It had been days since Arthur last heard the voice—the one that slithered through his mind like oil across a still pond. Not a whisper. Not even a hiss. Silence.
He hadn't missed it.
But Hogwarts had a way of making sure you were never truly alone.
The nights were never quiet. Rats still scurried under the dormitory floorboards, fighting bloody turf wars over fallen breadcrumbs. Their tiny claws scratched and skidded against the wood like a battle beneath his bed. The flies were persistent, staging bombing raids around his inkpot every time he opened a book. And the mosquitoes? They were the worst.
Every night, they came.
Sadistic, humming devils that danced in his ears, singing twisted lullabies about draining his blood. He'd swat and curse and bury his head under pillows, but it never worked. They always won. He'd fall asleep to the sound of tiny wings and the vague itch of surrender.
Even the ghosts, Hogwarts' permanent residents, seemed rowdier these days. Nearly Headless Nick had started humming tragic love songs at full volume, drifting through the walls like a weeping specter of a broken romance. The Bloody Baron had growled at him once for staring too long. Peeves? Well, Peeves was Peeves. He'd glued a student's shoes to the ceiling last Tuesday.
And still… the voice stayed silent.
But not for long.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The sunlight filtered weakly through the high windows of Professor McGonagall's classroom, casting long, dusty beams onto the polished floor. Desks were neatly arranged, each with a small straw cage placed on top. Inside each cage was a small hedgehog, blinking curiously at the sea of students who now filled the room with chatter and excitement.
Arthur sat toward the middle, arms folded, trying to focus, but his mind still buzzed faintly with fragments of a voice he'd heard earlier. That slithering voice. Whispers that made his skin prickle.
"Settle down!" McGonagall's firm voice echoed through the room, and silence fell instantly. "Today, we'll be attempting the Hedgehog-to-Pincushion transformation spell."
As she flicked her wand to demonstrate, her hedgehog shimmered for a moment before shrinking into a neat round pincushion with tiny silver pins.
Arthur sat near the back, his wand resting lazily in his hand. The hedgehog in front of him twitched, snuffling the desk with suspicious eyes.
Pincushion, he thought. Pointy to pointy. Doesn't seem that hard.
"Please… don't," it said suddenly in a high, squeaky voice only Arthur could hear. "Please. I don't like it. It hurts. I feel stretched. Bent. Not right. Don't do it."
Arthur blinked. Around him, students were already trying the spell, some of them giggling when the hedgehogs turned into half-transformed, quivering balls of wool and quills. Draco's had sprouted needles but still had legs. Pansy's was spinning in place.
The hedgehog trembled in its cage. "You can hear me. You're like me. Please. Don't—"
Arthur hesitated.
Then the whisper returned.
"Weakness…" the snake's voice murmured faintly in his mind, "…compassion is weakness."
Arthur tightened his jaw. His wand hand rose.
"I'm sorry," he whispered under his breath to the hedgehog. "It's just for a moment."
The hedgehog screamed—not aloud, not to anyone else—but in Arthur's head. A squeal of betrayal.
"Pinnaforma!" Arthur said firmly.
The scream cut off. In the cage, the creature was gone—replaced by a tidy green pincushion, the pins sparkling like eyes that no longer blinked.
Arthur slumped back in his chair, breath shaky.
Draco leaned over. "Show-off," he muttered, seeing Arthur's perfect transformation.
Arthur didn't answer. His hands were trembling.
The midday sun hung lazily above the castle as Arthur and the rest of the second-years trudged across the lawn toward the greenhouses. The chill of early autumn clung to the air, and the grass was slick with dew, squelching under their boots. Arthur kept his head low, hands deep in his robe pockets. His thoughts lingered on the hedgehog's voice from earlier—on the way it had begged him.
The snake's whisper had faded, but a low pressure buzzed in his skull like distant thunder. Not loud, just there. Watching.
"Reeves!" Draco called from ahead. "Get your head out of the clouds. You'll end up feeding yourself to a Devil's Snare."
Arthur scowled but quickened his pace. Greenhouse Four was alive with heat and moisture. The scent of loamy soil, damp roots, and something vaguely sulfuric clung to the air. Vines crept along the corners of the glass walls, twitching occasionally like they were restless.
Professor Sprout stood near the center bench, her usual hat perched askew and gloves already covered in dirt. "Right then! Today we're replanting Screechleaf," she announced cheerfully, holding up a pot filled with a squirming plant that made a keening, whistling noise as if protesting its relocation.
The students groaned. Draco wrinkled his nose. "Disgusting things."
Arthur took his spot beside Theodore Nott and pulled on his gloves. The moment his hands touched the soil, a wave of sensation rippled up his arms—tiny voices, not words, but sounds—plants shifting, muttering, breathing in their own strange way.
The Screechleaf in front of him flared its serrated leaves and hissed. Not like a snake. More like an angry cat crossed with a kettle.
"Back off!" it cried in a scratchy tone that made Arthur wince.
He looked around. No one else reacted. No one else could hear it.
"I'm just trying to replant you," Arthur murmured.
"You're touching my roots! You'll kill me! Monster!"
Arthur winced. He tried to focus, loosening the dirt gently, carefully sliding his fingers around the root system. But the plant kept shrieking in his mind, and something else crept in too—a distant murmur—the snake again.
"They fear you because you hear what they cannot. You belong to a greater power..."
"Shut up," Arthur muttered under his breath.
"Who are you talking to?" Nott asked beside him, suspiciously.
"No one," Arthur snapped.
Professor Sprout bustled by, giving Arthur a nod of approval as he potted the Screechleaf properly despite its protests. Across the bench, Neville Longbottom had fainted again—his plant had shrieked so loudly that it startled him into tipping over his stool.
"Ten points from Gryffindor for scaring the plants, Longbottom!" Sprout sighed as a few students chuckled.
Arthur wiped his brow. The voices were fading again, but now they left behind a dull ache in the back of his head… and something else. A whisper of excitement. Hunger. Soon, it seemed to say.
Draco sidled over, nudging Arthur with his elbow. "You've been weird all day," he said.
Arthur didn't answer. He just stared down at the now-silent Screechleaf, thinking about how it had screamed when he touched its roots—how everything living seemed to know something was wrong… long before the humans did.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The walls of the History of Magic classroom were the coldest in the castle. Not physically, but spiritually. The kind of chill that seeped into the back of your neck and made your spine twitch.
Arthur trudged in behind the others, bag slung loosely over his shoulder, and took his usual seat near the far end of the middle row. The high arched windows didn't let in much light—the old drapes were always half-closed, as if the room resented the intrusion of sunlight.
Professor Binns, the castle's only ghostly teacher, hovered a few feet off the floor near the blackboard, reciting facts in a voice that had all the enthusiasm of a wet cloth.
"Goblin Rebellion of 1612... spearheaded by the disgruntled Gringotts faction... notable for its temporary occupation of Hogsmeade Inn..."
His voice droned on like a charm gone wrong.
Arthur tried to listen. He really did. But his ears weren't cooperating.
Instead of focusing on the lecture, they locked onto the scratching. Not paper on parchment—but something under the floorboards. Tiny claws. Little paws. Rats again. He could hear them squabbling over some discarded crust or crumb. It was maddening.
And behind that—
Hissssss...
The snake's voice again. Low, whispering across his consciousness like oil over water.
"So many fools... celebrating peace. But what is peace but silence before the storm?"
Arthur clenched his jaw. He stared hard at his open textbook, where a faded illustration of a goblin wielding a curved blade sneered up at him. His notes blurred on the page. He hadn't written a word.
Around him, his classmates were either napping or doodling in the margins of their books. Even Hermione Granger looked annoyed, her quill twitching impatiently. Harry sat two rows ahead, scribbling something quietly.
Binns continued droning.
"...and thus, the uprising was ultimately quelled with the signing of the Treaty of Silvermount in—"
"1649," Arthur finished aloud without thinking.
Binns paused. His head turned slowly.
"Correct," he said, eyes glowing faintly blue as he stared through Arthur. "Very... correct."
Then he resumed floating through the next paragraph.
Arthur didn't even realize he'd answered.
He stared at his own hand, still clutching the quill. It trembled slightly. He wasn't afraid. But there was a tingle in his blood now.
Not wandwork.
Something deeper.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The Owlery smelled like it always did—old feathers, straw, and something vaguely like spoiled pudding. Arthur didn't mind. It was high, quiet, and full of owls that minded their own business.
Except one.
"Elira," he called, already spotting the silver-blue blur that swooped down from a beam with flair more dramatic than necessary.
"You're late," she announced, landing with a flutter and an arched brow. "I've been molting from boredom."
Arthur rolled his eyes, leaning on the stone ledge beside her. "You can't molt from boredom."
"Says the boy who thinks wearing wrinkled socks is a personality."
"You noticed?"
"I always notice."
They shared a smirk. It was strange how easy it was to talk to her—Elira, his owl. Since whatever strange moment had unlocked their bond months ago, their conversations had become the one constant that kept him sane.
"You look tired," she noted, softer now. "Another sleepless night?"
"I've had better lullabies than the sound of rats battling for a breadcrumb under my bed."
She let out a hooting chuckle. "And the flies?"
"They're still staging air raids. I swear one of them buzzed in Morse code yesterday. Probably said, 'Surrender your blood.'"
"Mosquitoes are sadists," she sniffed. "I warned you not to leave your ankle out."
Arthur smiled faintly, rubbing his eyes. "Can't sleep. Can't think. And the quiet's starting to feel... louder."
Elira was quiet for a beat. Then, "The voice?"
"I heard it today," he said quickly. "It's like it's gone for now. Which should be a relief."
"But?"
He met her golden gaze. "It's like waiting for thunder after lightning. You know it's coming."
She ruffled her feathers and moved closer. "You're more alert now. Stronger, maybe. Which means you're more dangerous too, Arthur. To others... and to yourself."
"You're not exactly comforting."
"I'm not supposed to be. I'm an owl. Not a therapist."
"Could've fooled me," he muttered, then nudged her gently. "You're the only one I can talk to like this."
"Obviously. The rest of them can't handle this much personality in a beak."
They sat in easy silence, Arthur watching the clouds roll over the distant mountains. Elira, for once, didn't fill the space with sarcastic jabs. She just kept him company, head slightly tilted, eyes scanning the sky like she was guarding him from something even she couldn't see.
Finally, Arthur sighed. "Thanks."
"Say it louder so the rest of the owls hear."
"Thank you, Elira the Magnificent, Queen of Talons and Sass."
"Now that's more like it."
"You're something else."
"I'm everything else," she said proudly. "Top grades in delivery, perfect aerial combat scores, and fashion sense that puts all your school uniforms to shame."
Arthur's grin lingered. "You're still my owl though."
"And you're still my human. Which means I get to be annoyed at you, but no one else gets to. Deal?"
"Deal."
There was a silence—not awkward, but soft. Comfortable.
The wind stirred through the tower, and Arthur looked out over the grounds. The Forbidden Forest looked less... threatening today. The lake shimmered in the sunlight, and the castle hummed with distant life—bells, voices, the occasional squawk from a first year losing control of a broomstick.
Elira moved closer and nudged his arm gently.
"You're better when you're not pretending to be stone."
"I think I needed that," he murmured.
"I know," she said, and nuzzled his shoulder briefly.
"Thanks."
"Now go before you're late for dinner," she said, flicking her wing dramatically. "And brush your hair, please. You look like a wind-blown banshee."
Arthur laughed again as he turned toward the stairs.
"See you later, diva."
"See you, disaster."
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The clinking of cutlery and bubbling chatter wrapped the Great Hall in a warm cocoon of normalcy. Candles hovered above the enchanted ceiling, which mimicked a dusky sky—the last streaks of sunset fading to violet. Laughter bounced off the long tables, echoing the last moments of comfort.
At the far end of the Slytherin table, Arthur Reeves sat quieter than usual, the flickering torchlight catching the sharp lines of his face.
He stabbed at a roast potato like it had personally offended him.
Elira's warning looped in his skull.
"Stronger. More dangerous. To others... and to yourself."
Her voice had been calm, but it lingered like smoke in his lungs—too thick to breathe out, too intimate to forget.
Across the hall, the Gryffindors were their usual rowdy selves. Arthur's eyes drifted to them on instinct. Granger was mid-rant, Weasley halfway through a sentence he was chewing. And in the middle of them, as always...
Harry Potter.
Why is he always where I am? Arthur mused. Every time something stirs... he's there. Like mold in the corners of a room.
His gaze sharpened.
Was it chance? Coincidence? Or something deeper—like magnets forced to share a space?
"Oi. Earth to Reeves."
Blaise Zabini's voice snapped next to his ear, the sound oddly loud in Arthur's ears.
Arthur blinked. "What?"
"You've been staring at Potter like you want to skin him alive. I'm not judging, just curious."
Arthur looked back at his plate. The food was cold now. Unappealing. He pushed it away with a muted grunt and stood up.
"I need some air."
"Dinner's not even over—"
"Exactly."
He didn't wait for a reply. The Great Hall's laughter blurred into a fog as the door thudded shut behind him.
The corridors were dimmer now, quieter—like the castle knew something was about to begin.
Arthur walked.
He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care.
His feet moved like something beneath the floor was pulling them. Through staircases that shifted half a second too late. Past portraits who whispered his name, though their lips never moved.
He passed the third-floor suit of armor that always creaked when no one watched. Peeves' cackles bounced somewhere high above, taunting ghosts and chucking inkwells.
But beneath all of that—something else stirred.
A sound.
No—an impulse.
Soft. Thin. Like a thread of ice slipping into his spine.
Arthur stopped walking.
The hair on his arms rose.
It wasn't a voice yet. It was a presence. Cold, ancient, watching him through a slit eye made of stone.
He should've turned back.
Instead, his lips curled.
He wasn't summoned. He was drawn.
And that made all the difference.
"Kill… I must kill…"
The voice uncoiled like a snake from the shadows. Each syllable slid over Arthur's thoughts like oil, filling the cracks of his restraint.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't fight it.
He listened.
Not with ears, but with something deeper. Something bone-deep.
It didn't feel like madness. It felt like... clarity.
Like a storm that made everything sharp and quiet.
He moved now with purpose, his steps deliberate. The corridor ahead twisted, lengthened—as if the castle wanted him to reach the scene.
And he obliged.
Around the corner—lit by flickering torchlight—Mrs. Norris hung from a bracket.
Suspended.
Twisted.
Mouth agape in an eternal shriek, eyes locked in ghostly horror. Her stiff body swung slightly in the chill draft, casting broken shadows across the stones.
Arthur didn't scream.
He tilted his head.
It was grotesque. Horrific.
But it was also… artful.
There was intent here. A message. This wasn't the act of a mindless beast. It was a performance.
And it wasn't just for fear.
It was for power.
"Someone who craves attention," Arthur murmured, lips curling into something between amusement and admiration.
Then came the footsteps.
Fast. Predictable.
Arthur didn't need to look to know.
Harry. Followed by the usual duo.
He's always there. Always just in time to arrive—but never to stop it.
Arthur almost sighed. "This guy again?"
It was becoming a pattern. Wherever Arthur went… Harry somehow showed up. Like a shadow he hadn't shaken.
He opened his mouth to say something, but—
Before Arthur could say more, a voice rang behind him.
"Enemies of the Heir, beware!"
Draco Malfoy strutted forward like a ringmaster in a cursed circus, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. Their smirks were smug. Unbothered.
"You've outdone yourself this time, Reeves," Draco sneered. "I almost believed you were involved."
Arthur turned. Slowly.
"What did you just say?"
"I said I almost believed—"
"Not that....the one before."
"Can't read, Arthur. It's up there."
Draco gestured up with a smirk.
Arthur's eyes lifted.
And then… he froze.
Words, jagged and bleeding, scrawled across the wall in a cruel script:
"THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR… BEWARE."
For a moment, time itself seemed to hold its breath.
Arthur's gaze darkened. His nose twitched.
He sniffed again.
"…Chicken's blood."
Slaughtered. Poured. Intentional.
And then the sound hit him.
Screams. It sounded like it came from the blood.
Not real—remembered.
Wings flapping. Beaks breaking. Feathers torn. Tiny hearts hammering in terror.
He doubled over.
The pain wasn't physical. It was psychic. Like the castle had absorbed the fear—and now fed it back into him.
"This is just the beginning…"
The voice coiled again—stronger now. A whisper that filled his skull like smoke in a bell jar.
"Soon… all shall know the true power of…"
Then—silence.
A pause.
"…Slytherin."
The name was a knife.
But Arthur didn't bleed.
He smiled. Not with joy—but something different. Amusement.
Somewhere, deep in the vaults of his memory… something clicked.
Then the world tilted.
The corridor bent sideways.
Torchlight spun like stars. Voices shrieked—Filch's wail rising like a stormcloud.
"MY CAT! WHAT'VE THEY DONE TO MY CAT?!"
But Arthur didn't hear it.
The shadows swallowed him