not this time.
"I've been sending letters," Dorian continued, voice dipping quieter. "To Dad. Every week."
Arthur's eyes darted up.
"No replies. Owls keep coming back with the letters still sealed."
Vivienne's hand froze mid-reach for her goblet.
"I thought it was just me," she said softly. "Mine too. And Daniel's not saying a word. Keeps dodging questions."
Dorian leaned in. "Do you think something's wrong?"
Vivienne didn't answer immediately. She picked up her goblet, drank, eyes fixed ahead — too calm, too unreadable.
"I don't know."
But Arthur wasn't convinced. He turned to her slowly, really looked at her.
That slight pinch in her brows.
The tension around her lips.
She did know.
Vivienne always knew.
She just wasn't saying.
Arthur looked down at his plate again, now cold and untouched. A small knot twisted in his gut.
At the far end of the Hall, across a sea of moving bodies and clattering forks, Wren sat alone.
Her sharp eyes flicked between Arthur and Vivienne. Then to Dorian. Calculating.
She raised her glass.
She drank, eyes never leaving them.
Outside the stained-glass windows, the sky had darkened just slightly. Clouds beginning to form — like fingers coiling toward something about to break.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The walls of Arthur's room had grown smaller with each passing minute.
He sat at the edge of his bed, arms over his knees, fingers threading through his hair. The echoes of Vivienne's words haunted the corners of his mind — a quiet tremor beneath his skin.
"It starts tomorrow."
He had scoffed at the time. Called it vague, like every other half-truth she seemed to live by. But now, as the moon crept across the sky and the halls fell silent save for the occasional echo of prefect footsteps, that tomorrow had become today.
He stood.
The floor felt colder than usual. His breath visible for just a second longer.
They're probably already out there. Waiting.
He pulled his cloak over his shoulders and stepped into the corridor. No guards. No spells to stop him. That, in itself, was suspicious.
He muttered to himself, tone bitter.
"Too bad I never played that Muggle game. What's it called... chips, dice, smoke in the air. Casinos?"
"Whatever. I'm betting big tonight."
"On me."
The Astronomy Tower loomed above, a quiet sentinel.
It always helped to breathe up there. See the stars. Let the chaos below shrink beneath the enormity of the sky.
He reached the final flight of steps when he heard it.
A voice. Faint. Soft as a lullaby.
> "Arthur…"
He froze. His pulse surged. Slowly, he turned.
She stood just beyond the archway. A girl. Wearing like a trenchcoat with hood.
Silver hair peeked from beneath her hood, like starlight bleeding through shadow. Her voice carried a tenderness that felt out of place in his world.
"Are you okay? Just so you know, you're not broken, love…" she whispered.
"You're just... awakening."
Arthur didn't flinch, but his fingers curled into fists. His heart, however, betrayed him — beating a little too loud.
Love? Do people still feel that?
The girl moved closer.
Her steps made no sound.
She reached for him, brushing her fingertips against his cheek. The touch was—
Warm.
Intimate.
Wrong.
Arthur's body relaxed without permission. His mind wavered. The tower spun gently, like a carousel from a dream.
And then—
A voice. Familiar. Furious.
"GET AWAY FROM HER, YOU IDIOT!"
Arthur's eyes flared wide.
A flash of grey surged through his hair — silver-white streaks crackling like stormlight.
His hand moved on instinct — smack — shoving her touch away.
She stumbled back, visibly hurt, though her face never twisted. It was more… sadness. Like an interrupted lullaby.
Arthur blinked. Five seconds were missing. His breathing ragged.
His hair faded back to black.
"What… the hell was that?"
The girl didn't answer.
She stepped back. Mist curled around her feet, rising in thick, elegant wisps.
"You're not ready," she murmured. "But soon..."
Then she vanished, leaving nothing but the scent of wild flowers in the air.
Arthur's chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven heaves. His skin prickled. Magic inside him churned like a storm seeking release.
And release it did.
BOOM.
A violent pulse of energy surged out from him — a ring of force that cracked the stone tiles and sent birds screaming into the night sky.
Down below, a second-year student walking beneath the tower shrieked as shards of stone rained from above.
"HELP!"
Arthur rushed to the edge. Horror gripped him.
Shrapnel. Blood. Screaming.
And all of it…
Because of him.
His hands trembled.
The world flickered.
One second, there was silence — the kind that sinks into your bones like the pause before a scream — and the next, the weight of reality came crashing down.
Arthur's knees hit the ground, his chest heaving. The air felt too thin, too loud. His vision swam with blurred edges and grey spots. And for a moment… everything was still.
Then chaos bloomed.
Voices. Hands. Shouting.
Daniel's face cut through the haze first, panic sharp in his eyes, voice laced with fury and worry in equal measure as he hauled Arthur roughly to his feet.
"You nearly killed someone! But are you okay?"
Arthur didn't answer. Couldn't.
Not because of pain — he was fine, physically — but because of something worse.
Fear.
Not his own. Theirs.
Every face around him, every teacher, was looking at him like he was a bomb they hadn't realized was ticking.
Wide eyes. Backing away.
The kind of silence that wasn't awe… but dread.
The wounded was being lifted on a stretcher. Her robes were torn, her side bandaged hastily where shards of shattered railing had pierced her skin. Blood smeared her arm. Someone said she'd be okay. No one said it loud enough.
Arthur took a half-step forward—
And was stopped by a wall of black uniforms.
MACUSA.
They moved fast. Authoritative. No-nonsense.
"Congress has jurisdiction. He's unstable. He comes with us."
Staff pushed back. Wren herself stepped forward, her voice low but forceful.
"He's a student under my protection. You will not take him like some rogue spell gone wrong."
The argument heated, voices rising.
Arthur stood in the center of it all, numb.
In the end, it was compromise.
Not mercy.
Two agents clamped cold iron bands around his wrists — magic-dampening cuffs that bit into his skin like insults.
His wand was taken from his sleeve.
The air felt colder without it.
Below them, on the highest balcony of the East Wing, Professor Ignatius stood watching. Arms folded, unmoving.
No shock. No concern.
Just… calculation.
He turned. Walked inside.
A few seconds later, a black owl took off from the tallest spire of the school — a small envelope sealed with a black obsidian stamp tied to its leg.
It vanished into the dark, slicing through the sky like a dagger sent in silence.
Later.
Infirmary.
The light was dim. The ticking of a potion-timer the only sound.
Arthur sat on the edge of a metal-framed bed, motionless. His wrists ached where the restraints had been put.
He rubbed them, absently. Their weight making him uncomfortable.
His hair — normally black — shimmered faintly under the lanternlight. Not silver. Not dark.
Grey.
Something between. Something… undecided.
He stared at his hands like they were no longer his.
"Damn it. I lost my bet… even though it was on me."
A pause.
"I guess I have to learn gambling. Not that chess could do any better."
Silence.
Just the echo of a choice — one he didn't even remember making.
"Maybe they're right. I'm dangerous.
I…
I might even be a monster."