Arthur was half-asleep in the hospital wing, eyes barely open, one arm in a sling, the other numbed by potion. Around midnight, a strange tingle tickled his senses. Magic. Foreign. Odd.
His eyes blinked open groggily. Moonlight painted silver patterns on the floor of the Hospital Wing, and beside his bed, the shadows bent unnaturally.
Arthur didn't move. His wand was tucked under his pillow—useless right now. His right arm was still in a sling, ribs wrapped tight, all half-numb from Skelegro.
But he still had his left.
Still groggy, he raised his good arm and cast a quick, silent charm. The intruding presence froze midair and hovered—twisting like a puppet caught in a snare.
Arthur sat up slowly, teeth clenched as pain lanced through his chest. With a sigh, he flicked on the bedside lamp and blinked at the small, hovering creature. Big green eyes. Long ears. Tattered rags.
It whimpered.
"That's...not Kreacher," Arthur mumbled. "You look like you've had it bad... but not quite as grumpy."
He dropped the elf gently—but not too gently. The creature whimpered when it hit the mattress. He didn't expect the thing to bow so low, nor to start weeping.
"State your name," Arthur said, voice low and clear.
The elf wrung its long fingers, eyes watering. "Dobby, sir. Dobby is most sorry. Dobby came to finish the job—"
Arthur raised a brow, still half-asleep. "Excuse me?"
"Dobby regrets the bludger didn't break all of Arthur Reeves' bones. Dobby has come to help with the rest."
There was a pause.
Then Arthur smiled.
A slow, chilling smile.
His black hair rippled red like blood in water. He looked at his bandaged arm. Then he looked at a metal jug on the bedside table.
"You came to break me?" he said softly.
Arthur's smile was polite but his hair was not. Still smiling, he reached for the bedside table and grabbed the sturdy metal jug.
"Dobby, was it?"
(Dobby nodded.)
"You're a dead elf."
With precision honed from Instinct and trainings, Arthur swung. Dobby flew across the room, bounced once, then lay twitching by another bed.
Arthur, arm in a sling, got up, jug still in hand, adrenaline dulling the pain.
"Who sent you?" he growled. "Your master? Of course it was your master!"
"No! Dobby acted alone! Dobby's master doesn't know! Dobby will punish himself for this—oh, Dobby will burn his ears in the fireplace!"
Arthur looked unimpressed. "Save me the drama. I'll do the punishing."
He advanced. One arm. One jug. Murder in his eyes.
"WHY?" he snarled. "Why the Bludger? Why now? What are you so terrified of?"
Dobby panicked. "Arthur Reeves must stop looking for the Chamber of Secrets!"
Arthur paused. The red drained from his hair like water from a leaking pipe.
"What did you just say?"
"Arthur Reeves must stop. He is meddling where he should not. The secrets are ancient. Dangerous..."
"What secrets?"
Dobby clamped his mouth shut, shaking like a leaf in winter.
Arthur stepped closer. He grabbed the elf mid-hop and held him fast. "You talk now, or I find out how long it takes an elf to survive with his ears nailed to the floor."
Arthur eyed the cabinet nearby, then grabbed the elf mid-leap. Is this guy a masochist or what? He thought. He held him by the neck like a cat. "Start talking, elf."
Dobby's eyes searched Arthur's. Something he saw there must've broken him.The elf whimpered, eyes darting, finally cracking under the pressure.
"Dobby only wanted to help. To protect Arthur Reeves. Dobby fears for his life! If Arthur continues down this path... he might die!"
"So you do know what's in the Chamber," Arthur said darkly, tightening his grip. "Don't you... Dobby?"
"Dobby cannot say—Dobby is bound—Dobby is cursed!"
"I don't care if you're cursed or made of glass. You almost killed me!"
The elf fell silent.
"I didn't ask for a bodyguard," Arthur snapped. "You could have just written a letter, or I dunno—not tried to snap my spine with a sentient cannonball."
Dobby looked miserable. "Because... he who must not be named... is back.
Arthur blinked. "Wow. Stunning revelation. Truly groundbreaking. Tell me something I don't know."
"Dobby will have to iron his hands for this," the elf moaned.
"Oh, and while you're at it—toss your legs in the fireplace."
Dobby gave a weak smile. "Dobby was only trying to keep Arthur Reeves safe.
Dobby looked up with a broken smile. "Dobby only wanted to keep Arthur Reeves safe."
Arthur turned away, shaking with pain and frustration. "Yeah, well... sending me to my godfather in a matchbox is a weird definition of safety.
"Maybe don't try to snap my spine like a twig, you deranged sock puppet."
The elf stood slowly, bowing his head.
Arthur turned back to his bed. "
Dobby shuffled back. "The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Terrible things are to come…"
Suddenly, voices echoed outside the infirmary doors. Teachers. Nightgowns. Panic.
Arthur turned off the lamp and dropped into bed. Dobby vanished with a pop.
Arthur stared at the ceiling.
Damn, he thought. What I wouldn't give for some elf magic.
The door slammed open. Professors poured in—Dumbledore, McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick, even Snape, all in nightclothes, faces grave. All carrying something. Someone.
Madam Pomfrey led them to a bed. On it—
A boy. Stiff. Pale.
A camera hanging limply from his neck.
Arthur stared.
Colin Creevey.
The boy he'd met earlier that day.
McGonagall's voice trembled as she turned to the others.
"It's happened again. The Chamber of Secrets… has been opened."
Arthur rolled his eyes under his blanket. Now he was certain. Tom's diary. The trap was successful.
Smiling briefly he thought, This isn't over. Not even close. Game on, Riddle.
Arthur burst into the Potions classroom five minutes late, robes flapping, hair wild, and pain still curling in his ribs like smoke. He didn't apologize. He didn't need to.
Snape didn't look up from the cauldron he was stirring, silver ladle gliding through viscous green. His voice, when it came, was soft and dry, but it struck with precision.
"It would seem," he said silkily, "that you have made a habit of this, Mr. Reeves. Punctuality is clearly beneath your ambition."
Arthur didn't flinch. He straightened, brushing ash from his robes. "My apologies, Professor. I was being nearly murdered. Again. Also, I thought I'd offer the class some suspense, sir. Slytherins appreciate good timing."
"Careful," he said quietly. "Your house badge may shield you from my disdain, Mr. Reeves, but not from consequences."
Arthur adjusted his collar, unbothered. "Just adding a bit of suspense to your otherwise predictable lecture, Professor."
A few students snorted. Snape's head snapped up, his gaze sharp and cold.
"How convenient. I'm sure the Daily Prophet will love a tale of your near-death experiences. Perhaps next time you'll regale us with how you fought off a Hungarian Horntail with nothing but a soup spoon."
Arthur smiled. "If you give me enough soup spoons, sir, I could take on a Norwegian Ridgeback."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Such wit. Truly, Hogwarts is blessed."
By now the class was no longer pretending to stir their potions. They watched the verbal sparring like a Quidditch final.
"Maybe," Arthur said coolly, "if your lessons weren't scheduled at the break of dawn and you didn't smell like burnt mandrake and dead ambition, students might be inclined to show up on time."
Snape took a slow, dangerous step forward. "Ten points from Slytherin for insufferable cheek, and another ten for whatever nonsense you're about to say next."
"Only ten? I'm losing my touch."
"Flair is no substitute for discipline," Snape murmured. "I expect you to remember that before the world burns your name into a tombstone."
The tension between them was thick. Not the usual loathing Snape reserved for Gryffindors—no, this was more personal. Like mentor and rebel apprentice, locked in an unspoken power struggle.
"If you're quite finished indulging yourself," Snape continued, "take your seat."
Arthur met his eyes, respectful but defiant. "Yes, sir."
Across the room, students whispered.
"Do they have beef?" muttered Theo Nott.
"Not beef," Blaise said under his breath. "More like... venom."
Snape turned his back to them, as though the conversation had never happened. "Before Mr. Reeves distracted us, some of us were studying. Perhaps you'd like to share with the class what we've just reviewed?"
Arthur gave a smug half-smile. "The stabilizing effect of powdered moonstone when combined with asphodel root. It's what gives the Draught of Peace its... peace."
Snape's jaw tightened, just slightly.
"Correct. Sit down before I mistake you for a Ravenclaw."
Arthur stood near seat beside Daphne Greengrass and quietly nudged his satchel aside. He caught Draco shooting him a look—something between rivalry and approval.
He caught catching the tail-end of Blaise whispering, "One day, Snape's going to curse him into another century."
Arthur smirked.
He'd have to catch me off guard first.
Snape turned back to the class and waved his wand. Jars lined themselves up with sharp clinks across his desk.
"I will—grudgingly—acknowledge Mr. Reeves and his companions for successfully retrieving the Moonshade flower from the Forbidden Forest. One of the few useful things to come out of this circus lately."
Arthur bowed mockingly. "Your approval means the world to me, Professor."
"Save the theatrics for someone who cares," Snape snapped. "Sit. Down."
Arthur obeyed with exaggerated slowness, sliding into his seat beside Daphne. She nudged him sharply.
"Stop provoking him," she hissed.
"I'm not provoking," Arthur whispered back. "I'm stimulating intellectual dialogue."
"Yeah," Blaise muttered, "and stimulating a death wish."
Snape cleared his throat. "In light of recent... events—" his lip curled slightly, "—the staff has decided to begin a Duelling Club. You may all now pretend to be useful."
The class stirred with excitement.
"The primary reason is to provide you with a means of self-defense," he added, "or at the very least, a legal way to hex each other under supervision."
"This club will be headed by Professor Lockhart," Snape said, with all the enthusiasm of a man announcing his own dental surgery.
There was silence.
Snape's expression could've soured milk. He looked like he'd just chewed through a barrel of acid-soaked limes. Lockhart's name tasted like poison on his tongue.
Arthur suppressed a laugh.
Brilliant. he thought. Dumbledore wants to expose students to combat training. With Lockhart in charge, it'll be more of a fan-signing than a fight club.
But the idea had merit. If the Heir of Slytherin was in the school—and he was, no doubt about that—they'd be watching. Or worse, participating.
A perfect hunting ground.
If even one student mutters something strange, or twitches in a way that smells of Parseltongue or Dark magic... I'll strike them down faster than a Bludger on fire. Expulsion be damned. This could be fun.
Arthur's fingers brushed the edge of his satchel, half-listening as Snape launched into a lecture on volatile tinctures.
Then his hand froze.
Empty.
He rummaged again, eyes narrowing.
The diary… gone.
A cool spike of satisfaction lanced through his chest.
Perfect.
It was gone because someone took it. Just as planned.
Tom had opened the Chamber before. Now he was probably teaching someone else... guiding them. Almost certainly a pure-blood. That narrowed the suspects significantly.
Arthur's mind raced through the names.
Malfoy. Nott. Zabini. Weasley. Maybe Avery. Definitely not Crabbe or Goyle—they'd struggle to spell 'Chamber' without help.
He hadn't forgotten his bag in the Great Hall by mistake yesterday morning and come back to get it. That had been bait. If the Heir had used it before, they'd want it back. They'd look for it. And they'd know exactly who had it.
Which meant the list of suspects narrowed dramatically.
Someone who saw me with it.
A short list. Slytherins. Zabini. Nott. Daphne. Pansy. Malfoy. But one face kept rising from the back of his mind—like a bubble refusing to pop.
Elena Potter. Or another red head. The first year Weasley sister.
He remembered clearly now: she'd been leaving the scene the day he found the diary. Running.
Too perfect.
The kind of person no one suspects.
Tom must be laughing his ghostly arse off
If Elena had the diary now, she was either being controlled—or playing a longer game.
Either way, Arthur intended to find out.
Snape's voice blurred in the background. Arthur's mind burned with calculations.
The Duelling Club would draw them all together. The diary's holder wouldn't be able to resist. Whether they were guided by Riddle or being controlled, they'd come.
And when they did…
I'll be waiting.
His wand tapped against the desk once.
He leaned back in his chair, calculating.
If everything went according to plan... the dueling club would expose something. It had to. And if Arthur had anything to say about it, this mystery would be solved before the end-of-term exams.
Thank Merlin he'd already read through the textbooks twice before all hell broke loose.
Now, it was time to hunt.