◇◇◇
He woke to sunlight that didn't sting.
For a long while, Arthur just lay there, half in the world, half in the soft murmur between dreams.
His body remembered pain even if his mind didn't — the phantom weight of frost and flame still etched into his bones.
Then, piece by piece, the memories came back.
The last few days had blurred into parchment and potions.
Arthur had been half-dead, but Headmistress Wren refused to excuse him from the promotional exam.
He remembered sitting in the exam hall, quill shaking in his hand, while Micah whispered across the aisle,
"If you pass out again, I'm copying your answers."
Arthur had muttered back, "You can't copy divine intervention."
"Then fail dramatically so I can inherit your desk."
Somehow, impossibly, he passed.
Wren had shaken his hand afterward, eyes sharp but proud.
"Top three," Headmistress Wren had said, her voice even but her eyes fierce. "You've proven your control, Mr. Reeves. Or something close enough to it."
"Was that… supposed to be a compliment?" Arthur had muttered.
"Take it how you like," she'd replied. "You're leaving early. Hogwarts will have you back before summer."
She'd paused, almost smiling.
"And Arthur — try not to destroy the school."
He'd smiled faintly. "No promises."
She'd laughed, and that sound had stayed with him long after he left the hall.
••••••
Snow groaned beneath Alpha's paws as they descended from the mountain.
Arthur, slumped on the wolf's back, blinked blearily at the horizon — a thin line of sunrise cutting the night in half.
"Careful," he muttered. "You're jostling what's left of me."
Alpha snorted, steam curling from his nostrils. "You're lucky there's anything left of you. I should've let the lake keep you."
"You say that everyday since you saved me."
"And yet, you still make me do it."
Arthur chuckled weakly. The sound came out hoarse. "You're make a terrible emotional support."
Alpha huffed. "And you're an even worse bond."
When they reached the valley floor, Alpha slowed. Frost melted beneath his steps; the forest ahead glowed faintly with the light of containment wards.
"This is where I stop," Alpha said.
Arthur lifted his head. "You're not coming?"
"Not this time. You need quiet. I don't do quiet."
Arthur smiled faintly. "You'll find me again, right?"
Alpha's ears twitched. "Always. Try not to die before then."
Arthur reached out, fingers brushing the thick fur at his neck. "No promises."
The wolf's golden eyes softened for half a heartbeat. "Goodbye, twiglet."
And then he turned, vanishing into mist and shadow, leaving only the faint echo of his heartbeat behind.
••••••
At the base of the mountain, the Portkey waited — a shard of glass carved with an emblem he almost recognized.
The Portkey shimmered blue when he activated it — a sharp tug at his navel, and then he was standing on the marble steps of Reeves Manor, surrounded by the comforting hum of layered wards.
The first sound he heard was his aunt's voice.
"By every Elemental Saint, Arthur Damian Reeves, what have you done to yourself?!"
Lenora Reeves stormed down the steps like a small hurricane. Her hair was perfectly coiffed even in panic.
Before he could speak, she had his face in her hands, inspecting every inch.
"I—hi, Aunt Lenora—"
"Don't you dare talk back!" she'd scolded, dragging him into the hall. "That husband of mine sends you children into war and calls it education."
"Aunt Lenora..."
"You look like you've been chewed up and spat out by a banshee," she said, dragging him inside. "Sit. Don't argue. You're pale. Tea!"
She summoned a tray with one sharp flick.
Arthur slumped into the nearest armchair. "I'm fine, really—"
"Fine?" she snapped. "You vanished to the other side of the continent, fought gods, and this is your version of fine?"
"Technically, it was a man acting like god," he said.
She gave him a look that could have frozen lava. "Drink your tea, dear."
Arthur obeyed.
••••••
He had just set the cup down when something white and furious crashed through the open window.
"ELIRA!"
The owl hooted, feathers puffed, eyes blazing. She pecked his shoulder once—twice—for good measure.
"Ow! All right, I'm sorry!" Arthur laughed. "I didn't mean to nearly die!"
Elira turned her head away with royal disdain, then promptly stole a biscuit from the tray.
Lenora chuckled softly. "Even your owl has better taste in self-preservation."
••••••
Two days later, after rest, healing potions, and Lenora's relentless fussing, Arthur stood before the west study door — the one Cassian had once shown him.
It looked like any other oak door, except for the faint shimmer at its seams.
Arthur traced the air before the wood, his wandtip glowing faintly gold.
Each stroke left a trail like embers caught in moonlight, curling and twisting until a radiant sigil bloomed on the surface:
A bare black tree with five limbs, a raven beneath a crescent moon, and a coiled ouroboros at its roots.
The lines pulsed once, alive.
The door sighed open, revealing not the manor's hallway but the warm scent of sugar and bread — The Golden Crust Bakery, Cassian's London cover.
Arthur stepped through. The bell above the counter chimed, the scent of cinnamon washing over him.
He smiled faintly. "Still smells like home."
Oliver, who was behind the counter glanced up, blinked at him, and wisely said nothing.
At the back, another door waited — the one that opened to the world beyond.
Arthur pressed his palm to it, and the sigil flared gold again.
Fog. Displacement. Then silence.
•••••
Location: Godric's Hollow.
He appeared in the village square as twilight fell.
The air smelled like rain and woodsmoke.
In the distance, the Potter's house glowed softly.
He couldn't go back to his Godfather. Apparently, he had been the DADA teacher, and there was a furry incident, according to his letter. So here he was.
Arthur hesitated. He didn't want to intrude, but his legs made the choice for him.
He found the spare key beneath the flowerpot — because James Potter had the subtlety of a mandrake — and slipped inside.
The house smelled like cinnamon and magic.
A half-eaten pie sat on the counter.
The sound of a grandfather clock ticked through the quiet.
Arthur exhaled, every bone aching. "I'll explain in the morning," he murmured.
He went to the room they'd given him last time.
Sleep took him like a tide.
Arthur blinked at the sunlight on his face, realizing he'd been dreaming with his eyes open.
Echoes of Alpha's voice still drifted through him, half memory, half ache.
Then came a soft knock.
A woman's voice — kind, brisk, and utterly alive:
"Good morning, love. You're awake."
Arthur turned, squinting toward the door.
Lily Potter stood there — red hair gleaming in the light, holding a cup of tea that smelled like home.
"You look like you wrestled a mountain," she said, setting the cup on the bedside table.
"I think I did," Arthur mumbled.
"Did you win?"
"Not sure. It's hard to tell."
Lily smiled, shaking her head. "Well, drink up. You can tell me the rest after breakfast. James and Sirius are dying to know if Ilvermorny still makes their students fight dragons."
Arthur groaned softly. "Something worse than dragons."
She paused at the door, a motherly glint in her eyes.
"Then rest, sweetheart. You're home now."
Arthur looked out the window, the sunlight spilling like fire across the rooftops.
For a heartbeat, he believed her.
◇◇◇
He padded down the familiar stairs, Elira gliding after him, feathers brushing the wall.
The kitchen sounded alive before he even saw it — clatter, laughter, something sizzling too loudly.
James Potter was already halfway through an argument with the frying pan.
"C'mon, we've had this talk — no more mutiny before nine a.m.! Oh—look who finally woke up!"
Arthur stepped into sunlight and warmth. "You're still losing to cookware, I see."
"Oi," James said, mock-offended. "That pan's got attitude."
"It learned it from you," Lily called from the sink, wand flicking to send a teacup onto the rack.
Then, smiling over her shoulder: So update. You slept nearly twelve hours. The twins checked twice to make sure you weren't dead."
"They would've poked me if Elira hadn't threatened bodily harm," Arthur said.
"She bit one of them," Lily replied serenely.
Elira puffed her feathers. "He deserved it."
At the table, Leo and Theo chorused, "Morning, dragon-boy!" while passing jam like it was a Quidditch snitch.
Arthur poured himself some tea. "Let them think it. Builds character."
"Builds detention," Lily muttered.
Lyra cooed from her highchair, flinging toast with frightening accuracy. James caught it mid-air, triumphant.
"See? Reflexes! Still got it."
"Barely," Lily said. "Sit, Arthur. Eat before my husband burns the rest."
He obeyed, sliding into his usual chair — the one they'd quietly started calling his.
The warmth, the chaos, the smell of buttered toast… it all pressed against the edges of his exhaustion like balm.
For a moment, he could almost forget what silence used to sound like.
James leaned across the table. "Cassian owled last night. Said Wren's signed off on your early promotion — fourth year at Hogwarts, straight away. Dumbledore already knows."
Arthur stilled. "Dumbledore eh? So it's official."
Lily nodded, soft but firm. "You've done enough fighting for one year. Time to be a student again."
Elira's wing brushed his shoulder. "You hear that? Retirement."
Arthur gave a weak smile. "Yeah. I'll try to stay alive in the library this time."
James grinned. "We'll see. Dumbledore said to send you back once you're ready."
Arthur hesitated, glancing at the morning light spilling across the window. "I'll go when I want to," he repeated quietly. "He has no control over me."
Lily caught the tone — didn't challenge it. Instead, she flicked her wand, refilling his plate.
"Eat first," she said. "You can overthink later."
They slipped into easy chatter after that — James bragging about catching toast, Lily pretending not to notice, the twins plotting something disastrous with syrup.
Arthur let the noise wrap around him, felt the hum of life fill the space his magic had hollowed out.
Then, as he reached for his tea, Lily spoke again — softly, thoughtfully.
"Arthur," she said, studying him. "Your eyes."
He blinked. "What about them?"
"They're different," she murmured. "They used to be blue, didn't they?"
James leaned in, squinting. "She's right. They're brown now. But there's gold in them — a ring. Like firelight."
Arthur hesitated, then looked down into the tea's surface — saw the reflection: brown irises rimmed in faint gold.
It looked alien. Familiar. Like something watching back.
"Guess that's what happens when you mix too much fire and ice," he said, voice almost casual.
Lily's eyes softened. "Whatever it is… it suits you."
Arthur tried to smile. It didn't reach his eyes, but it was something.
James clapped his hands. "Right then! Enough sentimental nonsense. Who wants pancakes?"
"Me!" the twins shouted, syrup already dripping from their fingers.
Arthur watched them, and for the first time in months, the world didn't feel like it was collapsing inward.
It was imperfect, loud, sticky with jam — and alive.
He could live with that.
That evening, when the house had finally settled — the twins asleep, Lyra dozing against Lily's shoulder in the living room's soft glow — Arthur slipped out onto the back porch.
The night was cool, the garden humming faintly with summer insects. Above him, the sky stretched wide and sharp with stars, the same constellations he'd memorized back at Ilvermorny, only quieter now — like they were keeping his secrets.
He didn't hear James approach until a mug appeared in his peripheral vision.
"Hot chocolate," James said. "Tea felt too adult for this hour."
Arthur took it with a small nod. "Thanks."
James sat beside him on the steps, stretching his legs with a sigh. "You know," he said after a beat, "the first time I saw you, I thought Philip had cloned himself."
Arthur huffed a laugh. "Tragic idea."
"Right? One Philip's more than enough." James grinned into his mug. "How are you holding up?"
Arthur stared into the steam curling from his drink. "I don't know," he admitted. "Sometimes I hear… echoes. Like I left pieces of myself behind, and they're still trying to find their way home."
James nodded slowly, eyes on the horizon. "You did. We all do. Question is whether you go back for them…" — he tipped his mug slightly — "or learn to live without them."
Arthur didn't answer. He didn't need to. The silence between them was gentle, weighted, not awkward — the kind of silence that only existed between people who'd both seen too much.
From inside, Lily's voice floated through the open window, warm and sharp all at once:
"James Potter, if you start philosophizing again, I'm transfiguring your tea into soap!"
James grinned. "See? Domestic bliss. Terrifying, isn't it?"
Arthur smiled faintly, eyes tracing the gold ring glinting in his reflection on the mug's surface. "Almost peaceful," he murmured.
"Almost," James echoed, leaning back against the railing. "That's the best kind."
They sat like that for a while — two figures in quiet light, the stars breathing overhead, the war and its ghosts at least a few heartbeats away.
◇◇◇
Arthur lay awake beneath the quilt, staring at the ceiling. The moonlight pooled faint and silver across his face, catching in his lashes, tracing the faint gold ring that now rimmed his irises.
He didn't feel tired. Just… hollow.
Like he was waiting for something to notice he'd survived.
"You're safe. Probably."
The voice came smooth and amused — Auren, of course. The constant echo. The one that refused to stay quiet even when Arthur begged for silence.
Arthur didn't even flinch. "That's what they said at Ilvermorny."
"Right. And look how that turned out. Half the courtyard's still smoking."
Arthur snorted quietly, the sound closer to a breath than a laugh. "You exaggerate."
"Do I?"
"You killed a basilisk last year and froze an entire lake the year after. That's not 'exaggeration,' that's public safety trauma."
"Don't remind me," Arthur muttered, dragging a hand over his eyes. "Feels like someone else did all that. Someone I borrowed for a night. "
"You didn't borrow anyone," Auren said. "You became what you always were supposed to be. Scary, isn't it?"
Arthur's throat tightened. "Yeah. You could say that."
For a moment, there was quiet — the kind that only existed between heartbeats.
Then another voice rose through it.
Lower. Colder. Too calm to be comforting.
"You speak of fear as if it makes you smaller."
Arthur froze. "…You again."
"You thought I'd leave?" Ardyn's tone carried the weight of ages — unhurried, too certain. "I'm not a parasite, Arthur. I'm the root."
Arthur's jaw clenched. "Don't start with the poetic rubbish. I've had enough lectures for a lifetime. And I just literally met you."
"You mistake truth for poetry," Ardyn said. "You stand in two worlds and still think one will choose you. You're neither normal nor pure anymore — you're the echo that refused to end."
"I didn't ask for that," Arthur snapped quietly.
"And yet, you survived it. Do you know how rare that is?"
He turned on his side, staring at the dim outline of Elira perched by the window — feathers fluffed, head tucked. The soft sound of her breathing filled the space between them.
Arthur whispered, "People keep saying that — survived. Like it's something noble."
"It is," Auren murmured. "Until it's all you are."
The words hit harder than he wanted to admit.
He shut his eyes, but the dark was alive — filled with too many versions of himself.
Ardyn's voice drifted back, quieter now.
"There will come a day when they'll ask what you are. Not who. What."
Arthur's lips pressed into a thin line. "And what do I tell them?"
"Tell them the truth."
"And what's that?"
Auren chuckled softly. "That you're complicated, moody, and allergic to peace."
Arthur almost smiled. "You're not wrong."
"He never is," Ardyn said, that faint edge of pride beneath the words.
"Because deep down, he's you. And I'm what's left when you stop pretending to be small."
Arthur sighed, rolling onto his back again. "You make it sound like I'm supposed to like any of this."
"You don't have to like it," Ardyn said. "Just learn to use it."
"And if I don't?"
"Then it will use you."
Arthur went quiet.
The room seemed to breathe with him — slow, heavy, uncertain.
After a long silence, Auren's voice softened — less teasing now.
"You're not alone, you know. Not really. You've got people here. You've got… us."
Arthur opened one eye. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"Probably not," Auren admitted. "But it's true."
A faint laugh escaped him — barely audible, but real.
"Fine," he said softly. "Then I guess I'm stuck with both of you."
"We prefer the term immortal roommates," Auren quipped.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "You're insufferable."
"Admit it — you'd miss me."
He didn't answer that.
Outside, the wind shifted — brushing through the open window, carrying the distant sound of waves against the shore. The rhythm was steady, almost like a heartbeat beneath the world.
For the first time since Ilvermorny, Arthur let his eyes drift closed without flinching.
The voices dimmed, fading into something like peace — or the closest thing he could manage.
And between what he'd lost and where he'd landed,
Arthur Reeves dreamed of fire sleeping beneath ice waiting for its reason to wake again.
End of Arc IV — Of Shadow and Ice