The library's candlelight flickered gently as Arthur pored over the stack of books in front of him. He was buried in the section on magical creatures, deep in the darker part of the library that barely saw traffic. The volume before him was ancient, its binding cracked with age and heavy use. He'd narrowed the whispers down to one thing: a snake. He was sure of it. The hissing. The way the voice slithered into his thoughts. It wasn't just hissing—it was primal.
He flipped to the chapter titled "Serpentine Creatures – Lost to Time."
1. Basilisk – King of serpents. Known to cause instant death through eye contact. Extremely rare. Banned from magical breeding since 1557.
2. Amphisbaena – Two-headed serpent, one at each end. Found in Roman accounts. Said to whisper lies to men in their sleep.
3. Nagarix – A sentient jungle serpent rumored to sing before it strikes. Believed extinct since the fall of Mahoutokoro's jungle houses.
4. Urakarra – Desert burrower with venom that creates hallucinations. Used as execution beasts in ancient North Africa.
5. Voth Serpents – Winged snake spirits said to live in Tibetan mountain storms. Possibly myth.
6. Tatzelwyrm – Alpine serpent-lizard hybrid. Occasionally mistaken for dragons.
7. Sluagrith – Shadow snakes said to guard cursed places. Associated with death magic.
8. Draconis Lux – A serpent that consumed so much light it became invisible in daylight. The precursor to several magical theories of light-eating spells.
9. Wyrmkin Basilida – A Basilisk subspecies capable of growing up to 100 feet long. Believed to have caused the collapse of an entire Romanian village in 1492.
10. Dragons – Technically not serpents, but included in the classification of scaled megafauna.
....
Arthur's brows knitted. The Basilisk stood out the most. The lethal stare, the hissing, the hiding-in-the-walls kind of creature. But if that were true… that meant the creature wasn't just dangerous—it was a weapon.
He sighed and leaned back. "Suppose I'll have to ask Tom," he muttered under his breath. "If anyone knows, it's Voldemort's teenage ghost. Though I'm sure he'll tell me something dramatic like 'the monster feeds on fear' or whatever cryptic nonsense he thinks is clever."
Just then, a familiar voice broke the silence.
"Thought I'd find you here," Draco said, stepping into view in his full Slytherin Quidditch robes, smug expression firmly in place.
Arthur blinked up at him. "Where to?"
"Training," Draco said, tossing a set of green gloves onto the table. "Come on, we've got thirty minutes before the pitch opens. Flint wants to test your reaction time. Chaser or Beater—you'll pick one today."
Arthur frowned but stood, tucking the book under his arm. "You know I didn't even try out, right?"
Draco smirked. "Doesn't matter. My father wants to see what you can do. Nimbus 2001s don't just grow on trees."
---
Quidditch Pitch – 30 Minutes Later
The sun hadn't fully risen yet, casting an amber glow over the school grounds. The Slytherin team, decked out in glistening new broomsticks, strutted onto the pitch like royalty. But just as they did, another group emerged from the opposite end—scarlet robes, determined faces.
The Gryffindors.
"What are they doing here?" Flint growled.
A tall Gryffindor girl stepped forward with a scroll. "We have permission from Professor Dumbledore to train this morning."
"Funny," Flint shot back, holding up a note of his own, "because we've got a letter signed by Professor Snape himself. Says we can train our new team members. You've had the pitch all week."
Tempers flared quickly. Arthur stood awkwardly near the back, unsure whether to pretend to care or disappear altogether. The fact that every Slytherin player had a Nimbus 2001 didn't help matters. Gryffindor's eyes were already darting to the shining black brooms.
"That's not fair!" Hermione snapped. "Just because your parents bought your way onto the team—"
Arthur flinched slightly. He didn't ask for the broom. He didn't even want to play.
But Draco was faster.
"Jealous, Granger?" he sneered. "Not like you'd ever play Quidditch. Mudbloods don't fly well."
The silence was immediate and sharp.
Ron's face twisted in rage, wand shooting out. "Eat slugs!"
But before the spell could hit Draco, Arthur had already moved. His hand flicked up instinctively—no wand, no words.
The air shimmered as a pale barrier formed before Draco. The spell rebounded instantly—straight back at Ron. With a loud burp, Ron doubled over, gagging as slugs began to pour from his mouth.
Arthur's hand dropped slowly, eyes narrowing. He hadn't meant to cast the spell that strongly. It had just… happened.
Hermione gasped. "Ron!"
"Get him to Hagrid," Harry said quickly, throwing Ron's arm around his shoulder.
"Hagrid…" Arthur whispered as the trio hurried off.
He's 64 now… he thought. Expelled in 1942… That's exactly fifty years ago.
Then Gerald's words rang in his ears.
" ...ever since he went to sleep about fifty years ago..."
Arthur's blood ran cold. That wasn't a coincidence.
So whatever happened in 1942… Hagrid was involved. Maybe not guilty. But involved.
Just then, Draco grabbed his arm. "Come on. Flint's waiting."
Arthur barely heard him. His mind was already spinning.
I'll need to speak to Tom tonight…
But for now, the game continued. Time to find his center.
Beater or Chaser.
Arthur caught up to Draco, blinking into the pale autumn sun. "I've never actually—"
"If you say 'flown,' I swear I'll shove you off the broom myself," Draco said, shooting him a sideways look. "Look, the broom will do most of the work. You just hold on, don't scream, and when you hit things, hit hard."
That didn't sound comforting.
They arrived at the pitch to find the rest of the Slytherin team already gathered. The team was a wall of green and silver, Nimbus 2001s glinting in their hands like wands of war. They were all older than Arthur, taller, heavier—especially the Beaters, both built like trolls with tempers to match.
Arthur hesitated on the edge of the field, holding the broom Draco had tossed at him.
The broom felt like it wanted to fly. Not be commanded. Not guided. It wanted it. Like a living thing beneath his palms.
"Mount up," Flint barked from the sky. "Let's see if the boy can stay on."
Arthur climbed on, the cool wood pulsing faintly beneath him. For a moment, he didn't move. Then he closed his eyes and leaned forward.
The broom lifted.
Smooth as breath.
Air whooshed past his ears, cold and wild. The pitch fell away beneath him, shrinking into a blur of emerald and gold. His stomach dropped, then settled.
Arthur grinned.
He felt…free.
His hair, without warning, shifted from its natural black color to a blazing sky-blue, stirred by the wind and his own nervous exhilaration.
"Would you look at that," one of the Chasers said. "Metamorphmagus, eh?"
"He's flying like he's done this all his life," Flint muttered, surprised. "Didn't he say he'd never flown?"
Draco smirked proudly from beside him. "Natural. Knew it."
Arthur looped once, then twice—clean spirals. He dipped low to the ground, let the broom swoop upward, then leveled out, gaining confidence with each second.
Flying wasn't about logic. It was about instinct.
And he had plenty of that.
"All right!" Flint roared. "Bludger test!
A Bludger was released from its cage with a violent clang. The iron ball shot toward Arthur like a meteor.
Arthur caught the beater's bat—too light for his grip—and swung with his whole body.
CRACK.
The Bludger went soaring across the field.
Right into one of the hoops.
Which promptly shattered. The top part falling to the ground
Silence.
Then: "Bloody hell…" one of the Chasers whispered.
Draco burst into laughter. "He destroyed the hoop!"
Flint stared in disbelief before chuckling. "You broke the bloody loop, Reeves."
Arthur looked down at the bat in his hand. "Oops," he muttered sheepishly.
His hair shifted to orange, then flashed red in a blink—his emotions flaring.
"Get him a better bat," Flint said, shaking his head. "And someone fix that loop. The rest of you—laps! Reeves, you're staying with me."
Arthur hovered beside Flint, heart thundering in his chest, adrenaline singing through his blood.
His first time on a broom.
And he'd broken part of the pitch.
Not bad.
Flint gave him a considering look. "We'll make a Beater out of you yet."
Arthur nodded once, a small grin tugging at his lips. "You're going to regret that broken loop though."
Flint barked a laugh. "Not if you break Gryffindor's ribs next match."
Draco swooped by, upside down on his broom. "Try not to let that giant head of yours knock us out of the sky, Reeves!"
Arthur rolled his eyes—and leaned forward into a dive.
This time, it was on purpose.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur slumped onto his bed, still buzzing from the high of flight, the bat, the Bludger. But it didn't take long for the ache in his limbs to fade beneath something sharper—curiosity.
The whispers hadn't returned since the dueling incident. But the unease? Still there. Growing.
He reached beneath his pillow and pulled out the battered, black diary—the one he'd written in before.
He flipped it open. A clean, waiting page.
Do you know anything about a creature… like a big snake? Something hidden in Hogwarts? Maybe from around fifty years ago?
A moment passed. Then the ink began to swirl and bleed into words.
That's a very specific question, Lord Fredrick.
Why do you ask?
Arthur paused. Then wrote quickly:
Just curious. I think something's stirring. I heard whispers once. Like a voice. But no one else did.
The reply came faster this time.
Voices no one else can hear? That sounds like strange.
Tell me—have you seen any signs? Writing? Attacks?
Arthur smiled. Then:
There was writing on the wall. "The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware."
You do know what that means, don't you?
There was a long pause. For a second, Arthur thought the diary had stopped responding.
Then:
Yes. I know exactly what it means.
Arthur's heart pounded.
So? What is the Chamber of Secrets? And what kind of creature lives in it?
That is a question for the Heir of Slytherin. But I'll make you a trade. Tell me your name. Your real name and I'll show you what happened.
Arthur scowled. Teenage Voldemort is a twat. His fingers hovered over the page. Then, grudgingly, he wrote:
Arthur Reeves.
The ink shimmered. Then bled into one final message:
Very well, Arthur Reeves. Let me show you.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Thirty minutes later...
Arthur jolted awake, his face stuck to the diary. The pages felt warm. Faintly pulsing.
He sat up slowly, heart hammering.
Tom had shown him.
He'd lived it.
The corridor. The writing. The boy—Tom himself—ratting out a younger, terrified Hagrid.
And the creature—skittering legs. Fangs. Eight of them.
Not a snake… a spider?
Arthur rubbed his eyes. That couldn't be right. "But the voice… the hiss… it wasn't a spider."
He stood and began pacing the dormitory, stepping over tossed blankets and Quidditch gear.
"If Hagrid's probably innocent, then the person who framed him was—" He stopped. "Tom. It was Tom."
And the phrase—"Enemies of the Heir"… What heir?
"Heir of Slytherin, probably," Arthur muttered. "But who even is that? And why would the heir unleash a monster on students? Not that he blamed them."
Before he could spiral any further, the dormitory door banged open.
Draco entered, trailed by Theo and Myles. All three stopped dead.
The room looked like a tornado had swept through it. Papers everywhere. The bed was skewed. Arthur himself looked pale, eyes wide, hair flashing back and forth between stormy gray and red-gold.
Draco pointed an accusing finger. "What happened to you?"
Arthur blinked. "The Chamber of Secrets. What is that?"
Theo snorted.
Myles laughed outright.
"You don't know?" Theo asked, dropping onto his bed. "Mate, it's like Slytherin 101."
"It's Slytherin's last legacy," Draco said, folding his arms. "They say he built a hidden chamber somewhere in the school—one that only his true heir can open."
Arthur frowned. "And what's in the chamber?"
"A monster," Myles said with relish. "Something that'll purge the school of all the unworthy. Non-purebloods and such."
Arthur's stomach twisted. His mind recalling what the voice always says. "You mean… kill them?"
Draco hesitated, just for a beat. "That's what the legends say."
Arthur sat slowly on the edge of his bed. He looked down at the diary.
If the legend was true… and Tom was the heir....
Was… but the monster was still out there…
Then this wasn't over.
Not even close.
The others were still laughing—half amused, half incredulous—that a Slytherin could make it to second year without knowing about the Chamber of Secrets. Arthur barely heard them.
His gaze was fixed on the diary in his lap, its pages now blank. The magic had gone dormant again, like a snake coiled in the grass, watching.
A spider. A lie? A scapegoat.
Arthur leaned back, staring at the green canopy above his bed.
It wasn't a spider. It couldn't be. That voice he'd heard—it had slithered into his brain. Whispers in the pipes. Cold, sibilant. Hungry.
Definitely not a spider.
But Hagrid had believed it. Or maybe… he wanted to believe it.
And Tom? Tom had been too clean. Too smooth. Too rehearsed.
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
"He knew exactly how to spin it," he muttered.
Draco, now lounging in an armchair, looked up. "You say something?"
Arthur waved him off. "Just thinking."
"Careful," Theo said, smirking. "You'll sprain something."
Arthur didn't smile.
Instead, he reached over to his trunk and pulled out his notebook—the one he used for scribbling thoughts, tracking little oddities, listing suspects like he was playing detective in some muggle murder mystery.
He flipped to a blank page.
At the top, he scrawled in dark, bold ink:
RANDOM STUFFS
Underneath:
Voice in the walls – not spiderlike.
Tom Riddle framed Hagrid.
Hagrid's "pet" was a giant spider.
Victim dead.
Current victim froz– petrified.
Writing on the wall.
"Enemies of the Heir, beware."
Only the Heir of Slytherin can open the chamber.
Monster still in Hogwarts?
He paused.
Then wrote in the center:
Tom = Heir?
He stared at the name. Circled it.
Then beneath it, slowly, carefully:
Hagrid = Final piece.
Arthur's fingers tapped against the cover of the diary.
If he was going to get to the bottom of this, he had to talk to Hagrid. And not just for gossip or vague suspicion.
He needed the truth.
Whatever it was… Hagrid had seen the monster. Or at least, thought he had.
And if he was innocent?
Then Tom's legacy wasn't just buried in ink.
It was alive.
Breathing.
Still moving in the walls of Hogwarts.
Arthur stood and grabbed his robe.
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Where are you going?"
Arthur didn't answer at first. He just looked back at the now-blank diary, then to the window where the moonlight streamed in silver.
"Hagrid," he said simply. "He knows something about it."
Theo made a noise of disbelief. "You're joking. You want to go talk to that walking bear?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "What's he going to say? He probably doesn't even remember what happened yesterday, let alone fifty years ago."
Arthur gave them a tight smile.
"Then I'll remind him."