The Great Hall buzzed with its usual morning rhythm—cutlery clinking against plates, the soft rustle of parchment, the distant thump of books being dropped too hard on tables. Owls swooped overhead, weaving through the floating candles as they delivered letters and packages.
Arthur sat among the Slytherins, spoon halfway to his mouth, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he watched the owls circle above.
Only he wasn't just watching.
"Why do humans always send things at sunrise?"
"Mine got me another homework scroll. Finally."
"That bacon looks divine—just a bit closer—"
"There he goes again... giving me one sausage. One!"
Their voices tickled at the edge of his mind—not words exactly, but meanings, intentions. He heard them in a way that went beyond hearing. He blinked, pulling himself back down to the table.
"You alright?" Theo asked from beside him, catching the distracted look.
Arthur nodded. "Yeah. Just... the owls. They talk a lot."
Theo grinned, leaning over his plate. "You mean you hear a lot. Must be exhausting. That's a lot of bird opinions before breakfast."
Blaise gave a short laugh. "Do they complain about how we smell?"
"Only you," Daphne said dryly.
Arthur rolled his eyes but smiled. The warmth of his friends kept the weight of last night's encounter from settling too heavily on his shoulders. Still, there were things to discuss.
He leaned in slightly. "About last night…"
Their expressions turned more serious. All the joking died in an instant.
"The creature," Arthur continued. "Gerald. He said something… weird."
"Only one weird thing?" Pansy muttered under her breath.
Arthur ignored her. "He said: 'We've all just been on edge since the beast awakened.' And he mentioned voices in the walls. Asked if I heard them. And I do."
They all looked at him, eyes narrowed, uncertain.
"The beast?" Theo echoed. "As in… one that scares even Gerald?"
Arthur nodded. "Exactly. He got serious when he talked about it. Told us to stay away from it."
There was a silence then. They all remembered Gerald's glowing eyes, the way his massive lynx-like form barely kept from tearing through the undergrowth.
"But what is it?" Daphne asked at last. "What sort of beast makes him nervous?"
"I don't know," Arthur admitted. "But I want to find out. Something's not right. Gerald's warning wasn't just about the forest—it was about the castle."
Pansy frowned. "You think it's in Hogwarts?"
Arthur nodded. "He said he could hear it… and I think I do too. Sometimes. Whispers. Scraping. Breathing. When no one else is around."
Blaise reached for his goblet. "You're making my pumpkin juice taste like nightmares."
"I want to go to the library," Arthur said. "See if I can find anything about beasts that sleep—or hide—in castle walls."
Theo brightened a little. "Research? Fine. I'm in. Might as well be useful before breakfast fully digests."
"I'll come," Daphne said. "And stop you from writing everything down wrong."
Arthur hesitated, then shook his head. "No. Not yet. I'll go alone. I just want to see if there's anything in the older bestiary archives. I'll let you know what I find."
Pansy narrowed her eyes. "You're not doing the noble idiot thing, are you? Rushing off to play hero?"
"No," he replied with a smirk. "I'm doing the quiet and paranoid thing."
Daphne rolled her eyes. "That's somehow worse."
Arthur gave them a half-smile, grabbed his bag, and turned toward the exit. As he was just about to step through the towering double doors of the Great Hall, they creaked open from the other side—and in walked Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, as usual.
"Arthur?" Draco blinked at him, clearly not expecting to see someone heading out just as he was walking in. "Where are you going this early?"
Arthur adjusted his strap and gave a casual shrug. "Library. Just need to check something."
Draco raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Since when are you the research type?"
Arthur tilted his head toward the Slytherin table. "The others'll fill you in."
Draco glanced over Arthur's shoulder at their table, where Theo gave him a lazy salute and Daphne mouthed something that looked like "He's being mysterious again."
Arthur took the moment to slip past. He could already feel the hum in the walls growing stronger as he left the Great Hall—the kind of quiet that buzzed just below the edge of hearing. Something ancient and restless was waiting.
The library was the best place to start.
And something in his gut told him time was already running out.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur walked briskly through the stone corridors, the cool air brushing against his neck. Whispers rose again—just barely—scratching at the edges of his mind.
"…ssssso close…"
He clenched his jaw.
When he reached the library, the calm was instant. Shelves soared high overhead, the smell of parchment and dust a comforting contrast to the unsettling things he'd felt all morning. He began scanning titles in the magical creatures section, then paused near a stack of thinner, older books with gold-etched spines.
Just then, Hermione Granger appeared around the corner, holding a pile of books almost as tall as her. She stopped short when she saw him.
"You," she said, surprised. "Didn't expect to find a Slytherin here before lunch."
Arthur gave a dry smile. "Research doesn't sort by house."
She eyed him curiously. "Looking for anything in particular?"
Arthur hesitated, then decided to keep it vague. "Something… old. Maybe dangerous. Possibly connected to the castle itself."
Hermione's interest was instantly piqued. "What kind of dangerous?"
"I'm not sure yet," Arthur said. "Just... imagine something hidden in the walls. Old, angry magic."
She stepped closer, carefully setting her stack down. "You might want the Beasts of Forgotten Britain volume. And maybe Curses that Linger. There's a few about Hogwarts legends too, but most of them are... well, rumors."
"Rumors have to come from somewhere," Arthur murmured.
Hermione smiled slightly. "Careful. Keep reading books like that and you'll turn into me."
Arthur gave a quiet laugh. "Not the worst fate."
Hermione placed the stack of books on a nearby table and sat opposite Arthur, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.
"So," she said, adjusting the top book. "You're looking into hidden creatures now?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow, flipping a page. "I never said creature."
"You didn't have to." Her tone was lightly teasing. "You have that look. Like you've seen something you can't quite explain and now you're trying to reason it out."
Arthur smirked. "You get that often?"
"I get a lot of things often." She flipped open a book with practiced speed. "You'd be surprised how much strange stuff happens when no one's looking."
He studied her for a moment. "You enjoy this, don't you?"
"What?"
"Solving things. Being ahead."
Hermione didn't answer immediately. She turned a page carefully, then said, "Someone has to. Most people are too busy being scared or acting oblivious."
Arthur nodded slowly. "So, is this your way of saying you'll help?"
She met his eyes. "Maybe. Depends on what exactly you're looking into. Could you do a quick recap again?"
Arthur hesitated. He wasn't sure how much to say. She was sharp—dangerously so. But also sincere.
"Let's just say," he began, "I heard something in the castle. Something alive. Something ancient."
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "You mean like Peeves?"
Arthur snorted. "I mean dangerous. And not human. The kind of thing that shouldn't be whispering from behind walls."
She leaned in, her voice low. "What did it say?"
Arthur hesitated. He could still hear it—like the echo of a threat burned into stone.
"Blood," he said softly. "It wants blood."
Hermione leaned back, lips pressed together. "Lovely."
Arthur gave a dry chuckle. "You still want to help?"
She didn't answer immediately, then said, "If it's real—and I'm not saying it is—then yes. But only if you're honest. No half-truths or cryptic replies."
"Fine," he said. "Then no over-explaining or snarky footnotes."
"Agreed." She offered her hand across the table, mock-formal. "Temporary research alliance?"
Arthur looked at it, then shook it once. "Temporary."
They shared a look—uneasy, but united by the same curiosity.
As they began flipping through old titles—Beasts of Forgotten Britain, Architectural Oddities of Hogwarts, and Legends that Linger—Arthur's eyes flicked to the far wall again. The whispers were gone… but something deep inside still stirred.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur and Hermione walked out of the library side by side, both carrying stacks of books. Their conversation had simmered down to a comfortable silence, broken only when Hermione said, "We should reconvene after class. Maybe something in these will stand out."
Arthur nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The whisper from the wall still lingered in the back of his mind, like a splinter he couldn't remove.
The rest of the day dragged. Between Transfiguration and Herbology, Arthur felt the edges of his awareness blur. He kept glancing over his shoulder, expecting to hear that voice again. But there was nothing—just the shuffle of parchment, the drone of lessons, and the occasional flicker of student gossip.
Theo, seated beside him during Charms, nudged him at one point. "You're not even pretending to listen, you know."
"I'm listening," Arthur murmured, even though he wasn't.
.......
It was just after their last class when it came again.
Blood...
The voice slithered through his head, rich with hunger.
Arthur's entire body tensed. His eyes widened, and without thinking—without even speaking—he bolted.
His hair, previously black, flared into a vivid sky blue.
"Oh no," Theo muttered, grabbing his bag and Arthur's. "Not again."
He darted after Arthur, dodging startled students.
Arthur's boots thundered down the stone corridor. He barely noticed his hair shifting from blue to a glowing bright orange—confusion mingling with the nervousness now coiling in his gut.
He skidded to a halt near the second-floor corridor.
The floor was flooded.
The corridor stretched ahead, quiet—too quiet. The lights flickered off the thin sheet of water coating the stones.
Then—
Someone ran past them.
Arthur saw the flash of red hair, the blur of motion, the shadow that sped past with sharp breaths.
"Elena?" he called instinctively, spinning.
The figure paused just at the bend—just long enough for Arthur to confirm. Yes. It was her. She didn't look back.
Then she kept running.
Theo caught up, panting. "Okay, what in Merlin's name was that?"
Arthur's hair flickered—bright red now. Anger. Frustration.
"I don't know," he muttered. "But I'm going to find out."
Theo looked at the flooded floor and raised an eyebrow. "I know you like dramatics, but this is next level. You sure you're not in a book?"
Arthur ignored him and stepped forward. The water lapped gently at his shoes.
"Of course," Theo muttered. "The girl runs from a flood and we get clean-up duty."
Arthur stepped forward and flicked his wand, his thoughts doing the rest.
The water hesitated, spiraled upward in a tight coil, and surged back into the pipes with a loud slurp. A quick sealing charm followed, locking the plumbing shut.
Silence fell.
A gentle sob echoed from within the bathroom.
They stepped inside.
Floating above one of the cubicles, translucent and pouty, was a ghost.
"Oh, you fixed it," she wailed, "I liked it flooded! It was dramatic!"
Theo gave Arthur a wary look. "Who's the crier? "
"I don't know," Arthur said.
"I think I do. You must be M—"
The ghost wiped her eyes and floated down. "I'm Myrtle. Moaning Myrtle. I haunt this bathroom. Who are you?"
"Arthur. This is Theo."
"You're new here," she sniffled. "Not many students visit. Except when the plumbing explodes or someone bullies me."
"We're not here to bully you," Arthur said gently. "But… did you see someone run out just now?"
Myrtle tilted her head. "A girl. Looked frightened. She always seems nervous around here."
Arthur frowned. "Elena Potter."
Before Moaning Myrtle could reply, Theo nudged Arthur's arm. "Uh… mate. Look."
A thin, black diary sat in a puddle that hadn't drained. Except—it wasn't wet. Not even damp. The water licked at it but never touched the leather cover.
Arthur knelt and picked it up.
He flipped open the cover and saw it. In elegant, curling ink:
T. M. Riddle
His stomach tightened. One word pressed into his mind:
Voldemort. Of course he's back
He remembered the name from the prophecy.
Blinking and he snapped the diary shut, sliding it into his pocket.
Theo arched a brow. "You okay?"
Arthur straightened. "Yeah. Just… an old book."
"You sure? You've gone all pale like it insulted your mum."
Arthur gave a half-smile. "I'm fine. Let's get out of here."
As they left, Myrtle drifted slowly back toward her favorite cubicle. "You'll be back," she sang softly, "they always come back…"
Arthur glanced down at his pocket, smiling.
Let's see where this goes.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur sat cross-legged on his bed, curtains drawn halfway as the candlelight flickered beside him. The black diary lay across his lap, closed, untouched since he picked it up. He hadn't dared open it again.
He stared at the cover, half-expecting it to hiss at him.
T. M. Riddle.
No matter how many times he flipped through the pages, the contents remained stubbornly blank.
"It would be suicide to write in this thing," he muttered aloud.
And yet… it intrigued him.
He had seen something like this before—at his Uncle Cassian's.
A diary, though? That was the most cliché thing imaginable.
And that made it worse.
Why would someone store their memories in a diary? he wondered. Especially someone like Voldemort.
Not that he really knew what Voldemort was thinking. He was still a child ( still is, he admitted )the last time they met. Eleven, unsure of his power, uncertain of his place in the magical world. The encounter had been chaos. He'd barely survived—hadn't even understood what he'd done. One moment, Voldemort had stood before him, all serpentine fury and hissing words—and the next, he was… less than mist.
A ghost-like shell, drifting away in a scream.
Back then, he was naïve.
Still is, he admitted to himself. But now, he was stronger. Sharper.
That memory had stayed with him—the haunted eyes, the way the world tilted around such raw darkness. It was impossible to forget.
And yet…
Now he held a part of that same darkness in his hands. A diary.
How quaint.
He couldn't help but scoff. Of all magical artifacts, why a diary?
A magical artifact that's empty and waterproof.
Cassian would have loved it—Uncle Cassian collected these kinds of things. Arthur had once seen him coax memories from a cursed pocket watch and wrangle whispers from a cursed mirror that spoke in riddles. The diary was eerily similar. Familiar.
His fingers hovered over the page...
The door banged open.
A bundled object flew at him.
Arthur barely caught it, nearly dropping the diary in the process.
"What the—" he looked up.
Draco Malfoy strolled in like he owned the place, grinning like a smug kneazle.
"Congratulations," he said. "You're Slytherin's new Chaser. Or Beater. Not sure which yet. I told Flint we'd work it out later."
Arthur blinked. "I didn't even go for the tryouts."
Draco shrugged, pulling off his cloak. "Doesn't matter. My father wants you on the team. Said something about talent, pedigree, and influence. Personally, I think it's just because he wants me to win."
Arthur stared at the wrapped broomstick he was still holding. He slowly began to unwrap the cloth.
"Nimbus Two-Thousand and One?" he muttered, eyeing the sleek black frame and silver engravings.
He raised an eyebrow. "Now that's concerning."
Draco smirked as he plopped onto his bed. "You're welcome."
The door creaked open again.
Theo Nott entered, dragging their roommate—a wiry boy named Myles—with him. Theo stopped mid-step and narrowed his eyes at the broomstick.
"No fair," Theo deadpanned. "Where's mine?"
Myles chimed in dryly, "Theo, the safest place anyone can be during Quidditch is right here in your dorm. I almost feel sorry for whoever's on the pitch or the stands or anywhere to be exact."
Theo ignored him. "What's going on here? Is this, like, a housewarming gift from Lucius the Benevolent?"
Arthur tossed the broom gently onto the bed beside the diary. "Apparently, I've been conscripted."
"You're playing?" Theo asked, amused. "Does that mean Draco is too?"
Draco sniffed. "Seeker. Star Seeker, actually."
Arthur rolled his eyes, but his fingers drifted back toward the diary.
He glanced at it again, that unease returning.
"You alright?" Theo asked, watching him closely.
Arthur didn't answer right away. He gave a vague nod and closed the bed curtains tighter.
"I'm fine," he said.
But later that night, when the dorm was quiet and the candle had burned low, Arthur stared at the diary on his nightstand.
He couldn't help it.
He opened it again.
Blank.
Still blank.
And yet… the air around it felt different.
He touched the page with his finger, just lightly.
The parchment felt warm.
The others had left hours ago. Draco, after bragging about his broom and new Seeker position. Theo and Myles, after yet another argument about Theo's chaotic flying style. The room was his now. Quiet.
The diary seemed to hum.
Arthur reached for his quill, dipped it in ink, hesitated—
I shouldn't.
But curiosity gnawed at him.
What harm could it do?
Smirking slightly, he scrawled across the blank page:
I am Fredrick the Fifth, Lord of Stromland.
He sat back, watching the ink settle.
Then—the words vanished.
The ink was pulled into the paper like water down a drain.
His breath caught.
The page shimmered faintly.
Then, with slow, deliberate handwriting—elegant and old-fashioned—another line appeared beneath his:
Lord Fredrick? I highly doubt my diary would be found somewhere so… distant.
Arthur blinked.
His heartbeat quickened, not from fear—but from anticipation.
It responded.
Something—or someone—was in there.
He leaned forward slowly, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. He dipped the quill again, more cautious this time.
Who are you?
Another pause.
Then:
Tom. Just Tom.
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
He didn't write again immediately. He looked toward the window, where the lake shadows danced across the glass.
"Just Tom, huh?" he murmured.
But inside, the tension coiled.
He knew that name.
He knew it.
He closed the diary gently, resting a hand atop it as if it might grow fangs and leap at him. He would tell the others in the morning—maybe. Or maybe he'd keep it secret a little longer.
Just a bit.
After all, he had questions.
And it seemed… Tom had answers.