∆
Arthur jolted awake in his bed. The grey light of dawn crept through the high windows, cold and thin. Six o'clock, maybe earlier. Plenty of time before class. He swung his legs down, feet brushing the floorboards, and sat there for a moment with his head in his hands.
Bath. Clothes. Routine. He moved through it all like a machine, each motion too careful — as though pretending nothing was wrong might make it true.
Then he stepped out of the dormitory. And that was when it hit him.
Not his own thoughts. Not his own memories.
Auren's.
They came not as voices but as echoes, vivid enough to make him halt mid-step.
"Seriously, keep feeding me lines. You'd make a great sidekick."
"What does a humble thirteen-year-old rogue have to do to earn five minutes with dusty old books?"
"Subject Λ-7: Success. Name: Varnhound."
"Homework. For Arthur. Or maybe you. Whoever you are today."
"The Reeves Incident."
"Sometimes, when a family line doesn't reach five children, the gifts converge. One child inherits them all. The Singular Heir."
"You were safer at Hogwarts. At least Voldemort had rules. These people? No honor. No mercy."
Arthur blinked hard. His fists clenched. He forced himself to keep walking, nodding politely at a few housemates passing the other way, trying to mask the storm beneath his ribs. His face — blank. His steps — steady.
But his mind was boiling.
So it's true. Silverfang wasn't just about hybrids. It's blood. My blood. Our blood.
He turned down the hallway, too deep in thought to notice the girl running toward him.
The collision was sudden, bone against bone, both of them sprawling onto the cold floor. Arthur hissed, sitting up, and saw a streak of white hair falling into someone's face.
That voice — sharp, familiar.
"You know, Arthur, you really need to stop making a habit of this."
Evelyne. She stood, brushing dust and white strands from her eyes, lips quirking. "What is it with you and knocking me down?"
Arthur pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his sleeve. "It's not like I aim to, miss…" His eyes narrowed. "What is your last name?"
Her grin widened. "Why? Planning to use it in a love letter?"
Arthur's mouth twitched — the faintest irritation. "Answer the question."
"I'll tell you if you walk to class with me."
Arthur scoffed, already turning away. "I'll pass."
But Evelyne stepped forward, matching his stride. "You always pass. Pass people in the halls. Pass conversations. Pass chances to be human." Her tone sharpened. "What are you so afraid of, Reeves?"
Arthur stopped, turning his head just slightly. "You don't want the answer to that."
Her voice dropped, softer now, but insistent. "Maybe I do."
For a second, it almost cracked him. Then he brushed past her without a word.
Evelyne didn't let it go.
Her voice cracked through the hall like a whip, louder than she intended:
"Arthur Reeves!"
Everyone nearby froze, heads snapping toward them. Arthur stopped too, stiffening.
Evelyne's face burned, but she pushed forward anyway. "Stop being an asshole and come with me."
The word — asshole — echoed louder than the call of his name. No one had ever spoken to Arthur Reeves like that. Not in public. Not with that fire.
Arthur turned, mask locked in place, but inside his chest something shivered. Indecision.
And then, like the devil slipping onto his shoulder, another voice.
"Well, dear cousin," Dorian drawled, sliding an arm across Arthur's shoulders, "I'd do what the lady wants." His grin was pure provocation.
Arthur exhaled, sharp. "I'd rather not."
A thwack to the back of his head jolted him. Vivienne stood there, her pale cheeks flushed crimson. "Stop it, Arthur. Enough of your nonchalant garbage. Just go with the girl."
Arthur rubbed the sore spot, voice low, almost taunting: "And if I skip class?"
Vivienne's eyes narrowed, her tone cutting. "Then your dear uncle Cassian will hear of this."
Arthur opened his mouth to speak then froze, remembering where said uncle was. For a moment, just a moment, his mask cracked. He swallowed. "…You're right." His tone was flat again. "Whatever."
He turned, stepping back toward Evelyne. His words were edged with dry disdain. "You're still telling me your last name, right?"
She nodded, eyes gleaming triumphantly. "Without a doubt."
Arthur huffed, brushed past her again, and this time let her trail behind.
Silence held for a beat after they left.
Micah let out a low whistle. "That was… unlike him."
Dorian frowned. "What do you mean?"
Micah's eyes stayed on the hallway, thoughtful. "He gave up too easily. Classic Arthur would've dragged that fight out just to be difficult."
Vivienne crossed her arms. "…So you think he's hiding something?"
"I'm saying," Micah replied, voice steady, "he knows something we don't."
∆∆
That afternoon, Arthur's thoughts circled back to the morning.
Go with the girl.
Vivienne's command rang in his ears, louder than her voice had been in the hall. There was something about her — the sharpness, the certainty — that clung to him. Evelyne hadn't even told him her last name. Why did that bother him so much? Why did it remind him of… someone else? Someone he couldn't quite place.
He didn't notice where his feet carried him until the tall oaken doors loomed before him. The library.
Arthur stopped dead.
"Oh, and maybe avoid the library for a few days." Auren's warning hissed in his memory.
And then the doors opened.
A young woman stepped out, her hair loose, dark silk against her shoulders, her amber eyes bright as coins in sunlight. Her nameplate glinted: Mara Ellwood.
Arthur's breath caught. And like a crack of lightning, everything Auren had experienced here slammed into him — the charm, the banter, the forbidden books.
For the first time in weeks, Arthur felt… afraid. His hair betrayed him, shifting pale at the edges, frost seeping through his veins.
"Ah. Mr. Reeves." Mara's voice was velvet wrapped in steel. "What may you be looking for here again?"
Arthur's throat felt dry. "…Nothing, Ms. Ellwood. Nothing at all."
Her gaze lingered, weighing. "How fruitful was your previous visit?"
Arthur forced a shrug. "Not so much."
A pause. Long enough to sting.
"Strange," she said at last, her amber eyes sharp. "You don't look like the same boy I let into the restricted section."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Oh, but I am."
"I highly doubt it." Her lips curved, faint amusement laced with something keener. "He had… flair. An air of carelessness. You? You're stiff. Heavy. Too aware."
Arthur's pulse spiked. He schooled his features flat, but inside every alarm bell was ringing.
Mara tilted her head, the faintest smile playing on her lips. "A word of advice, Reeves. The library keeps its secrets — and I keep mine. But don't push your luck."
Arthur held her gaze, not daring a word. Whatever Mara Ellwood was, she wasn't someone to cross. And yet, part of him couldn't shake the thought: she'd be powerful to have on his side.
She brushed past him, scent of parchment and spice trailing after her, and Arthur walked the opposite way, tight-lipped, cold.
Not as sleek as I thought. Even the adults are catching on.
He needed air. Peace.
He made for the ironwood tree — his so-called safe spot, the one place he could breathe. He sat back against the rough trunk, shutting his eyes against the weight of the day.
It didn't last.
"Hey, broody."
Arthur's eyes snapped open. Leah stood before him, blocking the sunlight with all the stubborn confidence of someone half his size. Messy bun slipping loose, crooked spectacles flashing. Hands shoved in her pockets, stance casual — too casual.
"You've been acting like three different people in one week," she said, stepping closer. "Care to explain?"
His reply was sharper than he meant. "Mind your business."
"Too late." She shrugged, but her gaze pinned him. "You made it my business the moment you wrote my name on that list."
Arthur blinked. Then, inwardly, almost laughed. The problem list. He'd nearly forgotten.
Her grin widened, sly. "Leah. Problem number five. Boxed in. Twice."
"And?"
"And you still put me on that list."
Arthur sighed. "Lady, you're literally the least of my problems right now."
He regretted it the instant it left his mouth.
Leah's grin sharpened. She leaned in, close enough that her whisper brushed his cheek. "Whoever I talked to two days ago… it wasn't you. Was it?"
Arthur froze.
The courtyard tilted, the ironwood bark biting his palm as his hand pressed against it too hard. His hair shivered white at the edges again.
Leah straightened, her expression flickering — smug, yes, but something gentler beneath. Concern, maybe. Curiosity that bordered on worry.
"You don't have to answer," she said softly. "I'll figure it out. Very soon."
And with that, she turned, walking away, her steps light but deliberate.
Arthur stayed where he was, pulse thudding, the silence around him too heavy. For once, it wasn't enemies or nightmares that rattled him.
It was Leah.
∆∆∆
The dining hall was alive with weekend noise: silverware clinking, bursts of laughter, the hum of hundreds of conversations rolling into a single current. To most, it was comforting. To Arthur, it was suffocating.
He sat hunched slightly over his plate, pushing food around more than eating it. His head buzzed with flashes he didn't want—Auren's memories, the black book, the word Varnhound burning behind his eyes.
He barely noticed when the bench shifted. Vivienne slid in beside him, her tray clattering as she sat. Her presence was immediate, sharp, like flint sparking stone.
"You're not telling us something," she said without preamble.
Arthur blinked, finally lifting his head. "Good evening to you too."
Vivienne leaned in, her voice low but firm. "Don't do that. Don't dodge. You've been off—different."
On his other side, Dorian smirked, half-reclining in his seat as if he'd been waiting for this moment. "She's right, coz. One minute you're all stone-faced and broody, the next you're cracking jokes like you own the place. Split moods. Not very… Arthur of you."
Arthur forced a thin smile. "Maybe I decided to improve my social skills."
"Yeah, and maybe Liam actually smiles when nobody's looking." Dorian chuckled, then leaned closer. "Come on, who are you kidding?"
Arthur's fork froze midway to his mouth. The smirk slipped, only for a second, but long enough.
Across the table, Micah had stopped eating. He sat very still, elbows resting on the table, eyes fixed on Arthur with a calm intensity that burned hotter than Vivienne's accusations or Dorian's teasing.
Arthur shifted under the weight of it. "What?"
Micah didn't blink. "I'm just wondering which version of you I'll get tomorrow."
The words cut quieter than a shout, but sharper.
Vivienne's fingers drummed the table. "Arthur, we're family. Stop pretending. If something's happening to you, we need to know."
Arthur forced himself to lean back, arms crossing, the picture of indifference. "Nothing's happening. You're reading too much into it."
But his voice lacked conviction. They heard it. He knew they did.
Dorian's smirk faltered into something unreadable. Vivienne's jaw tightened. And Micah? He just kept staring, gaze steady, unreadable, like he'd already decided Arthur was lying.
Arthur shoved a bite of food into his mouth, trying to end the conversation by sheer force of will. The noise of the hall pressed in again, but their little circle felt sealed off, heavy with tension.
He chewed slowly, pretending not to notice that none of them were letting him out of their sight.
"You're imagining things."
"No," Vivienne pressed, her voice low now, "we're not."
A sudden hush rolled across the dining hall like someone had cast a silencing charm. Forks paused mid-air, chatter cut short. Heads turned toward the staff dais.
Headmistress Wren had risen.
She stood with the calm poise of a hawk watching from its perch, silver hair catching the glow of enchanted lanterns. When she raised her hand, the hush deepened into silence.
"Students of Ilvermorny," she began, her voice carrying easily through the cavernous hall. "It has been ten years since this school last observed an old tradition. One that has its roots not in our lessons, nor in our duels, but in our bond to the turning world outside these walls."
Murmurs rippled. Some of the older students were already whispering, recognizing what was coming. Arthur's cousins exchanged glances, though no one spoke.
"The Four Seasons Festival," Wren continued, "returns this spring."
Excitement burst through the silence like a dam breaking. Cheers erupted from the younger students, applause rang from tables, a wave of chatter cascaded across the hall. Even the enchanted ceiling above them seemed to brighten, clouds parting to reveal a sliver of starlit sky.
Arthur sat frozen, still digesting Vivienne's words from moments ago. His fork was halfway to his mouth when he realized his cousins were all watching him again, gauging his reaction.
"The Festival," Wren said, her voice easily rising above the commotion, "is not merely celebration. It is a test of spirit. A time for unity. Each House will represent its season—Thunderbird the summer skies, Horned Serpent the autumn winds, Pukwudgie the winter earth, Wampus the spring flame. Together, we honor balance. Together, we remind the world that Ilvermorny stands strong."
Dorian leaned toward Arthur, muttering under his breath. "A test of spirit, huh? Sounds like a headache."
Arthur forced a thin smile. "Sounds like a distraction."
Vivienne didn't look away from him. "Or an opportunity."
Arthur shifted, uneasy under her stare.
At the dais, Wren lowered her hand, commanding silence once more. "Prepare yourselves. In one week, the festival begins."
She sat, and the hall erupted again—laughter, whispers, the thrum of anticipation.
Arthur stared down at his plate, appetite gone. Around him, the world seemed to be celebrating. Inside, all he felt was the echo of Micah's words, the suspicion in Vivienne's voice, the warning in Mara's amber eyes, and Leah's whispered question.
Which version of you am I sitting with now?