"Then, I'll remind him," Arthur muttered, half to himself.
Draco scoffed, flopping onto his bed. "It's already late. You're getting obsessed."
Theo tossed a pillow in Arthur's direction. "Paranoid, more like."
Arthur caught it, scowling. "I'm not paranoid—"
"What exactly is happening here?" Myles asked, looking between them, clearly unsettled by the wild mess of notes, Arthur's frazzled appearance, and the way everyone was treating this like it was normal.
Draco and Theo exchanged a look.
Then, slowly, dramatically, they turned to him.
Myles blinked as the two boys approached and sat on either side of him, casting long, dark shadows over his seat like cult initiators preparing for some ancient rite.
Arthur barely held back a snort.
Draco leaned in first, voice low and ominous. "Speak not a word of this to anyone, Myles. Not your owl. Not your mirror. Not even your toothbrush."
Theo added, "The Brotherhood doesn't tolerate snitches."
Myles looked at Arthur with a desperate save me expression, eyes wide and pleading.
Arthur shook his head solemnly. "You're on your own, mate."
With that, he stepped out of the dormitory, muffling his laugh as Myles whimpered softly, "I didn't sign up for this…"
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The Next Morning
Arthur barely touched his breakfast.
The Great Hall buzzed with talks of diverse topics—someone had been found a supposedly rare chocolate card, another had set a classroom on fire and Filch going full warlock-mode, muttering about banshees and setting traps in the bathrooms.
Arthur just stirred his porridge.
His mind was racing again. The creature. The Chamber. The heir.
He needed more than just the diary's version of events. He needed proof. A trail.
And maybe—just maybe—it started with a name people had all but forgotten.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
He looked over at the Gryffindor table, then at the enchanted ceiling swirling with pale morning clouds.
Today, he'd start digging for real.
Because someone was lying.
And Hogwarts was—
He paused mid-thought, spoon suspended in the air.
Why was he so concerned about this?
Really.
No one he knew had been attacked. He wasn't Muggle-born. He wasn't a prefect or a professor or even particularly brave.
So why was he sitting here, planning like this was his problem?
He dropped his spoon back into the bowl with a soft clink.
This wasn't his fight. It didn't affect him.
He could walk away. Forget the diary. Ignore the whispers. Let the professors deal with it.
And yet...
He didn't.
He couldn't.
Something about it wouldn't leave him alone—like a shadow at the edge of a mirror. Like that voice he sometimes heard in the walls, echoing with hunger.
He didn't mind it, oddly. He didn't even mind the strange conversations with Lord Tom. Teenage Voldemort. That should have been concerning. But somehow, it felt...normal.
What worried him wasn't the voice.
It was what would happen if no one listened to it.
If he didn't do something, anything… something bad would happen. He could feel it like a pressure behind his eyes, a storm building.
Arthur glanced down at his hands. They were steady, but his heart was not.
He exhaled slowly.
No, this wasn't his fight.
But it was about to become his war.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur stood at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, staring at the amber glow coming from Hagrid's hut. It was still early—too early, really—but something had gnawed at him all night, dragging him out of bed before dawn.
He raised a hand and knocked softly.
The door opened almost immediately.
"Arthur?" Hagrid's eyes widened. "You alright, lad? Yeh look pale."
Arthur gave a small, tired smile. "Can I come in?"
"Course yeh can." Hagrid stepped aside, ushering him in. "C'mon, get yerself near the fire. Got some stew left from last night—don't ask what's in it, but it'll warm yeh right up."
The hut smelled of damp earth, smoke, and roasted onions. Fang barked lazily from his spot near the hearth but didn't stir. Arthur dropped into the large wooden chair, soaking in the warmth of the fire.
"Something on yer mind?" Hagrid asked as he handed Arthur a steaming bowl and sat across from him.
Arthur hesitated. "You remember when... there were attacks at Hogwarts? A long time ago."
Hagrid froze. Not dramatically. Just enough for someone paying attention to notice.
"I've read bits and pieces," Arthur continued carefully. "Rumors. People say it happened before, just like now. That someone opened... the Chamber of Secrets."
Hagrid gave a heavy sigh and leaned back in his chair. "Aye. I remember."
Arthur looked up. "Did anyone die?"
Hagrid didn't answer right away. He just stared into the fire, as though it held the memory itself.
"Yeah," he finally said. "A girl. Her ghost still haunts the toilet she was killed in. No one really talks about her anymore. No one liked talkin' about any of it after."
Arthur didn't press. He waited.
Hagrid rubbed a hand over his face. "I was a second-year when it happened. Big for my age, and already too fond of creatures I shouldn't've been keepin' in cupboards. I got blamed."
"What?" Arthur frowned. "You?"
"They said it was me who opened the Chamber. Said I let a monster loose. All because I was keepin' Aragog—he's a spider. Big one. Scary to most, but he never hurt a soul."
Arthur was quiet.
"Thing is," Hagrid continued, voice tightening, "it wasn't me. I always suspected who it really was. But who'd believe me over him?"
Arthur looked up, meeting his eyes. "Who?"
Hagrid's eyes darkened. "Tom Riddle."
The name landed like a weight between them.
"He was a model student," Hagrid said bitterly. "Good-looking, top marks, prefect—even had Dippet's ear. People thought he was perfect. But I saw through him, even then. Charming on the outside... cold as ice underneath. He blamed me, told Dippet he caught me with the beast. Never mind I wasn't anywhere near where that girl was found."
Arthur sat back, stunned. "And they expelled you?"
"Snapped my wand, too. Would've kicked me out of Hogwarts for good if Dumbledore hadn't vouched for me. Got me this job instead."
"But... he got away with it?" Arthur asked. "He just went on like nothing happened?"
"Aye," Hagrid said darkly. "Vanished soon after. But I never forgot."
Arthur didn't know what to say. The puzzle was still forming in his head, pieces shifting. But he felt it—Riddle's name, the legend of the Chamber, the attacks now—it was all connected.
"You be careful, Arthur," Hagrid said seriously, looking him square in the eye. "If what's happenin' now is anything like back then, then someone's stirrin' up old things best left buried. You hear somethin', see somethin' strange—you come straight to me, or to a professor. Don't try and be a hero."
Arthur managed a nod. "Okay."
Hagrid softened. "Yer a good lad. Bit too curious for yer own good, but I trust yeh. Just don't go wanderin' into shadows alone."
"I won't," Arthur said, standing slowly. "Thanks, Hagrid. Really."
"You're always welcome here, y'know," Hagrid added. "You're not alone, even if it feels like it."
Arthur gave him a small smile before stepping back into the cold morning air.
He had most of the answers now. It's now a matter of how.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur's bat sent the bludger spinning violently through the air, screaming toward the Gryffindor Keeper with lethal grace. The crowd roared. At least the Slytherin side. It was his first hit of the match.
And he had nearly missed the whole thing.
Moments earlier, Arthur had been racing across the grounds, robes flapping behind him like dark wings. He was muttering every curse he knew under his breath—how had he forgotten? One moment he was with Hagrid, wandering back toward the castle deep in thought, and the next—
The castle had been empty.
Only one boy remained in the entrance hall—a nervous first-year fiddling with a boxy Muggle camera. He looked up, startled, when Arthur stormed in.
"Oi, you!" Arthur barked. "Where is everyone?"
The boy blinked. "Um—Quidditch, sir! Gryffindor vs. Slytherin! It's already started!" He gave a sheepish grin. "I'm Colin Creevey, by the way—"
But Arthur was gone.
His heart nearly stopped in horror. Not just because he was late—but because Gryffindor was already on the pitch. And if there was one thing a proper Slytherin did not do, it was show up late to a match against them.
By the time he skidded into the Slytherin changing room, the team had already taken flight. The room was empty except for his gear lying untouched on the bench—dark green robes bearing the silver serpent sigil, and his custom-forged bat: oak core, now reinforced with iron after the "incident" during yesterday's practice, when his swing had split the old one clean in two.
He threw on the robes, yanked on his gloves, and grabbed his broom.
He could hear Madam Hooch just outside, barking out last-minute instructions.
They hadn't even released the Quaffle yet.
Perfect.
If he was going to be late, Arthur decided, then he was going to arrive in a way no one would ever forget.
The tunnel that connected the changing room to the pitch opened directly onto the field. Arthur mounted his broom and crouched low at the end of the tunnel, gripping the broom tight between gloved fingers. Every muscle tensed, storing energy like a coiled viper—kinetic, magical, maybe even a bit insane.
Then he launched.
The sound was like thunder cracking open the sky.
Arthur shot out from the tunnel in a blur of emerald and silver, streaking through the air like a spell gone rogue. Players in midair ducked instinctively, thrown off by the sudden gust. The wind he left behind tugged at their brooms and whipped cloaks wildly—one Gryffindor nearly spun in a full circle.
Above them all, Arthur came to a sudden stop, robes billowing, silver snake crest gleaming in the sunlight. His now entirely white hair—stark against the green—danced in the breeze, a testament to the panic he'd felt moments ago. But now? He looked like he'd planned this.
The Slytherin crowd erupted in cheers, half in awe, half in delight.
Even Lee Jordan, half-sputtering into the microphone, couldn't help it:
"AND WHOA—WE HAVE A LATE ENTRY! That's Arthur Reeves, ladies and gents, Slytherin Beater—and apparently part meteor!"
Madam Hooch narrowed her eyes, lips twitching at the edges. "Nice of you to join us, Mr. Reeves. Now—let's begin."
And with that, the Quaffle was tossed into the air.
The match ignited.
And Arthur? He dove like a predator back into the chaos, iron bat ready, cloak streaming behind him like the tail of a dragon.
Late?
Maybe.
But in style?
Absolutely.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The match had become electric.
Cheers thundered from the stands as the score climbed—Gryffindor 50, Slytherin 60. Bludgers whizzed by with alarming accuracy, and up near the clouds, Harry and Draco weaved like twin hawks, both eyes locked on the golden snitch as it darted like lightning across the sky.
Arthur, meanwhile, was everywhere. His iron-edged bat sang with every hit. He'd long since stopped counting how many bludgers he'd deflected, intercepted, or aimed toward unsuspecting Chasers. His arms ached. His eyes burned. He was, quite frankly, sick of it.
And then it changed.
One of the bludgers—a black, humming orb of solid aggression—broke pattern.
It turned.
And locked onto him.
Arthur narrowed his eyes as it screamed toward him like it had a personal vendetta. "Oh great," he muttered. "A stalker."
But then he had an idea.
He ran.
Looping through players and formations, Arthur darted straight toward Gryffindor's defensive line. One of their Beaters moved to intercept him—but Arthur twisted at the last second, flipping upside down beneath his broom and veering off. The rogue bludger surged past him—and straight through the defenders, scattering them like bowling pins.
The Slytherin Chaser seized the moment—and scored.
The crowd exploded.
Arthur grinned.
"Oh...this might be fun."
Again and again, he lured the rogue bludger toward the Gryffindor line—each time dodging at the last second. Each time leaving an opening. The crowd started noticing. Even Madam Hooch leaned forward, squinting.
But the bludger wouldn't stop.
It just kept coming.
Arthur began to frown. This wasn't natural. Normal bludgers didn't fixate like this. And they certainly didn't survive being flung into stone.
He glanced skyward.
And smirked.
There was something he'd always wanted to try
He soared up—straight up—rising above the pitch and the stands. The bludger followed, relentless.
At the highest point, he stopped. Hovering. Waiting.
The bludger came roaring up like a cannonball.
And just before it struck—
He jumped.
Broom abandoned mid-air, Arthur twisted, grabbed his bat mid-fall, and swung with everything he had, embedding both magic and fury into the strike.
CRACK!
The sound split the sky as the bludger reversed course at triple speed, screaming downward like a falling star.
Arthur twisted midair, expecting—no, demanding—the broom to catch him.
He held out one hand
"Come on—come on—COME ON—"
The broom shot down from above like it was waiting for Arthur to call it.
Just as the bludger came barreling back out of the ground—no dent, no damage. Clearly enhanced. Definitely cursed.
But Arthur didn't hesitate.
His broom caught him.
He spun in a full roll, dove toward the incoming bludger, his bat in his hand as he thought in his mind, magic—wandless, wordless and muscle.
BOOM!
The impact lit the sky.
The bludger exploded into shards of dark smoke and metal.
So did the bat.
So did Arthur's arm.
The shockwave ripped a hole through the stands, shattered and nearly took out the entire staff stand. Professor Flitwick toppled off his chair. McGonagall spilled her tea.
But Arthur didn't notice.
He was falling again.
Just as Harry Potter rose into the sky with the Snitch clenched in his fist.
Game over.
Draco slumped, defeated.
Arthur blinked, chest heaving. Pain lanced through his arm like lightning. Oh right, he thought vaguely, my forearm's broken.
He managed to glide to the ground—barely—before his legs gave out.
The Slytherin team rushed to him, shouting over one another.
"Mate, that was INSANE—"
"You exploded it—"
"Is your arm—oh Merlin—"
And then—
The air shifted.
Cold. Sharp.
Snape.
The crowd parted like water
He stalked toward Arthur, robes billowing, expression unreadable.
Arthur braced for impact.
Snape stopped beside him, crouched slightly, and examined the shattered bat, the swollen arm, the smoldering remains of a bludger embedded halfway in the grass.
He exhaled through his nose.
Then—quietly, tightly—he spoke.
"Twenty points from Slytherin… for your inexcusable recklessness and lateness."
Arthur groaned.
"But…" Snape continued, "twenty points to Slytherin for quick thinking and bravery." He straightened. "And another ten… for managing to do all that."
Arthur blinked.
Snape's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly.
Then he turned on his heel. "Hospital wing. Now."
Arthur, eyes still wide, let his team help him up.
"Did he just—?"
"Did Snape just—?"
"Blimey…"
And as the team carried him off the pitch, Arthur muttered through gritted teeth:
"I really need a less exciting hobby."